We Pack, We Unpack

Marked with emotions that have been best expressed in solitude, this month has been  both trying and treasured.

From conversations with best friends, family, pastors and with that one big tree in my neighborhood, I’ve gathered enough information to conclude that I am first and foremost loved and cared for.  No newsflash, but a memory that has seeped away into my consciousness making it difficult for me to acknowledge it as often as I should.

When change is subtle, at it’s height it’s incredibly emotional. I can’t tell if this change is subtle or not, but everything surrounding it does not feel that way. Then again, I’ve cried at the most obscure times this past month, SO I actually can tell.  I feel with this change comes this greatest responsibility–and that is to be responsible for myself. It helps I guess that my mom has been reminding me that I will have to buy toilet paper now and that I should stop at stop signs because the tickets are almost 300 dollars to date. God bless her heart. Folks, these are signs of when a momma lets her child go out into the wild. And the wild it is, because moving out (sans the college and abroad trips kind) is wild. Like unknown, make your own food, pay for toilet paper, wild.

The reality of it all though vast has framed my life in a way that is notably influential. And to have the power of affecting others (and more so myself) is a power that has turned out to be incredibly fragile. Yet whether heavenly or hellish, my roller coaster heart is truly on it’s way to  finding an altitude of acceptance and peace all beheld by a stubborn risk.

And since circumstances change so often, I suppose what this all really is, is the battle of the flesh and the bone inside of me functioning and living out these  systematic meets abyss-like changes gracefully and well. Things change. We pack, we unpack. So in this process of packing my things, thoughts of my source of strength unravel and I see a God that has remained throughout all circumstances and transitions. I’m simply moved to meditate on His faithfulness, because throughout all my roller coasters of emotions, of relationships, of dreams–of all the change, is the steadfastness and faithfulness of God.

This month has easily propelled me towards this prayer for June and beyond.

That God’s faithfulness—whatever, however, whenever it decides to be the obvious and blatant truth that it is, may it be unrelentingly attached to my spirit and be ahead, before and beside me.

The F Word

Fear has been known to some to be the heart of love, but for me, it has been the heart of decision-making.

A quote recently humoured me while also provoking me to take into account it’s very true sentiment:

To fear is one thing.  To let fear grab you by the tail and swing you around is another.

During this crucially mysterious season of life, I am corraled into this thought. I am blatantly guilty of being swung and sired into the thought that fear has precedence over me, while my faith is simply unavailable for the taking.  I am so dizzy. And my decisions are hesitant to declare itself final for they are fickle, all because of fear.

Often, I look for lofty and pretty quotes to help keep my stress, worry and fear away since I easily let worry lead my fear instead of allowing Prayer to be the keeper of my being. So often that it’s gotten to a point where I know when my prayers are rushed and inauthentic, and it’s a dark moment. But this dark moment is to be had, to be experienced all to realize the importance of recognizing it and countering it with authenticity, with light. Patience is important too, because hurry definitely kills prayer and consequently revives worry.

Since fear and worry are BFFS, they can be very strong. They know each other well and they are unstoppable when paired together. They stay up late and rest is seldom to be had. And I am in the presence of this harmful bond and know I need to extract myself from such environment.

For I desperately need rest, to gain stability and a clear mind. And so  these ever faithful questions arise:

What do I fear?

&

Can God conquer that fear?

When it comes to my responses, the former has countless answers effected by countless variables while the latter remains the same. I am in awe at the cycle I partake in when it comes to this.

Fear, worry, pray, rejoice. Fear, worry, pray, rejoice. Fear, worry, pray, rejoice.

How I long to just pray and rejoice. I despise to be that kind of believer who declares one thing and lives out another–expectedly…routinely even! Yet a greater awe lies in my Helper, my Maker. For my dizziness is relieved by His stillness, my hurry by His calm, and my flawed cycle by His perfect plan.

All the while a new fear is unearthed…

What do I fear? That I will forget the above.

Can God conquer that fear? A resounding YES. 

To believe in God is one thing, but to trust that God will protect, direct and provide for you is another.

So may we be people, who are unswingable.

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

Today’s truth (and tomorrow’s)

To say I’m blessed in an understatement to the point of embarrassment. It seems sometimes there has to be another word to better exemplify the motion I find myself caught amidst so often–yet the understatement shall stand for I seldom am able to find  any other word that fits.

Privileged. Thankful. Lucky. Fortunate. In reverence. Aw shux.

Sometimes I feel it most when I have absolutely no tangible proof that I’m living this awesome (oh thats a good synonym too) life. No accreditation, no trophies displayed, no gold around my neck or in my pockets, no husband to boast about, but I feel it on my skin, I feel it by my pulse.  It’s  like when you drink ice cold water after a long, hard run. Yeah, I’m thankful for water, but the ability to feel it flow downward in what usually is in slow motion into my esophagus, relieving my thirst, lies a thankfulness far beyond an “ahh” after gulping the 32 oz of H2o. So I’m blessed to be so blessed beyond the point of words and even oohs and ahs.

What I do  know is that I am hungry to incapsulate this emotion, because it’s so life-giving.

Yet sometimes I kind of go back and forth on whether I’m really hungry or if it’s just purely the fact I don’t have complete control over what I’m feeling, so I need answers. So I grab everything in site, stuffing my face with what I hope will fill me, what I hope will give me answers. Do we eat to eat rather than eat to be filled? Do we fear and worry which spoils our spirit or do we trust and know, thus nourishing–filling our spirit? Daily, we encounter this decision that has to be made.

Hunger to know Him better.

Because I think when I aim to pinpoint why I feel a certain way (since feeling blessed I just now have realized totally feels like being fed) it’s my insistent desire that I know Him better. To know God better.  Because I’ve learned I cannot even recognize my own shadow if I do not attempt to step in God’s light; being revealed to who He is gives color to my gray that is my emotion and my uncertainty and my fickle wonderments.

Since Easter is upon us as well as all  the beautiful and fluffy Facebook statuses (mine included) you’ve viewed on your feed of recent, it seems all the more pertinent we–I, address this truth that is to be well celebrated tomorrow AND dare I say the day after the rest of our tomorrows.

A date on a calendar marked with great suffering has been often laced with a forgetfulness that well has truly been the death of me; my forgetful turned redeemed love meets head on with the the love marked by a death that has already been encountered and conquered. Enter: sigh.

To say I am blessed is such an understatement.

So as we enter the last day of holy week into a day marked by the blood of Christ, may we hold steadfast to the truth that what we deserve contradicts what He has so graciously preserved for us. All for us. And that though we are a constantly hungry soul, we are eternally fed by the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ.

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 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.

Some things that exist that shouldn’t.

• Wobbly tables. We can regulate diabetes, remedy anaphylactic shock and help find people eternal and perfect spouses but we can’t find a way to keep my laptop from sliding around the table while I type?
• Cover letters. If you think about it, the time you take to read a cover letter is wasted when you totally know you’ll want to hire me or not after personally meeting me for at least 1.5 minutes.
• Embarrassment. I myself never declared to be a non-human so sorry for snort-laughing, never having had a boyfriend and burping like a dude.
• Ticketmaster. I’m obviously not over being overcharged ever since that BSB concert (aka my whole life) but seriously, there has to be a better way to enjoy art and not feel like I’m attending an auction or being mugged willingly.
• 5 dollar foot longs. You can’t really “save” the other half for dinner  (and who eats leftover subs)? Less is more and it’s about 6 inches too much more.
• *Enter musical references pertaining to Creed, Nickelback, Tool. (poor guys–and by guys I mean my ears).
• 24hr drive thrus. I’m mainly concerned of what goes on from 2:30am-5a.m and how nobody essentially is ordering 12 chicken soft tacos between those times because that’s just unimaginable…
• Eat this and not that lists. My childhood love for donuts has not been the same and so my adulthood is very much so affected.
• The fact it’s permissible for some people in America to not have health insurance. I know, I’m a broken record on this issue, but without health insurance, I shall remain broken.
• 2 in 1 shampoo and conditioner. If I wanted my hair to feel knotty and essentially more unconditioned, I’d use my bar of soap.
• Irony. But only in the form of food like pairing a diet coke and nuggety chocolate bar. Just go all out or grab the nearest apple and be really sad.
• 5 year high school and/or college reunions. The only thing this gives me enough time to accomplish is noticeable weight gain and the solidification of my single marital status.
• AND ants. No follow-up necessary.

tbc.

Thanks, yo

I wake up to a mother who respects my adult-ness by knocking at my door for a good respectable :15. Once she followed it with a kiss on the forehead with a look i truly felt communicated, “you work hard, you are a good daughter, so sleep in as long as you need…and what do you want for lunch?”

I sip from porcelain mugs almost daily and the steam rises heavenly towards the perfect places creating the perfect emotions. Good morning, it greets me and the aroma pries my eyes open for the day ahead.

I crave blending ingredients and creating an appetite that stems from recipes that promise color, taste and texture. As everyone oooed and ahhhed, the pauses between each bite proved the true wonders of breaking bread with the ones you love.

I crack open my composition book to scribble meaningless words from meaningful thoughts. Today, I gathered a couple more as an elderly couple split a panini and apple with minimal conversation but an obvious history of love, and future of faithfulness. And it’s such a sight.

I bury myself often in piles of photo collections of past events and present occasions. In the albums recently developed I found a series of moments that are proof we do indeed all grow old, but amazingly closer. My brother, looks more of a man than yesterday though his boyish smile still resides. My mother is found various times staring of at her children as they compare their height and age differences in a couple of shots. And the kids of the family are no longer asking for barbies or hot wheels for Christmas, but iPods and make-up, or at least their grown faces say so anyways.

I depend on cheersing glasses with a best friend or two over conversations that stem from our individual uncertain paths alongside our mutual certainty that we are well taken care of and fought for, sought after. Even more often lately, we praised our problems through accountability, water-proof shoulders, and a reminder of a hope. Or more simply, a home-cooked dinner, laughter that deflected profound sadness and songs sung at the top of our lungs from the bottom of our souls.

But like every human, I am flawed beyond repair, though knowingly worthy of your concerns for me. And though time has bridled me and I have yet to externally become fully what I am wholly internally, know my attempts to shield such a progressively decreasing failure is coated with my coffee and conversations with you, my prayers and thoughts of you and my utter love for you.  All this is stowed away in my temple of gratefulness. The abundance causes it to overflow often. It is powerful and it flows and cranks the wheels of my blood flow. It keeps me grounded during lofty times and floating freely during the heavy ones. My growing spirit is not worthy of such reward received from you.

But sincere it is, boastful it is not. Peaceful it is, anxious it is not. Thankful it is, forgetful it is not.

Long Hair, Don’t Care

“Your hair is getting so long.”

“I know” I say in an affirming meets tired tone.

“I love it!”

“Oh, thanks..”

This is the essence of the many initial conversations that take place when meeting friends I haven’t spent longer than a hi with. My hair seems to be the main thing to stop people in their tracks when inquiring what has changed in my life as of late. I suppose it’s harder to notice my better erected back due to my increased self-confidence or my calloused fingers from the sharpening of my guitar skills, but my hair indeed serves decently as an indicator that I am indeed growing and changing. Whether it’s the length of my hair or the progression of my character, as long something is noticeable, it’s validated as real. And I’m not lost. Or something akin to feeling such a way.

I couldn’t swim deep enough. My ponytail had to stick out above the dark blue squiggly lines turned waves. Like a thumb that throbs, my head stuck out. Afraid of going too deep? Or afraid others will see me plugging my nose because I cannot dive eloquently for a woman of my stature? Even at twilight, I know anyone could catch me, nose in hand, if they wanted to.

I couldn’t make you believe I could swim deep enough. Towards the darker black that was a stagnate bottom. As we’d unknowingly race, my mind would pace the ways I could persuade anyone into believing I made it back so swiftly because simply, I was a good swimmer (even with all the long hair). If I could swim as good as I lie, the black would be no threat, the deep my  ebbing enemy. And you, a feeble competitor. You–heartache, distance, change, a loser. Me–heart broken, consistently yearning for others and routine-ridden, a winner.

I hate this ponytail, but it makes you search elsewhere for some shimmery fleck of impressive. And I wear it also to see the sea better, you see? The salt can burn, but at least the brown tendrils do not get in anyone’s way. In my way; I seem to get in my way often. On the way down, a glance is made at the girl descending delightfully. “She’s different” they all whisper in their heads.

I need to grasp the person I was a few moments ago and the person I will be in moments to come. One I find, meant for the ethereal gleam, beside her, behind her and above her. Some call it the moon, I call Spirit. The other, a beguiling blunder disguised and maneuvered by handsome temptation, or  a coy enchantress. It’s hard to think under water, but I can see both are fragile and fortunate and relevant.  And so I’m aware of the humanness and abundance that surrounds me. And also aware, maybe my improvement do not need to be seen, just claimed.

I don’t swim deep enough and I hate this ponytail, but I trace the steps before me and meander forward, slowly but more importantly, surely.  My breath become the tokens that create ripples towards you, towards better. My body the shore that keeps order and direction.  I can’t swim deep enough, but found when necessary the deep surely finds me. And for a breathe’s moment, I’m not lost.