the synchronicity of birthing

{via pinterest

when I started 2014, He gave me a word :: precipice. and I knew it was a scary word, a big word, a word that held a lot of power and shivering potential. and it might not all be good. because weather high-up can be harsher than the weather close to the ground. when the word found its home inside me, I literally shook and sobbed and begged for another. because I knew :: big things, heavy things. and I was afraid.

I had no idea.

I lost another grandmother, the second in twelve months. upheaval became the name of the game. there was emotional turmoil, loss and brokenness in a community that I thought was solid ground. my family groaned under the weight of ache after broken-hearted ache.

and in the moments between the weeping, I wrote a book. words became sentences became paragraphs became pages became chapters because an entire volume. and yesterday, I finished it. officially. the proofing is done, the uploads are complete, the cover is the correct size. and then I clicked the button and ordered fifty copies. thirty-nine copies are already spoken for, which is overwhelming and more than I ever expected.

but on Friday, two days before, we got more news.

our family is growing. 

another tiny pair of feet are forming beneath my skin. 

and again comes the feelings of unworthiness, like last time. but this time, there is something more. there is something powerful that drowns out all the whispers of fears and cries of "too much too soon all at once." 

there is hope. there is a breath of restorative life. there is an echo of synchronicity that I've been waiting for...finally. it's been forever. 

this year, this precipice year, it has been a year of "He takes, blessed be. He takes, blessed be. oh, again, He takes. blessed be..." and the words have started to falter on my tongue, quivering as though I might not believe them as much as I did the first time. my lips ache from the wind-burn of being so extended on this precipice, and my fingers are bleeding from the grip against the stone.

and then I remember that He makes the stone crack. that death starts working backwards.

this year has been heavy. but now there is life. 

life on paper, words from my own soul escaping into the world. 

and life under skin, growing to be birthed into the world when the appointed time comes. 

abundant, He promised. 

life. 

the sufficiency in price tags

{photo via Unsplash}

I've reached the point, the rather terrifying reality, that people -- strangers and friends alike -- are going to be paying good, hard-earned money for my book.

I feel awkward even attempting to write this post. my guilt is irrational, silly even. and it all comes down to self-doubt. a mistrust in my own words.

the fact that my words are being brought down to dollars and cents makes me uncomfortable. mostly because I'm facing the weird reality that my words are actually worth people reaching into their wallets and pressing money into my palm. that the nine months I've spent pouring my soul into vowels and consonants and syllables and paragraphs are actually worthy of purchase.

:: it almost feels like I'm putting my soul on the market. 

people ask me all the time what this book is about. it's the first question that comes after the words "I wrote a book" leave my mouth. and my answers have been stumbling, faltering, mostly some excuse as to how it's "a faerie tale" and "I feel so silly." but recently, I've started channeling the way I feel about this book into my explanation.

so really, it comes down to this.

this story isn't about Faeries. well, it is, but not really. it's about people. it's about magic that IS them, that is an extension of who they are. and isn't that kinda deep, in a way? so what, it's not an existential theory. so what, it's fiction and fantasy. 

so what, maybe I want to be like J.K. Rowling when I grow up.

and you know something? people pay for J.K's books. she doesn't just drop them like manna from the skies. she presses those hefty volumes into hearts and whispers, "they cost money because I know they're worth every cent."

and my book isn't Harry Potter. because I'm not J.K. and my book isn't The Fault in Our Stars. because I'm no John Green.

but pricetags don't equal selling my soul. they mean that I'm putting value on myself, assigning value to my art and my words and my work.

and I can't help but lean heavy on the words Aslan spoke to a frightened boy-turned-king:

"if you had felt yourself sufficient, it would have been proof that you were not.” 

{I'm going to live in Aslan's Country. where He makes me sufficient}.