Saturday, December 14, 2013

Breakfast with a beautiful soul


In just a matter of days this beautiful soul is making her way to Vienna to begin her next amazing adventure. Savannah has the fullest heart I have ever witnessed, loving everyone and every thing she encounters. I have so much faith in her and know that she will not waste a single moment in this life. The meaning of her name says it all; no boundary can keep her from exploring every inch of this Earth.

Wherever she travels she will be carrying the same enlightening spirit with her. Savannah is the type of person that will change the world without even knowing it. In an unnoticed and humble kind of way she touches the people around her and leaves an impression that can not be erased.


Savannah: from the open plain  
  








"Happiness is only real when shared." - Jon Krakauer

Thursday, December 5, 2013

2042



I am from four numbers
and a few walls of warmth
where the sugared butter softens
cushioned against the white bread
I fought for. Holding memory was a task
given that every day was a blur
too full of life and love
to want to leave.

I am from four numbers
hovering over the red brick
running along a Monday morning.
The house sits still as the streets awaken
every blade of grass coming to life
the daybreak pushing past its shadow
into the hazel eyes of a young girl
clutching a small blanket
filled with hugs and play dates
carrying her secrets
into the world.

I am from four numbers
and I miss the solitude of an old woman rocking
back and forth like two blue swings
timing the breath between each moment passing
the old Calla Lily pressed down
by the inevitable.

I am from four numbers
and I’m coming home.

Tuesday, December 3, 2013

The Embrace


He held me fiercely inside a forgotten June.
The people humming beside us had no say,
along with the spotted butterfly chasing the hem of my dress.
The town spoke for itself, listening long enough
to see my hand against his neck and my eyes
weary from the space
he left (me).

What’s strange for me is that every flashback I had of what we used to be was full of beautiful memories. I hardly remembered or dwelt on the small fights and bigger battles we had in the last half of our relationship. Instead I went back to the first time he held my hand under water in the jacuzzi, or the time we were saying goodbye on my front porch when he asked me if I was cold and I said yes, so he threw everything he was holding down and held me tight enough to make me forget my chill, or the first time he kissed me right after he sang You Raise Me Up in my passenger seat and leaned over under the intersection at Baseline and Emerald to place a soft and subtle touch on my cheek, to him asking me what he should call me on my birthday, the night we star gazed alone in Azusa Canyon, the moment I was half asleep but awake enough to hear him say that he wanted to spend his life, his whole entire life with me, and the night he told me he loved me under a field of colored Christmas lights, the first days we spent apart during the holidays when I swear I fell more in love with him by each mile I moved, when he surprised me with a bouquet of my favorite flowers and a Circle K hot chocolate at our park, every touch full of life, gentle but passionate life together from surf to sand to snow to us, inseparable, connected at each instant, even when he tore my heart right out of its chest, leaving me in an empty house to wail with remorse, striking me with anger when I didn’t grieve the way he wanted me to, turning stone cold when I tried to let him go.

We stood as statues,
lifeless to the unfocused eye
waiting. Ready to give in.
Ready to come alive and I know that
he felt it too, the power in that hold,
backed against the fear of repetition but
I was his. We were real again. He was real again.

Saturday, November 30, 2013

Waking Up


Blinking eyes open as I will the sheets to evaporate, each one heavy, holding me down squinting in the sun on a mid-August ten o five. The breeze sends a chill through my skin leaving me with nothing. Not a sound stirs the room. I have an empty day ahead but I can’t settle into any decision without running through my mind, picking apart every piece of an exhausted friend who used to hum to the beat of a sunny day when there was a high of sixty five keeping me out of the pool and in a senseless state of routine.
The towel hangs still, pressed too tightly to sway above the floorboard that was not forgotten, even rescued, but this room is hollow, wreaking of dry disinfectant spray lounging across the surface of a maze, where every paper seems unnecessary but not a single word out of place. A laugh brings me to the window and spills out when Shadow catches a warbler, continuing the cycle without me. The Baby’s Breath doesn’t mind being trampled by his feet, understanding the nature behind it all. I breathe in, my senses awakening to the life and death that each day holds. One more chill runs through my being before I quickly find my way back to what I know, a bed of sheets and stillness.
Here I hold time just long enough to wake up in a blurry morning. I think what I know and I feel what I want but the truth is the breeze blew away the sound in this habit of taking my time cooking eggs and hanging dress shirts, lining all the collars up just so. I was only kidding myself in thinking that these pale pink walls could protect me forever, not just from the monsters in my closet or the knee scrapes from the slide, but from the car wrecks and the heart break my life includes. Try to carry a collar out now and I will surely melt, just like my mind in a mid-August ten o five.

Friday, November 29, 2013

Where I go to be alone


In my search for balance, I have come across a spot on campus that I am particularly fond of. It is a calm place next to a common building. Most people don’t know that two big tables sit there, but I do and I go there to focus in on what I need to do or be. In this place I can relax and not be distracted by the many friendly faces around school. The area is outside but covered so rain or shine, I can always go there to catch my thoughts. I have only seen one other person sit there before, but I feel like they shared the same desire of solitude as I did.

Silence is a beautiful thing. In my spot I can experience this truth in a very tangible way. Without televisions, radios, or electric instruments to fill my ear I am left alone with the world. The bugs are loud, much louder than back home and the wind moves as if it is only speaking to me. On a sunny day I am in awe at the way the leaves reflect the light differently. Angles and shapes create my own kaleidoscope so only I can see them. But the rain is my favorite. There is something about the way it falls, each drop hitting the ground harder than the one before, each hit defining the earth in a new way. The thick air hangs in front of my face, wrestling with the loose hair I hadn’t noticed fall from my bun. I am warm, whole and wondering here. I feel smaller, like I can see the world as the enormous adventure it is and not be fooled into thinking it follows my lead. This table holds up a fresh perspective and a new way of thinking for me. My chair overwhelms me with comfort as I rest my head, close my eyes and appreciate the simple things like silence and rain.

This place is like a secret, told once but never forgotten. And surprisingly, it is here where I feel the most presence. Here I can take a step outside of time and catch a glimpse of eternity, a piece of the knowing. Through my kaleidoscope of fallen leaves and drops of rain, I see what matters and I know who I am. This is my place where I go to be alone.

Tuesday, August 27, 2013

Restless



My soul is restless, yet here I stand in a sea of calm, unsure how one could contradict another while simultaneously providing some kind of parallel to remind me of a lost face, a face I left behind so many years ago. This face has a warmth deeper than the dark eyes it holds, seeing through my rich shoes to give me something lasting, some kind of wholeness, but not a false satisfaction like this sterile room with four walls. The face here is white, full of purity or some kind of worth as it searches my complex soul for a sign of revelation, waiting, hoping to read my mind and give me his word that everything will be okay. But his okay is defined by a full stomach and a blanket to keep his head warm in his over-conditioned two-story home. My home is back by the red floors of Uganda, beneath a blanket of stars hidden by the mosquito net around my head. The room speaks for itself, no decoration or end table necessary. This water is dangerous because it hasn’t been filtered through a man-made system of security. The food is unsafe because we wash dishes with that water and the people are uncivilized for consuming the only form of physical nourishment they can and I, I am fuller here than I am in any sanctuary. Where is my god? Where is your god; hiding backstage afraid of what the crowd will say when he reveals the truth they don’t want to hear? Is your god willing to lay down fierce words in a place of refuge? Or is that him, cowering in the face of opposition, whining with the wolves, crying at the rain, whispering something sweet into an innocent ear and all with a composed sense of accomplishment, like nothing in the world is wrong. He is safe if they can’t see him shaking. I saw Him, and He wasn’t wearing white or walking down a road paved with gold. His hair was disheveled, His body bone dry. He was on His hands and knees talking lightly, weeping with the empty case of a lost child in the slums, His tears falling down the face of one of His own. His hands mirrored what I already knew. He didn’t reassure me that everything was all right. He didn’t try to carry me away because He knew I was broken, and that in that brokenness there was something to learn. There is always something to learn. We just sat there, He and I. His silence told me more than any word and in that moment, I knew that my heart had found its home, amidst gun shots and red eyes, trash-filled streets and rainy summers, in between diseases, among hungry mouths, aching for a change within the breath of the Earth, surrounded by the only hope left for this world, the children who give it something to mourn over. Even when morning breaks, He recites their prayers. He remembers everything. In the short amount of time that I spent in that beautiful, restless world of the less fortunate, I knew that this man was not just my god, but the real god, the only god, the One who patiently sits back and waits for us to let go of the white walls holding up a building with air conditioning and a man waving a book in the air, giving us time to forget the senselessness of it all and get into the real heart of this world. Can we let go of the rest?

Wednesday, July 17, 2013

Switchfoot sums it up.

"Souvenirs"

here’s to the twilight
here’s to the memories
these are my souvenirs
my mental pictures of everything
Here’s to the late nights
here’s to the firelight
these are my souvenirs
my souvenirs

I close my eyes and go back in time
I can see you smiling, you’re so alive
we were so young, we had no fear
we were so young, we had no idea
that life was just happening
life was just happening

here’s to your bright eyes
shining like fireflies
these are my souvenirs
the memory of a lifetime
we were wide-eyed with everything
everything around us
we were enlightened by everything
everything

So I close my eyes and go back in time
I can see you smiling, you’re so alive
I close my eyes and go back in time
you were just a child then, and so was I
we were so young, we had no fear
we were so young, we had no idea
that nothing lasts forever
nothing lasts forever
nothing lasts
nothing lasts
you and me together
were always now or never

can you hear me?
can you hear me?
I close my eyes and go back in time
I can see you smiling, you’re so alive
I close my eyes and go back in time
you were wide-eyed, you were wide-eyed
we were so young, we had no fear
we were so young, we had just begun
a song we knew, but had never sung
it burned like fire inside our lungs
and life was just happening (nothing lasts, nothing lasts forever)
and life was just happening (nothing lasts, nothing lasts forever)
I wouldn’t trade it for anything
my souvenirs.