Knots in my head, on my head.

I feel impending like the lack from the knotted twine lugging up a love weightier than it’s counterpart. Like the sum of my misplaced heart and an abstract heart, I’m a whole disguised by a half by something holy and woefully indebted to Eternity’s gift of eternity. I can grasp the lesser Known more than what I call my own. And this protects the anxious I call my hunger, my posture, my heart. But the bright circle turns into a dark circle and a new day is born, torn from a “no” and a “not yet” and a times a “never”–but torn. And so my hunger, posture and heart are in a civil war because I forget my grasp is from my hand, and my palms are often human. Sometimes it is I who lack when I do not accept to know the Known and so the unknown takes hold of me. And now there knots are in my head, or on my head–but they are knots, tangled within each other forming treaties to obstruct my pace and my peace. Knots that loosen me to drop below and far from my counterpart, from my Love.

But the dark circle, of my eyes while more the sky, turns into a bright circle. With or without a head nod, there lies a circumference of comfort that corals any impending into arrival.

Remember knotted head, remember.


Blessed are my eyes, though weak and old and one of a kind–and terrible at flirting.

You know what a wretch is?

I’m a wretch. Carefully crafted in piles of forgiveness, restoration and renewal.

My hands are dry after embarking on this grapefruit and cramp often too. I write a lot these days, it does nobody good. But it is good (the act of not necessarily the content)! My nail polish chips as I tap out some hopefully decent words to produce some fruitful responses. Did I mention they are sparkly silver? A woman I am.

My eyes are my mother’s. Older, weaker and one of a kind. I’ve seen a lot with these and only hope to see more. But lately I’ve seen a skinny bearded man fall in love, best friends packing up their life away from mine and a lot of bills and thrills in the form of paper and dapper gentlemen. These stress and mess with me. Blessed are my eyes, though weak and old and one of a kind–and terrible at flirting.

My soul is whole though continual pokes and prodding from onlookers and outsiders and outlaws of Easybreezyville are adamant. Soul is stronger than life, so this bodes well considering a year filled with uneven ratios of mishaps and missing/wanting/needing/disliking people, things, circumstances. Soul is whole. Period. I guess. YES.     .

My mouth is chapped from the Santa Anas (oh and that damn grapefruit). It’s also a lifesaver in the line of defense when encountering my foes (doubt, hunger, mundane living and the flu…)–whether in writing, speaking, singing or tasting. My mouth is also really small which is for some reason disheartening and makes me feel odd. Like an outsider.

My love is still deep, pure and lovely. My love is for the Father, love for Jesus, love for bffs, love for family, love for a good cup of coffee, love for a brilliant sentence, love for a delicious lamb shank pie, love for a glass of wine, love for many things yet still not for one tall, dark and handsome one. (Perhaps my luck will change if I grow a beard and get skinny).

All in all, sometimes I wish I could fly and yet sometimes the sky is frightening. So it turns into a dream of floating rather than flying. Depending how brave I feel in that moment. A human I am.

I am many things. And am all these things but paired with prayer. Which makes me prayer itself. A prayer faced daily with the interchangeable definitions of what good and bad are to me. And carried thus victoriously by the words that turn me into a bravery that says yes again and again to what I easily forget: forgiveness, restoration and renewal upon my house. And for my eyes, soul, heart and love.

I am made new and well by the impeccably steadfast truth of what prayer does from the mouth of wretch, of a woman, of a human.


A list of things I should remember

Tomorrow is a new day.

I produce carbon dioxide.

Less anti-bacterial soap is more.

A tattoo is a big deal.

Crying is good–like the best.

Everything in it’s time.

A closed door can be opened.

What was once locked can be unlocked.

Returning a phone call will show you care.

Eye contact is crucial.

You can’t take back text messages.

Prayer is power and praise.

Do. not. slouch.

Debt can be embodied responsibly as much as it can be irresponsibly.

Kindness is key.

24 is not old, nor is 25. And so on and so forth.

Salt water stings.

Sleeping late means unrest.

Exercise is 9 x out of 10 better than coffee.

Fear is an enemy and friend.

Keep that handshake firm.

Winter goes but also comes back.

Give time, time.

Patience is never perfected.

I am loved.

A figure.

There is a four door, dark brown sedan I often refer to as Home. I call shotgun because you are the driver. Our destination is simply there away from here. What’s your favorite snack? I’ll pack it and most likely feed it to you as you make left turns. Those are tricky—and so is tracing the whereabouts of Runts. People hate the banana ones, but you are not regular people so I can honestly declare I love you.

Ahead we can see the sun, behind us the moon. It’s been about 16 hours or perhaps just a few moments. Time is irrelevant, as our landscape seems to never change. My peripherals numb to anything but your silhouette. Around us, I assume are breathtaking fields of lilies and auburn hills—since it’s what our neighbors once described the road to there to look like, some time ago.

The air conditioner is broken so you crack the window to a height that does not blur my vision but enough to cool my forehead. It feels like the breeze is pushing us along with it’s weight as we carelessly sit back and fall into the idiom that is giving up all control to the wind. We sway towards one another for nature tells us to, her command we praise. I can feel the concrete’s pathway underneath my feet, so jagged I slip up my legs on the dashboard because I decide I want us to be captured in a moment that favors a photo. I take the picture with my mind, my eyelids shut, and I keep them closed.

The radio mimics the functionality of the air conditioner, so you start humming because you cannot sing though I loved to listen. I like the silence, but I only like when I’m alone. You hum as my eyes stay closed. I see flashes of red and gold as they retreat when we glide pass thick trees. The melody you hum is reminiscent to a tree. Tall and strong and gives shade to a tired girl.

Suddenly the moon is ahead of us, and you’re still tall and strong and I’m beyond the deepest definition of exhaustion. Your deliberate aim to get us there makes you handsome and I succumb to your charming yet fiery protection and what is to become of you when you realize my hopes can surely become your reality.

The sky stares down at a four-door, brown sedan, reminiscent of home. A home that moves swiftly between the hills and beside the trees. Mom keeps calling, but we respond with a text saying “we’re just fine and we’ll see you soon.” So swift, everything turns into blur; everything except now two silhouettes. One real and the other her imagination.