lamentation

Maybe I'll run out of words. Maybe I'll allow my head to sabotage my heart. Again. Maybe I'll believe the lies, that I'm just not ever going to be enough. Maybe I'll give up. But. Maybe I won't. I will no longer be destroyed by memories, whose only purpose stems from places in the dark, not fit for my feet to walk. I will not allow past abuse to shape my heart. And I will walk, without fear, toward the future He has lovingly laid out for me. May His face shine upon me, and continually confirm to me that I am His. And in that, I. Am. Enough.

Us

I used to believe that everyone had a continuous dialogue running through their minds. That everyone felt they had to empty themselves out completely, in order to let in the truth, love, grace, and hope. There was a time when I believed that I was the only one. The only one who felt things so deeply, it often took me weeks to recover from a wayward glance. A turn of the mouth, ever so slightly upward, was cause for elation. They must really love my work… which must mean, of course, that they authentically love me, too. I thought I was the only one who spent all my time listening to the things people didn't say, instead of what they did say. But through the years, I have found, there is a community of "us". We often cringe at labels, but it seems, those un-like "us" call us, "artists."And they say it with a look that conveys, "it's terminal. you've got six months to live." We nod, and look away. Because we've seen it before. Knowing it will take us months to forget the sadness in their eyes. we're fragile. we break easy, and often. and we have lived a lifetime, already, in the first, "hello". We're not asking for empathy. But the next time you look at "us", could you take down your walls of indignation? Could you touch me? With all the tenderness you can fathom, could you just hold me for a moment, and say, "It's so good to see you today." That would travel such a long way in bridging the gap between you, and "us".

Seasons

Darkness often catches us by surprise. It has a way of sneaking in, like water being poured through sand, it permeates the seawalls of our souls. And the saltiness it carries is difficult to swallow. Just like the tides, we are in a constant state of being filled, or being taken from. Directed, it appears, at times, by the powerful pull of the moon. Ebbs and flows, we chart our days on the calendar, by good and bad. Not pausing to accept that even the cloudiest days, hold rays of light.

Media Hype

It's easier for most, to live in the over edited world of twitter and instagram. Snapshots of our best selves are all we offer to each other, While we silently suffer. Believing the lies that we are not enough. That what we really have to offer should be hidden, behind lo-fi and crema. I can't do it anymore. The artist in me begs to be fully known - without which, being fully accepted cannot be obtained. In pretending with each other, our hold on what is real, and unedited is slipping. we start to believe in our make believe selves. And our fall from perfection is easier to conceal. I'm done. My heart will break as I see myself, and you, in our raw states. but whole. Whole and full of grace, is where I long to be. Perfectly broken, is who we are. And I have never seen such natural beauty.

it's time.

We do not have, because we do not ask, they say. But I say, we do not want. So caught up in standing on the side lines, we find comfort on the outsides, never taking the leap, off the porch. Wrapped up in the he said, she said. Not pausing for, the WORD said. Emboldened by our rights. But forgetting what's right. Stuck in the web, of politics and justice. Believing the american dream is where peace lies, but lies are what we own in our hearts. It's time to move from the shadows to the light. Because you see, God hides in plain sight. If we'd just open our eyes. Not merely look, but see… Communion will come, when we put Him above me.

Rise Up

It has become the situation, an epidemic of pandemic per portions. No longer the exception, we are ruled by our obsession. our desire for more, turning our babies into whores. we have become comfortably numb. our preachers and pastors, priests and masters, taking blame on the daily. the dingo ate my baby. we're unwilling to own, what we claim to believe. it's not us against them, it's we, about me. we're waiting, waiting on the world to change. as we walk by despair, clutching the dimes in our pockets. making excuses, never repentance. we're too busy, it's too messy. and we keep building fences. there's no gate way to our hearts anymore. the story has yet to change. the veil can't be repaired by glue. and the son's still crying… forgive them. they know not what they do.

in

I always get in. If there is water present, and opportunity lingers like a song bird calling to it's mate, begging the silent morning to answer… I plunge feet first, into the unknown waters. Being reborn by the cutting elixir. The rawness of that first meeting, taking the breath from my lungs, and leaving my body and my senses in a state of consciousness fulfilled only by the simple act of being… alive. This is my story-- and the performance of "getting in" has both helped and harmed through the years. There have been times when my head has begged my heart not to leap. But I have long since resigned myself to the fact that my heart muscle has been to the gym, many more times than my head. So, in the fight, there is almost always a predestined winner. It was only in my 20's that I came to the conclusion - not everyone gets in. So I hid. Like Eve making clothes from leaves of perfect trees, covering what only yesterday, was unblemished utopia. I spent years ducking into the lightless alleys of this world. A counterfeit of shame in my own skin. Until one fearless moment. One ordinary instant. I got in, again. And the husk of dishonest covering was removed from my eyes, like a veil being lifted from a bride on her wedding day. And what, for so long, had been lost - was discovered anew. Clear and unadulterated. Known and unknown. And now, now, I always get in.

life.

"Don't settle" They flippantly chide as you enter the years when restlessness begins to take hold like northern winds sweeping across the plains… frigid, and biting, cutting deep beneath the best wool money can buy. Stealing the breath from your lungs. Leaving you as empty as those fields in January. Remain kinetic, fluid, shifting, explosive. Do all of these things. Be all of these things. Without becoming tense and troubled, anxious and unstable. It is no wonder when middle age hits, we are more confused than our now pubescent teens wondering through the hallowed halls of high school for the very first time. "Don't settle" It echoes in my ears like distant church bells, becoming so mundane that every hour, on the hour, you hardly notice the ringing in your head. Finding the delicate balance between resolved and restless becomes a dance that we must learn the steps to, alone. The only toes to step on are our own. I wish, then, that someone had told me, "Find balance" That all pleasure is equalized with pain. That the pendulum swings… but somewhere in the middle is steady ground. And it has nothing to do, in fact, with being settled. That without the constant, unending, teeter-totter, there is no abiding. no solid, enduring latitude with which to set your compass. Perhaps then, it takes welcoming the settled. The calm, contentment, in order to live in the unsettled world of complex, and restive. The symmetry is not lost on me. "Don't settle" I won't and I will. Equally and the same, with arms stretched wide, nose to the heavens, heel to toe, on the tightrope that is my fragile balance.

less is more

Is poetry producible as a minimalist? Can I convey what my bones ache to share with words left unoccupied? Can the throbbing in my chest, the heat from within, be described in fewer words? Can the desperate longing that courses through my veins like tumbleweed set a blaze in a scorched desert, be recounted in aforementioned ways that one may comprehend the potential that such a spark achieves? is it possible to pare down whilst retaining meaning? perhaps by only stating the necessary it forces the reader to reach the inmost, profound, rooted, abyss that lies within once shallow caverns only becoming awakened stirred, if you will, by phrases like… primal need. and that then, and only then, it is conceivable that they may justly recount their own scorched deserts.

Autumn winds

I inhale the crisp air like the first bite of a September apple. My senses are hyperly aware of the beauty of this moment Sunshine desperately desiring to warm my cheeks as the crackling, sunburnt leaves, float by. I inhale again and all that is autumn in the Midwest fills my lungs with such abundant gratitude it spills over into my longing heart satisfying the place where beauty, and grace, pain, and sadness collide- forming such thanksgiving- i have few words to compare.