Measure My Life

Life is my symphony, may God be the conductor.

Everyone—shhhhhhh.

Let me close my eyes and feel the music.

Let our voices quiet as I listen for the rhythm of how this one life,

this one year,

this one day,

this one moment

can possibly be lived.

 

Wait…Who decided life was to be measured by years,

Rather than the number of sunny mornings that wrap their arms around me and pull me out of bed?

Or the height of the steam dancing from my coffee to the heavens,

Or the tears I wipe from our cheeks as we exchange stories.

Why not the smell of dinner on the table after a long day?

 

Yes, measure my life by the purposes I’ve found.

By the breaths I pause to notice.

The smiles exchanged with strangers that make me wonder if we will ever be friends.

The number of times a cello finds synchronicity with my heartbeat and the instrument and I become one.

Measure my life by summer miles traveled,

dirty hands washed,

full moons witnessed rising,

the moments worth living and those I’d never live again.

But most of all, measure my life by the depth of love you felt from me.

 

Squeeze Tighter

There was once a girl with a wise mind and a foolish heart,

For days, years, decades,

She gave the mic to one and silenced the other,

Believing a partial eviction was the only path to sanity.

Such dichotomy nearly drove her mad.

 

What about a little wisdom to the folly?

Summer nights, suit-less swims, still home on time for bed.

What about a little folly to the wisdom?

Soul conversations and guitar playing with tequila on the rocks in hand?

 

There once was a woman who fell in love with herself,

And all that had been conceived within.

With arms wrapped tight, she squeezed herself hard,

until the divided parts knew they were whole.

 

 

 

 

 

Therapy

When I think of the day you had your way

and ignored my no,

I want to curl up in that day

and stay there until my pain

is visible to you.

What a waste of time.

 

I will stand, instead,

and never be faced with that shame again.

I’ll never listen to someone tell me how or why,

Because no, I won’t like it,

And yes, I’ll leave you.

 

When I think of the days when I’ll have my way,

I know I’ll be held, gently.

No disregard. No disrespect.

And until that happens, I hold my damn self.

Becoming a reservoir for love until it is safe to spill over.

 

 

 

The Color of Love

In my former life I quietly slipped out of bed every morning and made coffee.

I found a place to sit on the floor and read–

the quiet hour losing its hold minute by minute as the sun rose,

and children rose,

and you rose. In that order.

In my current life I awaken diagonal in bed.

I grab a book balanced precariously on the headboard and read a few pages.

The clock says 35 minutes until the cafe opens.

I wish the cafe knew I would love a cup of coffee at 6:55 am.

Maybe I remind the kids to brush their teeth.

Maybe I throw my current notebook in my bag and brush my own.

When it’s the latter, the quiet only loosens its hold on me as I walk in the direction of caffeine and conversation.

Neither life is better or worse than the other. Both hold their beauty.

In the waking alongside someone whom I didn’t want to wake.

And in the waking alone to find myself in an awakening.

There is nothing about life I do not love, although so much I do not know.

 

The unknowing is a blank canvas of Great Love, and so enamored am I by possibilities, I can’t even pick up a brush to define such mystery. Because honestly, what color would be the first letter of that definition?

 

Are there any mornings I would do differently? Is there a waking I would choose to sleep through?

Only the last one, when I arose from bed without speaking those three words.

I thank you.

I forgot to say thank you.

 

 

 

 

 

The Most Beautiful Story

I once was afraid I’d never become who I hoped to be, until I realized I already am her.

And if the next great American novel dies within me, not one word having been written because I’m too busy…

Loving

Cooking

Living

Raising

Providing

Summering and Wintering and Falling as I learn how to navigate this world…

Rubbing backs every night wishing you would fall, too. Asleep.

Washing dishes and socks and floors and hair

Working to pay for all that water used for all that washing

 

So afraid I’d die without making a good life, I waited for myself to be and do something different, something greater.

Illiterate.

Until one day I was taught to read the list above and see the makings of a good life.

And so there exists a quiet confidence knowing I have possessed my whole self this whole time, and all those accomplishments birthed in me simultaneously with my conception.

I already am who I hoped to be. When I die, I will have spent a life in love. And if that great American novel is buried alongside me beneath the hours of cooking and working and mothering and so.much.washing, then I have written the most beautiful story of all.

From the Notebook: The Shedding of You

Natalie Goldberg writes in her book, Writing Down the Bones, “There is no permanent truth you can corner in a poem that will satisfy you forever. Don’t identify too strongly with your work. Stay fluid behind those black-and-white words. They are not you. They are a great moment going through you. A moment you were awake enough to write down and capture” (p. 42).

Here’s another moment from the archives of the last year.

 

 

I am more anxious that I thought

in the shedding of you. Pieces of old

skin remain, having grafted themselves

into the fabric of me:

 

I, too, filter moments through a critical lens first.

Somewhere in our journey together I started

caring about tidiness, delegating tasks like

a commander of troops, wide-eyed and eager

for a Saturday of fun–

next year after all these chores are done.

 

I struggle to trust me as well,

and am also afraid to let myself out of my sight.

Who knows what could happen?

I isolate before I connect—that’s your skin flipped inside out.

And I’m restless when completely alone.

Our skins did become one in some ways; the sacred

words were wise.

 

If I could have chosen which pieces of skin made themselves

at home in me, I would have chosen differently.

I would have kept your ability to chose just the right gift,

Your relentless commitment to figuring it out,

And your simplicity of faith.

 

Such beauty you possess. Like a storm on the

horizon, coming for me.

If I were stronger, I could have run toward rather than away from,

But the high winds of chaos and anger ripped me to shreds, peeling away my trust in you

like shingles from a roof.

 

And that’s how the shedding of you began,

In my struggle for peace, I was born into someone new.

 

Mostly.

 

Except for those few dangling pieces above.

Waters

I stood in the sun and watched the river run by, mesmerized by its current, envious of the tree trunk leisurely catching a ride. Wait! Don’t leave me behind. And so I ran alongside the river running. Pacing my gait, imagining myself leaping from ice chunk to ice chunk, until I noticed the river had stopped. What a gentle giant to slow his flow–matching perfectly the rhythm of feet on pavement. Time stood still as we made our way toward the ocean.

Will you forever run with me, River, said I.

Isn’t that what we’re doing? Stride by stride.

 

I sat in the sun, on a rock, just above the ocean and let her take me back in time. For I who see rivers stand still also hear oceans plead, invitation after invitation, to get lost in her waters. Gentle, polite, ocean kissed my toes and bit my ankles. Impatient, an act of insurgency, ocean sprayed my face and hair. Out of time, she rumbled, moving earth beneath me, come lose yourself as when you were young, before it’s too late. 

I was unmoving.

Slapped by rejection, the tide turned, birthing more and more beach in its departure. Who else was so generous in the wake of refusal? Stirred by beauty, I run to her. Baptize me in love.

Standing Tall; Feeling Small

The best thing about being ticketed a window seat in the commercial section of a flight is the standing up at landing.

Even hunched over beneath the bulkhead, strangers’ bad breath mixing with my own, it feels so spacious. My upper back doesn’t even care that it’s concave; it’s so elated to be elevated. My forearms and elbows flap with joy–as they’re so over competing for an extra inch or two of armrest. Stand, breathe, stretch, flap. It’s a good life.

Sometimes my soul needs to stretch, too.

I don’t know how it happened, but when I was young, I ticketed my life with a commercial class window seat. At first the view was lovely. The space, though small, was ample enough. My legs didn’t mind the limitations, as they had no place they’d rather be. My soul felt fine letting someone else pilot the trip. It was a journey of great heights, after all, and who was I to complain about the course charted for me. I purchased the ticket; I was fine with the destination.

And then the layover happened. I’ve stood. I stretched. And it felt so good. I remembered how my body moved. I remembered what it felt like to walk and then run. Neither were as quick as flying, but flying kept the wind away from skin. I loved the wind.

Which person is more me? The person who has spent years huddled, or the person who gets off the plane? Which person is really going places?

There are moments, days, weeks, when I remember who I am. It comes so clearly and so vividly, I can’t deny the reacquaintance. It’s like a homecoming celebration; an open armed embrace. I’m convinced this time I’ll stick around. This time I’ll be strong enough to stay.

But the moment passes. And life calls. And people aren’t used to seeing me stand tall. It makes them more comfortable when I’m small.

And so I curl my legs back up. I slide back down into a connecting flight. And I wonder if she’ll be waiting for me again, or is this time terminal?

I don’t have the magic of making it last, but I do have the magic of building landmarks. Places of remembrance. Permanent markings that remind me of my ever-so-fleeting meeting.

I’m struggling to live my own life as me. But at least one of me will win the fight.

 

 

 

 

Tattoo This {Negative Words for the New Year}

The common person rarely knows that bravery is about to be required of them. While some spend their careers training for brave moments—for moments that will require sacrifice, or a suppression of self-preservation, or a willingness to become acquainted with death, most of us struggle to figure out what’s for dinner and whether or not we can pay bills. If we are developing a default setting of brave, we’re completely unaware of it as we shuffle sports schedules, work deadlines, and evaluate of our everyday successes and failures. We only see our own bravery in retrospect, realizing we conquered adversity with surprising results.

If, in December 2015, you’d told me how my year would unfold, I would not have had the bravery to step into it. I would have told you I wasn’t ready. I hadn’t trained for this. I was unqualified for the struggle. I would have refused to embark on the adventure and chosen to stay huddled right where I was, thank you, in safe familiarity, free from unnecessary stress.

Instead, I ran blissfully unaware, heart-first into the New Year.

My oldest son told me about the process of hypertrophy—or causing tiny tears in the muscle that, once repaired by the body, results in muscles that are stronger and better able to handle the stress that caused the damage. I didn’t believe him, but then I googled it; he was right.

Looking back, I’ve declared my word of the year in 2016 hypertrophy. I think it would make a lovely inspirational forearm tattoo.

I know it’s customary to choose more positive words as a banner of exaltation, words like: hope, dream, adventure, and passion. But when I look back over my last 12 months, I think of words like: shattering, dissonant, struggle. They’re negative, but represent a positive outcome as the fight was worthy, for the woman of December 2016 has a stronger core than the woman of December 2015.

In 2016 I was shattered and forced to collect the pieces of myself, but it gave me the opportunity to choose the pieces that really mattered and leave the rest.

In 2016, I was dissonant, feeling as though my voice was off key from the rest of the world, but it gave me an opportunity to evaluate what I was saying and how I wanted to say it.

In 2016, I struggled. I struggled to find the right words for faith. I struggled to find God’s presence. In the struggle, I felt myself fatigue and it was in that fatigue I was reminded of His faithfulness.

My point is this: We are headed into 2017 blind. Bravery will be required of us. And rather than fear the difficulties, let’s embrace them, knowing it’s the overexertions—the stress and strain, the micro tears in pride and ego—which build character and strength.

Some of us will lose love while others find it.

Some will reconcile the life they live to the life they dreamed of living. Others will have goals materialize into reality.

Some will admit their desire to manage is in conflict with a lack of control.

Others will concede they can’t force someone to be anyone other than who they are.

All of us will look in the mirror and choose to either love what we see or despise it.

In light of all a new year promises, maybe I do have a feel-good word to tattoo on both our forearms, thus reminding us of the only effective response to circumstances demanding bravery: embrace.

Let’s embrace it all. The good, the easy, the ugly, the shattering. Let’s embrace moments of prosperity and seasons of disparity. Let’s not boast about one or complain about the other. Let’s just live through them, together, for this is what we’ve been trained in and made for. Let’s spot one another, serving each other in the fatigue. And above all, let’s encourage each other, reminding one another that the most extraordinary example of bravery indwells us.

Bring it 2017. And bring us together as you both rock and rule our world.

Light = Beauty

I had a meeting yesterday: some clients had an architect join us at a home straight from the 80’s. The 80’s didn’t seem to mind compartmentalization of rooms, low ceilings, plain and simple finishes, and bathrooms that were more than 20 steps away from bedrooms.

As we walked through the house daydreaming and spending invisible dollars, something the architect said stuck with me, “The secret to creating beautiful spaces is light. No one wants to walk into darkness, and so it’s my job to allow the light to come through.”

I wanted to invite him over to my house and ask, “Can you do that in the abstract as well as in the concrete?”

Even if he’d said yes, it would have been about three days too late.

I seem to have made it through the dark. Just when I thought the darkness was home, or that the darkness was all consuming, or that I would forever be wandering blind in the dark—all life’s friction created a spark and ignited hope.

It was immediate. And it was unexpected. And I didn’t have much to do with it.

The hardest part of my faith is surrendering weakness.  For a woman who just wants to be strong enough or smart enough or good enough, confessing that I just can’t is demoralizing. It’s admitting need when I want to have none. It’s a return to infancy where I cannot feed myself, change myself, or love myself in a way that promotes growth. It’s dependency in a woman who just wants to be named independent.

Switching metaphors from light to air, because both are so essential to everyday living…

When I was a kid, I played so hard that losing the wind from my lungs was a common occurrence. The first couple times sent me into panic, and my mom stood above me and coached me through it. You’ve lost your breath, but it will return. Once I believed her absolutely, I could fall off the swing or the merry-go-round, lose my breath, and just stare at the sky until my diaphragm worked as it should once again.

Leaving ministry and the church was a bit like launching myself off a merry-go-round and forgetting the small lesson my mom taught me, “Your breath will return.” Not because of anything I do, but just because that’s the nature of the body.

This week has proven her right once again. My breath has returned. I wake up and feel the familiar expanding and contracting of my soul. I opened an old textbook for the very first time and started researching the role of cities of refuge in societies of integrity, because it matters that our next administration is going to defund sanctuary cities and I want to know exactly why it matters spiritually. I can hear familiar verbiage like grace and faith and prayer and not feel sick with grief. I want to run toward God rather than from him.

But there is something else, too. Jumping off the merry-go-round broke me in new ways. And in the healing, I’m not so certain I’m aligned the way I once was. I’ve wrestled through the pain and broken the straight-jacket of faith. What I now have feels a bit wild and untamed. As though the young woman I once was has met the child of God I am and the two have found home in each other. The offspring of that marriage is a faith that cares less about answers and more about developing questions together. A faith that doesn’t require conformity or performance, but instead just wants to dance in the light. A faith that doesn’t need to follow rules of behavior or language, but just needs to act and speak.

I’m back. But I’m different. And I really had nothing to do with either. Jesus, being the architect he is, found a way to bring some light into my dark spaces.