Look at the what the light did

I like the way the light hits through the window when it’s 3 pm. It’s anxious I can tell to reach my face, but I hide under stacks of to-dos that have nothing to do with being responsible, but rather, responsive. I keep x-ing boxes of inquiries because I don’t think I am called to coordinate unorganized people or walk your dog, but  I am called to organize the coordination of prayer, talent and the timing that is my person. It’s hard to tell what timing is when I hide under stacks, but I guess 3 o clock is a good indicator that there isn’t much time left so maybe I should stop eye-flirting with my fellow coffee shop dweller and start flirting with the submission of resumes and creation of cover letters.

But then again, maybe not, because time, when measured well is abundant.

If I could live off my declaration of independence from ever having a 9 to 5 I would be a happy woman. Maybe happy isn’t the right word, but I’d for sure be the woman I think I’m meant (hate that word) to be. I would also just be happier if all the Bloody Marys I consumed were free. But my vices advise me to drink and be merry and to get to know the people around me and to invest wholly and honestly. So I have, will and am learning how to continue that specific calling and also afford a crown for my tooth*.

Yet still there is a tension in my bones of late.  Thankfully it is quickly remedied with the fact Jesus is faithful and that my thankfulness is thankfully not as fickle as I am. Because as I live, and breath and sip this espresso, I’m completely at a lost for words why I get to sit here and shout my dreams while landing safely in a home built upon peace, hope and immense love. I also have come to grips (while we’re getting personal) with that fact this has become my one and only diary, so please lock it back up after you eavesdrop this solo coffee date I’m having.

I hope a lot of things, but I’m hopeful about much more. And today as I catch the light retracting from it’s attempts to reach me, I all of a sudden am vying for it’s attention hoping for a tomorrow filled with more grace and patience. And though it feels like the light is well out of my reach, I know Faithfulness will bring me an opportunity to hid or show my face. So I’m challenged to be honest with the expressions I display–even if it communicates I want to hide. Because things are so good. And goodness should be displayed and expressed. Like how the light shines through the window this time of day. And this reminder is for solely me, though meant for us both.

*Previous post shall explain my dental reference.

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The Best & Worst Question

How’s Writing Going? 

It’s almost gotten to a point where I’d almost even prefer “did you work out today?” or “are you dating anyone yet?”

But lezbehonest, I don’t.  Unlike my answers to latter two though, the former takes a more careful and craftier response. It’s hard to tell someone how the passion of your life is going as opposed to your very simple dating life–or lack thereof.

NO, I’m not dating anyone.

Easy.

But when prosed with the writing Q, my mouth stutters and my eyes panic.

Writing is going….I’m waiting for some stuff to be publi—I started a series for an online magazine no one has heard of—I’m in the works with a friend to launch a blog—do you read children’s books because—

NOT SO EASY.

It’s difficult because I think a lot of my identity  rests on writing. Actually, on my writing. Like any art, it’s hard to cultivate a passion/talent/trade in a light that looks successful or worthy to be doing in the first place when it’s not say being played on the radio, on the NY Times Must-Reads or in a gallery somewhere in Brooklyn. Then again, I suppose that’s entirely subjective, but sometimes I wish there was something more tangible than clicking “publish” or “post” to help confirm I’m doing things–that I’m moving forward.

I often find myself dependent on the works I manage to finish. Because if writing is not going well, I usually am not so well and  so I am not a success. And since that thinking is unfair, my definition of such a word has had to change (especially  since I decided to step into such a lifestyle). It has transformed and is working it’s way to where it’s to be less a kin to the gold factor and worldly kind, but more responsible for carrying and acknowledging the weight of the power of word and blessing of gift. And when “success” becomes that, I am easily less discontent with my work, because though failure becomes somehow easier to recognize, it’s also easier to restore and or restart.

This is a passionate meets pitiful road I tred adamantly on, despite. it. all.  No other profession could embody such traits more complimentary to me than writing.

I’m obscure, I’m introverted, I’m fickle, I’m random, I’m lofty, I’m emotional, I’m conundrumous and I’m ebb and I’m flow.

I’ve accepted I am meant to live in the tension that I think must be called creativity.  I write because if I don’t, I go crazy. Though when I do, I also go crazy, but that type of crazy turns into like a cool and acceptable chaos that somehow detangles the already present ones in my head, heart and fingertips.

And though at times I feel like the most foolish person to want to partake in this craft as a forever endeavor,  a wise and mentoring voice soothes this catered ache within me:

Writing is like a ‘lust,’ or like ‘scratching when you itch.’ Writing comes as a result of a very strong impulse, and when it does come, I for one must get it out.” (C.S.)

So this is me getting it out, my Russian nesting doll version of writing–writing on writing on writing and why I write. And hopefully also, these 545 words may suffice the next time someone asks me, “how’s writing going?”.

Things I want to be when I grow up (which was 4 years ago)

I’m a renaissance women to the extreme. A Trace of all trades if you will and professional at one thing it feels; Instagramming. So I figured since my mind feels flooded as of late–and since graduation in 2009, with endless routes that have been either presented to me to embark on or mustered up by my own accord, I should just write it out with hopes of some fresh revelation and humility turned clarity. And perhaps after reading them or having them read, a tone of truth will permeate through my words and into my prayers/thoughts/steps.

Please, no laughter.

Here is a list  & in no specific order. (note: being a writer is intertwined within all of these bad boys) (double note: also is the desire to marry rich so I can just write on the balcony he also built for me…)

  1. Barista somewhere cool where I make more than 10 bucks/hr.
  2. Production assistant or anything film related.
  3. Bartender or hostess meets dining connoisseur of the sorts.
  4. Nanny.
  5. Christian Ministries.
  6. Personal Assistant/Organizer.
  7. Rockstar–or Folkstar rather.
  8. Visual Designer of Pottery Barn aka Interior/Furniture Designing.
  9. Leadership/Academics related stuff.
  10. Entrepreneur that consists of all of these things…

Easily, this list can extend, but I shall choose to refrain because scriptwriter, children’s book publisher and magazine editor is practically a given, right?

There it is, and here I am, still. All for the taking world.

To Whom It May Concern,

Hire me. Because desiring me gets me nowhere.

 

XOXO,

trace