fresh from the soil:

“she found it was her dream to be that thing you love, but never see.”

This afternoon at the park, as I was reading to Craig from my notebook of poems and quotes, a man approached us wearing a hat and sunglasses, and smoking a cigarette. He sat down next to us and began telling us his story, gracefully, if not slightly embellished. He spoke of his demons and angels, fire and light. He said he wanted to sing, but pop music had no soul, and that he wanted to preach, but he smoked too many cigarettes. As Craig took my hand under the table, I thought to myself, we are all smoking something. We all reach for things that eat away our souls. And sometimes we also just need people to listen to our lives they way they are, and the way that we wished that they were. I’m glad we got to be there. People everywhere are better than we imagine.

When you’ve seen everything there is to see, drop your demons off at the side of the road and run home. - Eric, to me on October 25th.

I am alone - it is dark, and Audrey Assad is pouring through my headphones. I need to let go and let this night happen. The surrealism of the past seventeen days is something that I can barely stand to grapple with. I wish that I could say that this has made me stronger, but tonight, I feel so very weak. I don’t want to talk to anyone, especially God. But I know I need to. In such a condensed period, there has been a heavy sense of loss, anger, shock, apathy, and lack of control. I’m trying to embrace the idea that there really is time for everything, if I simply allow for it. I wonder if I will truly learn anything more about myself or the character of God by nurturing these moments of overwhelming grief and anxiety and doubt. For so long, I have tried to suppress any feeling - to the point that I am entirely numb.

I want to cry, but my tired eyes refuse to let the awaiting oceans break free, so for now I have to believe that grace will weep for me. Things are severed and confused, and I need peace. My heart drives to petiton God for all the boughs that have broken and cups we can’t trade. I want to scream and shake my fists at him, but at the same time, stand before him and silently breathe him in - perhaps if he really is my Father, he will allow for both. More than anything, I want to be held. I need to be held even when I don’t want to be. Especially on nights like these.

I want to be sweet like summertime, and less cold and bitter like the winter. When I was young, I used to want to be a meteorologist so I could control the weather, but then I wanted to be a dancer and a lawyer, too. Now, I just want to be sweet; unconditionally good when goodness is warrented, because I really believe that the world needs more of that. We need more goodness, and we need more bravery. Fear has far more power over me than it should. And like the naive, innocent girl that I was fifteen years ago, I still wish I could control the weather, because at least when I am in control, I don’t have to be as afraid. But that is a lie.

Time is moving so fast, and can no more offer up a straight answer than all of the information that we have acquired through it. I would rather have my innocense back. I’m sick and damn tired of all of the lies that I have allowed to become my identity. My hands hold those of ghosts, and I think its time that I raised my white flag and got a heart transplant. Mercy, come swiftly. Clear a path so I can come home, because if its a real place, I want to be there. My mind would give up any state, its been so long since she has rested. And we’re counting down the hours till springtime arrives and there is room for new thoughts. Sometimes I get stuck in the mindset that I have it all figured out, but really, there is so much left for me to learn. He wouldn’t want me to stop asking questions now.

sometimes, i wish the world would
slow to a stop for just a short while,
long enough for me to come out
and watch things bloom,
rather than starving myself for light
here on the damp floor of this closet.
and i wish that there was room enough
in the middle of all the dead things that
i sleep between for me to come up for air.
winter still owns three more weeks,
but this too shall pass.
and when my turn comes, it will be precious.
but first i must stand up to live,
being born from the colors of the sunrise,
again and again with each new morning.
it is high time i lay the past to rest,
for it has been said to me that
forgiveness is giving up hope for
ever having a better yesterday.
i’m unsure of the ground underneath,
but i hope that these fault lines
will come together again.
i’m tired of stepping on old cracks.
there are new truths, yet to be discovered,
played to the tune of improbable beauty;
strumming on the strings of my heart
that have not yet been severed.
and believe it or not, i am getting well.
there is solidity in solitude, and i crave it.
i was never afraid of being alone,
only that there would be no one to
hear me through the cacophony,
or look for me through their telescope.
words sometimes fail me, but grace does not.
i want to tell the story with my hands.
and i want to keep them open,
showing stains and scars acquired
from questions with no answers.
i no longer want the answers,
and i never needed them.
today, i am whispered simple instruction:
wake up. reach towards the rain,
which falls so you, too, may bloom.