:: dreaded souls :: imperfection

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i've fallen in love with dreadlocks.

i'm not sure when this attraction began, when i first felt the pull toward these tangled twists of hair. i wasn't anticipating to have my heart transformed by a styling of hair.

but dreadlocks have woven themselves into my soul, this thing of turning hair into art, of pushing boundaries in the safest ways.

i associate them with artists, with canvas-breathers and word dancers. those curls that brush against the cheek of the bowed head over djembes and battered acoustic guitars.

there's something rich and so flooded with soul when art and dreads combine, a portrait in itself. it's ink swirling onto wood, it's light pouring through the window panes and casting colour and shadow everywhere.

it's unintentional art turned into powerful intention

 maybe i love them, these dreadlocks, because they're me.

is that too much, to compare myself to a style of freedom and tangled beauty that i can never fully comprehend?

who imagined such beauty could ever come from this? who invented this Light?

a tangle of smoothness, taking something once simple, twisting up into a complicated simplicity that changes souls as well as faces. it's imperfection, and it's beautiful.

and that's art. 

all on its own. 

and i've fallen in love.

and He who sit on the throne said, "see, I am making all things new." and He said, "write, for these words are faithful and true."

i may never have dreadlocks of my own. they aren't something my Love appreciates, being one who takes pleasure in my smooth hair.

but my soul is dreaded. 

i'm bound to embrace this imperfection that follows my feet. why would i not breathe it in, accept these imperfections and make them beautiful.

if He makes all things new, all things good, all things beautiful -- then this i ache to emulate. i want to follow in His footsteps, stepping down the path with the ambition to dwell in His mercies

to make all things beautiful. to take my imperfections and make them into Art.

to make them dreaded.

{linking imperfection with emily today}

word // journey

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i marvel at how far i've come.

nineteen months of words.

this process has changed me, more than i expected. because i'm not just writing words anymore, composing my own thoughts into sentences strung together with grammar and punctuation.

i've joined a community...could i even say a family? precious ones that inspired and treasure and contemplate and push me upward and onward. fellow artists and soul searchers, those who close their eyes to boundaries and open their hearts to the King.

i never expected this when i first began.

and now, the new year is a mere thirty-three days away. and more words will come.

but God and i are choosing one word in particular for this coming year.

a word for life

for light and for love

for the sake of soul and inhaling the sacred. 

one word for transformation.

before i started reading Mandy's blog, i have never even considered the idea of choosing a word for the year. but as i read more -- this journey of a woman who stepped from existent to artist -- i found my soul being pulled.

it was a tugging at first, perhaps an inkling of whimsy in the idea of choosing a word. because isn't that what it is, i smiled?

and then the tug became a pull. and the pull became a whispered command.

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:: choose a word with Me :: 

because this was not whimsy. this was mystery. this thing of holding empty hands that so often grip at cluttered nonsense for

more 

more

more

lifting empty palms to Heaven for just one gift. this is radical.

this word is still unknown. my King and i have much to discuss, much to dwell upon, and much to grasp.

i'm expecting change. my journey will be here on this blog, and there in my soul.

i'm following His pull. this still small voice whispering my word to the silence.

my word.

oh, i cannot wait to hear.

gratitude via canvas {183-190}

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this weekend has been soul-stirring.

i wish i could open the shutters of my heart wide. i'm eager to show you what i've found, what treasures this weekend of pure eucharisteo has imparted to my soul. 

i've come to view this lifestyle of thanks, of grace, and of light as a work in progress.

:: a painting of a thousand strokes ::

it's artwork that will never be finished, growing eternally. but then come those times when we take that slight step back, to view and remember where we've come. to touch the strokes that have dried, reminders of our past steps. 

that's what this weekend has been for me. this time we in the United States call Thanksgiving. these weekend for laughter and family and too much pie. 

• 183. fifty thousand words and a completed NaNoWriMo challenge.

• 184. week-old puppies that whimper and make their little feet run with small, unknown dreams, tucked beneath your chin during football cheers. 

• 185. soft plum scarves and sock-less feet tucked into shoes. winter comes soon. 

• 186. the promise of snow in coming days. 

• 187. the countdown to Christmas beginning already with my parents' long-decorated house and Advent calender anticipation

• 188. returning promises that come back valid. a Word that does not return void. 

• 189. earthly tragedy turned to Heavenly triumph. 

• 190. art. the rawness, the promise, the haven for our ink-stained souls.

these have been my ladder moments. the times where the brush gets tucked into the messy bun and the eyes traverse over the canvas, if only for a second.

it's remembering

the grace

the glory

and the gratitude. 

it's soaking in the Light where darkness wars to prevail. 

it's embracing.

{linking my multitudes with Ann and my fellow gratitude seekers}

art :: haven :: soul

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it's amazing how things change in the space of a morning.

from simple to grateful to glory in one watercolour stroke.

but today is artist's day. so i find it fitting, in a way, that everything becomes fluid on a day like this. a day when we take a moment to acknowledge the phoenix of art.

because we have stories. artists, you and i together. is it so strange that some paint with words and others write with brush and fervour on the canvas? but we're just the same.

art is the celebration of imperfection.

to dance, to sing, to paint, to write to compose. on the canvas of paper, wood, air, and skin.

:: it's embracing imperfection ::

it's all skin art. it's safely slicing a vein and letting it flow onto surfaces that abound in number. it's different for us all.

some find refuge in the studio with paint-streaked hair and eyes that whisper images that they conceive and birth to the world. others seek the solace of wooden floors and muted lighting and their feet and lips that move in tandem.

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we need this, you see.

it's our haven. 

it's the dangled dreadlocks where we tuck our secrets, the moments of silence that create a masterpiece that speaks volumes to this universe.

it's that place where we sit, hands down and eyes turned up. the place where we sit with the Savior like little ones with fingerpaints and sticks of wax and charcoal, where His hand wraps around ours and we create with the measure of soul and love that only the Great Artist could impart.

do you see what we are?
we're clay thrown on the wheel that turns and throws a vessel itself.

we're the glorifiers. the prisms. the image-catchers.

we're the created turned artists.

every poet and musician and artist, but for grace, is drawn away from love of the things he tells to love of the telling... ~c.s. lewis

eyes reprised

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my obsession with eyes is no secret.

there's something so drawing // stirring // hypnotic about these orbs that peer from beneath curling lashes. there are stories there, just waiting to be read like books with unfurled pages.

eyes are the windows to the soul, the candles of the body. these are His words, though i wish they were mine, too.

but then i started gazing at the closed books, marveling at the covers.

don't judge a book by its cover

but then again, do. 

because the covers tell a lot, even if you aren't supposed to see. 

closed eyes are the covers of the books still shut. someone has to open them. there has to be an invitation.

read me. 

study me. 

just hear me. 

there's more to seeing than open eyes and mutual glances. 

you know that, right? 

those open eyes are even stares, level gazes begging and pleading for you to understand this language, to be a translator to their hidden stories and whispered memories. 

but the closed eyes, the downcast gazes to the dirt and grime of the path...do you realize we ignore them, shuffling past because we don't want to intrude, to infiltrate their silence. 

they must like it there. 

but these, oh, these are the least of these. these are the ones to whom He turned and whispered

neither then do I condemn you.

so there's more to read than just the pages. 

there are paintings atop these closed lids. the lashes are their bolted gates. and my soul craves to reach out to the downtrodden.

because He spoke those words to me, the weary one.

come unto Me

heavy-laden child

and I will give you rest. 

thanks in the strings

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i almost didn't blog today.

it's the day after Thanksgiving, and i still feel weary from the length of the day and the busy swirl of family and laughter and oh, so much food.

normally, this is the day of five minute fridays with the gypsy mama. but somewhere between my waking and my resting, i have forgotten everything.

this thing of gratitude -- eucharisteo -- this instrument that i grip between my unquestioning fingers, knowing each twist and curve of the smoothly polish wood...

...it's familiar. i can speak of it with knowledge, share with others in times of need and emotion, feeling truth spring to my lips in the appropriate time.

but somewhere during the year, the violin finds a place in the back of my closet. the curving head cracks from lack of caresses.

i rationalize within my ever-hardening heart

it's only to protect the music 

to make this thing more precious in the 

right time.

and so i forget until the fourth Thursday in November. and then the sheet music lays on the stand again, and my fingers trace the familiar strings so that the music kisses the air again.

my soul floods then, with recollection and resolution to not let things go as they were before, to always dwell in the miracle of gratefulness. 

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but then comes the conflict that only family closeness can bring. there is some sort of push and pull that eventually tears the music and sends the bow crashing to the floor.

and the music dies 

unfinished. 

is this what i want? year after year after year of the same old broken dance, the same old shattered moments that never reach the finish line?

because each sour note hurts His ears. 

i slap His face when i withhold my thanks.

 when i play my own frenzied melody on broken instruments that no longer hold value. 

there is nothing so great in holding onto all my grateful thoughts until a certain day, and then letting them pour out like water onto the parched ground. 

where is the blessing here?

i refuse to touch the finale's score. i will live in the now, in the yesterday and the tomorrow.  

these melodies. 

these drops of eucharisteo. 

{a} {b} {c} beyond

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this thing of Thanksgiving overwhelms me.

this one day in the midst of 365 to sit back and reflect on blessings, surrounded by those whom we love and whom we love to aggravate.

as i said in yesterday's post, today may be Thanksgiving. but so was yesterday, and tomorrow will be again.

even still

my soul loves this day.

and so i will be joining with rachel today to list my gratitude from a to z and all the moments in between.

afternoon walks // best friends  // candles in white jasmine

dates with my Daddy // eggshell white // family {cliche but so true}

grass between my toes // Him // inspiration

 jazz music // kisses and caresses // last rays of evening's sun 

moments shared with my mother // new books // opportunities to breathe again 

 peppermint hot chocolate // quirks // resolve 

secret laughter with my sister // the man i love // umbrellas when the sun shines

victory in Jesus // winter's first snow // eXtra minutes in the shower 

You // zoos {they're my favourite}

writing this list alone was worship for me. 

i'm undone by Him. this incredible life i have, the people that fill my hours, and the overwhelming realization that i am the furthest thing from destitute. 

it's precious, this thing of dwelling in His shadow. my gratitude is endless.

is yours?

happy Thanksgiving and endless blessings from DramaticElegance 

{linking with rachel and so many others in these 26 glimpses of gratitude}

prelude to the grateful

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every single year, right around this time, i find myself overwhelmed in the crush.

it's this season of preparing and orchestrating and oh, so much family that seems to emerge from every corner of the woodwork. 

for those of us who stand under the banner of red, white, and blue, tomorrow is supposed to be the day we take a few minutes to soak in the gratitude of our lives. 

i need to freeze in place

because i have much. 

it's hard to not get lost in the 

if only i

if we only had

if we obtained

but my soul sings this year. this time last year, i was drowning in self, in circumstances which i would have done anything to avoid. 

but He knew that i needed pruning. i needed pain to find the glory again. 

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and oh, how my blackened soul rebelled. i withheld my joy, letting it slowly wither from lack of gratitude's water upon the cracking soil of a wounded heart. 

but then He gripped my soul. 

stop this, child.

let go and let Me heal. 

let Me restore your joy.

and then i began to seek again. and i have been unable to stop my hunger, my burning fire for those things that make this heart sing of Him.

and so now i drop the dishtowel and turn my back to the stove for just a moment. and i find that moment on my knees in the corner with His Love Letter spread out before me on the floor. 

because of Him, i stand.

how can i keep from gripping His robe and letting my gratitude from pouring over His feet like some strange perfume. 

tomorrow is Thanksgiving. 

but so is today. 

{linking this imperfection with my dear emily}

the place of Advent

i forgot that Advent was so close.

it was such a big deal when i was a little girl. the pink and purple candles sat in their wicker wreath, wax dripping every Sunday when a new candle burned.

then i got married and moved into my own home. and i forgot.

i forgot the importance of this expectation.

this coming into place, this arrival of the Son of God.

i forgot everything i had been taught, about the sacredness that can be found in the silent moments of flickering candle flames.

and so for three years, i have had no candles to light and no verses to read. it has been as though the events of my childhood swiftly faded into the modern haze of overcrowded schedules and too much planning.

and then this year, it's been following me. i've read blog posts about the subject, seen commercials laden with reminders. it's a whisper, a reminder, the hand of God touching my heart

remember Me. 

and my soul groans with sorrow and guilt.

if it was anyone else, 

would i have forgotten?

or would i have laid my steps out carefully, preparing to greet this coming mortal?

but the King of Glory comes, and i forget Him.

and so this year, i'm finding candles and setting them out. my reminders, my beacon lights to the coming King.

these lights, one by one by one, lit in the darkness to set my yearning soul aglow --  a simple way of speaking to the silence,

i'm waiting for You. 

this heart is open; there is room here.

in the soothing {176-182}

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sometimes, Monday is a rut. the start of a week that can only get better from a day that makes you fall to your knees and wonder why.

but then there are Mondays that remind me of the grace of God. the way in which He shines a light that cuts through the darkness.

 even on days when i'm exceptionally irritable, feeling like everything is rubbing me the wrong way, i find myself drawn to sparks of blessing.

God's fingers touching my soul, murmuring 

be still and know, dearheart.

• 176. Breaking Dawn with a girlfriend whom has been far away for months. 

• 177. laughter so hard that it comes out silent, aching sides and streaming eyes over coffee and cinnamon bagels

• 178. newborn puppy whimpers and loving mama kisses as she looks over her ever-growing brood.

• 179. cell phone GPSes that save from late-night losses on country backroads

• 180. steaming coffee and vanilla creamer, late night companions to my slowly growing word count

• 181. emails from publishing companies, affirmation that my work is "good enough." dreams fulfilled with a few simple keystrokes. "we're interested in Cut Loose..."

• 182. messages from my sweet friend Jen, knowing that simple words of mine were used of Him to confirm a heart's yearning.

it's hard to not become overwhelmed in a world of declining Mondays. it's hard to look ahead and see a bright Light instead of a train coming to plough me down. 

but there comes my list, slipping into my corner. 

and i am cheered on this path. these little moments of soothing when the world rubs me wrong.

my soul brushes of being still, and of knowing.

{linking my blessings with these beautiful ones of blessing}

compassion

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church made me ache this morning. 

not one of those cringing aches in which convictions floods my soul and begs me to bring about change. no, this was different.

as Wess Stafford, the President of Compassion International, spoke of the need in the hearts of children around the world, i began to feel it then.

the ache of longing, of sorrow and grief and the strangest feeling of homesickness.

i ached for Peru. 

and i ached for her children.

i landed in Lima, Peru for the first time in 2006 on a two-week mission experience with then-Brio magazine. the minute i arrived, my soul knit with that place. 

it was the longest and shortest two weeks of my life. i could not be stopped, and so i returned to that same area again the next year...and then the next year after that. 

i still dream about that place. i step outside some mornings, and find myself stopping to sniff the air...because i smell Peru on the wind. it bears that distinct aroma of burning plastic and spices and tears and love and suffering and Jesus Christ. 

i dream about it sometimes -- almost as though i am there. when i wake up, i find myself weeping because i am not there, and it was only a dream. 

because those people are beautiful. that place is so full of emptiness and need. they are so hungry, starving for the Saviour. 

{photo by DramaticElegance, 2008}
me with Trian in Peru

the need is immense. these souls have nothing but the currency of Love, and they are more than willing to give you their very last dime. 

and i miss them. 

Peru's children are not the only ones that cry to be seen, to be heard in this broken, twisted shuffle. 

there are thousands of these dirt-streaked angels in a thousand countries, all with upturned faces and whispered words in a hundred languages. 

love me

please?

and the voice of their only Advocate whispering in reply

feed My lambs.

it costs less to sponsor a child with Compassion than it does to buy a cup of coffee at Starbucks every day. 

what life could you change with a handful of dollars?  

sponsor a child with Compassion.

and feed His lambs. 

in which i am more than paper

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i helped my mom put out the family Christmas cards today.

i spent my afternoon standing at the kitchen island in the home where i grew up, stamping envelopes and adding address labels to what seemed to be a never-ending pile of cards.

and it got me to thinking about Christmas and letters and packages tied with paper and string.

it's strange for me to realize that the beautifully wrapped gifts, which are carefully assembled by those we love, will soon be transformed into empty boxes and crumpled piles of wrapping paper.

is it strange that i find God in this?

you don't have a soul. you are a soul. you have a body. 

~c.s. lewis

the packages are beautiful as they sit below the tree, their colours flickering in the lights like a strange sort of decoration. and i can't help but feel the same as my eyes dance in childlike wonder and i realize that those packages are just like me.

i'm more than brown paper and string.  

i'm more than what i'm wrapped in -- more than this body in which i find myself a resident for this brief time.

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because you don't just hold the package in your lap and gaze at the paper. it's an insult to the giver.

so why would i stand in the mirror and gaze at my flaws as though they are worth something?

it's an insult to the Giver. 

as Lewis said, i have a body. this external garment i wear for now.

but oh, so much more.

because one day -- one new morning, fresh like Christmas to a child, i will stand shining in glory at the side of the One who breathed me.

because i am more.

i am a soul. 

grow

five minute fridays. we write for five, and only five, minutes. no editing, no overthinking, no backtracking.  linking up with the gypsy mama.

the word

GROW

now GO...

i've been doing a lot of growing in the past twelve months.

taking a look back over my calender, i'm overwhelmed with everything that has occurred in my life. it's awe-inspiring, how i've changed.

did you know so much could happen in a year?

i'm sure i knew, but i think i forgot.

i think growing is one of those things that you can't exactly predict. it's all in relation to how much you're willing to receive, and how much you're willing to give up.

because i've been surrounded with partners in this process. those amazing ones who come alongside you, and whisper into your ear

what, you too? i thought i was the only one...

but i've also had the pain, the pruning, the stripping of the secure and leaving me shivering and wanting my old self back.

and then i find myself in the greenhouse of my Gardener. it hurts, but He trims away the dead parts of my soul. 

it's still in process -- i'm growing, after all. 

but i'm not alone. and i'm seeing results. 

so i just have to sit in the Earth, and remember that He has been here first.

and watch for the blossoms to emerge. 

submerged

{via pinterest -- America's Next Top Model}

for the past week, i have been singing the same song.

lead me to the cross by Francesca Battistelli 

it's been following me, actually. i keep hearing it everywhere i go. 

they haunt me, these words. the simplest of truths, locked into this precious melody. it makes me weep every time i hear the first few notes of this song float from my speakers and fill the room. 

and this morning, as i sat and listened to this song, as the tears flowed again down my cheeks, He whispered to me then.

do you see now? 

do you see Me better?

because this is what I want you to understand, child. 

you must be SUBMERGED into Me. 

and i wept anew. because this is my whole purpose.  

no other religion has this sense of relationship, this place of community with the Holy One. 

it's a lake in which i yearn to drown. i don't want to stand at the bank anymore with my toes just brushing the surface. 

i want to be drenched in Him. i want to hear Him everywhere i go. i want to fully grasp His humanity and His Godship into my soul. 

i want to fully lose myself into Him. 

because there is the calm beneath the water. i am held so close to the heart of Christ. i crave this silent rush that comes when i allow myself to slip beneath the surface of this Living Water. 

drowning to survive.

death to self to life in Him.

i wish i could express to you the passion burning in my soul. i weep as i write this with the realization that i have allowed myself to remain in the boat. i merely live on His surface. 

{via pinterest -- America's Next Top Model}

do the waves frighten me too much? is my faith that small, that fragile, that i cannot trust myself into the Hands of the One who has carried me thus far? 

have i forgotten that He is no stranger to this place of struggle?

You were as i, tempted and tried. 

human. 

the Word became flesh, bore my sin and death

now You're risen!

i need to step out, hands spread and eyes fixed only on Him.

i need to let the chaos fade to black and let my focus burn onto His eyes. 

He broke the ground for me to follow.

this is my inheritance.

peace in the soon

i'm at peace with wanting.

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i have my little list, tucked in a place where only He and i can find it when the time is right. and sometimes, we pull it out late at night, my King and i, and we laugh and we weep together over this little scrap of paper. 

my Love knows my list, too, but he doesn't understand it fully. he listens when i can contain it within myself no longer, and i pour my soul like water over us both. and he comforts me then, as best as he knows how.

but i think no mortal can understand another want unless they want it too, and just as badly. 

it's tricky to find this place of wanting and having without stepping over into this dangerous place of 

my will be done. 

there is a strange darkness in this place where we blow out the Fire and shiver by self's candle instead. and i've learned that it's not worth it to cross this line. 

and so i learn to wait and cling to the hem of His robe, knowing that i am safe when i stay at His feet and softly whisper

Thy will be done. 

who knew it was so hard to wait? 

and sometimes i find myself looking into that mirror and beating my fists on the walls and begging for the now and not the then. and then i must stop, because i am waiting on me and not on Him anymore. 

because His wait is not as hard as mine. because it's strength renewing and wing-giving. 

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and He takes delight in blessing His children with good things. 

wait is not never. wait is only this -- wait. and soon. 

and so i find my place in this thickly woven cosmos, and remember that i am seen and i am known by the One who made and placed me here. 

 and i curl into His arms and wait for the rain. 

i am at peace with this thing of wait. because wait doesn't mean never. 

it means someday. it means soon. 

for He calls all time soon. 

{linking this moment with my King along with Laura; also, over at the "Write It, Girl" project}

mismatched vessels

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i have two sets of dishes in my cupboards.

they could not be more different.

one is round, blue and green and flecked with brown.  the other is square, with deep strokes of tan and chocolate.  there are chips and cracked edges. they are far from perfect.

but i can't help but run my fingers over the edges and ponder these imperfect servants of mine.

because they resonate. i feel as though we converse at times, as i wipe them dry and stack them carefully again.

from one cracked vessel to another. 

i marvel often how my Jesus teaches me through the simplest of things. 

how i can look at this unusual collection of plates and bowls and matching mugs and find my reflection in their surface. 

because isn't that what we are in Christ? a mismatched collection of imperfect people, these chipped pieces of china and these pottery plates. 

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these broken, beautiful ones who join hands and whisper

lead me to the Cross.

and so i cannot help but stop and run my fingers over each fragile corner, every lasting stroke that paints the portrait of Love on each ceramic surface. 

i don't claim perfection. i claim Christ. 

and so i stand with the strong and the beautiful.

i stand with the mismatched. 

 but we have this treasure in earthen vessels, so that the surpassing greatness of the power will be of God and not from ourselves; we are afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not despairing; persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed.

--2 Corinthians 4:7-9 

{linking with emily and all my imperfect companions.
freedom in brokenness}

brimming with grace {165-175}

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i've started carrying Ann's book wherever i go.

it's small enough, which baffles me how a book so small can carry such a powerful weight of truth. it fits in my purse, but my soul can barely contain it all inside.

i'm full to brimming after only another four pages.

these pages were about pain. about this God we serve, and this mystery of pain.

this mystery of God's grace.

i know that we aren't supposed to know. but sometimes i want to know.

doesn't everyone?

i've been counting my blessings for several months now. i never once mentioned pain or aching hearts or any of those things that tend to make us shake our fists and scream at the skies. 

maybe i should start. 

because His grace is sufficient. His Word will not return to Him void. 

i look back now over my blackness and see where His light kept me walking when i wanted to crumple and die there. 

and so i'm learning. every sunrise brings me a lesson. and this one is hard, and i'm not sure if i like it, or even want to admit that i've been shown this truth. 

this is one i want to ignore. but i can't. 

{via pinterest}

because i'm still counting...

• 165. God's grace. 

• 166. the darkness that brings the sun into greater brilliance 

• 167. a sky full of stars on a cloudless night

• 168. homecomings and reminders that alone is never again an option

• 169. learning Him more, deeper with time passing. 

• 170. His lessons, painful and beautiful. knowing that He knows, and i will learn when that right time comes. 

• 171. first winter's snow, just enough to dust and melt away, but more than enough to light warm Christmas candles on the hearth of my heart. 

• 172. intercession for one another. moments of hands clasped over a thousand miles as one covers the other in blankets of prayer. 

• 173. thirty thousand words

• 174. rolling pins and the aroma of fresh pie dough. 

• 175. learning to be transparent. authentic. His hands slowly unveiling me. 

i'm going to keep a pen in my hand always. i'm still barefoot in His glory, because its starting to clear in darkness as well as light.

because these windows in my soul have been washed. 

and i'm still counting

because i'm seeing clearer. 

{counting to a thousand and beyond with Ann and my sisters there}

sdrawkcab // backwards

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sometimes, i marvel at how the words of one can ring deep in the soul of another. 

it's one of those reasons that i find it a privilege to spend my Sunday mornings in my church. because we have people that resonate. 

but then i have to sit and question my motives. because i don't know if i take this gift with me when i step out those double doors. 

am i Martha when i should be Mary?

each morning when i wake up, i find myself making lists of things i need to do in the limited hours that i have this day. 

laundry and dishes and linens and groceries and menus. 

i have to separate myself from these things to find my quiet. and its only after every checkmark is in place that i take a moment to myself, that i share a moment with the King. 

it's backwards. 

i know i have my daily chores, my obligations and things that must be accomplished for my day to proceed onwards. 

{via pinterest}

but why is He not first? and why do i think that when i rise from my knees that i leave Him on the floor? 

this is why i am Mary, seeking Him in clothespins and laundry lines. 

finding conversations with my Lord amid the dishes and the passing crowds in grocery aisles. 

because eternity matters. 

ten years from now, my lists will be crumpled and tossed aside, and my chores of November and December will not be remembered. 

this sacredness, this seeking, will change my heart. transform my life.

i'm putting Him first. 

daily striving to leave Martha at the door, and live as Mary at His feet. 

in which i am His // and me

i started this blog differently.

rather, i didn't write the traditional "hi, my name is..." post at the very beginning. i started out to be a private poet.

in fact, i never have written one of those posts. at first, it didn't feel right to me to talk about myself or share random scraps of this and that.

i have a bio page which talks about me. but it's just crumbs on the plate that is me.

this is one of those times when i wish i could open my soul's door to you -- just to let you peak inside and get a glimpse at this watercolour wallpaper which paints a picture of the real Rachel.

with her mother's middle name and orange circles in her eyes 

with a new-found obesession with dreadlocks and searching for greater soul

because that's the real me.

am i strange because my favourite kitchen item is this teal and white ceramic bowl, all vintage and old? i have no idea where this bowl even came from, how it managed to find its way into my tiny culinary corner. but it did. and it's my favourite. 

 i can read the same book over and over again; i can find different things within each ink jot and somehow love it more. i've done that with Shakespeare and with Rowling.

i love the touch, the feel, the aroma of the printed word. i will never buy an eBook. not ever. 

i didn't use to write in lowercase letters all the time. in fact, i was a perfectionist with capitalization and punctuation. i'm recovering from that. 

{via pinterest}

i'm discovering the sacred now. it's a walk, and it's a painful one. but i'm letting Him drive now, and it's a better journey. 

i'm intensely claustrophobic. even sleeping bags freak me out. if i can't move my feet, or my head can't turn, then i'm bound to panic. 

i love vanilla. and cinnamon. and spices that tantalize my lips and tongue. 

i love wooden spoons and wooden bowls and ice cream with them both. 

do you see me better now? 

these are just bits of me. i wish i could paint you a picture. i don't know if you'd see what i see. i think i like that, though. 

i learning to love my rosepetal smile and my watercolour eyes. 

i'm learning to walk, that it's okay to break. 

i'm learning Him

and in the process 

i'm learning me.  

in which i have clothespins

{via pinterest

my grandma has an outdoor clothesline.

it's tied from the low eave of the roof and strung across the lawn to the large maple tree that stands in the center.

ever since i was a little girl, she has carried her sheets in her wicker laundry basket onto the back porch. the tin pail of clothespins sits right inside the door.

from the first warmth of spring to the first snows of winter, the linens flutter in the wind.

it still fascinates me.

on warm days like this one, even in this November chill, my thoughts wander back that clothesline and those rippling sheets and pillowcases.

i despise laundry. it is the one chore i would rather avoid entirely.

but if i had a washline like that, i would do load upon load. i would wash my clothes every single day.

because it's a reminder. 

sometimes i feel like a pile of rumbled linens, tumbled together in a basket.

i can't stand on my own.

but i have clothespins to steady me. 

shoulderbearers.

{via pinterest}

my Aarons and my Urs, under my elbows to keep my arms reaching upward.

one at each corner, holding me to the Line so that i don't fall into the dirt and became filthy again. i was just washed. i want to stay clean.

and these people are my accountability. they bear me up. they hold me to the Line to which i must daily cling.

these sisters and brothers.

my clothespins.

and on these cool days, the winds blows my curtains back and lets the breeze caress my shoulders.

it's a reminder, really.

a reminder that i'm held. 

by Him, and by them.

by my clothespins to the Line.