Travels and Journals!

I know I've mentioned it before but as a new years resolution I decided to handwrite two pages every day. I just finished off one journal a day or two ago and have a fresh journal to bring with me to Belgium! As of today I have written 212 pages this year!

Sometimes I envision a shelf full of journals, but these aren't full of any great matter. I write the interesting stuff here on my blog. Stuff like "Hey, I'm writing a journal" and "Hugh Jackman is the awesomest celebrity ever." Important stuff like that. But my journals are even more dull. Sometimes it is literally "I don't want to write. Gotta fill these pages. Blah blah blah. I'm bored of writing. I hate writing. I love writing."

But it's an exercise and it's good for me.

In other news, I leave for Belgium today?! What? What? I'm sure that in the next few hours the anxiety will hit, but I'm actually feeling quite chill this morning. Oh, you know, just popping on to a plane this afternoon and going to Europe like you do. No big deal.

Except that it is a big deal and I am beyond excited and there will be so much to do and see and I am crossing my fingers that I will get to see fields of tulips and some windmills. Since "seeing windmills" is on our itinerary, I'm thinking there's a chance! Also, it's tulip season in the Netherlands and I assume there will be some tulips in Belgium too. 

Oh man! I don't know how often I will post blog posts while I'm away, but I hope to post a few!

Prayers and well-wishes for a fun and safe adventure will be greatly appreciated. Thanks for reading my blog. I'll write again soon, I hope!

Under The Bridge Where I Used To Sit

Under the bridge where I used to sit,

It flowed so loudly, and now I hear its quietness.

I hear the same familiar sounds, but there are new ones too.

I hear the quiet whispers of gentler waters.

Was it always this quiet, but I just couldn't hear it?

I am listening now.



I took a few moments to try to write rhymes

But the words want to flow like the waters beside me.

There is structure in a creek, but sometimes it cuts a wider path,

Never minding if it’s doing things right.

I want to mind. I want to get things right.

But I also want to be the water that is so full it can’t be contained by a mere creek bed.



Under the bridge where I used to sit.

There is so much more for me than the mud under my feet.

The creek has more than the mud it glides over.

I am full of that life, but only if I choose it.

Instead I sit in my troubles, unable to hear.

I am listening now.



I am reminded of a song,

but the waters weren’t the ones who were troubled,

I was.

I was on the bridge looking down at calm waters.

But I could not hear them over the pounding of my heart.

Now I am still. I am closer.



Under the bridge where I used to sit

I hear the quietest sounds of the water as well as the loud.

Who knew a creek of barely a few feet could hold so much depth?

The water is truth, cutting its way, raging - now flowing gently.

I am listening now. I am listening.

Speak Lord.

What shall we eat the seventh year?

There are so many passages in the Word that remind us to trust. The Lord tells us so many times not to worry. He is leading us. He will take care of us. We're just supposed to listen and do what He says and things will work out for us. And yet, we worry. Which is probably why the Lord tells us SO many times not to.

Be not anxious for your soul, what you shall eat and what you shall drink; nor for your body, what you shall put on. Is not the soul more than food, and the body more than clothing? Matthew 6:25

Come to Me, all ye who labor and are burdened, and I will give you rest. Matthew 11:28 

Fear not, little flock, for it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom. Luke 12:32

Let not your heart be disturbed, neither let it be afraid. John 14:27

Cast thy burden on Jehovah, And He shall sustain thee. Psalm 55:22

Yea, though I walk in the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; For Thou art with me. Thy rod and Thy staff, they comfort me. Psalm 23:4

The day when I fear, I will trust in Thee. Psalm 56:3

And He doesn't just tell us to trust blindly. He also tells us what He will do for us too!

I don't doubt the Lord. I know that what He says is true, but it can be hard to feel it sometimes.

I was reading through Leviticus. Now, I don't know how familiar you are with Leviticus, but I remember as a child starting out at the beginning of the Word with excitement and I was gonna go right through and read it all. Genesis was full of stories and images and familiar things that I loved. Exodus too! Familiar, encouraging! The Ten Commandments! Yeah there are a few "begats" to get through. I remember glazing over for parts. And then I hit Levitcus and wondered what on earth happened to my narrative! Laws? I mean, I love the ten commandments, but these laws are so weird and not really that comprehensible to me. I get some of them, and which laws are still to be observed etc is a whole nother conversation.

So, Leviticus has always been a book to slog through. I gained some appreciation for it in college when I studied the Torah. I still think Leviticus 10 one of the coolest stories in the Word! But that's another blog post too.

Anyhow, this morning I came across the passage "What shall we eat in the seventh year?" and for whatever reason it really struck me!

In Chapter 25 we find more laws. And I'm reading along about when to sew your vineyards and your fields and when you can harvest them and that every 7th year is a sabbath year, which means that you neither gather the harvest nor plant for the following year. When I first started reading the chapter I wasn't really thinking about the fact that they wouldn't have food if they weren't allowed to harvest it. And then along comes verse 20: "What shall we eat the seventh year? behold, we shall not sow, nor gather in our increase."

And for some reason that verse just really struck me and I'm not entirely sure why! And then what follows:  "Then I will command My blessing upon you in the sixth year, and it shall make increase for three years. And you shall sow the eighth year, and eat yet of the old increase until the ninth year; until her increase come in you shall eat of the old."

I hadn't even thought about the fact that one year of no work meant two years without food. No food the current year, and none the year after cause they didn't plant for it.

But the Lord always has a solution.

"My blessing upon you in the sixth year."

I think this is what really struck me in this story. The Lord provides for us. Well duh!

Well duh! And here I'm going off on a limb because this story is talking about a very orderly process where the Lord asks us to take a sabbath and He provides for the future, but He also provides for us when the famine and lack is of our own doing. He is ALWAYS providing for us and trying to help us.

Saying that God allows something to happen does not mean that He wants it to happen but that He cannot prevent it because of His goal, which is our salvation. . . . [Divine providence] is constantly focused on its goal; so that every moment of its work, at every single step of its course, when it notices that we are straying from that goal it leads and turns and adapts us in accord with its laws, leading us away from evil and toward good. . . . This cannot be accomplished without allowing bad things to happen. (Divine Providence 234)

So yeah, I know the story in Leviticus is talking about something a little different, but nevertheless it reminded me of this idea that the Lord is constantly providing for us and leading us and turning us toward good and bringing good out of all the situations!

And here's the thing that was really exciting to me! He doesn't just fix our blunders after we make them, or walk along beside us fixing them as we go. I mean, He does do that. He is right beside us always, helping us course correct, but the point is that He foresaw everything, and prepared us ahead of time for what would come after.

"My blessing upon you in the sixth year."

I remember when my brother got a lacerated spleen it was really upsetting to me. I don't remember why it was so scary even when I knew it would be fine. But I was really upset and a friend said to me "You know that the Lord prepared you for this before it happened, right?"

And it hadn't occurred to me. I know He is always there, and ready to step in and help us overcome anything, but He was there before.

"Before I formed thee in the womb, I knew thee." Jeremiah 1:5 

Who Am I?

I often ask myself the question "What do I want to be when I grow up?" I am 31 and I still don't know the answer to what I want to BE. I am up. I still need to grow a lot, no doubt about it, but what am I growing toward?

I was journaling by hand recently and wondering what I should focus on, even just for now. What am I gonna be when I grow up and what am I gonna do while I'm waiting?

And that's just it, I have this feeling that I'm waiting, rather than doing the things now. "When will my life begin?" floats through my brain.

Well, my life began 31 years ago. I can't be waiting for something. So then there's now to look at. So what AM I doing? and who am I anyway? 

I am always having a battle with my thoughts and emotions, and I recently have been trying to notice them and not own them. The thoughts don't have to be invited in for tea. I get to decide which ones stay and which ones go. I am not my thoughts.

My emotions often get the better of me. I don't think of myself as ruled by my emotions, which has gotten the better of me, because I didn't see it coming. I think of myself as WAY intellectual. Not smart, just very intellect driven. But it turns out I have emotions too and they call a lot of the shots and that's not a good thing. I have been trying to keep them in check. But it turns out they can't be kept it check, only observed and noticed. I can't turn them off and I certainly mustn't let them control me so much. I am not my emotions.

So as I come to that realization I feel empty. If I am not my thoughts and my feelings then what am I? A hollow shell is how it feels. Haha, who cares how it feels?

I know, I am not my thoughts and I am not my feelings. I am my actions. But how do I decide what actions are worth taking?

Of course, of course, it all comes back to the Lord. His Word tells me what actions are worth taking. But I am no puppet. The Lord cannot work through me without my help.

It feels right that there should be this emptying out of self. I currently feel devoid of self and of life. I am not my anything. I am not. As much as this feeling really sucks, I know that it's necessary.

I am sure there are passages in the Heavenly Doctrine that speak about how we cringe at the idea of the Lord coming closer because we feel the loss of self, and yet the highest angels feel life as their own more than anyone else. I wish I could find the passage(s) I'm thinking about but this is another one of a slightly different ilk:

Who has any other feeling or perception than that when he thinks he thinks from himself, that when he wills he wills from himself, and that when he speaks and acts he speaks and acts from himself? But it is from a law of Divine Providence that man should not know otherwise, since without such feeling and perception, he could not receive, or appropriate any thing to himself, or produce any thing from himself, thus he would not be a recipient of life and an agent of life from the Lord. He would be like an automaton, or an image without understanding and will, standing with hands hanging down, in expectation of influx, which would not be imparted; for life, in consequence of non-reception and non-appropriation on man's part, would not be retained, but would pass through, whence man, from being alive, would become as it were dead, and from being a rational soul would become irrational, thus either a brute or a stock. For he would be without the delight of life, the delight which every one has from receiving, appropriating, and producing as if from himself; and yet delight and life act in unity, for take away all the delight of life, and you will become cold and die. (Apocalypse Explained 1138:4)

My Life Is Based On A True Story

Well, that would be how things happened. I've been kinda keeping an eye on my blog and noticing that I'm nearing my 100th post. But of course, somehow I managed to un-publish one. I don't even know how one does that! So apparently I'm not very blog savvy.

I had great plans that my 100th blog post would be something clever and epic, but it wasn't. It wasn't at all. It might have been one of the most bland things I wrote!

This post however represents the start of my next 100 blog posts!

I started a blog in July. It's been somewhat steady. This year the posts have been slower in coming because I also started a daily hand written journal and so a lot of my stuff just gets written there and I don't come on my blog as often as I used to. Maybe I will write up some of my handwritten ramblings some day.

I recently was looking at some magnets with twippy sayings on them and one jumped out at me: "My life is based on a true story."

Well, as if that isn't the most obvious thing in the world! But then, think about it! Life is for real. And depending on how you wanna think about it, you are writing your own story. Or maybe you prefer to think that the Lord is writing your story. He is of course, but maybe it's kind of a choose your own adventure? We are in freedom to take any path He offers us, or to stray completely from any path at all. We can turn to page 34 or 426, depending on what we choose, or we can forge out own path, burn the book, write a different ending.

But I'm pretty sure that no matter what we choose the Lord foresaw it. So He is writing our story. Or at least righting it. No matter what we choose He will do His best to turn our choices toward use and Him.

Maybe I'm rambling. I know that I am, but I'm just too excited to slow down and organize my thoughts.

I started a blog in July. I've written over 100 posts and I am grateful for the encouragement and feedback that I have received. I really do hope that my blog is inspirational to others and is useful to someone other than me, but I also know that it is useful to me whether others get it or not.

I love to write. I've been writing for as long as I can remember. I REALLY wish that I could find the story of Toodles and Cindle that I wrote when I was like 4 or something.

I have been writing.

When I was 12 I wrote some never-ending, excessively long story about some royal families and all the people falling in love. It was over 300 pages, typed, single-spaced. It was called "The Story" and it got too big to fit on one floppy disk so I had to split the file so that I could back it up. I have so many partial stories sitting in files on my computer waiting for something to happen.

Seriously the only story I ever finished (other than Toodles and Cindles when I was around 5) was a sorta Frog Prince parody called "The Invisible Prince".

I thought it was cute and okay but had some serious problems. This summer one of my friends read it aloud to me and another friend and that moment changed the way I view my writing. It was one of the scariest things to sit there, crimson-faced while my story was being read out loud! I still cringe a little thinking about it. But they were laughing and enjoying something I had written, and I had a little epiphany that maybe my writing was okay. Maybe people would actually enjoy reading stuff I write!

So, through these friends I developed the courage to at least start a blog. It took me a few more months to start sharing posts on facebook and actually letting people read it! But it has been a great outlet for me.

I love a lot of things, but I didn't realize that I could actually be good at any of them. Painting took me completely my surprise! I'm no da Vinci... yet. But I found that I could never become a good writer or a great painter without trying. Practice is necessary, frustrating, and fun.

I enjoy painting, even when the end result looks like a 2 year old painted it. I enjoy writing, even if I misuse "it's".

I enjoy it, so I do it, and I progress.

My life is based on a true story. It's the story that I make it to be. I get to choose my own adventure. And by golly, I'm gonna choose it!

Tracing the tears.

How often do you let tears fall where they will? I always try to stop them, sometimes before they even start, or if I let them fall I try to catch them with a sleeve or a tissue. But when they fall uninhibited, do you notice where they go? They don't drip nicely from your eyes. They slide in interesting patterns. One just slid along my nose, and hit my nostril. Do tears flow up? What's with that?

One tear followed and dripped right across my philtrum to my closed lips. And I can feel the salty tears stinging my chapped lips. I cannot taste the salt because my lips are sealed. But I can feel a few tears pooling on the verge of getting in.

One falls along the curve of my chin, and though it originated in my right eye, it has crossed my entire face and is slipping down the left side of my neck.

Tears do not fall down. They seem to defy gravity, or at least get themselves into fascinating situations if you let them. I am sitting straight, not tilting my head to change the patterns. They fall where they will.

Notice the tears; They create their own paths, like lightening across a sky.

Look Up!

The redness is back. It's dark this time. Not the bright throbbing glow that drew me last time. It's a deep beautiful red. Is it even the same?

The redness is back and it's pulling me again.

I flinch when I see it. It hurt so much last time. It hurt when I drew near and it hurt as I pulled away from it. Is it even the same red?

The fiery glow that pulled me in last time nearly hurt my eyes it was so vibrant with life. This redness is deep and soothing. I'm not sure if it should be described as vibrant or not. It's full. I must describe it as full.

I see it now. There is a golden glow beyond the red. Mingling in a flash of light.

There is a pain in my chest as I look at the redness. Is the pain a memory or a real feeling? It hurt so much last time! My throat begins to feel sore with the memory.

"Stop." I say to myself. I turn away from the red, but it is all around me. There is no turning from it. I look down and my feet are bathed in the darkness. I look up and rather than feeling trapped I feel close and safe as I see the wide expanse above me. Suddenly there is a dark, deep blue with a myriad of stars.

This tightness, and yet this broad expanse. I should feel nervous. I should feel scared, but the tightness in my chest begins to release. I am surrounded all around by a dark, warm red and above there is so much deepness and light.

Hands slightly open, I begin to turn slowly on the spot looking up at the stars. Is there a familiar constellation in the heavens or are these not my stars? There are so many more than on an average night that it is filling in the expanse. I cannot tell if I should know this place or not.

But I do. Something about it is familiar. No, not familiar. I've never seen this before, but I recognize it. There is something about this that feels safe. I am at home here. Overwhelmed, I fall back but instead of thudding to the ground I fall gradually. The transition from standing to lying is one I hardly noticed.

But suddenly I feel cold. The pain should come, should it not? It hurt so much last time. I was sure that I would shatter.

Instead of enjoying my surroundings I was suddenly shivering in fear. Fear of something that might not happen. Indeed, there was a pleasantness in my chest that seemed to be saying "Do not be afraid." But I was sure that the pain would return and I did not trust the feeling. I curled myself up, looking away from the stars. But folded up, with my face pressed into the ground the red still reached through my eyelids, insistent through my avoidance.

There was no pain, only fear. But the fear began to manifest as pain. My eyelids began to hurt. My stomach knotted with worry and my heart started beating too fast.

"Please stop!" I gasped, pushing on the pain in my chest.

"You are creating the pain." I don't know where the voice came from. I knew it was true, but I didn't know how to stop it. I tried to slow my heart beat just by thinking about it. But thinking about it scared me. I felt so cold and though I tried to stop myself from shivering I could feel my teeth chattering.

Slowly I again became aware of how warm and inviting my surroundings were. But I was still afraid.

"Look up." The voice said.

I was afraid. But how much had it hurt last time? Last time. Everything hurt more than words last time. But then there was peace. I knew that. I knew it then and I knew it now, but trust hurt before the initial plunge.

"Get it over with," I told myself. "You're hurting yourself now. You, and you alone are causing this torment. Look up."

"Look up," the voice that was mine repeated.

But as easy as it would have been to turn my head I couldn't. Resolutely I looked inward. Rolled as tightly as I could I was looking in at myself. Trying to protect my feelings. My heart, my lungs.

But I was causing the tightness. I was causing the pain.

"Look up."

In one violent wrench I tore myself out and looked upward. Light was streaming from the sky. The redness around me and the blue above were mingling together in strong waves. Water poured from my eyes as I beheld the striations of light and color. The beads of wet on my eyelashes added another dimension to the light and colors, refracted in my tears.

But I was safe. Again. Just as I had known I would be. I looked about at the mingling colors and down at the purple and white reflecting off my skin and I laughed.

It was relief. I was safe. I had always been safe. I had caused the feelings of fear and anxiety, but the safety had been around me perpetually. I was safe. I had always been safe.

Actions and motives

Is blogging unhealthy for me?

Sometimes I feel like blogging is a great outlet for me to verbally process things that might otherwise me spewed at someone's ears. I love writing and figuring out my thoughts through writing. I also love verbal processing and just talking through my thoughts.

These are both really useful for me. But how egocentric are they? I think I worry too much, but sometimes it's good to be aware of my selfish tendencies so that I can shun them.

I write for myself. Plain and simple I need an outlet to write and so I get on my blog and start rambling, and sometimes I hit upon something deep and I do hope that my thoughts could be of use to someone else. But too often I hope that they will be useful for someone else... so that they can understand ME better.

Do I want people to read my blog because I think it will be helpful to them or to me? Do I paint so that other people can admire me and my talents or so that I can bring life and joy to other people?

I definitely overanalyze. Usually after a little "Argh! I'm selfish. Who am I doing this for? What's the point of this or that?" I just step back and think: Is it the right thing to do? Am I serving the Lord? Am I repenting? Am I becoming a better person or a more selfish one? Am I following the Lord? And I doing the right thing?

It is important to notice our motives, but most of all it is important to notice our actions and if the actions are good and moral we should do them, even if we ARE doing them for fame, glory, praise or whatever.

Sure, sometimes we need to take a break from certain actions if we can't find a way to change our motives.

I shouldn't write and write and write and become more self centered and evil as I go, even if somehow my writing IS useful to others. But the real deal is that if I were not working on myself and shunning evils in my life my writing would become worse and worse and less interesting or meaningful to others.

So, long story short, I should keep writing because I think it is useful. And I should continue to examine my motives and shun evils as sins against the Lord.

I can write.

I decided (at least for a week) to embrace my writing. A dear friend has encouraged me greatly. Told me repeatedly that I am a good writer. It's feel so much easier to protest and drag up all the things that I don't like about my writing. So, for at least a week I am going to embrace my writing as good writing.

I sometimes mix up aught and ought, or brainlessly use the wrong they're/their/there. But somehow knowing that I do know the correct rules makes me feel better about screwing up. Which is weird because I usually think that ignorance is actually better than knowing what's right and wrong and then just going ahead with what's wrong. Whatever, I think my writing is good.

A friend recently asked me, "What is good writing?" I've been thinking about this. Thinking about what I like about my favorite authors. Do I like certain authors or certain books? Do some authors write consistently good things? I think about JK Rowling. I read all the Harry Potter books and loved them. I guess I haven't tried reading her other books, but I didn't even feel compelled to.

I think I usually get into stories, seldom into authors. I'm trying to think of any author that I just had to read everything he wrote.... I think I read everything by Jane Austen. A lot of stuff by C.S. Lewis. A lot of George Mac Donald and a lot of A.A. Milne. Oh and pretty much everything by Kathryn Worth, Ethel Cook Elliot, Kate Seredy, and Baroness Orczy. Wait, nope. That's not true. I didn't read anything by Orczy except for her Scarlet Pimpernel books. I mean, she wrote like 15 of those and I read them all, but I don't think I read anything else by her.

Woah, that was fun! I didn't realize how many authors I admire! I was thinking it would be like 3. But that was 8! I think I was thinking it wouldn't be that many because I was thinking of generally admired authors where I liked some of their books but wasn't crazy about reading all of them like some people do. So authors like Terry Pratchett, Lousia May Alcott, Lucy Maud Montgomery, JK Rowling, JRR Tolkien etc who people just adore.... I mean, I like some of their novels. Maybe even some of my favorite books, but I didn't care about eating up everything they wrote. And I can also think of several of my favorite books but I didn't care about reading more by that author. M.M. Kaye is a perfect example of that. The Ordinary Princess is one of my favorite books, but it's the only children's book she wrote and I didn't want to read any of her long epics. Ella Enchanted is another great one. Can't remember the author this moment, but I read some of her other books and they were fine but not great. And Elizabeth Pope Osbourne (I think that's her name) who wrote Sherwood Ring. SUCH a good book, but I read another by her and it was, again, fine, but not anywhere as good as Sherwood Ring.

So going back to the aforementioned 8 authors. What makes their writing so good that I will read anything they write including a shopping list?!

I'm not gonna answer that just now. I'm gonna focus on what I think is NOT good writing for a moment.

Depressing (in and of itself) is not good writing! Adult content is not good writing. It doesn't have to be compelling, dramatic stuff. Ok, the reverse of good writing is getting me no where. I'm really thinking about A.A. Milne, one of my all time favorite authors. I've even read more than just Winnie the Pooh, but Winnie the Pooh is some of my favorite literature. Why?

(Sidenote a couple with a baby just walked into Starbuck and I desperately want to just go ask them if I can hold their baby! Tears. Eyes. Stinging. Agh!)

It is simple and straight to the point. There is no floweriness about the descriptions. It's just so beautifully crafted! It's heart warming and so very real! I'm sure a lot of it is affection for the books read to me in my childhood, but it's so much more than that because I love the word choices and the capitalization of Important Words. It's just so wonderful! And so much of it is the simplicity!

“Piglet sidled up to Pooh from behind.
"Pooh!" he whispered.
"Yes, Piglet?"
"Nothing," said Piglet, taking Pooh's paw. "I just wanted to be sure of you.”

I think this is one of my favorite things in all of literature. Why is it so beautiful? Why does it tug at my heart strings and warm it all at once?

And another perfect description!

“Rabbit's clever," said Pooh thoughtfully.
"Yes," said Piglet, "Rabbit's clever."
"And he has Brain."
"Yes," said Piglet, "Rabbit has Brain."
There was a long silence.
"I suppose," said Pooh, "that that's why he never understands anything.”

I'm sure people have tried to explain the above concept and it takes them entire books and they would never be able to say it that perfectly and concisely.

Winnie the Pooh is full of these one liners that just convey so much truth in one tiny little bite. And it is so endearing and beautiful!

Well, when my friend asked me (I believe after midnight) what makes good writing I didn't have an answer so I asked him right back and he said something like "Someone who writes the truth." I almost wish that I hadn't asked him, because now I feel like I am just stealing his answer. Would I have come up with that on my own? I just came to that conclusion about A.A. Milne without even trying. It's just so obvious.

So, trying to be original and think about what I love about my favorite stories... AH ha! This sentence just discovered something for me. I try too hard to be original! I try to write stories that are new and different and have something new to offer. I want my blog posts to discover some new idea. I want to be original, but original is NOT what makes for good writing. Truth IS what makes for good writing. So if it's true it's gonna be something someone else has said. I don't have to look for originality and saying something in a new and different way. I just need to stick to telling the truth and letting the words come.

"And that's the whole poem," he said. "Do you like it, Piglet?"
"All except the shillings," said Piglet. "I don't think they ought to be there."
"They wanted to come in after the pounds," explained Pooh, " so I let them. It is the best way to write poetry, letting things come."
"Oh, I didn't know," said Piglet.

What the blazes?

... right in the middle of a sentence.

I think I like to fight the cliche of beginning a story with "Once upon a time". So I don't know how else to start one except for abruptly.


Wind and sun. Dry heat. I wandered across the bright meadows. It was lovely and unencumbered. Some kind of white flowers dotted the golden field, but my eyes hardly took it in. I followed on toward the redness blazing ahead of me.

It was growing. Or was it shrinking? Frightened, following my impulse, I started running toward it. It wasn't growing. I was just getting closer to it. It was shrinking, but the rate at which I approached it meant that the size didn't change. It gave the illusion that I was running on a treadmill. It seemed too much like I wasn't moving and all of the sudden I became dizzy and had to drop to the ground, breathing heavily. I looked up at the brightness and could now see that it was shrinking away. In a panic I began running again. I couldn't lose it. I had to make it there in time, even though I didn't know what I was running for. I sprinted, gasping for breath as it pulled away from me. I felt the glow of the redness on my skin. I looked down and instead of seeing the expected red, the light reflected as blue on my skin. It was surreal, but I couldn't register the meaning. I had to reach it before it was completely gone.

I reached out my hand. It was just--

"Stop. Don't do it."

I withdrew my hand guiltily. Who had said that? I looked around. About fifteen yards away there was a man. I didn't know his face, but I trusted him. I trusted him, but I still wanted to know why I shouldn't reach for the redness.

"Why not?" I asked.

At this point the redness was not changing in size, but growing in intensity. It made me long to reach for it, but I refrained, waiting for an answer.

"Because you're not supposed to." He wasn't yelling, but it was like his voice was fighting against a strong wind. "Don't reach for it," he warned again.

"But..." I began. Torn between trust and longing. "But... but I want to!" And the intensity of the redness was creating a storm. I felt pulled toward it and at the same time pushed away. It was as if the unknown man and I were pushing toward a wall of wind and shouting to each other to be heard, and yet we weren't shouting and his voice sounded close, and safe, and I believed him.

"Trust me," he said. And he reached his hand toward me. And I felt intense fear and loneliness. I turned toward the red glow. I could feel the warmth. I took a step.

"Please!" he said, and his hand was a gift in the brightness.

"I can't." I apologized. And I took another step toward the glow. And I began to cry.

Maybe he was right. I stopped. I looked at the hand. The kindness he was offering. The love. I thought I should try. One step toward him. And there was gut wrenching pain and I was crippled. I fell to the ground.

It was a sign. I knew that I should have kept toward the glow. My face turned back toward it. The pain receded a little. I crawled a little bit toward the intensifying red.

"Trust me," the man said again. My eyes were burning with tears. I could feel the drips falling whichever way they chose. One hitting the corner of my mouth, one rolling toward my ear, leaving salty trails on my skin. I didn't even want to turn toward the man. It hurt too much.

"I'm going to crawl into the light," I said. Mostly to myself. I didn't care if he heard.

"Trust me," he said a third time. I chanced a look. Such warmth, but my head split.

"Okay," I whispered. And it tore my throat to say it. I reached out my hand and as I did I could feel the ripping in my chest and I wanted to withdraw, but as soon as my hand touched his it was firmly in his grasp and he pulled me away from the glow. I was being pulled toward safety and to him.

Playing with paint

I'm not a painter. I love paint. I love squirting paint straight on to my canvas and running a paint brush through the creamy blob. Or taking my fingers and smudging the paint around.

It's so much fun to mix colors and make new colors. It's fun to just go with it and see what colors mix when you run a brush across different colors of paint.

I messed around with oils once or twice maybe a year ago? But not really. This September I have launched into oil painting. Painting every day! It's scary, but oils are surprisingly forgiving. I'm not sure why I have always been intimidated by oils, because they are so much fun to play with.

My problem with painting is that I like control. I like crisp defined lines and a plan. That's probably a good thing... to start out with. But I need to be able to let go.

I started a painting of a hand. It turned out so much better than I thought it would. But it was only the beginning. I knew it needed more work, but I didn't know how to fix it or make it better. Therefore I was worried that if I changed it or did anything too it that it could end up worse rather than better.

But advice from a friend let me move forward. She said that there's no virtue in finishing a painting if it means turning it into something you like less just so that it's finished. I had recently painted a bunch of color and movement on a small canvas just to use of some leftover paint. I had no agenda, just throwing paint all over and seeing how it turned out. My friend pointed out that that painting had so much life and moment.

She suggested, and I agreed, that I should just go at it. So I squeezed paint right onto the canvas and used my fingers to mix colors and make patterns. And I had lots of fun just making bright and bold colors on my canvas.

But now the hand I had painted on one side was washed out and gray. But I hadn't known what to do with the hand anyway. The brightness of the new background allowed me to add some red highlights to the skin, and it warmed up the hand and allowed me to fix some of the shapes and lines on the hand.

It's still not perfect, but I am pleased with the outcome because I just played with the paint and let it do its thing.

I like painting because it lets me create and engage, and because it is a metaphor for life.

I need a plan, and maybe even crisp defined lines, and then I need to let go and just see where life takes me. I posted my painting to Facebook and this conversation ensued:

Friend (who had given me the initial encouragement to just go at it): I always paint best when I'm willing to let go and play. Let myself be a vessel for creating rather than the CREATOR. How surprising that it works

Me: Haha. So true. But letting go of the outcome hurts!

Yes, life, letting go of the outcome hurts. But it usually works out for the best!

Cozy longings

I feel like a different person when Fall weather hits. I feel renewed and excited. Sometimes it's just the wardrobe change and being able to wear cozy sweatshirts again, but it's more than just the clothing. The atmosphere is just different. I feel happy and cozy now that I can wear comfy clothes and pile on the blankets and hot cocoa, but the air is refreshing and life giving. It's cold and gray today and I love it.

But there is also something of longing in fall weather. It always brings on some nostalgia. The memories of apple picking and leaf raking, some going back to my childhood. But wherever those memories fall on my timeline they are close and far and all just out of reach, and that can bring on sadness.

I don't feel sad today, but there's always that cozy longing that comes with this weather. I love the gray skies and chilly drizzle, and I long for the crisp blue October days!

No matter what's in store this fall, it feels renewing and hopeful.

Enough

If life isn't good enough, what are you saying? Are you saying that God has not provided for you? Are you saying that His timing is not good enough for you?

When life isn't good enough, how do you make it enough?

How do you make it good enough?

I think of the parable of the talents, which I will insert here.

For the kingdom of heaven is like a man traveling to a far country, who called his own servants and delivered his goods to them. And to one he gave five talents, to another two, and to another one, to each according to his own ability; and immediately he went on a journey. Then he who had received the five talents went and traded with them, and made another five talents. And likewise he who had received two gained two more also. But he who had received one went and dug in the ground, and hid his lord’s money. After a long time the lord of those servants came and settled accounts with them. (Matthew 25:14-19)

The first two doubled their amount and the last servant buried his money. It's an obvious story. The money are called talents! Take your gifts and make use of them. Even if you think that the Lord should have or could have given you more.

In the story of the talents each servant gains more by using the ones he has. Instead of waiting for the Lord to provide, they use what they already have and receive more from the Lord.

There's no waiting. It's just doing and the Lord provides. And the servants aren't doing and looking over their shoulders for approval saying "Ok, Lord, I did my thing. Can I get some approval? Can I get some more? Some of what I want?" They're just doing, cause it's the right thing to do.

It's obvious, but we're supposed to be content with our lot in life. Do what we can with what we are given and make the most of it. Being discontent or thinking that our lives aren't good enough is entirely our own fault. No matter how bad our lives are we can keep trusting in the Lord and believe in His plan and do as much as we can with what we are given and eventually receive the words we long for:

Well done, good and faithful servant; you were faithful over a few things, I will make you ruler over many things. Enter into the joy of your lord.

Welcoming the Unexpected.

A man just biked past me on the trail. Our eyes only met for a split second. But on that brief smile there was something of warmth.

I don't know what he was thinking, but I can make something up.

The smile said "How lovely to see you here on this trail!" His smile held surprise, or some hint that he didn't expect me. Not that he knows me, but that he knows the trail. It was the look of someone on a normal path seeing something out of place, but not unwelcome.

He was expecting other cyclists, or joggers. He wasn't expecting to see a girl who woke up this morning to fall chill and put on cozy fall attire just to go for a walk.

I don't know what this man thought. It wasn't a double take or any such thing, just a smile that lasted the blink of an eye, but left a warmth with me for the kindness I saw.

You are worth more than many sparrows.

Frustrations abound. For no reason. One little thing sets off another and suddenly a little confusion in today's plans throws the whole future into disarray.

I am worrying about next week and the week after and all the things I have to get done before Christmas. Yes, Christmas. I have had Christmas on my mind all summer. Mostly the Christmas Pageant/Tableaux and all the things I have to do before December even begins. Costumes, casting, and building an entirely new platform/stage.

So, that should not be stressing me out on a random Monday in August but it is. Because I don't know the future and suddenly everything is piling on and I'll never be able to get this stage built before December. Cause once the school year starts everything is moving so fast and everyone's schedules are so busy and then all of the sudden it's December and nothing is ready.

And December isn't close enough to stress about so of course I figured I would start stressing about the rest of my life. And suddenly I'm in tears because I have chosen to look into the future and take all the stress and carry it now.

But tears feel like a betrayal. When I cry because things aren't going according to my plans I'm betraying the Master Planner by saying that His plans aren't working for me. I don't trust Him. I want it my way. So tears feel like a slap in the face to my Creator and His providence.

And this leads back to my earlier posts about expressing feelings and validation.

Is it a slap in God's face to cry? Of course not! So that's not really a valid feeling, and yet I feel it. It's that vicious cycle of knowing that the Lord does want me to cry and cast my burden on Him, but feeling like it's an act of selfish denial of His power. And so I want to be strong, and it feels like strength to stifle the tears and soldier on. But I know, rationally I know, that that is weakness not strength. I must cast my burden on Him and He will sustain me.

Matthew 6
26 Look intently at the birds of the sky; for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns, and your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they?
27 And which of you by being anxious can add one cubit to his stature?
28 And why are you anxious about clothing? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they labor not, neither do they spin;
29 but I say to you that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed as one of these.
30 And if God so clothe the grass of the field, which today is, and tomorrow is cast into the oven, shall He not much more clothe you, O ye of little faith?
31 Be not therefore anxious, saying, What shall we eat? or, What shall we drink? or, With what shall we be arrayed?
32 For all these things do the nations seek; for your Heavenly Father knows that you need all these things.
33 But seek ye first the kingdom of God, and His justice, and all these things shall be added to you.
34 Therefore do not be anxious for tomorrow; for tomorrow shall be anxious for the things of itself. Sufficient for the day is the evil of it.

Looking toward the shore

There is nothing more lovely than sitting on the beach in the early morning, hearing nothing but the Lord’s wind and waves. I love that peace. I often sit with His Word. Sometimes just holding it for a while, feeling prayers before I open and read.

The beach is my favorite place to be alone. I just want to sit in the near perfect silence with only the roar of the waves, the morning birds and the breeze. I hear the Lord’s voice in the roaring of the waves and I picture looking out over the waves at my Human God, holding out His arms, welcoming me into His embrace.

There is nothing so perfect as that morning peace… unless it be holding a baby. Picking up a sad child and having her nestle into you arms in comfort, and immediately fill your arms and heart. That soft puddingy weight as they melt into your arms in trust.

I don’t like comparing myself to my Savior God, or putting myself in His place, and yet we are meant to emulate Him. And He compares Himself to a mother hen gathering in her chicks. He IS our Father. So wondering at the tiniest bit of what He must feel when we come to Him must not be too bad.

The open arms over the sea inviting me in. I long for that feeling of comfort that an innocent child feels when they melt into the safety of someone’s loving arms; the feeling in my heart when a baby’s head rests against it.

I wonder if I will ever feel that safety and that comfort and that sense of belonging; to feel completely safe with someone, to feel that deep feeling of peace.

I think the closest I come is when I am kneeling at the Holy Supper railing in the cathedral, very close to the open Word, tasting the bread and the wine, feeling the Lord’s hands on my head as I hear the words “The Lord bless you and keep you. The Lord make His face to shine upon you. The Lord lift up His countenance upon you, and give you peace.” The words are whispered to me in a promise, and for that moment I feel the Lord’s love on my heart, and I believe in everything that He promises me. I feel safe, loved, wanted, needed. In short, I feel like a real human, created in the image and likeness of God.

I wish I felt that more often. I wish I could hold on to that feeling.

It’s unlovely and scary, but I guess the way for Holy Supper to feel lasting is to examine myself more, and remove the evils standing in my way. Repentance is the way to the Lord.

“The saying of God came to John the son of Zacharias in the wilderness. And he came into all the countryside of Jordan, preaching the baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins, as it is written in the book of the words of Isaiah the prophet, saying, The voice of one crying in the wilderness, Prepare ye the way of the Lord; make His paths straight.” Luke 3:2-4

It is through repentance that we prepare the way for the Lord in our lives. I can approach Him, and feel close in the Holy Supper, but it won’t be a lasting feeling of living in Him unless I choose to actually live my life in Him, and that is only possible through repentance.

Movement and starting small

I have discovered that most of my rambling little bits of story that I just dump into the middle of are so often about people moving from one place to another. It almost always involves a few people walking and talking.

Starting here, ending here. And always in the middle of a conversation too. I just drop the reader into a scenario and into a conversation. No context given.

I don't know when I started doing this or why, but it's pretty consistent. I've only just noticed this recently. I wonder if it started in an effort to kickstart a story. Starting with a "Once upon a time" or a description of people, events, or a setting would get me hung up. So I would start in the middle. Maybe originally with a goal to go back and write the beginning, maybe not.

But now it's a pattern. I like to just jump in at the deep end. When I'm writing snippets as exercises I think it's probably fine. Maybe it's fine anyway, but it's funny to notice this pattern.

Sometimes it's hard to write anything at all. Right now that is my life. I didn't want to write the above. It didn't flow. Maybe if I had written it in story form it would have flowed better. 

"Why do you always start stories in the middle?" Hydrangea asked as we walked from point A to point B.

"Good question. I guess I haven't thought about it much," I responded, thinking back over the things I had written.

We walked on.

"Maybe it was an effort to kickstart my silly brain," I laughed. "I just enjoy jumping in, throwing the reader into a setting instead of gently guiding them to it." I thought for a moment. "It's like zooming out instead of in. I start close up, right on the characters and what they're saying, pan out to what they're doing, and then paint with bigger and bigger strokes until I have showed you my world. Some authors start with the broader strokes, creating a world and a setting and then introduce you to the characters and their motivations."

I looked up at Hydrangea to see if she had followed my train of thought.

She was thinking about it. "I think that's accurate," she responded. "I haven't read all of your work, but I can see how that's a theme in your writing.  Do you know why you always start close in and then slowly pan out? Do you think one style is better than the other?"

I thought about it as we walked under the something sky in some kind of weather.

"I think it is because whatever story I'm telling, it's for the characters. Everything is character driven. Not so much plot driven. I know where the characters end up, their friendships.... I mostly know their goals and motivations. But the world they're in matters less to me. I just want to know how and why they care about each other. What they're doing to make each others lives better. I don't care where they are. I just want them to be happy. Sometimes I let them be unhappy for a bit. Sometimes things don't work out amazingly, but I'm afraid that what I care about most is weaving friendships. Saving the world is secondary. My characters care about saving the world... because they care about each other."

Hydrangea smiled at me. "I think that makes sense. And it makes sense that you would begin by having two characters talking. Or a handful of characters. Why do you think that they are traveling? So often your characters are going from one place to another. Have you ever thought about that one?"

I had. But I thought again.

"I don't rightly know," I admitted. "But maybe two people sitting in a living room feels too empty. Maybe it's because I know that for myself I talk best when I am in action myself. Words fall more easily from my mind to my tongue when I am walking. It's all well and good to sit across the table from someone or on a couch, but when I need to process my thoughts it's useful to be walking or driving somewhere. It frees my tongue. And in my writing, I guess it's the same way. Something about the momentum of moving forward makes it feel like the story is going somewhere."

Hydrangea nodded. "Are you happy with that?"

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Well, if you start in the middle, if your characters are in motion... does that bother you? Or are you fine with beginning your stories like that? I guess what I'm getting at is do you think there's something wrong with this habit you have formed? Or are you fine with it?"

I thought about what she was saying. Was there something wrong with this form I had chosen?

"What do you think, Hydrangea?" I asked.

"Do I get a say?"

"Yes, I need to know if someone else is okay with it. I know what I think, but what I think isn't enough. I want to know what others think. It has to be okay with someone else. Someone outside my mind!"

Hydrangea just looked at me, a smile creeping over her face. "Silly," she said. "I'm not outside of your mind."

I raised an eyebrow. We had arrived where we were headed. This journey was complete. Another journey would start again. Another pathway in my mind would need to be explored. But this pathway was tread. I had arrived at the stopping point.

Approval outside my mind was waiting on the other side of another journey. But for now, I had walked this pathway with myself. Unwinding an idea in my mind that needed to be talked through.

And that is why I write. To talk things through. To figure out what is in my mind. To get it out on to paper... or a screen. So that I can see it out there. Outside of myself and evaluate it for what it is.

The Destroyer

Darkness caused faltering. The alignment of the world was out of sync.

“Best not be out in this weather, miss,” an old careworn man said to me as I walked on the pathway between connection and nothingness. “Storms a brewing.”

“Do storms brew?” I asked. Normally I would have kept my head down and eyes before me. Maybe I would have nodded at someone who spoke to me, but today I was feeling vibrant.

“What do you mean, lassie?” the man asked, clearly startled by my response.

“What do storms brew?” I asked. “Do they brew the salty air and the deep smells that are causing my nostrils to sting with longing?”

He shook his head at me and hurried along home, probably to batten down the hatches as one does when a storm is coming.

But not I. I intended to go headlong into the madness. Didn’t they know? Couldn’t they feel it? I could feel the storm. Not like someone with rheumatism feels it in their old knobbly knees. I could feel it in my spirit.

The sky was an ominous gray-green. The wind felled trees as it ripped along the border of darkness. But it wasn’t raining yet.

Suddenly there was a streak of solid black lightning and a burst of thunder so loud I could feel it inside me. I heard a scream in the distance. Why was everyone always so afraid of a little thunder? It gave me life!

I let out a cackle of mirth. It had come!

Swiftly, I glided to where the lightning had struck and stepped on to the solid gray pathway it had left in its wake. I could feel the excitement bubbling inside me. I was afraid of it. I hadn’t been this happy since the stars had disappeared, and I was sure that this sensation was going to rip me apart.

Desperately I felt for the lighting chalk as I climbed through utter darkness toward the stillness. It was going to happen at last!