A Blank Slate.

Have you ever done a Tabula Rasa?

It's a ceremony of sorts; something of a tradition now in my own life.

Tabula Rasa (essentially) translates to "Blank Slate". 

It's something I've done alone, or with a friend or two. This year was the first time some of my closest friends gathered around to join in.

Tabula Rasa. Wiping the slate clean. Starting over.

So we started with 2010. We lit 12 candles, one for each month, and one by one, remembered, reflected. Old wounds showed up and we did our best to lay them to rest. We prayed for forgiveness. We prayed for wholeness. We prayed to let things go. Some of us (including myself) had a few months to lay in our Father's hands — broken, bloody, messy pieces of our heart that we don't quite know how to heal.

We had a few moments in silence. And one of us continually said, "Let's not forget the blessings. Have we forgotten them?" Her gentle spirit being sure to voice a light in the darkness. "Let's not forget the blessings."

So we counted. And numbered. Our hearts danced with a year lavished with love and commitments. We tiptoed about the shattered glass, and found some forgotten, nearly rusty treasures. We chattered and said things like, "One reason I didn't want to come to that weekend at the lake was because I didn't want to be caught dead in a bathing suit." One friend cries out, "I knew it!" and we laugh until we realize we've lost track of time.

We went from wine, to coffee, to water, as a year was closed...month by month, story by story. Weddings, deaths, dreams realized, dreams crushed... all until we said, "Goodbye December."

Honestly, it took us four hours to get through 2010.

FOUR HOURS. ((good grief, we can talk.))

By the time we reached the first candle for 2011, it was near midnight. Husbands were calling and coming home. My early morning hours seemed to loom on the horizon. So we resolved to finish on our own. To let the New Year become something of a secret we hide in our hearts.

I didn't realize how sharing this with friends would alter it for me (in the best way). I wish I could've shared it with more kindred hearts. 

And I wonder, next year, will I be doing this on my own again? Maybe. But that's 12 months away. I have 11 to fill with memories until then.

Until it's time for a blank slate again.

"go on and ask me anything

what do you need to know
I'm not holding on to anything
I'm not willing to let go of
to be free, to be free...

it's a sweet, sweet thing
standing here with you and nothing to hide
light shining down to our very insides
sharing our secrets, baring our souls,
helping each other come clean." (Sara Groves, Different Kinds of Happy)

"A thing of beauty is a joy for ever: Its loveliness increases; it will never pass into nothingness." ((keats))

Here's to a year. A year that's ending much different, but quite like it started. With the basics still being the best. The invisible still the strongest. The only constant being the lack there of, except in the Infinite and Always God-with-us.

 

Here's to a year of reading. Of words upon words to take me away, or to simply bring my heart and mind back to something more ancient than my own temporary woes.

Here's to late night coffee, making other plans, 

and being ok with not being ok.

Here's to Uganda: a place where my soul comes alive in ways I didn't realize it was dead. Where God speaks so clearly and so closely, the hairs on my neck tingle under his breath.

To a place that became my crucible. In tears. In silence. 

In journaling. In songs. In closure.

Here's to M. Mads. Madeleine. Maddie. Ling ling. Bird. My joy. She catches me off guard with love and I like it. 

She deserves so much more than I could give her. 

Thank God I'm not it.

Here's to a year of growing friendships. Friends who have held my hands as I've wept and lost words. Friends who have shouldered burdens. Friends who can step through my door and bring such unspeakable joy with one smile. 

Sisters really. 

That's really what they are.

 

Here's to a year of sunsets that continually took my breath away. Sunsets (and sunrises) that forced me to pull off the road or step out on the porch. Chances to get lost in the complete and total waste of time, which really wasn't wasted at all. 

Here's to afternoons at bookstores, libraries, thrift stores. 

 

Famous last words: "Whatever you do, don't cut bangs."

Here's to my bangs.

To the house with the red door. To Hickory Grove. 

To my other home.

 

Here's to New York mountains and valleys. To the Empire State in the rich summer. 

To the sweethearts and young men who have my love more than they'll ever know.

 

Here's to old things, used things, forgotten things.

 

To a New York Thanksgiving. The trees. The fog. The cold. 

The family. The tears. The laughter.

The ones I am forever linked to, gladly.

 

 

Here's to a year scattered with dark, cold nights. Nights where I thought my soul might escape with the next breath, and I was ok with that. 

Nights where I waited by candlelight for the dawn to break.

 

To the light that shines in the hearth and my heart. The Light that sustained me.

 

To my new best friends.

Here's to a year of discovering that to give up your life for another is a good way to go.

 

To a home in the south. A home in the north. A love for the comfortable. The sweet. The colored.

The old. The creaking. The pine.

The dirt. The muck. The sweat.

The sleep. The rest. The peace.

 

Here's to a year of finding and discovering, all while realizing there's nothing to be found that has not yet been discovered. There's no secret spell or twist of fate.

Here's to a year of resting and abiding with a Father who is sovereign,

faithful,

always working,

ever steady,

ever bright.

And here's to the next one. 

((tap tap)) is this thing on?

I'm taking a break from this regularly scheduled overloaded work day to say some things.

image courtesy of weheartit

The dawning of a new year is upon us. The proverbial sun is casting pink and orange hues on my dark soul. I've got that beautiful, carefree joy, that isn't really care-free at all, but just weight-free.

Personally, in the non-proverbial sense, I love the early morning. ((It's true I do.))

There's something sacred about watching a day begin. There are invisible things that happen to inspire even the greatest poets and dreamers
... when the morning birds begin their song,
the air still fills crisp with night
and the possibilities for what can be done, should be done, won't be done seem endless.

image courtesy of weheartit

Early mornings with the sun just peeking over the buildings and trees.
...with my cold toes creaking on old wooden steps.
...with silent prayers and ancient words, habits learned from my mother.
...when hurts have disappeared into the night.
...dreams still feel very real and very attainable.
...all the hopes of life can be unwrapped with each soft step.

(oh...we're not talking about mornings anymore, are we?)

How I love things that are made new. I wonder if this is the God-part of me. The love for redemption.
The dark turning to light.
The turning of the calendar.
The tabula rasa.
The entre nous between creator and creation as we look at what is new and say, "it is good."