A Choice

"I suffered, but things that don't kill you make you stronger. How could I possibly show my children the right path in life if I let life break me down? ~Safeta, Bosnia

I feel so American.
So American in the way so many may view us. wanting. spoiled. young. not understanding the cold.
removed.
Like a private school daddy's girl walking past a homeless girl and hurrying home to catch my favorite show.
There is so much more.
I suppose in some ways we are all products of our environment. Surrounded by the latest technology and style we walk by it and want it. Surrounded by it, it can easily consume us. Or instead...is our environment a product of us? One way makes us a victim and removes responsibility. It's a note excusing what we have been made for the time being. The other places the responsibility on us and gives a choice: succumb to it or change it. (it is both I think, but the importance is in which you allow to come first)

Safeta is a Bosnian who was raped repeatedly while her husband was out digging trenches in a work camp during the Bosnian war. They did not kill her assuming she would kill herself. Before the war Bosnia held pride in different nations living on the same soil. "most people identified themselves as Bosnians first and secondarily as members of ethnic groups." She was raped by her neighbors she lived peacefully by for years- the ethnic ties now had ripped the peace apart. Now she when she hears voices she follows the voices to see if one of them was her attacker.
"I want them to see that I am still alive, that they did not kill me, neither body nor soul, nor will they ever be able to do it" She is a product of her environment, marred by memories and left with scars- a victim. But her defiance and hope take control of that and changes her from victim to ...a human living life...i can't think of a poignant word but her choice has brought her above her circumstances. Shaping her- yes- consuming her- no.

As Victor Frankl, a holocaust survivor wrote "Every day, every hour, offers the opportunity to make a decision - decision which determined whether you would or wouldn't submit to those powers which threatened to rob you of yourself, your inner freedom, which determined whether or not you would become a plaything of circumstance..."

tears fall silently down my cheek reading of women and men and the suffering they endure. Now... not to get all rastifari/hippi on you but...these are our brothers and sisters. Fellow human beings. At first I find myself moved by pity and probably as a typical person removed from a situation i want to throw some money their direction to help them out. But pity elevates one above the other. Pity keeps us from learning and leaning on each other. It keeps us from love and I think from seeing God as he is. A deeper look brings humility (and thus empathy which keeps us as equals). perhaps the real difference is the adversity. I lack their harrowing tales that have embedded in them strength, wide eyes, and deeper convictions. I do not envy their pain, but I envy what their pain has produced.

it makes me shift my focus.
It brings me to humility. Oh God you are so good to give me what i do not deserve. even so good as to speak to me when i am not listening and giving when i do not ask. Here God speaks to me through these people fathoms away. do they know God is speaking through their lives to a girl in the northwest?
Once again...i re-evaluate. i long for simplicity. any moment the comfort of an early morning and starry night, warm tea and showers, summer and winter clothes, music to fill my ears may be snatched from me. Who i am, what i receive and what i give has to come from above all those things. If i live in that simplicity then perhaps when diversity comes I too will not be a victim and let life break me down. But I will stand up and defiantly cling to what is real.

meanwhile, I find I no longer "need" a lot of things I have in my mental list. Certain problems or feelings that were overwhelming seem so small and removed from truth. Now I long to come alongside my brother or sister, those who need help standing and instead of pulling them up on firm footing I can put my arm around theirs and walk to firm footing with them. sharing our humanity...hoping when my foot slips and I need to look defiantly in the face of any kind of death someone too, will hold my arms up. I am removed from their pain...yes. i don't know what they suffered. But the things they have learned- their stories can bring- beauty to us. It can prepare me for what I know life will inevitably bring. For that I feel a kindred-ness, and thankfulness towards those who share their pain. it helps us push through and rise above (or out depending on you preposition of choice)

"Everything can be taken from a man but one thing. The last of human freedoms- to choose ones own way, and there were always choices to be made" Frankl

My Lifeline

Oh God!

Thou art love!
I build my faith on that!

I know thee,
Though hast kept my path
and made light for me in the darkness.

Tempering sorrow, so that it reached me
like a solemn joy;

It were too strange that I
should doubt thy love.

~Robert Browning

water wings

A table tucked away in corner. Flooded with dusty afternoon sunlight.

She sits and stares.

Annoying music muffled by earphones playing empathetic music-feeding and soothing her pain. She sits in the café, in this corner, at a wooden driftwood table for two; sipping Jasmine tea from black mug. To her right a black kettle rests holding a reservoir. In front of her, sits her journal.

She sips, she sits, she stares.

She glances around every so often. She imagines a wise person meeting her eye across the room. This wise person with a knowing eye holds her gaze until they sit in the empty seat. They draw her layers with their words and speak life to her.She turns up her music. No one pays attention. The café's music is not fit for her mood. The weather is though; it is an overcast yellow day. It holds a wistful if only with windblown branches and tousled hair.

She sips her Jasmine tea and pours more from the pot.

Then, she embraces her pain.
It squeezes around her heart, the heart that doctors can't reach- her soul heart.
She tries to let the flavor of the tea, the sounds in her ears, and the wind in the windows melt over her. To consume her. She tries to force a smile with her eyes.
She glances down at her journal:
"Drowning, falling.
Slowly, sinking, holding my breath.
Everyone is outside, breathing, living, laughing.
My hope is here somewhere, I have to swim through to find it."

She looks up at the window again. Tired.
Being miserable makes you so tired. Tired of being miserable. But too tired to want anything else. She thinks. She considers writing that down. But that is too much work.

She stares. She waits until she finds a pocket of pleasure from what she sees, hears and tastes. Just enough to give her courage.She smiles with her eyes. A fierce determined smile. A transient smile of hope.

But she can't seem to stop the confusing words. They rush back at her and plunge her within herself. They make her sick. Regret. She shrinks wishing the words would consume themselves and pull her in. cover her. Drown her into a comatose state where she doesn't have to fight. Kill her. She is already half dead. Grieving the death of the living. The living cold. The unwanted.

The wind blows and locks her eyes on the waving branches knocking gently against the window. She pours more tea. Sip. Stare. Drama she tells herself. Stop it.

She wants to stand in the wind with her eyes closed, her arms out, her hair swirling. Flying.

She finds a voice of courage. The most courageous thing you can do is to move on and let go. She doesn't know how, but she takes the small piece of bravery she has and whispers for help, refuses blame, shuns bitterness.
She relaxes. She breathes. She smiles with her lips.

She finds she has been given just enough to find grace.
She has found her water wings.

"Sometimes Grace works like Water Wings, when you feel you are sinking"

~La Mantt

all things beautiful become old

Yesterday I was looking through my shoes…trying to recall why I bought most of them.
Cute?
Practical?
A bargain?
Perfect?
Now they sit in a pile in my closet and I am waiting one seasonal rotation of weather to get rid of them (as recommended for impulsive people). They aren't necessarily useless…but somewhere along the way they have become unappealing and I no longer reach for them. Which got me thinking a lot of things are like that...

We can't stop looking at beauty when it first comes. But we look at it for so long that it becomes as familiar as everything surrounding it. And suddenly- it's just- blah, normal. At first you're so excited about those shoes and you want to wear them all the time; but slowly we wear them less and less…they just don't fit right, don't match, -they have lost their luster.

In a way- that's scary to me. Because we get so excited and it's almost embarrassing how quickly we discard the object of excitement for something newer that seems more exciting. How can we trust ourselves?

Of course I hope you realized I am not only speaking of shoes- but of the real things that come into our life- Shoes, shirts, friends, ideas, faith, books, food, cars…

Then again...

What about the old shoes we can't wear enough? How does it pass the process where its holes become like home? A companion. At what point do those lucky few objects pass through excitement, obtain familiarity and wear and tare, and retain their beauty in an endearing way that makes their age a comfort preferred to new and exciting?

huh. It's a rhetorical question. We don't question it really. You never know what will pass the test, it just seems to happen. Some friendships fade and some withstand the wear. Some ideas hold and some are released. Some gifts become a treasure while others become garbage.

I am continually searching for "the one" pair of shoes that will pass the test. I cringe whenever I buy a pair of shoes because well...will they become what I'm looking for? A signature for my feet, always there, always comfort, always practical, always my style? I have a pair in the running- high hopes for them really…but the luster is still there. Will they continue to garb my feet when the newness fades into familiarity? ...Only time will tell.

Meanwhile, I am still looking for that pair of shoes that slip onto my feet and feel like home.

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