"Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart." — William Wordsworth

(property of the organic bird)

"Remember when you used to write?" she asked.

I want to flinch at this, but she's right. I used to write. I don't much anymore. Somewhere between morning coffee, afternoon tea, new friends, mothering, working, and all the other things you do in life, my writing fingers have become arthritic. The muscles seem to atrophy quickly.

And every day that goes by in which I choose not to pen, something inside of me feels like the mountain gets taller, higher, and quite honestly, exhausting. It reminds me of Steven Pressfield's "The War of Art," and the Resistance is working. In fact, the Resistance is getting the job done.

When I write, at least those thoughts have a place to go. I may think that without words, I am well-adjusted. But when I turn out the lights, and lay awake with the sounds of the city, it's all there. I'm never so well-adjusted as I like to believe I am. I used to write to process and document, ask questions and tell stories. The stack of journals is proof.

Grace sometimes feels like a jacket I slip on and off during the day. Wisdom is that well I am at daily, dipping my hungry hands into the deep, reflective surface. My prayers are said when I stare out the windows of moving vehicles, when I'm pressing the coffee down, when I'm picking up wooden blocks and wiping the table of pink lipstick.

Writing is secondary these days. Working it all out and praying His work of endurance in me produces character that brings the hope that doesn't put us to shame. As my writing muscles creak, and my heart stretches, I find that analyzing or seeking out answers is not nearly as important as trusting my Father and believing that He is good and does good. Finding inspiration is not my goal; returning to the revelation of the Gospel is. When things start to feel joint-to-joint, knuckles white and popping, I'm asking my Father to provide Grace as the synovial fluid in between my words, my actions, my pen to paper, and mostly, in my heart. It's not about the writing these days — it's just the living of it all.

I forget so quickly, how He does it. Fills in those gaps where I need nourishment. Last year feels very far away. That is until I read and remember...
   .... about the days I felt like I was faking it.
   .... when perspective was fresh, new, clear.
   .... long Sundays and a quiet, quiet home.

I used to write, I did.
Now I tuck in away,
mull it over,
pray for wisdom,
drench my hands in the invisible wells,
wait for the season to come again.

the space between the notes

The most precious things in speech are the pauses. — Sir Ralph Richardson

Sometimes all the words are gone.

Just before the day started to wrap up and I tucked a tiny curly-haired girl into bed, and friends knocked at my door, I was ready to say goodbye to this Monday. Early moments of the day dealt one too many blows against my wit, heart and muse, and I restlessly looked for relief.

So I drank more coffee and held my daughter longer than usual.
I turned up that old song by Switchfoot "Twenty Four" because it always fits.
I worked and plugged away on some projects.
I read The Screwtape Letters.
And I prayed,
and said nothing.
I prayed
and I heard nothing.
Sometimes that happens.
{It's not such a bad thing.}
And I watched an orange early harvest moon rise above rooftops at sunset.
I kissed her goodnight.
I stood quietly in the kitchen,
listening to the clock
tick
tock
tick.

I felt silence slowly wrap around me, revisiting my day and discussing these things with the no one listening.

I opened my door to two friends,
filled up the french press
and felt that familiar comfort
of friends, community,
ease.

source: pinterest.

Did you know, on the night of a full moon, the sky turns an almost perfect deep Indian blue at the edges of earth? Right where sky curves into stone, it shimmers oceanic for just a brief moment. I can see it from here, from where I sit with lullabies singing my daughter into dreams. This song is the perfect end to this day. 

Space. Silence. Perfect notes waiting, tension and letting go. My favorite part of this song? The spaced out harmonics on an electric guitar at the end. I literally feel like it's carrying me into another world of dreams, wonders, clear lakes, paper moons and stories untold. As Sara Groves said, "into the land of ever-after endings."

Right into that earth-meets-sky strip of stolen blue.

All I'm trying to say is this: 

I want to write. But I don't want to make noise. Every time I sit to put words to my thoughts, they fall empty and flat. 

But maybe the absence of words, of articulation...

maybe that space is adding to it all.

Debussy said "Music is the space between the notes."

Is that what all this is right now? The space in between? The emptiness and lack that makes everything else so beautiful?

Ever-after endings and paper moons need something to carry them. Perhaps all this boarded up silence in my heart is just part of that. I'm letting all my words drop into the Indian blue, and letting the moon glow. If the sky were filled with a thousand moons, we would not be so enamored. It's because He placed one so perfectly in our sky, hanging at our fingertips and rolling through our sleep... that makes it all the more stunning. It's all the space between that makes each drop of blue and ringing note so much more worthy of notice.

"He cannot ravish. He can only woo. For His ignoble idea is to eat the cake and have it; the creatures are to be one with Him, but yet themselves; merely to cancel them, or assimilate them, will not serve. He is prepared to do a little overriding at the beginning. He will set them off with communications of His presence which, though faint, seem great to them, with emotional sweetness, and easy conquest over temptation. But He never allows this state of affairs to last long. Sooner or later He withdraws, if not in fact, at least from their conscious experience, all those supports and incentives. He leaves the creature to stand up on its own legs–to carry out from the will alone duties which have lost all relish. It is during such trough periods, much more than during the peak periods, that it is growing into the sort of creature He wants it to be. Hence the prayers offered in the state of dryness are those which please Him best. We can drag our patients along by continual tempting, because we design them only for the table, and the more their will is interfered with the better. He cannot ‘tempt’ to virtue as we do to vice. He wants them to learn to walk and must therefore take away His hand; and if only the will to walk is really there He is pleased even with their stumbles. Do not be deceived, Wormwood. Our cause is never more in danger than when a human, no longer desiring, but still intending, to do our Enemy’s will, looks round upon a universe from which every trace of Him seems to have vanished, and asks why he has been forsaken, and still obeys." —The Screwtape Letters, VIII

Ohh. That's Where I Put That.

I have this old copy of The Catcher in the Rye from high school.

Sure, it may have been banned in some classrooms, but Mr. Clayton took a few of us aside our junior year and walked us through Holden's story.  We graciously accepted with eager, curious hands. I'm not sure it was even so rebellious as it's reputation suggested, but that didn't matter.

It was The Catcher in the Rye for heaven's sake.

And on graduation day, after Pomp and Circumstance had echoed into the rafters, and classmates were now saying goodbye, Clayton met me in the hallway and handed me an old, beat-up copy with this inscription.

Sometimes I forget why I love to write. I honest to goodness forget that it gives me a voice when I've lost words. When I lose sight of why, what, who and the goal. He didn't give me this book because I loved it. It wasn't my most favorite book in school. It wasn't the one that changed my life. He gave it to me because he got me. He knew my journey was just beginning. That I was asking alot of questions. He read my words every day. He knew that writing was part of my journey. And that I needed this to remind me.

When I find this, I remember her. That 18-year-old, bright-eyed, naive, nothings-gonna-stop-me girl. I remember her. And in some ways, weep and mourn for her, while still celebrating where my Father has brought me today.

When I find this, I remember that I'm still silently wandering some streets. And that's ok. Give me words and I'll find my voice.

Thanks Clayton. You're still my favorite teacher.

It's Tuesday! Isn't That Exciting?

It's this kind of day.

Hermine is sweeping through the neighborhood. Rain. Wind. Which calls for hats. Like this random one I have, and wear. Dad bought all of us FDNY hats for Christmas after September 11, 2001. (I'm a New York girl in case you're thinking "That's odd.")

But it's a hat kind of day. It's also the random day where I drop my keys into puddles and sneeze hard enough to inadvertently bang my knee into my desk. If I had co-workers, they'd probably ask me to go home.

But the rain makes it feel like fall.

And the beginning of fall means fun new things. Like the launching of a legit non-profit (what the heck am I doing? I don't really know).

In a couple weeks, I'll have a guest post here: inCourage.

Thanks to my cool friend Andi Hawkins, I'll have a couple posts here too: Mom's Moments.

To say I'm nervous/excited/thrilled/feeling silly/laughing awkwardly would be an understatement.

I'll post more about these little ventures soon as the posting dates get closer. In the meantime, go find a random hat and scarf, click your heels and wish for fall.