i don't know if i am nostalgic because of the books I'm reading, or if its just that time of year. but i am. nostalgic for the things of this year, and of years past. I'm reading a barbara brown taylor book again, because why not? I'm also reading a book about all things anglican, and i finished one a few days ago about being a humanitarian in afghanistan. they are books about navigating the heart, whether they intend it or not.
in the last few weeks, i have finished up my classes and begun to settle into my summer. i am starting to believe that you learn the most about your heart when you are finishing up your term papers. my distracted heart leaked into my distracted mind, but there were assignments that needed a little tending. so i told my distractions that i would get to them after grades were done, i promised. and i did. i wrote down all the things that grabbed the hands of my mind and i saved them for a later day. about a week ago, i was talking to my friend bri about "free writing". just starting somewhere with no goals in mind but to write and to empty out the flooded cavern between your ears. how we both could benefit from doing it more, but hadn't done it in a while. one night i filled a sheet of computer paper with everything that came to mind. i took pauses and sipped my drink, letting my thoughts gather up the courage to be seen. it is funny to me how the writing resembles a conversation. with who, i am not sure. but it does seem that the words were begging an audience, even if it was just me. i suppose they were probably for me, but no matter. i wrote them, and penned them on a blank page. it was pretty liberating. i am learning in life these days, that maturity has a lot more to do with listening than telling. so i listened to all the things that i was thinking, and instead of using logic to drive them away, i let them sit in my company. i paid attention to what i have wanted to say for so long. and on the third day, there was healing and reconciliation, and God saw that it was good.
some times in life, all the things that you have worked so hard to earn end up walking away anyways. some times they are ugly on their way out, though some times they are kind and sad. i gathered up all the lost things and the remnants and i made a memorial. i stood by the grave with my memories and allowed them all to say a word. some paid homage, and some just wept. i lit a candle for good measure and i sat on my porch, watching the world on its way. some days, you need to lay things to rest. but some times you have to wait until they are ready. and my things were ready. i don't think it is wise to dwell in your past. i know that i do that some times. but i also knowing that healing doesn't occur in metered time.
back in the day when i lost a lot of things, i lost a lot of myself too. i saw myself as too damaged for repair, so i let go of all the things i used to hold close to my heart. i used to call it a season of deconstruction, but i think it was a season of destruction and disintegration too. the latter is probably more accurate, because the former seems to imply a sort of method. there was no method at the time, just muted madness. and in some ways, maybe not even muted. i read my old journals from that season and i sighed out compassionate noises, because i ached for that time. since school has ended, i have tried to give myself a better chance at those old things. i have tried to listen, and to bring back the things that were mine. the things that make up who i am. i think some of the things have been following me, waiting for me to gather them into my arms and reclaim them. so i am trying to turn around and face them. to treat them with loving kindness in the same way i treat all the young children in this community.
i used to take notes on how to live, feverishly scribbling down 'how-to' moments, so that i would know how to act appropriately again, since i had clearly lost that ability. since i was clearly defective. i stored them in a filing cabinet in my mind and pulled them out when i was in uncharted territory. i was always ready. and always exhausted. that year, after the embers of my seared foundation had turned into a smoldering pile, i looked at my marred hands and let go. i assumed that the mess in my life was solely my fault, because i had no other way to wrap my mind around that tragedy. i cared nothing for the texts of Job because i had not lost like Job had. or at least i told myself that. God had already proved his point to Satan, he did not need me to do it again. i did not tend the fire nor re-stoke the flames. i didn't even attempt to rebuild. i wept and walked away, making promises in the concrete that now filled my heart. never again little mocking bird, never again. i would stop trusting my own mind, though i would not lean into the Lord's understanding either. so i walked along for a good 3 years.
i did good things in that time, and i laughed a lot of genuine laughter. i made friends and i was decidedly loved. not all was lost in those three years, but some was lost. i could tell my friends that i still felt a little left over crazy, and most would assure me that i was not crazy. but my good friends, the close ones; the ones who have walked across that chasm themselves, they would listen. and point me back to the source of good things. in remembrance and honor. they would walk with me, or at least near me. it seems that for some time i have walked two paths at the same time. or maybe held a balloon in my hands, filled with the things that scared me, only partially committing to the paths beneath my feet. i walked towards integrity and wholeness but i still had a balloon around my wrist, pulling me in a different direction. but recently, i got to deflate that balloon a little bit. i got to take it off for a moment and explore the wilderness around me. i got to grieve some wonderful things that will never happen and grieve some really incredible things that did happen. cause life works with both.
at church this morning, our deacon read a poem by Andrew King called And We in You. there is a line that says,
"as grief is in the loving,
and loving in the grief,
as belief is in the hope,
and hope in the belief"
i heard it loudly. the rest of the poem is wonderful too. much of it is to say that we cannot separate such things. that all of the grief and love work in tandem. and some times, to love yourself is to grieve yourself. until you accept that both live within your very bones, you will rail against that which cannot be separated from you. it is grafted into your being. sewn together in the sinews and joints. inescapably yours. and for that we must give thanks. i am reclaiming. admitting my wrestling and owning my life. i guess i say that a lot, and i do mean it every time. but this time is different. all of the authors whom i value most, all write from the core of their being. their insights were gained by leaning into the messes they made. they stopped running because running was no longer an option. i don't think it is one for me either. they wrote the things that tended to their battered and tired hearts. my busyness is no better than drinking, which i have such strict rules concerning. the goal is the same. i am no better than that which was wounding to begin with. and it is mine. i am listening to my heart as intently as i can because i have the space to do it. and i am recounting all of the things that have been gentle to my little heart. and i am choosing to use that word instead of scoffing it away.
last night after work, justin and i grabbed some canvases and acrylic paint. i have never painted in acrylics, and i think the last time i painted with anything, it was water color and it was some time in elementary school. we said cheers and got our hands messy. smeared colors across whatever was beneath us. with no aim in mind. just to let things go where they were already going. it was magic. i painted two boards. one is a board that naively blends colors from yellow to a deep blue. i might add to it later. the other one interesting. it is made with dark backgrounds and a figure that seems to have its fists in the sky. but the way the figure stands, you cannot tell which way it is facing. either direction means that it is using all of its core muscles to hold it up. it is not quite stable. you cannot tell if it is triumph or defeat. winning or losing. good or evil. justin smirked at the ambiguity because like me, he believes in art therapy. we stayed in the studio till late and enjoyed the last of whatever was in our cups, walking past the graveyard in each others company, instead of by ourselves like we might do on the walk home any other night. this morning he came with me to church, as did danielle. we discussed pam's sermon over lunch and came home to a day of netflix. took a nap in the living room again. cooked together and cleaned the house. i was home. i am not good at being home, but today i was home. i have been letting my heart rest in it like i belong. because i have done the doable things to make something a home. and now it is time to rest there, as it has been for a while. simply because i live there.
learning to walk in your own skin is powerful. it allows you to be you in a way that nothing else can reproduce. i love it. i hope that as i get older, i will always be allowed to invest as other have invested in me. guiding me along new routes, and letting me wander when it was time to wander. i am grateful for the hearts and hands that have held my life. in pieces or in wholeness. i think everyone in the world is looking for a place to belong. a place to feel like home. some people get it right out the gates, and they live into it. some people don't get it till they make it. and some others won't see it until they sink down into the work that they have already done; that has already been done for them. in my grooves, i am learning to find home. i am letting my caverns become familiar. i am their guardian and it would do me well to know their lay. to intimately know their paths. because they are mine and they are home. this is my soul's address. i am learning to love again, like that mat kearney song says. i am learning to live in the light as He is in the light. and learning to walk in the dark like others have walked in the dark. here is to guidance, guides, guiding and being guided. here is to the uncharted and the never before seen. trust the newness and let it befriend you, like it has anxiously been waiting to do.
ben howard has a song called Under the Same Sun and its just as good as everything else he has done. in an interview recently, someone asked what he was thinking about while he played on stage. he said that he tried to stand in front of the thing that the song was about. he said the bigger the crowd, the more he draws into himself, remaining both distant and wholly vulnerable. he sits in front of the memory that spurred him into writing an ink marked melody. he said it takes you to some trippy places, along a weird path. as if we are meant to honor those things that we remember. in Under the Same Son, the lyrics are simple.
"will you be there when the day is done will you be there under the same sun?"
to the best of my abilities and with God's help, amen.
