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.

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.

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"

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.

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"