To You, Peru

To you, Peru.
To your darkened city,
your yucca root and
mango'd soul, to our
foreign feet tracing paths in your skin,
to being born again on rooftops --
to feeling
hope in a town that has lost all of it.
To the whir of motors and horns
that plague your streets and
the roar of the people chattering
in rolled r's and abandoned s's
To you, breathing life into
your Coca-Cola veins, to
the corners of pan and curry and
gasoline.

No one smokes here, do they?
I suppose you haven't fallen into Europe's
nicotine dream,
to cracked lungs and late nights with strangers,
as I have Peru.
I guess you know what it's like
to live a life unromanced by rain and tragedy —
your life just is,
and I am nearly not, I am
afflicted by words that hang in
my throat like the dead cedarwood
ceilings you showed me,
I am all insecurities, mistakes,
and mixed media,
While you just are,
a steady hum, a distant engine, a falling —
constantly falling sky.
Are you lonely, Peru?
Are you fluid, do you dance,
are you happy?
To you, Peru, is this.
To me, Peru, you are.

Coffee. I love coffee.

These past few weeks, instead of preparing for finals and thinking quality thoughts about the meaning of life, I've been cataloging all of my past and present self-destructive behaviors and dipping my toes in small, shallow pools of misery and regret. One of these behaviors is coffee drinking.

I haven't really thought about when it all started, but after reading an article on Thought Catalog about giving children caffeine, I realized that I probably had my first white mocha (yes, a white mocha, suckaz!) when I was about ten years old. My aunt was addicted to coffee — not just coffee, but Starbucks espresso drinks, which are pretty much corn syrup and milk disguised as coffee; and in sibling sameness, my mom was also addicted to the two-tailed mermaid's sugary poison. Immediately after my helpless mother saw my aunt purchase my drink, I remember her proclaiming that she would give up her addiction, realizing that her caffeinated habits could maybe probably (definitely) influence me in a bad way.

It's too late, someone should have said. Your daughter has now willingly began her journey into the downward spiral of coffee addiction. She will no longer function without it. But oh, will she try. Someone should have warned my mother.

In my apartment, where I live with four other coffee-drinking gals, we have three coffeemakers and one espresso machine. Excessive? Nah. (Absolutely). We each prefer our own type of coffee — French roast, fair-trade coffee from Haiti, Trader Joe's Breakfast Blend, Dunkin' Donuts coffee, and good ol' Folgers. We are all addicted, and we all enable each other.

What to do, what to do...

I've wondered for a while now: where's the Caffeine Addicts Anonymous group? Where do we go, those of us who can barely manage to stumble out of bed and wander to the kitchen, just functional enough to shuffle to the coffeemaker, dump water in the tank, and press the "on" button?

Don't get me wrong, I've tried to quit many times, to no avail. Something always comes up:
"I've got a big test today." "You made extra drip, can't waste it!" "Only 1 more star until my Gold card..."

It's all very legitimate. And one of few drug addictions our culture encourages. So what to do? What to do?

Back to studying, I guess... and back to my mug of steaming hot coffee. *Sip.*

Traveling Things

People do weird things in airports, like falling asleep fetal position next to a giant wall painted with David Copperfield's face. Or ordering a Stella Artois at the bar and staring at it for twenty minutes, only to take two sips and leave immediately after. They do things that make me sad and uncomfortable, like arguing and calling each other names — yes, you, old couple across from me, or drunkenly stumbling over to the flight attendant and demanding a seat upgrade. Sigh. There needs to be more love in the world.

I am sad. This couple is sad. I wonder if they are happy, and maybe just having an off night. She has a rose peeking out of her carry-on bag. Who gave you the rose, sad woman? Was it the man next to you? Was it someone else?

This is that one Hemingway quote.

I am a mess of lines strung together and knotted like the threads in that sweater you can't bear to give away.
You are the hopelessness I cling to, the wavering promise of "something" that eats away at me from time to time — sometimes you are also the reason I write.
So here's to the night,
To the mayhem and confusion of falling recklessly in love with life,
and the feeling of cigarette smoke wrapping around you like a blanket —
yes, sometimes we romanticize things that are bad for us.

This world is hope,
this world is brimming with uncertainty, failure,
and an undeniable good that makes all of us:
enjoy romantic comedies
laugh at our failures
save one another when we can't save ourselves —
I believe this comes from bigger things.

We are all so much smaller than we think,
and so much more than we will ever recognize.
Thankful for this Friday evening,
thankful for the night.

Here's to us.

Warm-Up

Here is where I stretch my limbs from here to there,
to pet the Pacific fingers soft and worn,
to graze the Atlantic with the tips of my toes,
Like asbestos raining from the roof,
here they come! The thoughts, the thoughts!
Today I am going to write.

Monday night

The hum of the dishwasher keeps me going. I can hear two plates/cups/bowls/knives jiving together, clinking foreheads, or fist-bumping, or Eskimo-kissing among the tidal waves of dishwater. Perhaps they are in love. Or fighting. Or both.

Looking at my planner, I have most of my hours scheduled, and I've found myself here again, caught in the fog of yesterday and tomorrow, walking (sometimes sprinting) through each moment, unaware if I am in today's evening or the next day's morning.

Ironically, I'm writing a paper about how technology has impaired our ability to stay present.

I am so grateful for e-mails though, and how they let our words meet as instantaneously as we'd like, how they can sit there for awhile and wait to be opened, like presents, (presence?). It doesn't quite work that way for subject lines marked "URGENT: REPLY ASAP" — or maybe it does... like an over-decorated, demanding, be-ribboned Jack-in-the-Box...... or something.

Welcome to the evening, night-owls. To my fellow writers, friends, and lovers: welcome to rest, welcome to work, welcome to the meeting of days. Wishing you the best.

From a best friend.

I stood before a silk worm one day.
And that night my heart said to me,

"I can do things like that.
I can spin skies,
I can be woven into love that brings warmth to people;
I can be soft against a crying face,
I can be wings that lift,
And I can travel with my thousand feet throughout the earth,
my sacks filled with the sacred".

And I replied to my heart,
"Dear can you really do all these things?"

And it just nodded "yes".

So we began and will never cease.

-Rumi

Nature Chorus

"Sing to the Lord a new song,
for he has done marvelous things...
Let the sea resound, and everything in it,
the world, and all who live in it.
Let the rivers clap their hands,
let the mountains sing together for joy."
Psalm 98


The only epic we are all invited to be a part of. TGIF!

--

"Only let us live up to what we have already attained." Phil 3:16

Live for what He did and what He will do.
Gotta stop making this about me.
Takes full faith that working for Love and gratitude and passion — not performance,
will stitch up all this senioritis.

C'mon, c'mon.

Ticking Noise

In stark contrast,
to my
dullness
dullness
dull-dull-dull-ness,

I have found myself
drowning again,
under stacks and stacks
of things I no longer
seem
to beat for.

My days are rhythmic
and sloppy
like a cymbal falling
on
a
snare that rolls
into a foam pit
where gymnasts
rest their
souls.

I have not
made
time
to sit
with
You
in awhile.

Predictability

Staying home will do things to you. After an hour or so of bumbling through the same three pages, I realized I hadn't had coffee this morning. Poured the grounds, slapped the lid down, hit the button. Wandered around the kitchen aimlessly. Chose the same coffee mug I choose every day. Noticed a crack in the handle. Odd. Cautiously placed it back on the shelf and chose its twin mug. Began to ponder all the ways I could die arbitrarily, right then and there, in the kitchen. Not in a sad, or even real way. Just in a thorough way.

1. Mug cracks. Hot coffee scalds my hand, I drop the mug, I bend to pick up the larger shards, carelessly attracting smaller pieces of porcelain to the invisible wrinkles in my fingers. I rub my eye. My cornea splits. Eyeball begins to leak. I stumble backward, only to find myself dying slowly, from the large kitchen knife that found its way into the small of my back.

2. The same scenario, except I die from an eye infection instead.

3. This one's a little bit more fantastical. After pouring my coffee, I stared into the mug for awhile. Darkness. The feeling of doom engulfs the room. I stare too long, and before I know it, my face has descended into coffee hell. I am drowning in a sea of unfiltered grounds and hot water, the mermaid from the Starbucks logo cackling (she happens to have the voice of Ursula from The Little Mermaid), I surrender to my fate, close my eyes, and let my last involuntary breath leave me gurgling in a bubbling swamp of coffee.

4. Slip on the tile, crack my head on the kitchen counter.

5. As I'm pouring my coffee, I hear a noise at the front door. The sex offender who just moved down the street storms into the house. He's dressed like Lon from The Notebook, and he's holding a pistol. The kind from the 50s, that's really loud and round. In desperation, I throw my coffee at him and run upstairs, locking myself in my room. As I sit huddled in the corner of the room, clutching my only weapon — a very sharp pen — I pray that it's all a dream. The offender kicks down the door. Pathetically, I throw my pen at him and run to the balcony. We're only two stories up, and my only choice is to jump. I aim for the grassy area in front of my house. I hit the pathway instead.

A sex offender actually did just move down the street from us. So number five is pretty realistic, when you consider my circumstances. Needless to say, I've been very unproductive today. Maybe my imagination is punishing me, or something. I have coffee now, so I think things will get better. I think.

Sleep Disorders

Our bodies are so strange. I was diagnosed with narcolepsy at the beginning of the summer, and now sit wide-awake at 2:37am, wrecked with insomnia. I wonder what changed.

You know what they say...

"When in doubt, write poetry."

(Okay, so no one says that, but they really should, don't you think?)
(Also, did italicizing make it more believable?)


---
sleep,
please cloak me in the quiet
of your velvet embrace,
leave my breaths soft
and sipping,
bathe my lids in rest,
while the night creatures croak around me,
fold my ears in,
to the rhythm of a heart-beat lullaby,
take away the rage of sunlight,
strip this room of its teasing distractions,
leave me with me,
and a dream so sweet
that it nestles its way between
my hands
and stays
as long as the stars
stay winking in the sky.

Treasure Street

I'm getting sucked into that vacation vortex, where all I do is surround myself with books and sitcoms hoping that either will keep me relaxed. I'm drinking more coffee than I did while I was teaching this summer. That's saying something.

I read a few things I wrote a few years — okay, months — ago, and feel apologetic, and/or embarrassed, or something. There were instances in which I so readily committed myself to things I did not know how to feel, let alone say. I don't know. That's the thing with things you make public... there's no taking anything back, most of the time.

I tried so hard, sometimes. I would look up synonyms and try to make my writing shine, in that pathetic way that silver spray paint doesn't glam anything up. It just makes things look like robot barf. Silver spray paint = visual dubstep, and not in a good way. My writing = visual dubstep.

Once again, I've signed up for a year of overcommitment and having too many things on my plate, with my sole reassurance being that I will be busy (and never go hungry?) and maybe avoid the mental vacation vortex that sucked me dry... okay, stopping with that metaphor now — maybe avoid boredom.

The difference between the busyness of the present and the busyness of the past is that today's tasks seem a lot more important and a lot more demanding. But then again, so did yesterday's, I'm sure. I have to remember to sew a button onto one of my blouses.

The main frustration of today is that I took a four-hour practice test for one of three exams I'll be taking in the fall, reviewed the answers and explanations, and learned nothing except that I will probably never get into grad school or pass the CSET, and instead of fulfilling my lifelong passion of becoming a teacher, will probably end up filing papers at the school district office, salivating in the dream that one day I will earn a credential. Ah, still got the drama in me.

The reality of today is that I have spent too much time in front of a computer screen. Too much time staring at blank pages. Too much time self-scrutinizing. Who said I wasn't crazy?

shake well

"separation is natural."

separation from You?
This is why they call it settling.

let contents settle.
contents may settle.
shake well.
separation is natural.

All of You (& Block C)

You are:
fishtail braids and crutches,
a brown shirt and English freckles,
square glasses and pink highlighters,
braids and stoicism,
a heartbreaker in the making,
quiet — but not too quiet,
in love with love and much too young,
afraid of who you could be,
ponytail and white sweatshirt — indelible,
beautiful and rising,

You are all rising.
I want to know you, I want to know everything about you,
but we have five days left,
and I can only think about all the things I didn't do right.

I'm sorry for showing up late sometimes,
for being too tired to smile,
for spending too little time with your writing,
for letting your words float through my ears while my thoughts stay elsewhere —
I could have done more.
I'm sorry.

Thank you for your brilliance,
for your furrowed brows when you focus too hard,
for your laughter that rebounds off the classroom walls,
for all the times you've been tired, too,
and indulged my theatrics anyway.
For showing me why the most important thing you can do is
love,
For showing me that you need nothing more than people to get by —
people who want to know why
the rhythm of your lungs is the way it is,
why your eyes glimmer like they do
while the rest of the earth lays shrouded in darkness,
you are the sparkling secrets the world has yet to discover.

Thank you, students. Thank you.

The Afternoon

I am facing you, and my chest is biting into itself, the way it does when my heart is too unfamiliar for my own good. I haven't written in so long, and my fingers feel old, like they've been hammering away at keys and keys without making anything worth reading.

http://jasonmraz.com/journal/2012/live-it-up-write-it-down/

Jason Mraz posted a great blog about his need to write. So I guess this is my own sad attempt. These days have been filled with so much movement — God, I am constantly moving, I am constantly moving — I have [so easily] forgotten what it's like to feel the earth sighing beneath my feet, how it feels to let the sun bathe your shoulders, how one smile can spring your heart right out of your chest (no matter how many precautions you've taken). How we — all of us — long to be loved in a way bigger than ourselves.

This is a tribute to time. To the way summer days stretch out beyond the end of the earth, to the way we feel happy in June, lazy in July, and nearly invincible when we find ourselves in August. The way our eyes spell infinity in different ways, the sound of guitar strings echoing against the night sky, the way we clamber over fences into forbidden lands, the way we drive with the windows down and wind whipping through our hair. Summer is a brief reminder of why we belong to eternity.

I can see September from here, and experience the last two months all over again: sweaty bodies piling out of school buses, construction paper littering the desks, the silence of staying after 6pm, playing The Civil Wars and running out of red ink. The screams of girls laughing, the shouts of boys playing tetherball, the reassurance found in friends sitting in empty classrooms. Life is too romantic for us to not be in love, all the time — don't you think?

We are all just beating hearts, suspended between the light and dark,
We are all just beating hearts, between the light and dark.

Viva

I feel like I haven't turned my brain on in awhile, and it's taking awhile to warm up.
I can write about vampires or education.
However shall I choose?

Managed to find a Buffy quote for my Victorian Lit paper (jabs fist in air),
and a Dr. Seuss quote for my Psych. of Education paper (jabs fist in air),
but as far as my own brainpower goes,

the inspiration juices are not flowin,
the imaginative gears are not turnin,
and the creative candle is not burnin.

HELP!

Don't panic, don't panic,
just keep writing, just keep writing.
Like in Finding Nemo. Just keep writing, just keep writing...
(Flashbacks of my swimming struggles last summer)

Oh my gosh. More anxiety.

If I actually enjoy writing and feel this paralyzed in the face of a writing assignment,
how in the world am I ever going to pass the GRE, a test that is 30% MATH?!

The desk receptionists are loud, but it's not their fault—
the walls are thin.

But when things are loud, or even when things are too quiet and my thoughts are too loud,
I can't help but let my once-solid thoughts turn into mush—or mesh?—and then everything just
slips through.

Slips...slip...slipping.....

Angry Orchard

We lifted ourselves out of this, so many times before —
we were born to rise, like phoenixes (she says)
I say we were born to lie and lay, like bones bathed in dust —
we were born with hearts forgotten in the sun.

He says we are beings made mechanic,
he whispers sharply of "-ologies" and "-isms."
I only see the crinkles in my trembling hands,
my palms outstretched and weary.

You were always demanding that I fight —
but would you meet me in this? This tiredness?
Were we all once butterfly wings?
Or beast-arms, beating madly against the current?

Several flashbacks

swimming pools & The Exorcist
I didn't open my eyes once
(well, sort of)
the one time I did I felt
fear and chlorine sting my insides
and I saw you through that underwater haze,
still insane then, but in a good way.

The Badlands
Gatsbys American Dream, Forgive Durden, Daphne Loves Derby, This Providence
arms & waists & elbows,
and the smell of sweat stuck to the walls,
the smell of cigarette smoke
who did I love then?
my studded belt,
nic, rudy, dan, kenny, kirk,
so easily swooned by semi-stardom,
kicked alive by the sound of the bass drum.

Halloween
and we were never never never land king
and his fairy princess
I don't remember what we watched
but I remember what I didn't,
and the panic, searing panic.

dollar menu
we only had a dollar
but we had made it to the city
on a stuffy metro bus full of strangers
so we shared a cheeseburger and smiled.

green jacket, orange vest
our friendship was framed by our non-friendships:
you and her blue-eyed deceit layered thick
me and his brown-eyed heartache
therapy via skyscrapers

north city
in the shade of the poison tree.

summer, and my long, winding driveway
you made me a mix tape and I laughed;
everyone else had always sung for me and
I didn't know any better
than to listen.

gasworks
just you and I and an empty camera
sandwiched between God's greens and blues
a sweatshirt with a unicorn
and glasses too big for your face

bubble tea
and he and you and he and i and he and another he
we found locked doors this winter

the crawling realization and lifting freedom
of not being who I was then
but seeing all the gifts I was given too young
when the city bustle eased our nerves
and in empty suburbia lay our greatest fears
we were young, all of us,
and now some of us are in love
and some of us are still searching

I think I started growing up around 16
when I stopped gazing at the stars
when we started following rules,
but now I am 20,
and I've started gazing at the stars again,
and running recklessly against the wind,
but I still can't seem to place
that something that once was.

Don't you ever feel like you've been destined for something bigger than your skin?

Listened to Forgive Durden's album "Razia's Shadow: A Musical" and was reminded of all the things—well the only things—that truly make sense.

Because an idea is only relevant if it's being thought upon.
So remember, never surrender. 
Because the unrelenting constancy of love and hope 
Will rescue and restore from any scope.

Love. Great, big, bigger-than-our-skin, bigger-than-the-moon love.

Tomorrow one of my best friends is giving her life to Jesus. Tomorrow is the day we celebrate Jesus rising from the dead. Tomorrow we celebrate the Greatest Love ever known.

The story of the Resurrection is so bizarre and crazy and incredible, that I can't believe I heard it growing up and still didn't understand that I was loved. We are loved. We have an all-powerful and all-personal Savior who loved us enough to take on our darkness, our ugliness, our guilt, our pain, our broken, broken selves, so we could be truly, truly free.

That's insane. So insane, it has to be true. Because let's be real, the story of Jesus being tortured and encountering the highest form of suffering for us puny little humans just doesn't make a very good fairytale.

Jesus = winning.

:)

Happy Easter.

Terribly Untitled

Several highly-caffeinated thoughts:

1) Humility in mathematics. I spent most of today researching a topic in which I'm very interested: education and tracking. I felt right at home among the dusty books and tattered articles my professors generously loaned me, coffee mug in hand. Easily, I lost myself for five hours. Then, to switch gears, finally cracked open my GRE practice book. Skipped the verbal section and headed straight to math, where for an hour or so I waded through once-familiar concepts (ah, oh yes...PEMDAS... comparing fractions? Bowtie method, right...) and felt the fog of mathematical illiteracy creep up on me. Feeling discouraged, I decided to translate my seeming inadequacy into productivity, and now have two beautiful Post-it notes on my desk with the times tables for 13 and 14 (I never memorized any of the tables past 12, did you?).

2) Tracking in schools. Along with *Nsync and middle hair parts, the tracking debate seemed to have fizzled out in the late nineties. Now—much like middle parts, actually—I'd like to argue that the controversy over tracking is making a comeback, and we need to start caring again. Downtown College Prep, a school five minutes away from the Santa Clara campus, is a radical new charter school aimed to serve the "low track" of middle school, and only the low track. In a way, DCP is like a fancy, revamped, high-pressure, high-resource "low" track that, by students' senior years, outputs "high track" students. Cool. Very cool. Looked at public schools, like Santa Clara High, that still offer remedial writing classes and felt slight nausea upon reading the brief class descriptions in their course catalog. Remedial writing classes—for the ninth all the way up to twelfth grades—were described as classes for students "who have yet to acquire English." However, Santa Clara High also has an ESL program with its own writing classes, so I have to wonder, from where does the assumption arise that these students have not acquired English? They can speak, can't they? The summary for the 12th grade class continued, "[Students] will learn that writing is a tool." Do the constructors of this curriculum really believe that students can't comprehend that learning how to write well is useful? Ew.

3) That said, education is a sensitive topic. I read this line of thought somewhere and it's really stuck with me. We cling onto our ideas about education the same way we cling to our religious values and political beliefs... so it must be important. Today I read part of a book that was published in the early 90s that predicted that in the 21st century, teaching would be an esteemed and well-paid position. Yeah, false.

4) We really do live up to what is expected of us. Somewhere between microwaving chicken nuggets and rushing off to meetings it was established in my house that my roommate and I can't really cook. Today we made a fabulous meal of spaghetti and meatballs. The day before I made a garlic-parmesan chicken pasta bake with mushroom alfredo sauce. Over winter break I made a mean honey-pesto salmon with herb-roasted potatoes and grilled asparagus. Common factor? I was home alone, free to cook without scoffing eyes! Roomies, I love you, but know that just because we don't, doesn't mean we can't. And I need to tell myself the same thing, and start preaching to myself (@JustinBuzzard)—believe the best in others, see the best in others, know the best in others, show the best in others. This applies to education, too (of course).

5) I felt like I had to finish this post with 5 points. Wow, so much coffee in me right now. Dangit.

Expired Milk

"May the Lord make your love increase and overflow for each other and for everyone else...May he strengthen your hearts so that you will be blameless and holy in the presence of our God and Father when our Lord Jesus comes with all his holy ones." 1 Thess 4:9

The way this works then
is that I have to stop running away
I can do all things through Him who strengthens me.
He will enable me to love, again
He will strengthen my heart,
so why am I trying so hard
to work all of this out?

While I might need to take several steps back for now,
I will rest knowing that God is preparing me for
greater things right now,

like teaching (!)

and learning,

so it's time to let go,
of all other things,
all other heart-clutter,
that might keep me from Him.

Goodbye, darling. Until we meet again!

It's important to write...

because

then

you

remember

things

better

and hear your own voice

and know

that

it's valid.

Oh my gosh, I need to write.

I love this time of the night. I wonder if we should be as hesitant to use the word "love" as we are to use the word "hate" ... Then again, we aren't very hesitant with either, these days, are we? Never mind.

Drinking a soy caramel macchiato and feeling the insane urge to write, but not necessarily to think — clearly... initially I typed "necesaraly"— and I have been focusing on my Spanish paper so intently for the past two days, I think English has slipped out of my mind for the moment.

This girl, who my friend and I call our "library buddy," is always studying in the same place that I am. So strange, but then again, not really; we both just have the same favorite study spot in the library, but it still feels odd that we've never actually spoken. For an entire two and a half quarters, she and I have braved late nights and early mornings together, buried beneath textbooks and highlighters, and I have yet to know her name. All I know is that she's in a sorority and we have about two mutual friends. Hmm.

At the same time, our strange nonexistent friendship is comforting. I like the idea of working near each other and probably riding the same waves of stress/joy/exhaustion/hope, without ever actually speaking. Would make a good story one day, maybe.

But that's the problem: I am always writing stories in my head, sometimes to the point of missing what's going on in front of me. I would like to step away from storytelling mode for a bit, and that means letting go of many ideas I've kept with me for some time. I need to take the picture frames down from my brain walls.

I am not quite sure what to do with myself. Here's to making the most of the night, and the strange feeling of being too tired and too excited, all at once.

to You

I didn't know you well, but I remember
- the way your blonde hair fell over your eyes (blue, right?)
- your sideways smile that made all the girls swoon (one in particular; she loves you still)
- your hands tucked into your jean pockets, your hood swung over your head
- Gatsbys American Dream shows in middle school
- wet streets, cigarette smoke, being picked up by my mom in her camry
- your house on that windy road
- having a crush on your best friend (and hoping you'd have a crush on mine!)
- high school, and not saying hi to each other, as if we'd forgotten
- middle school, and late night AIM chats

You are gone, like last afternoon's warm breeze,
and although I didn't know you well,
I still remember.

And they will remember,
the way you were in the mornings, the afternoons, the evenings
the way you laughed and frowned and sulked and grinned
the way you were, they will remember.

I hope you know that.
Wherever you are.

I have nothing right now, but numbness
and the occasional sob that stops
in my throat because
I am not sure if I am allowed to cry,

but
there it is,
my sorrow via tears that are salty
and mining their ways down my cheeks,
my God, you were just there.
You were just there.
You were JUST THERE.
HOW COULD YOU NOT BE NOW?

If you are wondering,
know that
you were like the sun
and they will not forget.

I will not forget.
We still remember.

wiz khalifa

Life is so good, and I am grateful for my mom.

deep breaths

"Rest in God alone my soul, for my hope comes from Him." - Psalm 63:5

We are all exactly where we need to be —
but why am I the one waiting,
and you, just standing still?

borgia, borgia, borgia

I have been writing less than I used to
and part of me wants to blame
sleepless star-filled nights
but all I've had these days are
hours filled with paperwork
and measuring my life in
coffee-spoons
but I am moving and happy

Yesterday the radio told me
that we all need more time
that in a few months it'll be alright
to "say what I mean,
because [you] can't figure out what's inside"
I think I'll stay cryptic for now

Cracked finger-skin and dented car doors
caffeine-sleep/squished blueberries in steel-cut oats
deep breaths in the morning's tough-love light
good morning, good morning, we say

You are the only thing that is still
and moving, all at once
You are smiling from afar
and right next to me, all at once
You are letting me go
and holding me, all at once
All at once, Lover of my soul

"She told me sometimes she gets rambunctious"
says the woman in the café
in a blue sweater the color of a whining happiness
where were you when they called the police, and?

Orange zest tiny and neat on a pile of cream whipped
like clouds and sea foam
my joints are aching to move
dare you to move, dare you to move, they say

I am moving! I am, I really am!
Who was I convincing here?

"Jai Ho"

Stethoscopes & Curry: wise words, wise mama.: "Jai Ho." Victory, healing, and transformation are not one time events. When we experience a "win" in life; we finally say "no", we final...

move along, move along like I know you do

So we move.
Some of us running -
wet sneakers slapping pavement smattered painted whites and yellows
eyes drying in the wind wakening tired souls with newness
Some of us walking -
bare feet in meadows gold with light and quiet
streets filled and full and scented markets loud
Some of us standing still -
and stronger than ever
flexed muscles waiting, ready
for the beginning.
He is doing a big, new thing.
Where are you fixing your eyes?
So we move,
and move,
and move.
Ready, set.