December 29, 2009

Frosted Tears and Bungee Cords

That snowflake turned into a raindrop, changed into a tear and then once again changed its'   form to be frost upon my cheeks.

Those teardrops ran down my cheeks in a way they haven't in this eternal year. A silver lining to this fog, I suppose. Just as is my custom I thought that the key to lifting the fog was my vulnerability.

I know you aren't cruel and I could tell you were trying to not be. I knew you were trying to break it to me gently. But here is the lesson for this night. You can't break something without pain. You can't hurt someone just a little.

Pain is necessary for life, but it wasn't necessary for us.

The fog has lifted, but the Winter Wonderland I wished for wasn't there. Instead of the fog lifting and bringing us together in understanding it separated us.  Now you are happily jet-setting around, and I am in this room where silence echoes and insomnia reins. The fog warped my dreams into our own realities. That sparkling winter wonderland melted into these tears. Tears I can't keep. Tears that turn to frost upon my cheeks and in my heart faster than I can save them.

I jumped off this cliff and aimed for your arms. I'm hoping that I tied that bungee cord tightly around my legs. So that when the tears stop and I shut that door you unknowingly opened to my heart; I can bounce up on onto the firm footing of the mountainside. I rocketed closer and closer to the bottom of that cliffs end. I closed my eyes to my over thinking and insecurity. I wanted the leap that I took. Whatever the consequence. I wanted to fall into your arms.  Whether I landed in your heart and arms or careened to my death I wanted it to be fate. I took a peek before I reached the bottom. My curiosity got the best of me. Were you ecstatic? Surprised? Ready? Arms out and waiting? The moment I thought our eyes would meet I looked. I saw you standing a mere ten feet away, arms crossed and a confused look on your face; as you watched me fall to certain death. An hour later you made your way toward me, patted me on the shoulder and let me know that you aren't what I was looking for. How kind of you let me know.

I'll let you know something, but I'm afraid I won't be as diplomatic. That was the wrong damn move dude, if even the smallest part of you wanted to be mine and I yours. You could have been my "be here now".  

Maybe not my always. Maybe not my forever. But my "be here now"

Looking back, I don't know what really happened last night. And a part of me says I don't really want to know. Whatever the cause of the whiplash of emotions you displayed last night, I was hurt. Deeply so. I won't post the entire blog I wrote last night in the midst of tears and rejection. That wouldn't be fair to you.
I could beg and plead. I could open up my heart to you again. I could explain the hurt. I could explain all the emotions. Perhaps that would be the adventurous thing to do. But my heart is tired of adventures. It can't do the Indiana Jones Impression again tonight. Perhaps that's all I am for you, an impression of an adventuresome spirit. But that is another thought for another night. For now I need to curl up in a blanket and find some willpower in this soul of mine and make this frost a hard freeze.

I wish it was different but this frost is here to stay. 

Upon my cheeks and my heart. A physical manifestion of the numbness of this briar patch of a heart

December 25, 2009

Burning Fog and Electric Hearts

So did you choke or did I? Or was it a mixture of both? Unsurprisingly this is a mystery to me and to you. I'm feeling lost and in a state of limbo. Regretting the words I have said and those I haven't said. When I'm with you my world gets lost in your eyes. It's only you and me. Stuck inside this space in time. Are we destined to move past this limbo of dimensions? Into our very own? Or is our fate completely separate? I thought you were the one I had been wishing for upon snowflakes. And then this morning as I drove to meet you the skies which had promised snow only brought fog. The sneer upon my face came when I recognized the irony before me in the sky. A single snowflake would've revealed the world to me. But instead the fog set in  and more mystery arose.

When I try to look into your eyes and see if fate has an answer for us, the fog overtakes my vision and all I can see is your neverending kindness. I once again wander into the fog and get lost in it and perhaps in you. I thought today would surely be the day that the fog between us would lift. For a moment, the sun would come out and light upon the snow. Creating a sparkling winter wonderland of our very own. Each snowflake a promise and each crystal a diamond of emotion. The understanding would fall as quietly as a surprise snowfall. Instead as the minutes ticked by the fog only became more and more dense. It got to the point where I couldn't look you in the eyes for fear of losing my way.

 I drove home with the ache that precedes my tears. My heart ached with the weight of all our possibilites and the realization of the lack of probability. My mind is full of the O so complexly simple question "How do you feel?" Right on its' heels follows the more bothersome wonderings. Am I mistaking your kindness for anything more? What about all the shared glances and secret smiles? Perhaps they were meant for someone else, or a fluke. But what about the electricity between us? I can't explain that away. When you walked into that room a few short days ago, my heart beat faster, slower and stopped beating all at the same time. I was sure everyone else could sense the electricity that shot between our hearts and into our eyes. It was tangible. And then as you hugged everyone that jumped up in excitement I sat and watched you with new vision.For some unknown reason, in those first few moments I felt that you were there only for me. That you were slowly making your way past the formalities of everyone else and I was your reason.  It slowly dawned on me, you were not there for me. Or with me. And so the fog set in.

Since then the subject of "us" hasn't been off my mind. The night of graduation comes to mind immedietely. I had jumped off the cliff of stress. I had sworn off guys as I blockaded my heart. I said no to you and chose my horses. And all those factors went out the window when I saw you there. Front Row. With my family. It was so right and so perfect. You had driven all night to get there just for me. And I said no. I'm so sorry for being blind to you and all that you have become to me. Because as we stood talking to people afterwards being next to you was the most natural thing in the world. How I longed for your touch. I have healed since then, I've opened my heart again to faith. Symbolically, I've opened my heart to you. The universal elusive you. The Hallelujah I've wished for, written for, and prayed for. And so I know, every moment I have become closer to being ready to be your one and only. Do you know how strong your healing gift is? It fairly emanated from you as I stood up on that stage and testified of my faith. As I took a stand and dared everyone else to take a stand, for what they believed, for their dreams, and for their passion. Those words have special significence now as we struggle to work past our image of ourselves into the vision of us.

All of this brings us to now. Another choke? I wish I felt free to encourage you and whisper my feelings in your ear. I wish I could have given you the Heimlich. I wish I had said everything that I wanted to. But I didn't.

I'm wishing on snowflakes again. Wishing for the fog to burn off and reveal the truth. For our electricity to bring us closer. Even if it hurts, I want you next to me. Now and maybe forever. We'll never know unless we allow our hearts to touch. For only then may we know what this electricity means, and all that it could possibly mean.

Today I could feel the electricity even as I knew we were both trying to smother it, to not let the other one know. It was distant and it was somber, but it was there. I feel as if, if we reached out and touched, reaching across all these dimensions, it would be all over from there. We would no longer be able to deny it. Hugging you feels much like breathing... and so somehow I know that holding your hand or being wrapped up in you would be akin to the adrenaline rush we both get from hiking, running or being out on a difficult ski run. I already live for that adrenaline rush and long for the day I get it from your touch. So reach out. Touch me. Let us connect and never look back. It could be the beginning of our end, and the end of our beginning. I'm ready now for you. Are you ready for me? Is it yet time for me to run, to jump into your arms?

I don't know all the signals and I don't understand all the signs, you will have to show me how. I'm willing to learn all that you are and all that we could be.... And so I'm waiting for another snowfall and another answer.

December 11, 2009

Reaching Across the Dimensions

I believe there are different dimensions to this world of ours. I don't know the scientific reasoning . Whether it be quantom physics or a dream in my heart. Whatever it is I don't find it farfetched to think that there could be other beings, other people in this room with me.  Living their own lives in their own time. If only I could learn the secret, the bridge between this dimension and yours.If I reach out are you right here next to me? In a different dimension? In a different space in time? Are you as real as the air I breathe? Or are you more akin to the air I forget to breathe? If I were to reach towards you at the same moment you reached for me could our fingertips meet? Would you finally be with me?

What is farfetched about this is not the possibility but the probability.

I'm wishing for you on every snowflake I see. I know I need you now. Do I need you enough for those wishes to be fulfilled? I know not. This I do know, I can now name this ache in my heart. It is the yearning for you and for all you are to me already. I don't know you, at least not in this worlds definition of know. But I do know that our hearts are equal in passion both for life and already for each other. As surely as I believe that my soul told me so, so I do believe in the prophecy's I've heard about you. I know you are a gentle broken soul. A healer just as I am. That you are my equal in more than passion but also in the age of our souls. That is the first dimension to our possibilities.How many dimensions do we have? A third? A fourth? I'm content with the first, but hungry for more depth.

Reach out for me now as I am for you. Perhaps we will touch each others fingertips and perhaps a swift feel of each others' heart. I have always known it will be over from there. The end of life as we know it. Dimensions will collide. Time will stand still. We will no longer be alone fighting the screaming silence. We will be together. Not to late. Not a moment to soon. Fate.
The beginning of our end. The end of our beginning.

That knowing I had has scared me for years. I still cannot put a finger on the reasoning for my fear. Fear of the known I suppose. I have looked for you behind every corner and underneath every street light. Any stranger could be you. My beginning and my end. I know you will come, sometime in this lifetime. I let go of that knowing in this eternal year. I had lost my hope in you and our love. I'm sorry for that. I'm trying to grasp onto that hope again, but daily life seems to be grabbing my fingers away. A test of strength and will? Perhaps, if so I'll hold on even with just one finger until the end of time. If only to get a glimpse of you, the one I dream of nightly.

So reach out. Touch my fingertips. Bridge the dimensions between us. Be here now. For I need you now. Am I asking for a life without pain or worry? No. All I ask for is that when you reach out your hand that we walk together from here on out.. Am I asking you to run, leap and then fly? All I ask is for that first step. Just reach out to me now. Love, real and true love is like hope. To hope is to illuminate a darkened soul. To love is to accept that darkened soul and to make it better. Fear has no place in that. Years ago I referred to a hero as a person not without fear, but one who was afraid and went to battle anyways. Be my hero.

So help me to put down this broken mirror of lies and deceit. Take it out of my hand and replace it with yours. The looking glass into our Wonderland.

December 10, 2009

Silence Echoes and Insomnia Reigns

And at the end of the day, I'm still alone in the seemingly vast expanse of my bed. It doesn't seem to matter what manner I leave people in. If I make them laugh. If I make them think. If I comfort their woes with my words. If I'm simply a listening ear. If I drive them up a wall or make them cry. It just... doesn't matter. The end result is the same. I'm alone in my bed. Sometimes I can find comfort in that fact; knowing what I do doesn't matter. Tonight though, the silence echoes and my insomnia reigns. I think back on all the roles I have played today. At the time each seemed real and genuine. I didn't have to fake a single emotion that I portrayed. So why do I now feel hollow? Why is there nothing to me besides a role? When I sign off and turn out the lights; slowly making my way upstairs to my room its as if another part of me melts away. When I take that final step all that is left is this shell and the silence. I hurriedly turn on my phone and chat about how great her night was. I embrace this role. My day isn't over! No matter what the darkness of the night says. We say our goodbyes and I'm left with only silence again.

It's this depression that comes upon me in silent waves. It's this depression that I try to fight against. It's the depression that makes me forget to care if I live or if I die. It's this depression that has me questioning if this is all real or my minds twisted version of Wonderland. And it's this depression that makes me wonder if I will have find more meaning in life than being their strong tower. Because it's this depression that has this strong tower crumbling from the inside out. Most of all... it is this depression that hears the screams in the silence. I'm afraid to give into it's pleas again. To traverse that dark road of memories and sins. So I'll rise again tomorrow. I'll be your tower. Will you notice that it's smaller than the day before? Or will you brush it off as a mind game? I'll take your weight happily. For if I didn't play this role for you I would have to listen to the silence scream in the daylight also. No I'm happy to be your tower. Your sounding board. Your whipping boy. Lean on me. Talk to me. Beat me. I'll be whatever you need. And even more. If only you ask. I'll never ask anything of you. Why? Because I don't know how. I've never played that role. It's a win-win without consequence. Or so I thought. Is there more? I feel free to pen those words but not to think on them.

At night I waken from a fitful sleep and reach out for you. For who? I know not. Perhaps simply for someone. Someone who can change my fitful sleep to one of peace. Someone to quiet the silence with their own whispers of hope. Someone who makes me less alone. Is this only wishful thinking? Or a vision of my fate? Could it only be empty words to fill this once empty page... to fill my empty heart? Whoever you are. Hold me. Smooth my hair away from my face. Cradle my tears in your heart. Drown out the silence because I can't. My fan on high and music on only makes the silence next to me in this empty bed scream at a deafening pitch.

I would like to give up on this battle. To simply wave my white flag and walk away. I'm tired...tired of fighting the silence. I don't know how much longer I can act this part without you. I think I need you. now. If only to lean on you for a moment. Or an eternity of moments. Is that okay with you? I need you now.. whoever.. or wherever... you may be. I don't want to be alone anymore. Rescue me before the depression knocks upon the door of my heart again. I haven't the strength to say no again.

Rescue me now...
for I need you now...

December 7, 2009

Through the Looking Glass, and Jabberwocky Considering that Journey

What if this isn't all just Jabberwocky? What if Lewis Carrol wasn't just a stoner who "wrote under the influence"? What if there really is a whole new world through the Looking Glass? And what if we are each a form of Alice? Someone lost in a world that defies imagination.

It is of no surprise to me that Alice in Wonderland still captivates my mind. I will defend it and Lewis Carrol till the death...or until the Cheshire Cat appears around the next corner. My secret aspiration is for my writing to someday equal that of Lewis Carrol. A stoner or a verbose genius. I guess your opinion is your own. However, you cannot deny that the world he created through his words, is magical. Magical in a frightening way. Was there ever a time that Alice was not confused or frightened? No. Not so terribly different from the "real world". Though some days I look around and wonder if this is all real or not. Perhaps I came through the Looking Glass and just can't remember the world from whence I came. This hypothesis seems stunningly plausible at the moment. Especially when I consider portions of an unposted blog.

"This all depends on perspective. I look through this great stained glass window. Everyone sees life differently. Everyone sees right and wrong as black and white, shades of gray, or as a rainbow of details. Good and evil reign in each man's heart. Which side you build up is only a choice of your own heart. You can fight against your demons or welcome their lies.


"I look through this great stained glass window. I can see a vibrancy of color as I gaze out on the street. The person next to me sees a world only of grey. Are they colorblind? Or are their eyes open to the truth?"


"I long for depth and beauty. You long for comfort. Is either wrong? I'll find my depth and beauty and you will find your comfort. Do either of us live lies? I'll go on and you will stay. Are either of us missing out? My answer is no. We may both be living our lives to the fullest extent allotted to us. We may both be experiencing it all."


The more I wonder the less I know; which means the less I know the more I know. Just as in Alice and Wonderland. Alice overthought each new experience she came upon, and realized she didn't know quite as much about the world, real or imaginary, as she thought she did. When that finally sank in her entire world changed. (No pun intended) Now I don't know how long I would last in a horror movie. I don't know how soon I could "get the guy" in a romance comedy. And I don't know if I could out karate chop Jackie Chan (well... ok I do know that one). This I do know I'd love the chance to live in a number of the worlds I have read about. A sometimes wise friend said

"books are always better than the movies… what they can put on film can never match your imagination"

I firmly believe this. The worlds of Narnia, Middle Earth and Wonderland of my imagination simply can't compare with the worlds the movies have made them into. A box if you will. It's not that they did a bad job; but it was the writers Narnia, the set designers Middle Earth, the directors Wonderland. It wasn't mine. Call me selfish, I won't deny it. I probably am on this matter. Yes I would love to be Lucy, Arwen or Alice. I wouldn't make the mistakes they made, instead I would make an all new set of my own. And that fact is so strangely comforting. I would have the freedom to make mistakes, not without consequence, no I'm not that jaded. Don't you see they would be MY mistakes. My very own. All mine. For the first time in life I wouldn't be a combination of everyone I have ever known. No I would be me, all mistake making failure me. For the first time in years I think I can be ok with not being perfect. Strange the lessons a simply complex book can teach.

Perhaps I am more off the wall than I thought. My "bucket list" doesn't consist of bungee jumping or heli-skiing (ok yea that one is on there). But of experiencing the thing's I have only read about. The following is a short excerpt of it:

Middle Earth (all three books!)
The Last Unicorn
Silver Blaze
Jane Eyre
A Midsummer Nights Dream
Spindles End
The Blue Sword
Betsy Tacy and Tibb
The Scarlet Pimpernel

How I plan to experience all of this I haven't the faintest idea. Mark my words, I will. Somehow, someday I will ride a charger through Camelot, solve a mystery alongside Sherlock Holmes and tumble through the Looking Glass... if only in my dreams.

November 25, 2009

A Twisted Phoenix

A glimpse into my mind, my emotions and my so called whiplash causing mood swings. Parts of blogs from the past few weeks that I never posted. Enjoy~

{Nov 11, 2009}
In a recent conversation with my soul friend, she said "leave it to me to find someone as broken as I am". That statement left me cold. It made me wonder all over again, can two broken people be okay together? Can our brokenness cause a bond stronger than that of love born of whole hearts? Or must my broken heart find someone unhurt, unbroken, unblemished by pain. Must that be the man who will love me? Even scarier was the thought that followed can anyone love me, a being utterly broken? I was not able to love one of the strongest men I have ever known. My heart was seeking a close companion one who I could share the deepest darkest parts of me; to know I wasn't alone. His heart however was looking for a heart without scars, one that could boost his strength even higher. Through this I had decided I would need to find someone equally broken, someone to appreciate my scars and to cry with me. But since that day I haven't shed a single honest tear. Tears of anger and tears of joy, but never a tear of pain. I have subconsciously held onto the hope of finding someone who could understand true brokenness. But in the here and now,

I have come to find out that my broken knight can't also be my savior.


Here in the relative silence of my room I have allowed myself to consider what I really want. In that alternate universe my hearts desire is love. Not the love of poems or songs. The love exchanged in a simple smile between a couple bound together in marriage for over 70 years. It's a simple touch. And it is completely indescribable. But it can be seen, and I saw it in fullest extent this past weekend. I saw couples in there 90's so passionately in love it emanated from them. There's was the kind of love that continues to grow every moment. It was that beautifully simplistic love that I craved only a few blogs ago. I also saw the pain that is the consequence of loving someone with all you are. A woman who had lost her husband a few years ago. She faked a smile as she stared off in the distance slowly twisting the simple gold wedding band she still wore. I met couples whose love made my heart soar. Their example of commitment and loyalty gave marriage a good name. And then an older woman shuffled in. I don't know how the topic came up, but in a quiet ashamed voice she told me that her husband won't come to church with her. They had been married over 50 years and he never has. I knew that like me that was a matter of great importance, great hurt and great embarrassment. Even though it caused her heart to break every Sunday and all the days in between she had remained committed to her husband. I don't know that I have the strength to be in that situation. To love someone across a rift of that proportion? If there is any aspect of me that needs to be shared it is my love of Christ. I can't be that 80 year old woman standing in church whispering to the photographers assistant that my husband doesn't share the core of who I am. In the past months I thought I could do it, I thought I could find a way to cross that rift no matter what it took. And then I met a sweet 80 year old woman. I'll never doubt that my commitment to Christ is what matters first.

{November 14, 2009}

Tonight I am being forced to face my greatest fear. Tonight I have to face the man who took a hammer and chisel to my already fragile heart. The results were disastrous. I healed mentally many months ago. My heart had only begun to heal recently due to a woman who dared me to dream again, and a man who taught my heart to sing a less bitter song. And only days ago I admitted to myself and the world that my broken heart still longed for love. For the first time in this eternal year I took shakey steps in the right direction. I had passed my crossroads and made the right decision. Now I feel that I may very well fall again. For him, or because of him. I don't know which. If only I could predict my reaction I could prepare for the fall that is to result.


I never realize how very few people understand me until I desperately need a hug. A listening ear. When I reveal that my walls of indifference are cracking I only get a "you'll be fine! Show him what he's missing! Just pretend he doesn't exist!" I can pretend he doesn't exist just as well as I'm able to pretend that my heart doesn't wail. This is one aspect of life where intentions don't matter. (the same as in horse-shoes and hand grenades)

{November 15,2009)

I learned a lesson in those tumultuous hours, being over someone and not being in love with someone is not the same.

{unknown date}

I caught a few minutes of the Wizard of Oz today. I thought at first I'm a Modern Day Dorothy. All I want is home. And then I realized unlike Dorothy I don't want reality. I want the land of Oz. I truly identify with the Scarecrow. I have the best of intentions but don't have the "brains" to make good on that intention.

I point left, I point right. I point both ways. I nod my head. I shake my head. I see the yellow brick road stretching before all of us and I give the best of advice.

But when a dear friend simply asks "Why?" I honestly can't tell you.

{November 16, 2009}
There are a lot of little things in life that give me inexpressible joy. The feel of a horse warming up my fingertips in the dead of winter. A mug of hot apple cider on a chilly fall morning. A hoody that has the right size hood (no Goldilocks hoody's for me!) Fleur de lis anywhere and everywhere. My old worn out cowboy boots and new stilettos. The smell of rain and the feel of it running down my skin. Paintings of fairy's and unicorns. The smell of an old musty book. The crack of a new binding. Ball gowns and converse. Reading Sherlock Holmes and solving the mystery in the first few paragraphs (ok. so that happened once and was a total fluke). Trotting my gray horse through the snow.

There aren't as many "big" things, but are important all the same. I love when a song comes on that completely describes what I'm feeling. I may have heard it a 1000 times. Or it may be the same but nevertheless; it is powerful and humbling. All at the same time. Powerful in that

music confronts my emotions head on. Music makes me be honest.

Humbling in that I can no longer say no one understands, because at least one other person in the world does.

For a small space of time that songwriter and I are one and the same. Together we have a bond of understanding.


All of my big moments end in understanding. That's all I really want in life. To understand and to be understood. Or is it?

{unknown date}

I self sabotage. It's my ugly truth. When people get close I fly off the handle. I subconsciously hurt them. I run. I give them a glimpse of just how screwed up I really am. People say I can change. They offer their help. And I just give another scathing reply. You know why? I don't want to change. I don't want help. I like my brier patch of a heart. I like being numb in my anger. Most of all? I like being in control.

I like being a tease who has no intention of ever putting out. Emotionally. Physically. Underneath this cool and confident exterior is a raging soul. I'll show you a foretaste of the "real me". Then before you know it, I snatch it back.

I'll always give a second chance. But never a third. A narcissist? Yes. So deal with it.

Fool me once shame on you. Fool me twice shame on me. But you'll never get the chance to fool me thrice.

The truth? The real me isn't worth knowing. The real me isn't worth loving. You can love me with all you have. You can try to help. You can wish with all you have that I will change. But my brier patch of a heart will never love you back like you deserve.

She thinks I'm attached? She has no idea how unattached I really am. I've known attachment. I've known love. On that warm August night, my lovers heart died. I don't attach. Not anymore.

Instead I'll sit in the background. I'll tease or taunt. You decide. Send me a signal and I'll be whatever girl you want for the night. I can be a drunken bar skank, or a pristine Virgin Mary. It's all up to you. Take what you want and leave what you don't want. But keep this in mind, you'll never know the real me. I have so much to offer, if you would have only asked for more. I can guarantee I'm more than you ever bargained for. And that's why you will never know anymore. But no worries, I'm not giving up. I'll still be whatever girl you want me to be. I'll be the best or worst thing that ever happened to you. I'll teach you all there is to know about hating and loving. Sometimes in that order. Sometimes not. Just ask me how I can play this part so well. I've experienced both to the fullest extent. I'll be your favorite lover or your greatest enemy. It's your choice. Just tell me what part I'm to play today.

Don't even try to predict me. I've always said that I'm a combination of everyone I have ever known. All you have to do is look at who I have been talking to recently. Stagnant. Deep. Afraid. There is no need to try to understand me when all you have to do is mold me into your personal Barbie.

So tell me. Whats it going to be? I'm tired of you changing your mind. Of you backpedaling. I'm done chasing down your heart. I can be your friend. I can be your crutch. I can be your love. I can even be your soul mate. But I can't be all four at once. At least not tonight.

And now... in this moment. I'm done. I'm back to running. I can find a new part to play. But I can't keep going on.

In the end I'm only a tease or a taunt.

You decide.

And that in a few paragraphs is the depth of me. My ugly truth. My absolute. And potentially, my greatest regret.

So I'm shutting those doors
I'm running away
Without a goodbye
And I'll never wonder why.

I'm opening my mind to my next persona.

{November 21,2009}

So many people disapprove of my emotions. I cry to hard. I laugh to loud. I scream to much. For years I've been told to just be quiet. To hide it. And now I have succeeded. Now those same people and some new; worry that I'm not the same. I have tried so desperately to not worry about peer pressure regarding my outward appearance; that I willingly opened the door to peer pressure regarding my heart. I listened to those voices. I stopped crying. My laughter rang hollow in my ears. And now my screams have taken up all the slack. I tried to be friendly and bubbly like Tori. I tried to be cold, calculating, unfeeling like Jared. And as of late I've become shallow and stagnant like him. At times I'm all three combined. Those are the days I watch my robot go and wonder who had it right.


I miss crying. There was something healing about those tears rushing down my face. A physical manifestation, a theophany of sorts, of the pain, the anguish, the anger and the deceit. Whatever the reason I learned something about myself and who I was through the tears. Perhaps that's why I don't know who I am anymore. I stopped learning even though I kept growing. My body and mind have grown past my heart. I've become the statue I've accused him of being. A stone cold reminder of sins and triumphs. As I write this I have this vision of a statue exploding and a bright real me arising from the rubble.

A twisted phoenix.

November 23, 2009

Signs, Wonders and Perfect Snowflakes

Symbolism, it's all around me. He jokes about my signs. But it is no joke to me. I believe in signs, wonders and miracles. I'm not talking about reading tea leaves or using my favorite number (7) to play the lottery. No, I believe there are signs that point to love hope and trust. On the converse I think that there are signs that warn of fear mistakes and pain. Furthermore I believe you can choose to see the signs before you or you can choose to ignore them and go on your way.

There is something magical about new fallen snow in the fall. It smells different, it looks different and most of all it feels different than any other snow.. I don't see winter in the negative light most do. It's not a death but a time of rest. So tonight when I walked outside to get wood and saw that light dusting of snow all the worries dissipated into the air that fairly crackled with energy. The worry over him, over horses and money. Over school and jobs. Over my health and my struggling faith; was all simply gone. It was just me and the snow. I stood with my arms stretched out beside me as I slowly twirled in circles gazing at the brilliant light of the winter moonlight. As the stars twinkled, without warning my eyes began to twinkle in reflection. I soaked in the healing power of those few snowflakes as I laughed at the simple eloquence of the sign around me. The stars are still twinkling, the moon (though smaller now) is still shining. There is so much more going on than me making the deans list, my next tank of gas, or becoming an athlete again. I have a life to live beyond all of those things. Exceedingly. Abundantly. Above all that I could ask or think.

I have gotten so bogged down in the emphasis I have placed on my everyday life, that I couldn't see the big picture. What is that big picture? I haven't the faintest idea. For now the signs point toward a time of preparation, a time of healing, a time of relaxation. A time for me to be honest with myself. Now as I sit out on my balcony shivering in the crisp fall-almost-winter air my path seems so clear.

It's a time to live, a time to grow, and a time to live without regrets.

As I gaze wistfully out at the stars, and watch them fall, I realize, I have forgotten to wish. One to many wishes on falling stars didn't come true. Somewhere along the way, I just stopped wishing. As the shock of that revelation wears off I see how my mindset has changed. And I'm determined to change my mindset again. I may not have the faith to wish on them anymore, but I can reach out and draw them close to my heart. Instead of the symbol of vanquished dreams they have become, falling stars are now a symbol of everlasting hope. Hope that I cannot put a name to, but hope that I can see. And for once, if I run far enough; even on the cloudiest night, I'll catch that glimpse of hope.

I'm slowly coming to realize, hope isn't inherent and it isn't given. It is taken, it is recognized and you have to find it yourself. A few days ago as I struggled in the gym a man walked by, his shirt said "be inspired". And I was. I finished up my reps and pushed past my point of comfort. I found inspiration, I found hope. This afternoon I took off my earrings and tossed them onto my bed. They formed a perfect heart upon my "thought" book. For the first time in years my writing has had meaning and has had hope. That heart pushed me to write again tonight to try and create something as beautiful as that heart framed by wings. Maybe my words have no meaning to anyone but me. I would hope to inspire and instill hope in others. Whatever you decide is fine. It is up to you. But me? I'll just keep looking for falling stars and perfect snowflakes. They won't lead me astray.

November 13, 2009

Briar Patches, Ballads and Hope.

What do I want? I've made my lists. The Perfect Man. Where I Want To Be In Ten Years. The Steps To Get There. The Perfect Horse. The Perfect Job. The Perfect Life. etc etc. Circumstances have changed some of those things. And I've been okay with most of them. And I've grown to accept the rest of them. So why do I suddenly find myself desiring something more? Why did it hurt so badly to find you so dead set against kids? I knew that, and I respected that. Until now. Why can't I get the image of that couple married for over 70 years out of my mind? Is my mind changing? Why? Why don't things stay the same? Why can't my heart stand by the decision my mind makes?

Why is the boundary between heart and mind so often blurred?

I desire that ten year plan to come to fruition. But lately, I've forgotten bits and pieces of that plan; and now I'm left with only the distant memory of a plan. All of this causes me to ask the question, what do I really have in life?

An ever-changing mind, a briar patch of a heart, and some semblance of a soul.

And that is me, the entirety of me.. in a nutshell. And I don't know if I'm okay with that anymore.. For the first time in an eternal year I want myself to be more.

I want to be strong
I want to be important to people
I want to be someone worth knowing.
I want to be someone's best friend.
I want to be wise.
I want to be the girl who understands.
I want to be regarded as a person of great insight.
I want. I want. I want.

The question is. What do I need? To loved and to be loved? Nay that was the thing of my dreams as a young girl. It's not the reality I have come to know. My reality is one of simply living. Waking up everyday, putting one foot in front of the other, walking the road allotted to me. Most days, I'm okay with that. Those are the days when hope is more than a flame upon a distant hill. It is as real as I, as the air I breathe. It is a fire lighting up my soul. That is my definition of hope.

To have hope is to illuminate a darkened soul.

And then the fire dies... and I exist, but that's all. I follow my day to day routine. But somehow... I view it not from my own eyes, but as a silent, tortured soul floating in a state of being. This is the things of dreams you say. No. This is only life.

I've come to the conclusion that I have hope it changes its form day to day just as love does. Perhaps the lesson I'm slowly coming to learn is that I must strive after hope, I must run to that distant hill, and when I reach hope, I must lock it inside my soul. But if I imprison hope what good is it? No this is not the lesson to be learned. Hope must continue to live as the things of dreams. It must reside freely with unicorns and fairies, in the land of Camelot, Narnia, or Neverland. Secretly believed in by all with old souls, however rarely seen. I'm not afraid to admit that;

I still believe in Santa Claus, in Unicorns, in Narnia, and lastly in hope.

I see hope in that music still speaks to my soul, it still changes my world. In that I've come to love writing again after nine long years.And as much as I deny it;

I still believe in love at first sight, in soul mates, and I too have my own King Arthur.

It's an interesting story you know, no matter which account you read, whether it be T.H. White or Disney; King Arthur always has an air of tragedy. But to me it is the greatest Romance. No matter in a movie or a ballad, the tales of Lancelot, King Arthur and his Queen Guienvere, and The Lady of Shalott, it brings tears to my eyes and hope to my heart. Why?

Because they failed.

All of them, in some form or another, and even in their failures that led to their ultimate downfalls they still knew love and how to love. That is the basis of my greatest desire. For some King Arthur out there to see past my faults and failures and love me not because of them or the woman I've become; but for his love to be so rich and so deep that he doesn't see them. Odd, perhaps.

Love in its truest form magnifies someone's greatest attributes and diminishes their shortcomings.

I want that love, in the quiet of my room, I can admit that. That love, is the love I'm willing to fight for. So I will wait for my King Arthur. One mistake I will not make is that I will not be distracted by Lancelot's along the way. No matter how rich the love they promise, because as in the tales of old, it is not my lot in life to love a Lancelot. Nay, my destiny is to love someone only as broken as I. I have always identified with Guinevere. The barren queen in a foreign land. I will continue to learn from her mistakes and I will love as she did, with all the love that my briar patch of a heart is capable of.

This is my hope.

November 5, 2009

Calling Bluffs, The Laws of Physics, and Moonlight.

A weekend of calling bluffs, working out and working things out. All oddly related.

When we were young (no killers reference intended... I think) Halloween was about staying up late, eating candy and dressing up. It's a time for young kids to dress up as firemen and disney princesse's. It's a time for college girl's to dress up as slutty french maids; college boys to dress up as gladiators. And then as one gets older it becomes another excuse to drink. It's simply one night in a year of reality where you can be someone you can never really be.

And then there are some of us who don't even have to dress up; we wear a costume every day of our lives. We always pretend to be someone we're not. Somewhere in the midst of many Halloween's and thousands of other days we loose who we once were. We become that costume.
Yet, we still complain that no one really knows us, or understand us. When in truth everyone knows us better than we know our "new" selves.

It's lost in the harsh reality that somewhere along the way you let someone know you better than you have ever known yourself.

At least that's what I thought. But indulge me if you will, what if Halloween is the chance for you to show who you are. And every other day of the year you are hiding behind a mask and a cheap costume. What if you really are that fireman or that slut?

Life is the true masquerade.

And so, I call his bluff, or he calls mine, or she called ours. It was enough for me to want to run for my very life. That wasn't how I had orchestrated things. I thought I had protected myself against that. Sometime in that long conversation in the moonlight, I learned something about him.. about me.. about people.

We all have writers block.

Albeit in a different form; we all have it. We block our creativity. It can be through our emotions, our trust, our reality. All in the name of guarding ourselves. From what I ask you? From doing the only thing in life worth doing? From being yourself, the only person in life worth being? I'll stand up as the the hypocrite I am to say:

It's not worth it.

If you can only do one thing in your otherwise meager lifetime, let it be your personal masterpiece. Be a composer of music, of words, of a simple smile; unlike anything this world has ever seen. Be passionate. Fall in love. Trust someone. Anyone. Show your scars. Wear your very heart on your sleeve. Put down the bottle of gin and let your soul shine forth. Sign offline and go outside your personal bubble without fear. Be open to the chance that you will get hurt, and see it for the glimpse of a blessing it is. Because great love can only be fully appreciated after knowing great anguish. Be that person you dressed up as for Halloween, show your wildest desires in your everyday reality. Recognize what you really want and go for it. Don't view a costume as another opportunity to hide; but instead a chance for your soul to bloom in a tangible way. Be a fireman. Be a princess. Be a gladiator. Be a slut. Whatever it is, be it in the fullest, the most real sense you can imagine. Don't hide. Don't run when someone calls your bluff. Or you might miss the chance for your wildest dreams to become your most ecstatic reality.

Now if only I could see past my own mask to take my own advice.

The other day my old soul friend (yes, that is truly the only way I can describe her) and I talked about poetry and the common aspects of it. The moon and stars, love and loss, passion and trust. Her poem ( read it here ) caused me to realize something I've always taken for granted. The moon always goes through its orbit. The stars always shine. Clouds may come and blanket the stars. The man in the moon may hide. But here's the deal kids.

Just because we can't see it doesn't mean it doesn't exist.

Is it not the same with love? Its light is always there, its face stays the same. But clouds come, its orbit turns its face from us. But it never truly leaves. Whether it be your first love, your last love, passionate love, fatherly love or pitying love; it is as much a commanding force in the universe as the stars. At times I too want to rope the moon (come on y'all, It's A Wonderful Life reference) to draw that symbol of undying love closer to my heart. But I know, I must have just as much faith in love staying true, as I can in the moon continuing to orbit, and the stars holding their shine. For now, I have a tangible reminder every time I look at the moon in the sky, as the stars twinkling light reflects in my hopeful eyes. Through this I know, without the shadow of a doubt,

I can not create love, nor can I destroy love. But I can change it's form.

October 26, 2009

~Waiting for the Sound of a Trumpet~

It's all about walls tonight folks. Building walls. Tearing down walls. I'm not a stone mason, so I can't speak from experience, but I know that neither one is easy. It takes strength to build a wall. It takes a reason. It takes precision. You don't build a wall without a precise reason . You build it to keep people out, to keep people in. You build it to protect yourself. You build it to hide. It takes even more strength to tear down a wall, to make it crumble beneath your feet. Yes, you can take a wrecking ball to it, and destroy more than you set out to. Or you can take it down with your hands. Brick by brick. stone by stone. A chisel to scrape away the mortar. Or you can just lay siege, cutting off the food. poisoning the water supply. Making them open the gates so you can go inside and pillage the city. So what does my wall consist of? (You didn't really think that wasn't a metaphor did you? Come now, you know me better.)

It's hurt and anger. Mistrust and anguish. It's fear and disbelief. It's being comfortable in pain. It's been built up over the years. It started with a broken hearted little girl, and the finishing touches are by a broken hearted woman. Every brick a memory. Every layer a forgotten dream. Every new height a hope surrendered.

So where does tearing down come into things? (later. I promise) First you have to have a reason to tear down. And you, kind sir. Are my reason. All we know is how we feel, or how we think you feel. At one time I thought we shared a brain, and now all I see are our differences. Religion. Politics. All the things you don't dare mention in polite conversation. Even our goals are different. All things I've always held in such high regard. However, in the quiet stillness of my room, all I can see are our similarities. The fear of the known and the unknown overcomes our rationality. Afraid of getting close, of moving beyond trite conversation, of revealing who we are.

Afraid... of being real.

I tell myself that I recognize this for what it is. And yet, my mind screams ""Hypocrite!" Recently I spoke with a friend of mine. She is the inspiration for this particular part of the blog. As I have mulled over that conversation I have come to a conclusion.

She, he, and I are one and the same.

Both in our fears, and our differences. I don't agree with her on religion, or politics. Like her, I fear the time when change comes, even though my soul longs for change. However, we do agree on our goals. We both want our eyes wide open. We want comfortable entanglements. We want to discover Where The Wild Things Are. We want to run in reckless abandon without fear of being hurt. We want a fairytale in our reality. We want to see the beautiful simplicity's in life. We long to see the beauty in reality, the beauty that our writers hearts create. We want to love, to be loved. We want to be inexpressibly real. And we want all of this our way. What is it that holds us back from discovering this world of pure, unadulterated beauty? It could be a number of things. But the more I think.. the more I realize.. it is the complexnicity of thought. Yes complexnicity.

When we talked she revealed that she was going to call him, and put her heart on the line. I silently commended her and admired her for her bravery. She was going to do something I could never do. Within minutes the conversation turned and she encouraged (or demanded?) for me to call you too. I immediately began arguing. After all, our situations were completely different. There's no way, I would call his bluff. I'm much to old fashioned, and plus I need to run. It's been much to long since I have had a good workout. I never did agree with her. I tried to relax my body, and quiet my mind with some yoga. It worked, for a time. I was up most of the night arguing with myself. "It would be pointless" said I. But me said "whatever will I say?" The more I think. The less I know. The less I know. The more I think. And now in this blog, I so much want to be just as trite and full of empty promises as you. I want to quote songs and poets. I want to use someone else's words and apply them to me. to you. to us. But those psalmists and poets aren't you. They aren't me. They aren't us. Every love is different. No poem could come close to describing how I feel about you, and neither could you find a song to aptly describe exactly what you feel for me. I need to talk to you I see that now. This situation is all our own. I'm starting to realize...

this is real..

I will call you, someday, somehow. I will gather the courage. I owe you that much. All this time I thought I would call your bluff, and here you are unknowingly calling mine.

To further my ramblings (and proof of my insanity) last week I went and saw Where The Wilds Things Are. I can't begin to touch upon how much it meant to me. It seems to mean something new to everyone. To some it was a tale of love, to others humor. But the most apt description I have heard is beautifully simplistic. It allowed me to imagine a world beyond the world it revealed, to keep dreaming, and to imagine where my wild thing is. And it applied those very principles to reality. And that is what made it a masterpiece. I saw myself in Max and I recognized life lessons I am slowly learning. No matter where I run to, even if that place fits my wildest childhood dreams I still have to come home. to my reality. to my life. When I get to that crazy world I still dream of being somewhere else. And that somewhere else is home; safe, dry, and eating some soup. When I take off that wolf costume and crown I can see the worthlessness of trying to be anyone but who I am. I'm only a little girl wanting to be understood and loved for that understanding. But somewhere along the way, I got scared. I got hurt. And I ran. I ran to this alternate universe, where I could hide in a shabby little costume. And yet, even though the world has changed, I have not. I still expect people to see beyond the costume and love me. And so I must come home. But these days I've run so far, and in so many different directions, I have lost my way. I don't know where home is anymore.

I've tried to follow others in their quest for home I come to find out, their home is not mine. They can't lead me to my home. I must find my own way.

The message of love is simply breathtaking, so much so that I can't begin to comprehend it. It appealed to my hopeless romantic heart in such a mighty way. It was a message of true romanticism in its purest form.

Loving something, or someone so much that you can take joy in the simplest of things, and have the freedom to imagine and explore the most complex of worlds.

At church on Sunday, I overheard someone talking about walls falling. The Berlin Wall. The Great Wall of China. The Walls of Jericho. How many times did the Israelite's step past their fear and face the overwhelming odds? I can think of countless tales. Elijah and the false-prophets of Baal. David and the Philistines. Gideon and his three hundred men. And yet, it wasn't easy for them. They didn't rush into battle fearlessly. No, they were fearful. I've always felt a special correlation between those tales and me. Fearful of getting hurt and choosing to run in the other direction. But what did the Israelites do that I so often forget?

They listened for the small still voice of God.

The Battle of Jericho is an interesting tale. I'm sure they all thought God had gone off his rocker when he told them to march around the city. Marching around the city wasn't a tactic of war. It showed their strengths... and their weakness's. But they listened to God. And when the trumpet blew. The walls came tumbling down.

The symbolism in this story is astounding. Oddly enough I see myself both in the people of Jericho and the army marching outside the city walls. I like my walls. I like where I am. I like being protected from intruders. And yet at the same time I'm out there marching in circles. For all the world to see my few strengths, and my abundant weakness's.

I'm waiting on that small still voice. I'm afraid to march and show my weakness's. And ultimately I'm waiting for the sound of that trumpet to echo in my heart. And for my walls to come tumbling down.

October 18, 2009

Victory Over the Monster

Writers Block is a funny thing you know. For a person who has writing in their soul, writers block suffocates you. It is as a monster which rises up inside of you. It overcomes the creativeness which has been a permanent part of your soul. He growls at you that there are other things more important in life than your impotent creativity. At other times it puts on a mask of deceit. He tells you in a soft whisper that at one time he was your creativity, but people's opinions, people's words, and the worst your own self-consciousness killed it. That those three things teamed up and slowly wore away at all that he was. Ironically, creating irreparable damage. At times you don't want to believe that horrible little monster. The desire to write. to create. to pour your heart into the only thing of beauty that you know, almost overrides the words of that monster inside your soul. It's almost enough to break free of your personal Auschwitz. A strong metaphor, yes. But when you can't do the one thing that makes you who you are. When you reach your wits end, when you want to give up and just forget who you once were... but then a glimmer of hope brightens your soul for the smallest fraction of a moment. And then, as quickly as it came its gone and you are once again starving for something foreign, but remembered. The one thing that could sustain your soul. At that point you realize no matter what you once imagined... you really are imprisoned in the dankest part of Auschwitz. You may go weeks, months or even years in denial of all that you are eking out a living without. When you least expect it... in a quiet moment your hand will start to ache, your heart seems to burst with the unsaid words and your mind starts to wonder could this be it? Could this be V-Day? Could the monster finally be conquered? Is your soul truly free? And then.. slowly.. your pen reaches out, reaching as if to touch an untamed beast for the first time. And your pen touches the page. Your ears hear the quiet brush of your hand against the page. Many moments pass... silent but for the violent beating of your heart and the steady scratch of words upon parchment. Your hand begins to cramp from the strain of the unknown exertion. But its only vaguely noticed as your heart sings with the greatest release it has ever known. For this moment in time, the monster has been defeated. You will glory in the victory and quickly get back to your heart, written simply upon a page. As your pen starts to slow, doubt starts to send forth a small tentacle and you almost give in; wondering will all find it illiterate? Is it even worthy of the title "writing"? But no another seemingly brilliant metaphor bursts into your mind, and off you go, writing faster than before. Not able to control your pen anymore than you could control the passing of time. You may lose your train of thought, you may lose all feeling in your hand. But the joy of doing what you were created to do is a force you cannot ignore. And then.. suddenly... you are done, you slowly let your pen fall. You lean back breathless from the battle your heart just finished. And suddenly you know; maybe for the first time in your life, what you are truly capable of.