The beat of native red

The color of red beats in my ears and into my soul.

I listen and close my eyes...

Fires burning, shadows dancing, drums pounding, voices lifting. My body and heart sway with each fluctuation of music. This music holds such an intentionality and determination to produce something from within-releasing it.

One voice backed by many,
releasing a prayer,
a story,
a feeling,
a word,
a place,
a memory,
a value,
a truth.

It reverbs, it sways, it echoes.
It is bright and dark,
the sunrise breaking through and the sunset giving way to the stars.
It is sorrow and hope,
young and old,
innocence and experience.

The sounds create a purpose beyond the circumstance- everything together releasing it to provide strength.
A voice,
a beat,
a movement,
a focus,
concentration,
a dance of sound,body, words, and life.

It produces in my soul a story, something I can't contain but seems to seep in and pushes out of me. I grasp the hope shrouded in painful melodies and feel something that is beyond right here. I want more than anything to take part in this unguarded circle of clapping, singing, moving, and flying.

Whether they know it or not woven is echoes of heaven…these pockets in the music that I stumble to catch, to preserve the whispers and hold on to the truths. To keep hope lifted through another day, another hour, another sorrow, another irritation, another wall…an inspiration that breaks me into reality and up from my muddled, mundane view from the mud.

How indescribable is God's grace to bestow through a rhythm stars from heaven into my soul.
How beautiful

journals from the desert

I want to give.
Daily my heart's desire is met with my self greed. I am tired of shoving aside my irritations and of personalities that annoy me. I am at war with what I so desire and what carries such quick gratification.

So I am living in the desert trying to accept my freedom from my old life of slavery. But my freedom does not feel complete. Often it feels more binding. I am traveling to the promised land but my desert life seems so bleak it is hard not to remember the safety of my slavery.

My slavery is a picture, a life already experienced-tangible. I remember the sweet juice of its empty fruits. The pain is but a word "remember the pain?" I tell myself. No. it's a word- no longer does it carry an ache. So, unbidden, those pictures play in my head over and over calling, distorting, and confusing me. My old life was so easy, reality is so far.

My reality is this desert. This harsh land that I walk where I can't always figure out what is good and what is sweet. I keep returning to my tent to play those pictures because I deceive myself thinking the fruit I remember will satisfy…though it always leaves a deeper thirst.

But I grow tired of pictures and I find that I need to learn to breathe the passing desert and the coming reality of the Promised Land. Sometimes I gain the courage to face the desert and look over the harsh land and look for God. The panoramic dunes are too harsh but I see his beauty reflected in one grain of sand that blows across the desert floor.

This grain of sand on my fingertip.

My torment and hunger for my prison world dissipates and a peace of true reality descends on me. I look up to see God alive in the people milling around me. Life becomes clear. My questions are not answered but they no longer torment me. I rest in the reality of my future home. I see that I cannot live in Heaven while I walk on earth- but that this desert can contain such beautiful fragments of that Promised Land that I can not want anything less. I have seen and tasted the pearl of great price in the grain of sand and shall want and seek for nothing but to have that pearl, to embody it, to share it, until I hold it in my hands forever.

I wish I could find a way to carry that grain of sand with me. So often wind comes and blows it from my hand and I turn to see where it went and find the shadows of my old world. Sometimes it requires such concentration. The beauty and strength that envelops me when I hold that fragment in my hand…yet it's a mystery how quickly it slips through my fingers. I crave those fragments.

The tangible daily excursions of life rob me of it so often. The enemy seeks to recapture me in the most cunning and supple ways. He blows through the desert and finds my cracks of weakness, my doubt, my personal irritations, tired body, and too late…I see my gain of sand gone.

"To see a world in a grain of sand,
And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,
And eternity in an hour."
~William Blake, Auguries of Innocence

brief encounters

Today I had a few brief exchanges with a man named James at a book store who seemed fascinated that I read Children's lit. As always the conversations between two strangers flux between enjoyment and curiosity till they end with a dismissive comment. Dismissed not because the solidarity of the topic ran dry; but because neither party is sure of the motives that keep it going.

Is he normal?
Is he a lonely person?
Stalker?
Hitting on me?
What does he expect?

And so we both settle back into our own stories and in the back of my mind I wonder what the purpose was to our encounter if at all? I may never know. Often I fear the powerlessness of my words. What does our silence hold? What would happen if I said what was on my mind to a perfect stranger?

We all regress into our silence eventually.

A little while later a little girl walked up to me and began asking me questions about buttons and who was sitting where. I enjoyed speaking with her for a few moments while the father stood off watching his daughter. He finally called her away- I assume because he didn't want her to exhaust her welcome into my world of reading. I settled back into my book.

Ten minutes later a man came and squatted down next to me. Slightly disturbed or alarmed at what he was doing I fashioned my face into a look of inquiry waiting for him to state his purpose. He started saying that not a few minutes ago I was speaking with a young girl "oh yes uhhuh" I responded relieved he wasn't hitting on me as he was 20 years older and thinking he must just be looking for the father…then he clarified "I'm not weird or trying to hit on you but I was watching you interact with her and" well to be honest his exact wording is lost on me. The general gist was that he saw a light occur in that encounter, that I had a presence or demeanor about me when I was speaking with the little girl that was open and refreshing and he wanted to let me know that. I was shocked and flustered because by now everyone was perking their ears or peeking above their books wondering what he was saying to me all the while pretending they were into their own respective worlds. I said thank you so much and he walked away. I quickly returned to my book wondering what one says to that and yet, at the same time realized that the nature of his compliment lifted my heart.

God it seems, had offered me a pocket of grace. As it was a rather rough day in the thought world and I was feeling rather useless and far from God this man had just lifted me above all that. I realized that God can still be seen in me and I felt honored at that and even more desperate for God's help and presence in my life. How could all of that occur from such a simple strangers comment?

That man did what do few of us do. Thank each other for emanating pockets of grace, for giving love- whether he meant to or not he acknowledged God's presence among us. He saw something good and he wanted to encourage it's beauty and what is beauty but reflections of God?

How many times do I see or feel the overwhelming delight in a friendship or a simple passing human interaction that brings a burst of beauty and I walk away. I harbor that piece of joy and never share it and never encourage because I am surrounded by strangers. Would it be crazy to walk up to a mother and tell her how refreshing it is to see her playing on the playground with her son? To compliment a stranger? I didn't think that man was weird, Instead he took the lenses and allowed me to see the beauty as though I were a spectator and not a participant. Are we so afraid? Can we spread pockets of grace to those who walk beside us enabling them to see what was unapparent to their own eyes?

We are all unknown filters of stardust, spectators and participators of every moment.

Any time we pass goodness to each other the love that is God filters through us and often we are unaware of his power interacting among us. The more we watch for it and the more we see of it the more we can expose the beauty to each other and find that we are all not so different
and
God is not so distant from us.

Clay and Water

"These Days are passing over me
At the speed of light.
Standing here in their shadows
Silenced at the sight.
Like water on the wind I sense the change to come
All that I've held in like teardrops run

I am clay and I am water
falling forward in this order
While the world spins round so fast, slowly I'm becoming who I am.

Nothing ever stays the same
The wheel will always turn
I feel the fire in the change
Somehow it doesn't burn.
Like a beggar blessed I stumble in the grace
reaching out my hand for what awaits

I will live from my heart and I will catch the lines of love as they come. Back to you I know they'll end and into you I know I'll be."
~MB

I am overwhelmed. I am full.
I wish that I might be overwhelemed by things of value rather than momentary bruises that always cry wolf. Enlarge my heart God- Let me forget things of no eternal value.

Romantic Reflections on why I love life and all it's dirt

At times my life with God often feels like shackles; because my flesh longs to do its will. It longs to be free.

I feel as though everywhere I look I see my wretchedness. My pride, selfishness, and vanity condemn me and my fear keeps me there. Fear of failure. I have failed so much; the despondency in me tells me that to receive grace again is useless. For the one time I convince myself that grace really is waiting for me, I find just behind that hope, a hammer that shatters. I see my future failures and find no motivation to receive grace knowing I will throw it away so quickly.

If only I could somehow make all the things I have done wrong somehow redeemable.
If only I had the power to go to others and replace the worth Ive stripped, or heal the careless wounds. Even grace cannot undo the damage. Bowing before God and asking for grace seems so easy and unfair compared to all the damage I leave in my wake every day.

If only freedom wasnt so cheap.
If only I could feel the stings on my back.
If only people would throw the garbage I throw at them right back at me.

Unbelievably I sit here and think

Who will stand and advocate for me?

Who will stand beside me?

Who will see me as I am- all the dirt- who knows all and will give me a life line in spite of it?

Don't we all yearn to be fully known and accepted still? I wish to shout from the rooftops I AM NOTHING and poor out my dirt making sure everyone knows my faults. Then maybe Ill have a chance for true love despite my faults.

I have only one thing. Grace. Not a grace by feeling, but grace by faith. A faith in the power of love of my God. My God whom I often feel so far from. My God who hears my prayers to be broken and holds me as he begins the process. My God who is capable of more grace and love than I could ever give because all I have derives from him.

He is the only one who knows me more than I know myself and loves me still.
And how beautiful my failures become!

They become an outlet for Gods grace to imbed and my selfish wretched self to be crushed. With every mistake I turn to lean less on me and more on him. Gods grace allows me to be left behind in my failures and the emptiness is filled with pieces of him. My failures chip away my hardness and leave a soft tenderness that God covers.So though I feel beyond goodness. Although despondency feels suitable for my state. I choose the amazing grace of God.

I choose to run to the most powerful thing- the never ending depth of love and mercy- to God himself.

Its all I have left of value when the day is done- but what a beautiful thing to remain.

Dearly Departed Sniffles

Today I walked into my room and I looked for my puppy.She's been gone now since last May and I'm not sure why she still so echos so much in my life. I swear I still hear her nails click on the kitchen floor. Every time my duvet cover gets turned over to reveal the golden material I double take thinking it's my sniffles.

Maybe it's because I am particularly lonely lately. But I still have that slight heartache that comes with the absence of something familiar. She was the perfect companion. I remember sitting against my bed countless times crying and she would glance at me making her sad puppy eyes and come and sit right beside me. She never said anything, she never asked for anything. She just heaved a big sigh as if to say "yeah, I know". Sometimes I stop and listen because I swear in the myriad of noises I hear that her sigh was in there somewhere.

Ok yes, she did have some health problems and she didn't always smell the greatest because well- I was lazy- I didn't like always giving her a bath. But she was an excellent watch dog and a resilient adventurer. I hated towards the end not being able to take her on runs or walks because I was so afraid that her being deaf might perhaps endanger her. But in her younger days she traipsed with the rest of us, braved the frozen creek and braved the freezing water just to get to the other side with us and chase our sleds down the hill. She courageously fought off unwanted critters and took several "hits" for the team knowing full well a tomato and vinegar bath would result (skunk).

I was never afraid and never alone when she was near. Probably because she had the makings of what good friends do- she knows all your dirt, she knows what you can do and you don't, she knows what you have done, and she still sleeps beside you. She still begs to take a walk with you, and she still sits beside you in your tears.No wonder I miss her.
So hear is a poem I wrote about her last summer in my first ugoogely

Dear, dear Sniffles....We didn't name you peaches.
Like my brother wanted.We names you sniffles, cause you sniffled a lot.
And cause I picked that name and I was the favoritist.
Your ears smelled and you had health problems.
But you still were pretty cute.
With gentle wooing and a dog biscuit you learned to sleep on my bed till I kicked you off at 3am cause you hogged the bed.
You went on walks at midnight and protected me from scary Grouse.
You were brave when the car hit you.
You sat down and sniffed with me when I cried.
You pretended to be in shape and catch sticks.
What a good, good puppy because you even tolerated the dumb cats.
You were a good, loyal puppy.
Towards the end you couldn't see or hear.
But you could smell... you could always smell.

Dear, dear sniffles.You are missed.

Moment of silence. 1991-2005

goodbye 200fricken5

I'm going to go ahead an say 2005 was not my favorite year. When I look back i see a dreary hopelessness that vacated adventure and excitement from my eyes, so many expelled tears that it's a wonder my body didn't shrivel from dehydration, and a pure trust in God lost to my selfish need for control. It's dull and it's wasted and it usually evokes a word like "yuck" and I hide my head and my body jerks like I got a sudden case of the chills and I want to shake the whole thing off, leave it behind, and pretend it never happened.

But the really funny thing is that ... last year was also one of the most beautiful years of my life. Seriously- I'm not joking.I'm amazed. I really am. I like to call that pockets of grace. I can't believe all the good I got. I surely didn't deserve it. I was a stubborn, selfish girl who kept taking advantage of grace just enough to survive.

However... I am more myself than I have ever been in my life. More sure of what I am unsure about and comfortable not being sure about anything- including God. I have learned to laugh at myself, I have learned to cry or grow angry and then get up and shrug my shoulders, I have lost my grounding on the logical reality I have always had and found myself muddled in a sea of unfamiliar feelings that seemed like reality. I have learned how to trick myself till the feeling fades and reveals true reality. I have learned to stop caring and that I am only as strong as those around me. I have learned to laugh at somber things. I have learned to like tea and I tasted shrimp dip and liked it.

I have starved myself of God and found that He is deeper than I thought, I know less of him than I ever have did and yet... I am closer to him than before. I have placed myself in a self imposed desert and kept myself there for fear of the comfort of lush greens... yet God keeps bringing the feast to me. God has become a raw reality that the few times I focus on it's reflected waters I realize how everything in life pales in comparison.

It changes my tears of hurt to tears of amazement and the fullness of love. It strips my feelings of inadequacy, dullness of personality, and loss of dignity, to a beloved little girl who just likes to go and play. a flicker of mysterious peace so deep that even when i am crabby or mad...it doesn't shift.

Do any of us deserve this grace? I mean, not really... but I guess God thinks we do, or at least he figured out a way to make us deserve it so he could keep giving it to us. Why should so much be given to us when we spend most of our time refusing it? And if we keep getting so much beauty- why don't we pucker up and learn to take it when it's offered instead of waiting till we are starving on the desert floor? Why in our selfishness is God still so good?

AND SO.... I have only one resolution. To not let one day stack on another so that I am weary. When a new day comes I can leave the last day behind me. I think the bravest thing a person can do face their sorrow and failures and walk through it to find the beauty. It takes a lot of tries. "above all we must avoid the hopeless yielding to things as they are" a wise man once said.

I am still learning. And really the only thing I'll ever learn is how much I don't know. I still bemoan and sulk, get crabby and stubborn and I still pretend sometimes. I mean 2005 wasn't the worst year it could have been- sure it squeezed my inards out and sucked the air from me but... hey- who doesn't have moments like that? There are plenty more to come no use to relive the old ones! So raise a glass, look at yourself in the mirror and laugh every once in awhile, eat your favorite food, let the jerk tailing you pass you and enjoy the trees passing by, do something idiotic, make a zoolander face, don't take a long line at the store too seriously,. and for goodness sake...

...look at all the beauty. I would live 100 years of 2005 again if they would all promise to yield such a harvest.