galaxies

I would travel the world,

See all I could see,

But this world always seemed 

Too small for me.

I always dreamed 

Of galaxies.

I would journey the stars
In sweet solitude,
A glorious view
Of the beauty imbued
In sky and moon
And altitude.

I would wander the void,
Black and dangerous place,
Only inches away
From endless space,
In search, unafraid,
Of a cosmic embrace.

I would run from a world
Where I never belonged.
Away from what's wrong
To the wonders beyond
That sing my same song,
Undiscovered, unknown.

winter sunrise

Maybe I'm looking at the world
Through rose-colored glasses.
Or maybe that's the sunrise,
Bathing the world in wonderful winter light-
Inspiration and hope.

Sunbeams pierce the bitter cold,
Casting color over barren fields
And empty trees.
Refreshment and renewal
Of a season faded-
Possibility of a day ahead.

Most are not awake to see,
To wonder at
This lovely new perspective-
The weary land made beautiful.
And there's something almost healing,
Maybe divine,
In the winter morning sun.

whole note

Today, the measures of my song are filled
With whole notes,
Those empty little ovals
That allow me neither movement nor rest.

And I find it funny
How something that fills an entire measure
Can be so hollow inside.

Riding on a single line,
I watch others dance across the scale,
Skipping over spaces
And soaring above the staff.

Other notes filled in
With flags flying behind,
Connected to each other so intricately-

While here in my measure,
Nothing ornate-
Just one plain and lonely note.

Slowly and steadily,
Rings out restless
The same tone.

bus window

Buildings full of people
That we pass so quickly by
In a blur of moving colors,
Harsh contrast of busy noise.

Trees rush past the bus window
That I peer intently through,
As I search the changing landscape
For the immutable You.

Strangers fill the bus seats,
On and off at every stop.
Only linger for a moment-
Balance between gain and loss.

Only certain of my loneliness,
As people come and go-
Scenery always changing
As I look through my window.

But always You are with me,
Every journey, every place.
The world I see shows who you are-
Your never-changing grace.

my words

These are my words.
Each one I carefully collect,
Like shells from the ocean.
The waves of my introspection roll
Over each word,
Twisting and turning them into the shape
Of what I want to say.
Spread before me on the ocean floor,
I see all of the different edges
And textures and colors,
And the pictures they can make
When I put them together.
An ocean mosaic of words-
Tumbling sea glass heart.

These are my words.
And sometimes they are hard to find,
Like when the ocean is dark and muddy
And I'm not really sure
What I need to say.
I dip my hand into the water
And blindly search for the beauty
Trapped in the sand.
But I find the sea to be deeper
Than I had imagined-
The memories more powerful
Than the waves
That shape them into words.
And the ocean is silent.

These are my words.
And I would sing them for you
If I could.
When the sun sets over the ocean
In a brilliant display of light,
I would gather all the colors
In my hands
And paint you a picture.
But all I have are my words.
I paint with colors
That you do not understand.
Because you look at the world
Through dry eyes,
And I am underwater.

These are my words.
Incomplete,
Like shattered fragments of glass-
The water's smooth surface
Broken by waves.
And I hope that you will read them,
Not only scanning the surface
For your own reflection,
But turning the seashells over
In your hands
And trying to feel the bumps and ridges
The way I feel them.
Because these are my words,
Drawn from the ocean of my heart.


 *Update* 3/11/15: This poem won a Superior rating in the ACSI Creative Writing Festival!

garden of sound: part two

Everything around me is quiet, and the atmosphere still, but inside I feel the opposite of peace. Sitting on the stage, waiting for the concert to begin, I feel every extreme of nature. My heart pounds like rain in a thunderstorm, yet a bright light washes over me like the sun. The air is filled with anticipation and nervous energy, like lightning about to strike. My palms are sweaty as I grasp my flute, nestled among the other musicians, and yet I feel the chill of winter. The familiar anxiety rolls over me like black clouds roll through the sky, slowly churning into a tornado of all my fears, gaining speed and reaching, reaching towards the ground, towards destruction.

I am sitting in the eye of a hurricane. Chaos surrounds me on every side, yet no one else can see it because all is still. My eyes like anchors are fixed permanently on the conductor as I wait for the approaching waves. The slightest movement of his hand will cause all the world to burst to life with the crash of drums, the tsunami that sends me spinning into a swirling sea.

Waiting and watching, I take a deep breath and swallow my fears. They travel all the way through my body, feeling their way through every corner but finding no way out. Trapped, the noise builds inside until I close my eyes and try to think of a new song. I know that the music can take me to another place.

Tighter, tighter I close my eyes until the noise begins to fade, and my lungs are filled with a sweet fragrance. I look around and find myself in a garden, only faintly aware of the symphony still around me as the stage and audience melt away. I am in a garden of sound, surrounded by life and song. I hear the music of leaves scattering from the treetops and floating on the gentle breeze. The warmth of the sun and the fragrance of the flowers fill my lungs with a sweet melody and my heart is calm.

A million distinct sounds fill the air, and in my dreamlike state I hear each instrument. Each so different, I watch them burst into bloom, filling the world with their colors. The brass is the soil underneath me, a foundation from which flowers can grow. Roots break through the earth with the laughter of the bassoon and oboe, and then soar on the wind with my flute.

Suddenly, the notes I am hearing are coming from my own lips, travelling through my flute and following the movements of my fingers over the keys. I am transported back to the real world, standing upon the stage that haunted me for so long. But this time I do not turn away from anxiety’s millions of watching eyes. Rather, I invite them inside. I continue to play my song, so that they can see my garden too, because I love the flowers, and I think that maybe love is more powerful than fear.

first anniversary

Today is a very special day! It is the birthday of "Winter Notes on Summer Impressions" !!! I created Winter Notes on December 11th, 2013, and a TON has happened since then. So many good things and so many bad things. I wish that I could have captured every memory and feeling and experience in this place, but there are so many words I haven't written. Writing on this blog has given me an awesome creative outlet to work through the hard things and ideas and feelings, and also to discover my love of writing, especially of poetry, so I'm really thankful for it, and anyone who reads it. (even though they might think I'm crazy or really depressing sometimes)

So, in honor of this momentous occasion, I wrote a poem. :) It's short and sweet and it's called "This Year I Wrote a Lot of Things" because I did, and also because I couldn't think of a better title. So yeah.


This year I wrote a lot of things,
I wrote them down in ink.
My favorite pen, each thought dispensed
Spiraling and succinct.

This year I wrote a lot of things,
I wrote them in the air.
My flute would sing, each fingering
Wrote joys and hopes and prayers.

This year I wrote a lot of things,
I wrote them on my skin.
With razorblades my hate displayed
In scar and wound and sin.

This year I wrote a lot of things,
Some things no one has read.
Songs unheard, unspoken hurt,
Words that I never said.

garden of sound: part one

The excitement before a concert.

All is still.

Sound has deceased,

Filling the air with anticipation

And nervous energy.

Waiting,

A million eyes watch intently.
Silently

As the conductor raises his wand.

Then

Bang!

The crash of drums

As the symphony begins.

Musicians follow the conductor's every movement.
Breathing in and breathing out,
Air rushes across each mouthpiece,
Through each twisted tunnel.

Fingers fly across the keys,
Skillful and precise,
Hitting each pitch at the correct time
Just as they had rehearsed.

A great diversity of sounds come together

To create a colorful garden.

The brass lay a foundation.

Thick and rich,

Soil underneath the ground.

The snickers of the oboe and bassoon

Cause the sound to break into laughter,

Break through the earth.

The sparkling trills of a piccolo

Soar above the ground.

Saxophones, flutes, and clarinets

Instruments of the wind.

Walking together in a garden,

Audience and musicians

Are mummified-

Trapped within the layers of sound.

snowfall

The snow falls like a memory,
How it gently lands and melts;
Soaks into my skin persistently
Til my bones a chill have felt.

I remember the days when I would walk,
And brave the bitter cold.
A worn out mixture of snow and salt
Would crunch beneath my soles.

The earth was lifeless, sky was gray
As the clouds then slowly starved.
My fingers like the eye of a hurricane
Felt the numbness in my heart.

Fresh wounds then caused my feet to ache,
As my footsteps left behind-
On a blanket woven of soft snowflakes
A trail of red, red lines.

No one else could see the stain
On such a perfect white.
Memories of the empty gain
I found within a knife.

Inside my boots for me to feel
But for no one else to know.
These are the things I remember still
When I walk in winter snow.

magnolia leaves

mittens

Like she was wearing mittens on a blazing summer day,
She carried things unwritten to a special hidden place.
Sitting in the lovely shade of weeping willow trees,
Sweaty palms and secrets pealed away to feel the breeze.

The wool will come unraveled, as she ponders all alone
The places she has traveled, never one to call her home.
But here she finds a solace, in the willow's sweet embrace-
Her own perfect oasis, where her hands are full of grace.


*Update* 3/11/15: This poem won an Excellent rating in the ACSI Creative Writing Festival!

dragonfly wings

Dipping my paddle into the shallow water,
My kayak scrapes against a rocky bottom.
I push away from shore,
And into the wide river.

Sunlight sparkles on the water
That dragonflies rest their noisy wings to kiss.
Hues of green and brown and blue are separated
As my boat cuts a trail through the smooth surface.

My arms feel strong and capable
As they soak in the warmth of the afternoon sun.
Masterfully, my paddle carves the water,
Gently turns to guide my path.

The faint scent of seaweed,
And the moisture on my skin
Make me feel at home
As I glide through the river.

I reach a place where the current is still
And rest my arms;
Dip my hands into the cool, refreshing water
That drips from my paddle.

I watch how the ripples grow and disappear
When the dragonflies swoop down and gently touch
The river that holds so much light and life;
Holding me up now, suspended above the ground.

I float freely and with ease
In the center of the river.
At home, alone in my little kayak,
Surrounded by nature's peace.

yellow heart

Yellow...

What a strange color for a heart.


Everyone says it is

Bold and cheerful...


Happy.




Bright yellow sunshine

Casts a radiant light.


Bright yellow sunflowers

In a charming garden.




Yellow.


What I see is

Nostalgic and lonely...


Sad.




Fading yellow wallpaper

In an empty room.


Tiny yellow flowers

In a lonely field.




Yellow


Holds pain and beauty.

Sharp angles and soft,


A paradox.




Somewhere between blue and red;

Warm and also cold.


Somewhere between happy and sad;

Young and also old.




Dazzling and desolate,

The yellow heart.

surfaces

"The heart of man is very much like the sea, it has its storms, it has its tides and in its depths it has its pearls too." ~Van Gogh

"There are no beautiful surfaces without a terrible depth." ~Friedrich Nietzsche

the collision

I need imagination like I need oxygen. It is the spark of passion inside me that keeps me moving, most alive in the collision of the real world and a dream.

My imagination comes to life when I listen to music, and when the music spills out my fingers, synchronized with my breath into the flute. The notes on the page are footsteps, leading me to a different place through the shapes and colors and movements of sound.

My imagination comes to life when I read a book, twenty-six letters arranged and rearranged to tell a million different stories. Underneath the covers I wrap myself in a new perspective, trapped between the sheets. Imagination weaves together a fabric of ideas using letters and words and sentences to form paragraphs and chapters and eventually a library of infinite potential.

My imagination comes to life when I spend time in nature, as the sky stretches on without limit and the trees wrap me in their embrace. Layered leaves pattern the ground with their shadows as sunlight breaks through the deciduous dome. I look at the endless sky and towering trees and see that the world is so much bigger than me, so full with dreams.

My imagination comes to life when I am doing the things that I love. It takes me to the places where I long to be and enhances the places where I am. It shows me that everything is so much bigger than my perception of it. There are so many places to see, ideas to explore, and dreams to dream. I know that I am alive because my imagination is, and it won't let me give up. Where possibilities are endless, so is hope.

i wonder if

I wonder if you ever heard the birds
Sing softly through your window as you slept.
I wonder if you ever heard the words
Pierced silently my soul whene'er I wept.

I thought that if you'd ever seen the sun,
You'd notice that my world had turned to gray.
I thought that when the world around me spun,
You'd have some light to turn my night to day.

I wonder if you ever saw the stars
Gleam brilliantly across a raven sky.
I wonder if you ever saw my scars;
I wonder if you knew the reason why.

I hope for beauty in all that you see-
I hope that maybe one day you'll see me.

a distant melody

Away you went, away from me,
Beneath a stormy sky.
And I was drifting off to sea.
Alone, I wondered why.

You came and went like waves on sand,
As I watched the shore grow small.
The waves that flow at the wind's command
 Will push me farther still.

Slipping under, I have lost
The ground beneath my feet.
I search for where our paths have crossed,
A distant melody.

The shore is gone, the past behind,
The ocean now my home.
And in the depths my heart will find
It best to be alone.

autumn shades

Leaves are beginning to change their colors :)

glass staircase

I rush up and down
On a spiraling glass staircase.
I move with the music-
Each interval a step,
Each long note a landing.

Light on my feet
As if I were floating on air,
I ascend and descend.
Quickly and skillfully,
Full of grace.

Notes scattered across a page,
Footsteps light and gentle.

The sound grows and swells,
Then-
A hush.

A flurry of movement,
A moment of rest.

Like a spiraling glass staircase
The sounds are delicate,
Yet strong.
Soft, but shining.

Small and sparkling,
Grand and full.

angry

Sometimes angry feels a whole lot like sad.

I don't know which one comes first.

I only know it hurts.

And I don't want to be angry.

And I don't want to be sad.

I'm just so tired.

Sad is so big and so heavy.

And anger is a prison cell.

I desperately need to escape

But I can't get away

From the reality that I live inside

From the person that I live inside

And I fight and kick and scream

And tear at the bars

Tear at my skin

Try to leave

But where can I go?

There is nowhere for me.

So the anger must be suppressed.

The fire must burn to embers

Until there is nothing left.

Nothing but a big empty hole.

And sadness floods the cell.

Because ignoring it doesn't take it away.

in sweet september

In sweet september

Repeat, remember

What's new, what's borrowed

What's true and true tomorrow

September air and autumn sun

The leaves will turn and colors run

She waited for some place to start

The colors ran off with her heart

And she knows how the seasons change

When only this hope remains

In sweet september

Repeat, remember

What's new, what's borrowed

What's true and true tomorrow

New beginnings, evening chill

Looking for some space to fill

She wanted sunshine, wanted cold

Something young and something old

And all things soon will grow cold and die

Still she knows what it is to be alive

In sweet september

Repeat, remember

What's new, what's borrowed

What's true and true tomorrow

In sweet september

Fires burn to embers

Softly, and fading

Love what's remaining

sometimes she

Sometimes she was sad,
And sometimes that sadness would swallow her whole.
And she would stay there for a while,
Wondering why no one came to look for her
When she was so far gone.

Because sometimes she was sad,
But always she smiled.
And sometimes it destroyed her
That no one could see the sadness
Aching inside her bones.

But a smile she could give,
For those who only knew how to take.
And while they said her heart was happy,
Sometimes she was sad.

here

Again
I've reached another end
Where once I called you friend
It always seems to slip away

Goodbye
You'll never see me cry
Beneath a diamond sky
My armor for the lonely fight

I am cold
Can you hear?
I will fly with no hope
No fear*
Into the night
My silent tears
No one sees me here
No one sees me here

Hello
The wind begins to blow
A sun turned into snow
But you will never know

I am cold
Can you hear?
I will fly with no hope
No fear
Into the night
My silent tears
No one sees me here
No one sees me here

I am cold
But You are near
Beneath Your wings
All the world comes clear
You're in my night
You dry my tears
You've always been here
You've always been here

*some lyrics taken from Twenty One Pilots

a million stars

Surrounded by your beauty
Memories fade
Fragments gleam and captivate
Jagged pieces all reflect Your face
This pile of broken dreams
Will shout Your praise

And like a million stars
I'm still searching for my place to shine
I'm burning in the sky for You
Chasing colors through the night
We'll find our way to a sunrise
Where the sky is new
Let me rest in You

And like a million scars
Trace their marks to form the outline
Of a love that burns inside for you
Gather stones before the light
Carries them far with the morning tide
And you can't see through
Then I'll look to You

only Jesus

God I'm so messed up. Why would you ever save someone like me??? Surely someone else could do a better job serving you, why would you choose me? Maybe you want for me and others to see that its not my power but Yours!! This is all for Your glory, not mine, and my weakness shows just how AMAZING your grace is!! God I'm so weak, I can't do any of this on my own. I need you every step of the way. You didn't choose me because of special things you foresaw I would have to offer. You chose me because you love me, and it's the greatest mystery in the world, how you could love me, me who has nothing to bring. That's what we have to share with people. Only Jesus!

expressions of his love

I saw a flower today and it looked just like a feeling. And it reminded me that God understands the ways I feel, even if I don't have a word for it, He knows, and He can make it beautiful, and I can bring anything to Him. I can relate to His creation, and this gives me an even greater picture of who He is. And I thought maybe all of God's creation, He made to express something that needed more than words. The trees, the flowers, the birds, the stars, and all of His creation are here to express His love. And I am His creation, so maybe that's what I'm here for too. To express His love. Our God is so beautiful and amazing, and there are pieces of Him in nature all around us, and His handiwork in us. I see more and more how everything in nature is pointing me to something bigger than myself, something so much greater than myself, pointing me to God. And our God is so good, He didn't have to create flowers, but He did. And sometimes I wonder why God created flowers, why He created sunsets, and all the beautiful things around us. And I can see that it is a reflection of who He is, and His care and love for us. It's all expressing something, and what I can see is love. In nature, and free to grow, I am wrapped in His arms.

sunburn

Because sometimes I love the sun so much,
It leaves me with an unfading blush.
Reddens my cheeks, paints all over my nose,
Til all of me blisters and blossoms and glows.
My skin tells the story of things lived and learned.
And though it stings for a moment, I love my sunburn.

universe she holds inside

Trapped in the layers of a noisy mind,
Her darkness and her light collide.
All their wonders to confine
The universe she holds inside.

With galaxies behind her eyes,
Underneath are crumbling skies,
Haunted by the mysteries and lies
That find their way through space and time.

Wandering into the void of her soul,
She will find she is alone.
She will surrender to the pull
Of the mightiest black hole.

Floating, falling through the night,
Softly sing her lullaby.
Safe asleep she will say goodbye
To all the madness of the sky.

ashes of me

Sometimes I wonder if my old demons would be better
Than the nothingness that consumes me now.
The emptiness, the hollowness, void of all emotion,
Which calmly holds the knife and presses it against my skin-
Unfeeling, indifferent.

I used to be drowning in my pain,
My thoughts and emotions overwhelming me.
Now, I watch myself sink,
No longer fighting for air-
No longer fighting for anything.

My anger does not roar as it once did.
It burns with a strange quietness
And hidden strength.
Eating away at me slow and cold,
So that I do not feel its true heat.

My sparks float up into the sky.
I am bathed in the glowing orange light,
Flickering all around me,
Soothing me.
Numb, I do not see that the campfire is my heart.
Melting away,
Then hardening-
Only to remain in ashes of me.

ocean eyes

I wonder what you see when you look at me.
I wonder if you would still love me if you could see it all.
There are oceans in my eyes
That would take years for you to cross.
Shades of blue,
I am falling through.
Would you be willing to follow me?
To be still and listen to the words I cannot speak?
The tears that won't come out of my eyes-
Hear them throbbing and pounding behind.
They are the waves,
And I am the sea.
Boundless and deep,
Stretching out farther than you can see-
Farther than anyone dares to go.

look inside

i want to feel the razor slice my skin
i want to watch,
cold and calculated,
the blood trickle slowly down my leg
and in that moment
feel nothing but the sting
nothing but the pleasure of punishment
payment for my sins
i want to feel it hurting
underneath my clothes
while nobody knows

those little red lines
are like a map
for my lost heart
i don't understand what i'm feeling
tear me open
let me look inside

stained pearl necklace

The blade meets my skin,

Sharp, and cold.

Sketching on me a picture
Of the emptiness I feel inside.

With red ink, red lines, it slits and stings,

And blood will bead the string,

Like a stained pearl necklace.

Tight around my neck, yet a beautiful decoration-

I find comfort in the soreness and aching left behind.

If only I could connect the lines.

Weaving my way through the messes I've made-
I'm just trying to make things right.

Intersecting scars continue the maze

When my heart has reached a dead end.

I had a dream once...
I kept on going,
Deeper and everywhere.
And the blood flowed.
And it felt so good.

My whole body covered with those thin red lines,
Like prison bars or a rope.
Wrapped around me, clinging to me-
Trapping me inside myself,
Yet I am the one that drew them.
Maybe it's just a way of holding myself in
When all that I am only wants to get away.

Waiting there in the timid silence of my dream,
Flashing images of crimson.
Each drop bringing such satisfaction,
Saying, "This is right, this is good."
As my pictures brought forth life.
The bright red bursting forth,
Fresh and free,
Where once there was no color.
However, in dreams there are no consequences.
No one to see,
To misunderstand as they do in the real world.

And so I wake up, my skin unbroken.

But lingers the desire,
The warmth from the fire that blazes underneath my skin-
Longing to be cut.

the sound of thunder

So strange it seems to me now to hear the sound of thunder.
A sound almost comforting, like the dull drowsy ache of a hunger.
So strange it seems to hear that sound
Which once evoked from me such an intolerable fear-
Now to which I can listen in peace.
What a hope it lights in me, however small;
For I miss the days when my worst fear was something so concrete,
So real as a thunderstorm.
But knowing that even this can fade,
What once threatened can become beautiful to me,
This fills me with a gloomy kind of joy.
Gloomy from the dark and damp of a rainy day,
But joyful for how it causes the street to shine-
The rain on this path that I walk.
So that maybe what is terror in me today
Will become fragrant to me by the rain's growth of flowers.
This too shall pass, as the rolling of the thunder-
The roaring in my heart.

time and tides

My mind speeds past the clock,

And yet the rest of me stays behind.

The clock, cold and calculating

Does not wait for me,
Nor I for it.

I move so fast,
And time so slow.
The waves rush towards me,
Growing bigger and bigger.

Do I dive in or try to run away?
It makes no difference.
Still they come,
Still they will crash-
Coming closer and closer
As my thoughts race.

The scariest thing about the waves and time
Is the way they move.
Uncaring, unfeeling, and never stopping-
So much bigger than me.

I have no control.
The clock keeps turning,
The waves keep crashing.
The dreaded moment approaching,
The crest of the wave appearing.

I am helpless.
Defenseless before the laws of nature.

after the rain

Sometimes 

There's something beautiful

After the rain. 

When everything is bathed

In that eerie light, 

And you see it all in a way

You've never quite seen it before.

Suddenly
There are colors
In new places.

Places that were once
Only black
Now shine
In that strange new light.

Wet
And mysterious,
And beautiful.

"And the rain will make the flowers grow." ~Eponine, Les Miserables

i listened to a happy song

I listened to a happy song,

Yet sadness dripped from every note.

It accumulated in teardrops,

And oh, how they sparkled in the sunlight.

I reached out to touch them and they broke,

Spilled out their despair.

But it was a beautiful kind of despair,

The kind that you want to hold on to for a while.

Soothing, yet searing.

Filling me with warmth, yet striking me with a coldness.

For sorrow can be so lovely,

Dressed all in white.

But white can be such an empty color,

And sometimes I feel empty too.

easier

I'm scared. I'm scared it's always gonna be this hard. Because I've done these things a million times, these things that I'm afraid of. I've faced my fears and gotten through okay. But it never really gets easier. Every time I'm right back where I started. And in some ways that makes it all hurt worse. I'm afraid that I'm never going to find something I love that doesn't hurt me. It seems like the things that are supposed to be good are the things that kill me the most. And mostly, I fear that these feelings are never going to go away completely. That they will linger inside me and around me always, haunting everything I try to do. I'm afraid that I'm never going to be free. Like maybe this fear is just a part of who I am, and I can't escape from myself. I'm afraid that I'm always going to be afraid. That I'm always going to be like this. That maybe I'll never find peace and every moment that's supposed to be good will be this hard. Because it never really does get easier. And I wonder why. But I don't want to try. Not anymore. Because what do I even have to look forward to?  Everything good is stolen from me, and yet I am the thief. What am I becoming, is this even me?

"The simplest things became the hardest part now. The easiest parts have taken all my dreams. I'm afraid, I'll never be okay. I'm afraid. I'm scared I can't be happy. I'm afraid. The silence you feel is not a way to be sincere, it's just a way to cope, a way to heal. But not for me when I can't feel. The subtleties that make me want to be alive and not a statue. Breathe the air, be here to talk to. I'm afraid, I'll never be the same." ~Silverstein, "Medication"

though i tremble

Be still my soul,
Breathe in and remember.
Your thoughts wander in the future,
Pull them back to the present.
This moment.
What do you need to do?
Right here. Right now.

Be still my soul,
This fear that you feel isn't wrong-
This is not your fault.
But there is joy that is bigger, fuller
Than the pain of this moment.
There is one who holds all the answers,
And He holds you in His hands.

Be still and know,
He is God.
You can trust Him-
Look to Him now.
Maybe it won't all get better,
Sometimes the storm will rage on.
But though you tremble, He stands firm.

the song of her solitude

Timidly, she tiptoes through the old house,
Afraid for her weight to press against the wooden floor.
To awaken with her creaking the beast inside,
As the darkness awakens her senses.

Tiny sounds fill the night around her,
Echo through her being.
Whispers turn into screams inside her mind.
They crash down like waves, drowning out everything else.

She longs to break the silence that surrounds her like a fog,
To pierce the air with her voice and shatter it like glass.
For her lonely melodies to swell and glide through the darkness,
And sing the words she cannot find.

But she stands here frozen, afraid to take a step.
This house is a maze, and she cannot find a quiet room,
Where no one can hear her-
Where she cannot hear herself.

She tries to shut herself away from all the sounds
That so constantly grate on her mind.
But she cannot escape the music that comes from inside her-
The music that she fears most of all.

The silence she treasures above all else,
Her endless pursuit,
Is choking her, paralyzing her, torturing her.
Searching, always searching, with these harsh painful footsteps-
So afraid of being heard, so afraid of hearing.

The song of her solitude she tries to hide, even from herself.
But through her attempts to eliminate all the noise around her,
Forever remains the song within her-
Her own heartbeat pounding, pounding, pounding;
Air rushing through her lungs, thrashing and roaring in a never-ending storm-
The whirlwind of her soul that she can never escape.
For where there is life, there can never be silence

what will i consider?

This song is based on Psalm 77, one of my favorite psalms in which Asaph speaks of a time when he doubted the goodness and love of God and cried out to Him. He was in great distress and speaks of his spirit growing faint and his refusal to be comforted. Yet there is a transition in verse 10, where Asaph decided to turn His focus away from His circumstances and the pain he was feeling and look to God. He meditated on all God had done in the past, in creation and miracles and leading His people, and the ways He had proven Himself trustworthy, always keeping His promises, and rejoiced in these things, in God's amazing power and grace. Through this remembrance and turning His focus away from himself and looking to God, Asaph came to an attitude of praise for how awesome God is, viewing his struggles in the light of God's amazing power and goodness.


The waters saw you God
Saw you and convulsed
So why can't I hear you now?
Where are those days of old?

For my spirit now grows faint
But you made the earth tremble and quake
Through the waters, paths created
Where is that power today?
Have your promises failed?
The darkness makes me afraid
Could your love be real?

What will I consider
In the dark of night?
And who will I remember
When hope has fled my sight?

~

To this I will appeal
Your word you've revealed
And when I am afraid
I see your power displayed

In the years of the right hand of the most high
I see your works in the past and in my life
I meditate on your mighty deeds
Your way, oh Lord, is holy
You are a God of wonders
Your works I will remember

When I'm troubled, and I cannot speak
And I wonder if your steadfast love has ceased
I see this life that you've redeemed in your great love
And set me free

And the years of the right hand of the most high
Show me your power and your greatness through all of time
Oh I will lift my eyes
And praise Him, forever glorified!
Proven to be trustworthy
My God, you are enough for me

So help me lift my eyes to see
Turn my thoughts away from me
Your goodness and your grace I'll sing
Oh Lord, you can do anything
And through the pain and suffering
My God, you are enough for me

how i need you

In Christ alone by Your grace I come
Humbly before You
Clothed in His righteousness and Your love
You make me new

With nothing to offer You
Nothing to boast
But empty hands and a heart of stone
I walked in death
Deserving Your wrath
You made me alive in Your great love

And I worship You
You are holy, strong and mighty
Give everything to You
I am Yours
Though I'm frail and weak
You are everything I need
And oh, how I need You

It does not, therefore depend on my own desire or effort
But on Your mercy
That You might display Your power in me
And that Your name might be proclaimed in all the earth

You give Your Spirit as a seal that can't be broken
Nullified or stolen
And I know nothing can ever snatch me from Your hands
In life or death, height or depth
Or anything else in all creation

And I worship You
You are holy, strong and mighty
Give everything to You
I am Yours
Though I'm frail and weak
You are everything I need
And oh, how I need You

In Christ alone by Your grace I come
Humbly before You
Clothed in His righteousness and Your love
You've made me new

to speak freely of everything

"Hush, mother," he muttered in confusion, not looking at her, but pressing her hand. "We shall have time to speak freely of everything!"

As he said this, he was suddenly overwhelmed with confusion and turned pale. Again that awful sensation he had known of late passed with deadly chill over his soul. Again it because suddenly plain and perceptible to him that he had just told a fearful lie - that he would never now be able to speak freely of everything - that he would never again be able to speak of anything to anyone. The anguish of this thought was such that for a moment he almost forgot himself. He got up from his seat, and not looking at anyone walked towards the door."

-Dostoevsky, Crime and Punishment

gray area

My head rests on one hand as the other grips a pencil, filling in the answers to a test. My thoughts flow from my head down into the pencil that I hold. Tracing their familiar shapes, my conclusions spiral onto the page. I look down at the next section, one where I must determine whether the statements below are true or false, my least favorite type of test question. It's hard to assign an answer so concrete and final, so.... black and white. If you tell me something is true, I will make it my sole purpose to seek out an exception, some inconsistency. Tell me something is false, and I will squeeze every drop of truth and goodness out of it that I can find.

 The sharp contrast between black and white often leaves me feeling uneasy, its lack of shades feels somehow incomplete. The distinction becomes more blurry as my mind pulls me away into the gray areas. Nothing can be left unexplored. For even in the darkness of the night sky one can find stars. And though the sun lights up the day, there are always spaces that its radiance cannot reach, creating shadows. I must wander among the stars, hide myself in the shadows. In these places that choose to be different from their surroundings, I will discover how colors can be blended and distance can be mended.

I cannot make my home in the gray areas for their walls would be too fragile, filled with uncertainty. Yet still they draw me in to find common ground between all that disagrees. Even when the truth seems clear, it takes a journey through the gray area to understand another's point of view, to reconcile our differences and make peace when colors clash. No, we shouldn't compromise on what we believe, but when we only see things in clear black and white and refuse to explore all that lies in between, we are missing all the shades that can give an image such great dimension and depth.

For now I will fill in the answers to this test, identify the truths and falsehoods around me and hold firm to what I believe. But I have also learned to never stop questioning why things are the way the are. I don't want to lose the hope that maybe things can be different, maybe things can change.

caterpillar feet

Fresh and green, her youthful feet were caterpillars. Inching along, they carried her to explore the new world she had entered, carpeted by their fuzzy innocence and childlike exuberance. But soon she learned to stand on her own, and after that, to walk. Towering over them, her journeys began to crush the defenseless creatures. Each step weighed more heavily upon them as she grew. Her foundation was being trampled and squished beneath her, and she had only herself to blame. Often her wanderings caused them to burst, and she had to patch them up again. Her attempts to fix what she had ruined left behind scars. At times she wished she could remove the strange appendages altogether! Bruised and purple, she started to cover them up with sock and shoe, a protective chrysalis to hide her shame. Trapped inside this chrysalis they stayed, unable to move. She was powerless to walk again: her fear kept her from uncovering her caterpillar feet. She was afraid that someone would see the ugliness that had become a part of her, afraid that movement would only cause her more pain. Because every time she tried to walk, she felt her scars beneath her burning with the pain of past steps. The gentle insects soon grew accustomed to the darkness and isolation of their cage, reflecting her paralyzed soul. However, something was changing inside of them. She slowly withered away, and it was only when she reached the end of herself that she could see her total inability to walk on her own, what she had been trying to do for so long. If she were to go on, she would have to be carried. So she slipped off her shoes and endured the sting as she peeled away her socks and all that she had built to stand on. Sunlight flooded her darkness and she was lifted up onto new feet. Damaged caterpillars had been transformed into beautiful butterflies to carry her above the hard earth where she had once trod. The beauty had come from outside of herself and could only come in when she had been opened. Majestic colors spread beneath as she let them lift her up, as she opened herself into the wind. The scars that once lined her feet were now stripes of decoration for her wings, banners of hope that told her she no longer had to walk alone. Now all could see her, and now she could finally fly.

teach me how to sing

For Kortney...


She sings her favorite melody
With a voice big as the sea
Like pure water, clear and strong
The waves in her heart form a song

She wonder if she'll ever fly
Lately her head's been in the sky
Do you know how bright you shine?
You make me smile on the inside

And way up high in your castle on a cloud
In paradise though I don't know how
When night grows darker, you smile brighter
And it makes no sense to me
When you teach me how to sing

You are my laughter every day
The silly things you do and say
While the love you never found
Makes you strain to hear the sound

Of songs that beckon you to sleep
Wide awake in restless dreams
When your world is crumbling
You can hold on to me

And way up high in your castle on a cloud
It hurts to hide when it gets too loud
When night grows darker, you smile brighter
And it makes no sense to me
When you teach me how to sing

Will you teach me how to sing?

The songs now beckon you to sleep
Feel the summer ocean breeze
When your castles fall apart
May I hold your heart?

here inside myself

I want to hold what I have inside. Silence protects me and I like to feel safe. But you're trying to draw it out. You say you're worried about me but I don't want you to be. I'm safe, here inside myself.

You tell me that my smile doesn't reach my eyes and you don't believe me when I tell you I'm fine. But I'm not sure what I am. I have no words, which is all you really want. Relationships need communication, and that's why they're so messy. What if I have no voice to give you?

You just want to feel useful and I just want to keep feeling useless. I might be tearing myself apart. Maybe you should be concerned. But that's not what I need.

I don't need you. Why do you need me to need you?

I don't know how to receive your love or love you back. Here inside myself, I only know how to love... myself.

It's strange how when you hate yourself, you aren't thinking much of anyone else. How you can hate and love at the same time.

the tree with the mangled roots

I remember sitting here, in this exact place, one year ago. A place of refuge and solitude. Of peace. Back then I was weary. I sat down to rest, my back pressed against the tree with the mangled roots, watching the leaves drift away as they floated down the stream. That same weariness haunts me now. Because I can't help but feel that things were brighter then. The sky less gray than it is today. The river and pasture have lost their sparkle, where the sun once shone. I wonder if it will be like this every year in my future. A little bit grayer. The river a little murkier. More and more like a dream. Age and experience I gain as the years go by, but something is always lost. I will dwindle away to nothing. The leaves are swept away on the current and forgotten.


Update: (March 15th) So I found a parallel. This is one of my favorite parts of White Nights, and I was probably remembering it while writing, which is why they are so similar, though the events I described did take place.
...

"I remember that exactly a year ago, at exactly this hour, on this very pavement, I wandered about cheerlessly and alone just as I did today. And I can't help remembering that at the time, too, my dreams were sad and dreary, and though I did not feel better then I somehow can't help feeling that it was better, that life was more peaceful, that at least I was not then obsessed by the black thoughts that haunt me now, that I did not suffer from these gloomy and miserable qualms of conscience which now give me no rest either by day or by night... Look, you say to yourself, look how everything in the world is growing cold. Some more years will pass, and they will be followed by cheerless solitude, and then will come tottering old age, with its crutch, and after it despair and desolation. Your fantastic world will fade away, your dreams will wilt and die, scattering like the yellow leaves from the trees." ~Dosteovsky, "White Nights"

a flower reaching for the sky

I was made for a harmony;

To fly just a little higher.

The melody my roots,

Pulling me into the earth-

While at the same time,
Looming above;
I'm free to bloom.

A small and precious duet,

I cradle the sound in my hands.

Blow its seeds away to the air-

Scattering into sunlight

To cast shadows underneath.

Parallel we glide,

My shadow and me.

At equal intervals

We soar up and fall free.

Coming so close,
But never quite touching.
Where you go I will follow-
Close beside;
Carving my own path.

Cold and clear notes
Contrast with your gentle warmth;
Cut their way through the space around us
Where we bloom-
Together, but apart.

Roots reaching for water and earth-
A flower reaching for the sky.

take these broken wings

"Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly

All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise

Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these sunken eyes and learn to see

All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to be free

Blackbird fly, blackbird fly
Into the light of the dark black night."

~the Beatles

the hurricane

i can't think-
my mind won't stop racing in circles.
white noise growing louder and louder,
concealing reason.

a rush of panic.
blurry thought,
sharp emotion.

it's rising up inside of me,
overwhelming me,
overpowering me.

i can't do this.

a weak frame-
whisked away
by the gentle breeze,
tormented inside
by the hurricane.

they are everyone

From "Notes from the Underground," by Dostoevsky

"It is clear to me now that, owing to my unbounded vanity and to the high standard I set for myself, I often looked at myself with furious discontent, which verged on loathing, and so I inwardly attributed the same feeling to everyone... Of course, I hated my fellow clerks one and all, and I despised them all, yet at the same time I was, as it were, afraid of them. In fact, it happened at times that I thought more highly of them than of myself. It somehow happened quite suddenly that I alternated between despising them and thinking them superior to myself. A cultivated and decent man cannot be vain without setting a fearfully high standard for himself, and without despising and almost hating himself at certain moments... Another circumstance, too, worried me in those days: that there was no one like me and I was unlike anyone else. "I am alone and they are everyone," I thought.

...In the first place I spent most of my time at home, reading. I tried to stifle all that was continually seething within me by means of external impressions. And the only external means I had was reading. Reading, of course, was a great help--exciting me, giving me pleasure and pain. But at times it bored me fearfully. One longed for movement in spite of everything, and I plunged all at once into dark, underground, loathsome vice of the pettiest kind. My wretched passions were acute, smarting, from my continual, sickly irritability I had hysterical impulses, with tears and convulsions. I had no resource except reading, that is, there was nothing in my surroundings which I could respect and which attracted me. I was overwhelmed with depression, too; I had an hysterical craving for incongruity and for contrast, and so I took to vice.... And so, furtively, timidly, in solitude, at night, I indulged in filthy vice, with a feeling of shame which never deserted me, even at the most loathsome moments, and which at such moments nearly made me curse. Already even then I had my underground world in my soul. I was fearfully afraid of being seen, of being met, of being recognised."

to be the problem

There's a battle I cannot win.
It's raging inside of me-
Pouring out of me,
Covering me.
It is me.

I can never win.
It's impossible to win
When you're fighting against yourself.
To be the problem you fight to destroy-
Against your own existence.

Every second burns.
Hatred tearing at my skin,
Ripping me open.
Every action tears deeper,
Makes things worse.

Why keep going?
How can you fight for what you hate?

Everything condemns me,
The accusations follow me everywhere.
Happiness condemns me,
Sadness condemns me,
I condemn me.

People condemn me,
So cruel in their perfection-
Leaving me so far beneath.

I lay here,
I am nothing.
Blank empty pages
Soon to go up in flames.
I'm alone,
So who can I blame
For lighting the match?

world of ice

World of ice,
Delicate and perfect.
Take care-
Shatter it not.

Fragile lungs
Breathe cold air.
Hollow silence waits inside
To exhale snow.

Frozen fingers,
With slippery touch,
Contact reality-
Find no warmth.

World of ice,
So intricately sculpted.
Souls hard and clear-
Impenetrable.

The effect of cold
To numb myself.
Frosted windows
Distort shapes outside.

Through the glass,
Look, and find.
Endless white-
Shimmer, and sparkle.

World of ice,
Covers over death.
Power suffocating
All beneath.

Beautiful palace,
So easily melts.
Slips away
My quiet strength.

Warmth will sting,
Uncover, expose
Bleak wind within-
Bitter cold.

World of ice,
Delicate and perfect.
But inside a flame
Survives,
Whispers-
Breaks down walls.

its not raining

It's not raining today.
My tears don't hit the ground-
Locked up behind my eyes,
Waiting to be set free by some sort of emotion.
This prison swirls around my head-
A painless vagueness that won't let me go.
I need to wake up from all of this,
But I don't want to get out of bed.
Because it's not sunny today either.
Neither joy nor pain-
Where I am all I see is gray.
It's like the moment after the rain-
I can see the sun, but I can't see what it's doing
Because everything is still all wet.
The water still clings to everything
And the light's not yet strong enough to lift it.
And that's how I feel.
Lying here it clings to me,
Yet I reach out and grasp nothing-
A strange mix of empty and weighed down.
It makes no difference whether it's sunny or raining.
I'm still here-
I just don't know where I went.

thorns

I love how the ice sparkles, but also can create such thorns, sharp and shining.

psalm 27

The Lord is my light and my salvation
Whom shall I fear
When He is the stronghold of my life?

The Lord is my light and my salvation
Whom shall I fear
When He is the stronghold of my life?

One thing I ask of the Lord
This is what I seek
Above all else

That all the days of my life
I would dwell with Him
Here in His house

For He will keep me safe in His dwelling
My refuge and my rock
And I will gaze upon His beauty

Yes, in the day of trouble I'll be singing
With shouts of joy
I will make music to the Lord

(Repeat song)

re-opening the wound

"Lamentations comfort only by lacerating the heart still more. Such grief does not desire consolation. It feeds on the sense of its hopelessness. Lamentations spring only from the constant craving to re-open the wound."

~Dostoevskey: The Brothers Karamazov