tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88428115457373362692024-03-05T19:03:14.641-06:00DramaticEleganceone woman's walk down this road called life.
this place of walk and run and step and leap and dance and light.
this place where a lioness and her King meet to dance.Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05927558035256871985noreply@blogger.comBlogger580125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8842811545737336269.post-51533543888189091942015-09-24T07:12:00.000-05:002015-09-24T07:12:01.461-05:00lingering leftovers {guest post for The Mudroom}<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHbHOKG5QlXLQmqdQtl-md0bOlnPAmYGSAyht07CReg5FU3QDPYwdL7rdIu1BS2DYR76wCK1M7lvimFNtC9boba57zMIptkDfGI7N7OXYvhFWX8hglJLgrh5nwjxf264cwU40IYt1KdWY/s1600/photo-1436915947297-3a94186c8133.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHbHOKG5QlXLQmqdQtl-md0bOlnPAmYGSAyht07CReg5FU3QDPYwdL7rdIu1BS2DYR76wCK1M7lvimFNtC9boba57zMIptkDfGI7N7OXYvhFWX8hglJLgrh5nwjxf264cwU40IYt1KdWY/s320/photo-1436915947297-3a94186c8133.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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The little lines appeared on the stick in January.
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I think hers did too, just twenty years prior.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">::</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">She, my first daughter, was born in September. A week to the day before my twenty-first birthday. A week to the day before the twenty-one year anniversary of the day I met the woman who birthed me. And my parents. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">At the same time.
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>{I'm over at <a href="http://mudroomblog.com/mothering-with-lingering-leftovers/">The Mudroom </a>today discussing my adoption, fitting for the day after my 25th birthday. I hope you'll join me there for the rest of the story.}</i></span></div>
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Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05927558035256871985noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8842811545737336269.post-16755030429667540062015-09-04T08:36:00.000-05:002015-09-04T08:36:53.111-05:00yes...and no {five minute Friday}<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1F_jDIMnGGeKgEIRIg-vl_laqy4ZD7vlhAdNqufKgZ9_YFcos634_PhjprLQNqzm1NoE3MZuOi1StRUfS3Cb8gvdMIBiRaEPLY0GJt2h1u6e9y9NUyDZl1rAUuHXXeHji-98SXNnIZEI/s1600/haas_11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1F_jDIMnGGeKgEIRIg-vl_laqy4ZD7vlhAdNqufKgZ9_YFcos634_PhjprLQNqzm1NoE3MZuOi1StRUfS3Cb8gvdMIBiRaEPLY0GJt2h1u6e9y9NUyDZl1rAUuHXXeHji-98SXNnIZEI/s400/haas_11.jpg" width="400" /></a>I'm back.<br />
<br />
and I think five minutes just might do for a perfect start.<br />
<br />
because right around five weeks ago, I had another baby. and it was a long road, not five minutes, but seventeen days of groaning and laboring and prayers of <i>sweet Jesus, please, let it end, bring her here, let it end. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
but we got our Shiloh. 7 lbs, 2 oz. we got our "one the whom the holiness is promised." and she is perfect and big sister is in love and so am I and so is my husband.<br />
<br />
{I'll blog her birth story soon, I promise}<br />
<br />
but then I was no longer pregnant. so the voices started clamoring. it didn't take long, and I'm not sure how many of them were in my head vs. actually shouting in the real world. part of it was the hyperemesis and the inability to do just about anything for so long, and then the prodromal labor, which took away the rest of my strength.<br />
<br />
and it sounded tempting, these invitations.<br />
<br />
<i>come do this.</i><br />
<i>be this. </i><br />
<i>do this. </i><br />
<i>be this.</i><br />
<i>come back now be with us now come do everything you have been doing and haven't been doing. </i><br />
<i>now. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc8BGiwxNZNMu-m_FkTyxzrG1mdETbA7n2VyhEj32bjuWknhniAf87RgWkUBRrF7Wa65U5l7XYBxZ2fwNmEptX0UpowGaODWYe35LC7rKqNggoX6zsi2SvKc-v1geIhfPfTZdx8Y9Yw8Q/s1600/accf38b7-795b-4709-8a0e-c55c3072889a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc8BGiwxNZNMu-m_FkTyxzrG1mdETbA7n2VyhEj32bjuWknhniAf87RgWkUBRrF7Wa65U5l7XYBxZ2fwNmEptX0UpowGaODWYe35LC7rKqNggoX6zsi2SvKc-v1geIhfPfTZdx8Y9Yw8Q/s320/accf38b7-795b-4709-8a0e-c55c3072889a.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">{photo via Unsplash}</td></tr>
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and I started saying yes. louder and quicker than I should have.<br />
<br />
and it got dangerous.<br />
<br />
my physical health was important, of course, but that wasn't the biggest worry. the biggest worry was my mind, my heart, the breakdown that comes when we take on too much, say yes too quick and too loud and realize that we just aren't ready for the yes-ing to start. not yet.<br />
<br />
so I'm saying quieter yes and remembering to speak no a little louder and a little firmer.<br />
<br />
I just got back to my life, and it's different now. we have two little dove daughters, our wildflower girls. one turning three in a matter of weeks, my Marian with her big blue eyes and wild curls and a vocabulary that terrifies even talkative me. and then little tiny dark haired LoLo with her coos and wide awake watchful eyes and her gentle infant nursing sounds all night long.<br />
<br />
yes and no.<br />
<br />
both important. both beautiful.<br />
<br />
both in their time.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://lisajobaker.com/five-minute-friday/" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="Five Minute Friday"><img alt="Five Minute Friday" src="http://lisajobaker.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/06/5minutefriday.jpg" style="border: none;" title="Five Minute Friday" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I haven't done five minute Fridays in a very long time. I haven't really blogged in a long time but that isn't the point. the point is: I'm back and it feels good. and starting here, one of the places where my blogging got its start, feels fitting and beautiful and like a returning to myself again. so join us here, write in five minutes, and find the beautiful again.<br /><br />I've missed you all :: I look forward to getting to know all of you again. </td></tr>
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<br />Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05927558035256871985noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8842811545737336269.post-77408790165604044682015-06-23T13:49:00.001-05:002015-06-23T13:49:53.659-05:00in which I'm {not} sorry<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4f8iWRnjq5IBHYvIcWqpy6iSZncg6FZgMvon7xYlVbclr11SCkj-ruRl2ODgZWnk0zkSnuNX3Pc9kbJCuJCU5L8O6jUdk_mvjWEj0F_iu4g5PKneJuA1XXGrHqBlnMoE8qaOdoEge5HE/s1600/photo-1428930377079-45a584b6dd6b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4f8iWRnjq5IBHYvIcWqpy6iSZncg6FZgMvon7xYlVbclr11SCkj-ruRl2ODgZWnk0zkSnuNX3Pc9kbJCuJCU5L8O6jUdk_mvjWEj0F_iu4g5PKneJuA1XXGrHqBlnMoE8qaOdoEge5HE/s400/photo-1428930377079-45a584b6dd6b.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>
I haven't blogged since March, since I figured out that keeping up a habit of prolific writing is difficult when you can't stop throwing up long enough to type a full sentence. <br />
<br />
Over the past month, I've been thinking about my space here, wondering if I was ever going to come back and write another word here. The last post I wrote fell on seemingly deaf ears. No one commented, no one shared. I was going to come back with an apology post.<br />
<br />
The irony of that will hit you in a minute.<br />
<br />
::<br />
<br />
Women apologize a lot. For bumping into someone, for not seeing past the over-full endcap at the grocery store, for standing in the spot where someone might possibly want to stand in the next few minutes.<br />
<br />
<i>I'm sorry. Oops, sorry about that. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Whoops, sorry. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I'm sorry. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
The idea was posed to me today via a local radio host that perhaps women are incapable of a sincere apology. I have to admit, he might be close to right. Because when you repeat the same words, over and over again, simple letters for just standing there, just existing, just wearing this or saying that or exhaling in the wrong direction....do they lose their meaning?<br />
<br />
It's that overuse that we've come to understand as prevalent in a country where the primary language is complicated in the small things but too simplified in the bigger things. Greek has three words for love. Sanskrit has ninety-six. English has one.<br />
<br />
And then we come back to "I'm sorry" and the way that maybe it doesn't mean what it should. And it's not because we don't mean it when we say it, because we do. But it's repeated so often that it has lost meaning. It sounds funny to our ears.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYCjEgXStrC8vmzJOOLBvB-LXMtAqgVq04pkXu9u9bikyKtEBpcAstvFAq0SJVHLxljcWyug9vvmTjncFUjhNTzi63uncBzdjAVdvpRfsGV-d9gxEsG16hMc2l_GNkPQq420CyudlKgLM/s1600/photo-1428976343495-f2c66e701b2b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYCjEgXStrC8vmzJOOLBvB-LXMtAqgVq04pkXu9u9bikyKtEBpcAstvFAq0SJVHLxljcWyug9vvmTjncFUjhNTzi63uncBzdjAVdvpRfsGV-d9gxEsG16hMc2l_GNkPQq420CyudlKgLM/s400/photo-1428976343495-f2c66e701b2b.jpg" width="266" /></a><br />
<i>Sorry. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>It even looks funny when I type it now. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
::<br />
<br />
I'm in my third trimester of pregnancy with our second daughter. Our second girl. Our second future woman.<br />
<br />
There is more to this discussion. There has to be, for my girls' sake. For my sister's sake. For my daughters' daughter's sake. For my own sake.<br />
<br />
Because it was Jill who memorized the Signs. It was Lucy who saw Aslan on the cliff. It was Jael who hammered the tent peg through Sisera's temple. It was Mary who saw Him first.<br />
<br />
And none of them were apologizing between roars.<br />
<br />Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05927558035256871985noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8842811545737336269.post-91078558003775619152015-03-08T11:24:00.001-05:002015-03-08T11:24:40.048-05:00today you are seen {for International Woman's Day}Dear woman,<br />
<br />
You are seen.<br />
<br />
Today is a day, one of three hundred sixty-five, that has been ordained for you. I find that funny, strange even, that we have to pick one day to acknowledge women around the world. Because without women, without you, without me, there wouldn't be a world.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNHsAfjfK5P5LI323-4gF9WVWOMo-Eg5tvXHVjSuoVoQIGDX_9HRfu2mg9Qz_gCS-93-_xoFz2N2R8Fg6LLzQzdypsczl4lsxLbQYufUeiV6o75HICqcg0pp1kfbyDbrgK7akxqVKif0c/s1600/photo-1418226970361-9f1f7227d638.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNHsAfjfK5P5LI323-4gF9WVWOMo-Eg5tvXHVjSuoVoQIGDX_9HRfu2mg9Qz_gCS-93-_xoFz2N2R8Fg6LLzQzdypsczl4lsxLbQYufUeiV6o75HICqcg0pp1kfbyDbrgK7akxqVKif0c/s1600/photo-1418226970361-9f1f7227d638.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">{via Unsplash}</td></tr>
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So dear woman, today, on this one day. This day of womanhood. I want you to know that you are exactly the right kind of woman.<br />
<br />
You are strong even when you taste dirt on your tongue from your face pressed against the ground one more time, yes, one more time because standing became too much.<br />
<br />
You are valiant even when the world has decided that you don't fit the Joan of Arc model because of this or that or the other thing. Warrior isn't defined by the sword you lift but the way you wield what is placed in your hand.<br />
<br />
You are royal even when your throne room is the inner most parts of the bathroom, tucked behind frosted glass while you hum and moan and groan contractions of physical birth and soul-rushes alike.<br />
<br />
You are woman. Wild fighter weeping on the battlefield, blood-soaked between your legs as you pour out life month after month after month. Your body is a warzone, the kind that leaves you gasping and reeling and realizing that fertile ground is so often watered by tears and blood, ploughed by fingers gouging rich soil.<br />
<br />
Boardroom to kitchen to backyard garden to podium. You are Malala and Mary Magdalene and Jael and Lady Liberty. You are lioness, re-born and re-birthed and re-breathed with breath that only comes from one place. Because words echo across time: <i>little girl, Arise. </i>And rise she did, little girl dead to woman alive, with her fingers against the palm that would one day pit deep with marks made for the love of her.<br />
<br />
For women.<br />
<br />
Because He loved women. When He rose, Hell left bleeding in His wake, it was woman that saw Him first. It was woman who understood the moment He said her name. Because she was worth those four letters on His tongue. First she was woman, then she was Mary.<br />
<br />
So woman, today, you are seen. Be you standing strong with hammer and nail for nation-saving or crouching low beside a desert scrub, you are seen.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05927558035256871985noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8842811545737336269.post-76563498697282694282015-01-17T11:07:00.001-06:002015-01-17T11:15:12.757-06:00it smells like everything but smoke. <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2cB4VaRfZCztrSO2HmlHbxLIr8xwtFgImh9UvpCbI2HIkwUzpj9dlA3AIvnEupUtS4aTvjqwqoHHtkR97_mmm8BbPyqQyER-qqu3Hgs0l3KxOm1NPdUVaTQUrEqiWOT1tSUIV2r1ClA4/s1600/ujKaaIATKKx7vi5kkfQn__DSC3932.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2cB4VaRfZCztrSO2HmlHbxLIr8xwtFgImh9UvpCbI2HIkwUzpj9dlA3AIvnEupUtS4aTvjqwqoHHtkR97_mmm8BbPyqQyER-qqu3Hgs0l3KxOm1NPdUVaTQUrEqiWOT1tSUIV2r1ClA4/s1600/ujKaaIATKKx7vi5kkfQn__DSC3932.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">{via Unsplash}</td></tr>
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2015 showed up without warning. One minute, it was the year of precipice -- the year of death and life, the year <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Portals-Water-Wine-R-Haas/dp/1503179605/ref=tmm_pap_title_0?ie=UTF8&qid=1421513576&sr=1-1">my book was born</a>, the year my marriage passed the five year mark, the year our daughter turned two, the year we found out that we were adding a fourth member to our family.<br />
<br />
The year that turned me inside out and rubbed salt on my skin.<br />
<br />
And then I blinked. And 2015 arrived.<br />
<br />
<i>My year of burning. </i><br />
<br />
Every year, I pick a word. Or rather, the word picks me. It finds me in the snow, in the dark, between the clinking of dirty dishes and the noise that my vacuum makes when it sucks up a sock by mistake. It slips into my soul the way water slides around stones. It doesn't move them, it just makes itself at home in the spaces.<br />
<br />
And this year of burning // it's already started. It started when I dared to speak the release date for <b><i>the second book</i> </b>to <a href="http://www.awakethebones.com/">my writing coach</a>, and she smiled through Facebook chat and said, <i>HOLLA. </i>Just like that, all in caps. From anyone else, it would have made me smile and I would have moved on. From her? It's a tattoo on my heart-walls.<br />
<br />
Holla. You got this. You <i>do </i>this.<br />
<br />
It started when our entire plan for birthing this second child was turned on its ear by a cowardly stranger, leaving me scrambling for plans B, C, and D...and maybe even E. It all went down between rushed footsteps to the bathroom and a smell-sensitive husband standing outside the bathroom door with a water bottle and a hairband and a soft apology. It happened in my weakest moments, leaving me feeling even weaker in the process.<br />
<br />
2015, you're already burning shit away. And I mean that literally figuratively. All the crap, all the stuff that I came into this year carrying? It's burning away. And it stinks and it's making me gag and feel weak and empty in the moment. But then I feel lighter, better, when I walk away.<br />
<br />
It's the kind of year where I stop apologizing for making metaphors out of morning-afternoon-evening-all-the-time sickness. It's the kind of year where I acknowledge mistakes and dig my hands in deeper until the mud creeps up to my elbows, the kind that smells fresh and earthy and full of growth potential.<br />
<br />
I can't help but wrap my entire body around the story of the three men in the fire that turned into four, because Glory was made perfect in flames and they were never alone. And they came out without even the smell of smoke on them, because they were wrapped up in Lion's breath -- flame retardant from He who would eventually fight a path through hell all for my soul.<br />
<br />
Burning is beautiful. Burning is deadly. I'm okay with both.<br />
<br />
So basically, this is where I leave you. Or begin with you. I'm not entirely sure which is more appropriate, but both apply ::<br />
<br />
2015 is a year of burning. Of birth. Of rings of fire, physical and mental and spiritual. I can anticipate the raw that will be in this place. Less censored, more jagged.<br />
<br />
Less talking, more words.<br />
<br />
And a hell of a lot more burning.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05927558035256871985noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8842811545737336269.post-74786358927028129652014-12-11T13:04:00.003-06:002014-12-11T13:04:57.415-06:00savoring the book {Portals of Water and Wine}<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_j-NIBip3eSF5SDwDPZIqSG_h-C0NmTBn43ErA9T8RDygzyER2hy0fqwL0eR5Egu0IC3nrgtnfYY60xxc-Prm7iT9mtfZQuzZtsDrOIHA2vomP8tLg8Enix-6XUWIGSBYJQGho70z44g/s1600/IMG_2645.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_j-NIBip3eSF5SDwDPZIqSG_h-C0NmTBn43ErA9T8RDygzyER2hy0fqwL0eR5Egu0IC3nrgtnfYY60xxc-Prm7iT9mtfZQuzZtsDrOIHA2vomP8tLg8Enix-6XUWIGSBYJQGho70z44g/s1600/IMG_2645.JPG" height="212" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">{photo by <a href="http://www.emmillerwrites.com/">Emily + Joel</a>}</td></tr>
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<i>you have the ability. I push you because I know you can. so go and do. you don't have an excuse. </i><br />
<br />
I was sixteen, perched in an uncomfortable metal folding chair, my too-heavy backpack leaning against my calves while Jane Austen nestled on the table in front of me. all the other students had left. it was just me and my Literature teacher, her black dress severe as a Bronte sister and her eyes piercing with knowledge.<br />
<br />
<i>you don't have an excuse. </i>she tapped the paper in front of me, covered in scrawling red pen. <i>rewrite this. I won't even grade this one. you can do better. so much better. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
and so I did. I wrote. I wrote papers until midnight the day they were due. I read books and underlined and highlighted sections and fiddled with weirdly thick paper from the Barnes and Noble <i>"Classics" </i>section.<br />
<br />
I never stopped. even after school was long over and those books were tucked away into the first, and then the second, batch of moving boxes, I never stopped.<br />
<br />
and then I wrote a book of my own.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Portals-Water-Wine-R-Haas-ebook/dp/B00OKSBLYM/">Portals of Water and Wine </a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
{you can find the paperback version <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Portals-Water-Wine-R-Haas/dp/1503179605/ref=tmm_pap_title_0?ie=UTF8&qid=1414455486&sr=1-1">here</a> and Goodreads <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/23383346-portals-of-water-and-wine">here</a>}</div>
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:: :: :: </div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 22.3999996185303px; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Naya lives in chaos. Her family is shredded, with only bare threads of her long-dead mother and her absent father still lingering in her house. And then she hears the name -- Alonthiel -- spoken as a promise of freedom and escape, if only for one fleeting summer. </i></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 22.3999996185303px; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>And so she goes, hand in hand with her two best friends, allowing herself to slip into a new world of ancient origins, magical and sacred. </i></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 22.3999996185303px; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Inside the gates of the hidden Fae city, Naya finds more than she could have ever dreamed. So much is waiting for her: magic, strength, and answers to the secrets kept from her since the death of her mother -- all lingering mere miles from her doorstep.</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 22.3999996185303px; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i> But when a dark force threatens to raze her newfound home, leaving only rivers of blood in its wake, she must harness her fire -- or watch Alonthiel fall.</i></span></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8O31Ge2cnwcaCGpu1cbawwzdd12cuJbgbys5jca6lJsXJJ5A4ICwuFMko8UnD4O_6F-R7h1NEpmAoTiRgDGwmivRZkmeVf57Rpxa5UZrDFyjHwqCOW3xUbPhfLK_GVBdz8rqAjqEwlrE/s1600/IMG_2641.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8O31Ge2cnwcaCGpu1cbawwzdd12cuJbgbys5jca6lJsXJJ5A4ICwuFMko8UnD4O_6F-R7h1NEpmAoTiRgDGwmivRZkmeVf57Rpxa5UZrDFyjHwqCOW3xUbPhfLK_GVBdz8rqAjqEwlrE/s1600/IMG_2641.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">{photo by <a href="http://www.emmillerwrites.com/">Emily + Joel</a>}</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 22.3999996185303px; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i></i></span></span><br /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 22.3999996185303px; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i></i></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 22.3999996185303px; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>:: :: :: </i></span></span></div>
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it's been out for eleven days now. honestly, I've been buried in the swirl of book sales and the tummy-lurches of pregnancy's first trimester. that's part of the reason that I haven't shared about the book in these past days since release. </div>
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<br /></div>
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the other reason? I've been carrying it all in my heart, savoring and treasuring it like Mary did as her growing Son changed her paradigm on a daily basis. </div>
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<br /></div>
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I wrote a book. I never had any excuses. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
{all the photos in this post were taken at my release party. we were able to record the Google Hangout where I did a short reading/Q&A from the book, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0c0v-MEeyp8&feature=youtu.be&a">which you can watch for yourself right here.</a>}</div>
Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05927558035256871985noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8842811545737336269.post-74203230436423216322014-11-17T14:47:00.000-06:002014-11-17T14:47:00.224-06:00the synchronicity of birthing<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLVTxvvuGo5ZdIF73PBbb60NpKlRpmxgb25l7OWHN5meWnd-VVbXvuSG9FyM_LlbL3-nW6h7RjyKVGR45yCfZbLCiPGESpHskYhib3Apl1KQfMTr88kKMxnLjSiSWX6LD1Xt4MO6dq8eI/s1600/325cbc59aa35538413d3681979c007a0.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLVTxvvuGo5ZdIF73PBbb60NpKlRpmxgb25l7OWHN5meWnd-VVbXvuSG9FyM_LlbL3-nW6h7RjyKVGR45yCfZbLCiPGESpHskYhib3Apl1KQfMTr88kKMxnLjSiSWX6LD1Xt4MO6dq8eI/s1600/325cbc59aa35538413d3681979c007a0.jpg" height="400" width="263" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">{via <a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/397583473328131882/">pinterest</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
when I started 2014, He gave me a word :: <a href="http://dramaticelegance.blogspot.com/2013/12/precipice.html">precipice</a>. 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.<br />
<br />
I had no idea.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
but on Friday, two days before, we got more news.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>our family is growing. </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>another tiny pair of feet are forming beneath my skin. </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
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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." </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh30Q6KMe492kPmCJCVuQaBTK4Rd6fbAFpELsya3iRIsgi6mg7Wmbj1ZeBzB9XK7tOSp8VjOBNcq8R-AR7swwhCTq8Q1HfdsqrxE8iizWKA4kQjJhFZwvsgnVDeFM6jTwrLVNOQve1JxzQ/s1600/securedownload.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh30Q6KMe492kPmCJCVuQaBTK4Rd6fbAFpELsya3iRIsgi6mg7Wmbj1ZeBzB9XK7tOSp8VjOBNcq8R-AR7swwhCTq8Q1HfdsqrxE8iizWKA4kQjJhFZwvsgnVDeFM6jTwrLVNOQve1JxzQ/s1600/securedownload.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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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. </div>
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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.</div>
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and then I remember that He makes the stone crack. that death starts working backwards.</div>
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this year has been heavy. but now there is life. </div>
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life on paper, words from my own soul escaping into the world. </div>
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and life under skin, growing to be birthed into the world when the appointed time comes. </div>
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abundant, He promised. </div>
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life. </div>
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<br />Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05927558035256871985noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8842811545737336269.post-47961618037105663522014-11-10T10:52:00.000-06:002014-11-10T10:52:23.331-06:00the sufficiency in price tags <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6gYtfiVgXG6aU7EiDQthPWNXCYxC9YT5wvFTFqSkaS9DkV-6CWZhMb6gOQgLTxgex9PGj2wktKxWdMzDNyfmLkurPS2qRS3-53NUAwIGq3tqMpZ9YG8Qyzer8IeWSSO_F8VGREVdYqvM/s1600/LJIZlzHgQ7WPSh5KVTCB_Typewriter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6gYtfiVgXG6aU7EiDQthPWNXCYxC9YT5wvFTFqSkaS9DkV-6CWZhMb6gOQgLTxgex9PGj2wktKxWdMzDNyfmLkurPS2qRS3-53NUAwIGq3tqMpZ9YG8Qyzer8IeWSSO_F8VGREVdYqvM/s1600/LJIZlzHgQ7WPSh5KVTCB_Typewriter.jpg" height="400" width="270" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">{photo via <a href="http://www.unsplash.com/">Unsplash</a>}</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
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.<br />
<br />
<i><b>:: it almost feels like I'm putting my soul on the market. </b></i><br />
<i><b><br /></b></i>
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.<br />
<br />
so really, it comes down to this.<br />
<br />
<i>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. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>so what, maybe I want to be like J.K. Rowling when I grow up.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
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."<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHmCGB9gVpfgAFSKbcij2toMFlnJ65TZ5H_I4dEXgXbbEGaemia2SFAR-QkR6frXPqBZjkLYPLYcVprJuOqtudY2_FJw6zAkSnn9HT-HTRaBl5fhzRwmHEYVwqOjZQG1VJAktQ4CgUrP0/s1600/1907994_10153320612873642_4098940285525647916_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHmCGB9gVpfgAFSKbcij2toMFlnJ65TZ5H_I4dEXgXbbEGaemia2SFAR-QkR6frXPqBZjkLYPLYcVprJuOqtudY2_FJw6zAkSnn9HT-HTRaBl5fhzRwmHEYVwqOjZQG1VJAktQ4CgUrP0/s1600/1907994_10153320612873642_4098940285525647916_n.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a><br />
and my book isn't Harry Potter. because I'm not J.K. and my book isn't The Fault in Our Stars. <a href="http://dramaticelegance.blogspot.com/2014/06/im-no-john-green.html">because I'm no John Green</a>.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
and I can't help but lean heavy on the words Aslan spoke to a frightened boy-turned-king:<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>"i</i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;">f you had felt yourself sufficient, it would have been proof that you were not.”</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; line-height: 18px;"> </span></i></span><br />
<br />
{I'm going to live in Aslan's Country. where He makes me sufficient}.<br />
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<br />Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05927558035256871985noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8842811545737336269.post-73295136049658553962014-10-28T18:09:00.003-05:002014-10-28T18:09:51.911-05:00because I wrote a book. a real one. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGq75D-HjN0Vx9pkNJ9fOq9KP_kPePW7vB8ERCZwQWO9QvnewCYXGaJoLZ5pCwtaAfIJcicjjk2fN5H3Whqu9X1pHZJ3bIVHgizoFPP5s5f6QtIG53MV2ELKMf3jTb8wsfZfYJU0dkvPA/s1600/10637821_697005447036707_293932394_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGq75D-HjN0Vx9pkNJ9fOq9KP_kPePW7vB8ERCZwQWO9QvnewCYXGaJoLZ5pCwtaAfIJcicjjk2fN5H3Whqu9X1pHZJ3bIVHgizoFPP5s5f6QtIG53MV2ELKMf3jTb8wsfZfYJU0dkvPA/s1600/10637821_697005447036707_293932394_n.jpg" height="400" width="242" /></a>in 2014, I made a resolution -- the kind you make with the chime of a clean slate right in front of you over lifted glasses of champagne. I resolved to write a book.<br />
<br />
the words have been slow here, practically non-existent, I know. three posts in September, nothing so far in October. every phrase, every sylablle has been directed toward this growing little project inside my laptop. it's been a process, one that I didn't expect, one that nearly broke me.<br />
<br />
there were little things :: a toddler who has made the transition from containable to toddler-unchained in the space of a month, a laptop that went from reliable to held-together-with-electrical-tape in a matter of twenty-four hours.<br />
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there were big things :: my grandmother's death which rocked me to the ground, sickness and frailty, exhaustion and a word well run dry.<br />
<br />
but I found words, clusters at a time, like grapes hanging along the wall. I found love and support, a rallying of beloved friends and a husband that surrendered to thin-crust pizza and at-least-they-came-from-the-oven chicken nuggets from a bag tucked like a faithful friend into the freezer.<br />
<br />
but oh, beloveds. I did it.<br />
<br />
I wrote a book. and it's almost done. and I hit buttons and cried so many tears. and maybe this post should be deeper, richer, full of more things spiritual and scarred and holy ground and all of the things I've become known for in this space. but honestly, it was less beautiful and far more broken of a process. I can only call Him Lion because He has been roaring holy cheer-leading chants into my soul in the death of night.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1QvPSV_eS_JkY0i2s606Dkt-I-p71x6rDvrfz3iMYtuiA2wX_PiSFAIDZe6ne1NVVO__dG89dWdXH4kjHUjjLJfNLT8kTAIVTL8DXDtHMhlCGqtmZVqj5Awynk7HnaW7Ht29DmCIyKGs/s1600/10606166_10153254094743642_4782367573403013286_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1QvPSV_eS_JkY0i2s606Dkt-I-p71x6rDvrfz3iMYtuiA2wX_PiSFAIDZe6ne1NVVO__dG89dWdXH4kjHUjjLJfNLT8kTAIVTL8DXDtHMhlCGqtmZVqj5Awynk7HnaW7Ht29DmCIyKGs/s1600/10606166_10153254094743642_4782367573403013286_n.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a>there's been nights of whispering phrases on repeat from <i>The Book of Common Prayer </i>and grasping fervently to His mane with white knuckles. and writing. so much writing.<br />
<br />
I wrote a book.<br />
<br />
<b><i>Portals of Water and Wine. </i></b><br />
<br />
and you can find it <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Portals-Water-Wine-R-Haas-ebook/dp/B00OKSBLYM/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1414455486&sr=1-1&keywords=portals+of+water+and+wine">on Amazon for Kindle pre-order</a> + <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/23383346-portals-of-water-and-wine">add it on Goodreads</a>. and then you can <a href="http://dramaticelegance.blogspot.com/search/label/Portals%20of%20Water%20and%20Wine">read all the posts</a> from this journey + the book page is here for your perusal. because somehow, over the longest night, I became an author. and on December 1st, the book is released.<br />
<br />
and I'm not promising a whole lot of words here in this space, but I will come back. I will. it comes back and forth, ebb and flow.<br />
<br />
because I am an author. and I wrote a book.<br />
<br />
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Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05927558035256871985noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8842811545737336269.post-47592957655271121712014-09-30T13:16:00.002-05:002014-09-30T13:16:49.972-05:00unarmed toy solider {listen + doctor who}<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqTJEVjLch-rYz-c8qdeQ0x1bBc13gy7NXyB2ZYukGtI8VoNao3nuAp0wVfQ02ulJ57U_709_xmHeQxO5RY3yitkXH-Qb9lZm-c2e4chbhyphenhyphenPUm1rZy8tGE4NauHNCNp11YxZ-LL-NvJvA/s1600/First_Doctor_Listen_3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqTJEVjLch-rYz-c8qdeQ0x1bBc13gy7NXyB2ZYukGtI8VoNao3nuAp0wVfQ02ulJ57U_709_xmHeQxO5RY3yitkXH-Qb9lZm-c2e4chbhyphenhyphenPUm1rZy8tGE4NauHNCNp11YxZ-LL-NvJvA/s1600/First_Doctor_Listen_3.jpg" height="218" width="400" /></a></div>
at the time in which I write this post, a brand-new episode of <i>Doctor Who </i>aired last night. due to the fact that I have a teething two-year-old + was given the chance to escape with the husband for a private night out as an early 24th birthday celebration, I wasn't able to watch it until this afternoon.
<br />
<br />
the episode's title? <i>Listen. </i><br />
the topic? <i>Fear. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>it found me where I was at, sitting on the floor with my toddler climbing over my shoulders like a jungle gym and my husband groggy and headachy from late nights and little sleep. it found me, this fifty minute episode of a supremely wonderful and nerdy British television show. it found me in the wake of personal upheaval and messy {more than slightly broken} community.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>so listen. if you listen to anything else, listen to this. </i><br />
<i>you’re always gonna be afraid even if you learn to hide it. fear is like a companion, a constant companion, always there. </i><br />
<i>but that’s okay because fear can bring us together. </i><br />
<i>fear can bring you home</i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">{Doctor Who, Listen}</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></i>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
you don't have to be a fan of this show to wrap your fingers around the truth found in the above quote. fear is an ever-present companion. there is fear of the unknown. fear of the known. fear of failing, fear of succeeding. fear of breaking down. fear of losing what you have. fear of not being good enough. fear of being too good. </div>
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<i><b>fear of being, maybe. </b></i></div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
the list. oh, it seems to go ever on and on. and right now, I'm finding myself standing in one of those fear-spaces. some might call it a dark night of the soul {or a dark month of the soul, in my case}. some might call it doubt. or questioning. even thrashing. I'm really good at thrashing these days. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwYvFmUg251Alj7o-sTchezwsA94q7EpbCTnEw82bnUBDu-Ta7Z-KWZx4rv7P4Tf5c6VWuLGVCdFsM2GkCg-IqqpxcQUFkeA85x1DkHfPHmNUIzgDJaLeAHRDB3mpS-yXT1B45jR5dcJg/s1600/3469492d5379fa01ee72ff65b5142b5a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwYvFmUg251Alj7o-sTchezwsA94q7EpbCTnEw82bnUBDu-Ta7Z-KWZx4rv7P4Tf5c6VWuLGVCdFsM2GkCg-IqqpxcQUFkeA85x1DkHfPHmNUIzgDJaLeAHRDB3mpS-yXT1B45jR5dcJg/s1600/3469492d5379fa01ee72ff65b5142b5a.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a><i>but listen. if you listen to anything else, listen to this. </i></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
in the aforementioned episode, a gun-less toy solider stands watch over a frightened child. and I can't help but reach out and wrap my fingers around this metaphor of plastic until <b><i>man-made and God-made are practically fused as one</i></b>. because there is something so holy about this idea of the unarmed solider standing guard. no weapons forged by man, but fierce. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
{a Lion needs no weapons. it <i>is</i> one.} </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
do you see?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
so listen, beloved. listen well. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
perfect love, the kind that lays down unarmed with arms spread wide, casts out fear. perfect love, the beaten and bloody epitome of Holiness, casts out fear. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
perfect love stands guard. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
</div>
Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05927558035256871985noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8842811545737336269.post-90924430960265799752014-09-16T10:23:00.003-05:002014-09-16T10:23:34.422-05:00born from crushed aluminum <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmpdhXmG0_csnZRdrKGHoVWM56ikK8Ur4fiydPLArdteqXS_DcaOBNq92HqcNyMGZq6ccr0KkVYVghbBBaMzap93CZtdKIpFJqjHhIsrgg79zY8pM9FzORRsEc_CAsfoyu3aPcfg81PQo/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmpdhXmG0_csnZRdrKGHoVWM56ikK8Ur4fiydPLArdteqXS_DcaOBNq92HqcNyMGZq6ccr0KkVYVghbBBaMzap93CZtdKIpFJqjHhIsrgg79zY8pM9FzORRsEc_CAsfoyu3aPcfg81PQo/s1600/images.jpg" height="265" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">{via flickr :: creative commons}</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I crushed a soda can last night. you can see the exact shape of my hand in the aluminum, the swirling white letters bent inward to form something more akin to a prayer than a brand name.<br />
<br />
my not-so-tiny girl needed stitches, right on the even of her second birthday. three small black lines, twisted up with flesh. she cut her foot last week. it wasn't so bad. there was blood, but it washed away. there was a scab, but it was closing. and then last night, she tripped. and it opened anew, worse than before. so we bundled into the car, my husband + me + Marian (her in squawking high spirits, us not so much).<br />
<br />
and the doctor said "stitches," and something inside me dropped so hard that I thought it might actually come out through my feet. they washed her foot and I cringed, holding her hand. they said "needle" and "Lidocaine" and I made a hasty and less than dignified retreat. he made me sit, the doctor did, pressing a can of soda into my hand for sugar. I was white, he said.<br />
<br />
and I sobbed on one side of a clinic wall while my daughter wailed, clutched tight in my husband's arms as he bear-hugged our fierce fighting child. they were hurting her to help her, and it made my momma-lioness roar vicious. and I crushed that soda can in my fingers until they were white and the can was twisted metal in my grip.<br />
<br />
then it was over, and she was drenched in sweat but bandaged, sniffling into my shoulder. I buried my nose in her head as I rocked her, inhaling the scent of tears and sweat and strength and bravery, as much as a little-yet-fierce creature can exude.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih3VFFKe7QwHb6UZKo6HFj6Q7gc35H79C5sHuv1ylyh2C1aDGiM_lDofMMpILe6Ab_ecknH8EVaWeD16XPF5mx2p78xX7cfIbz-edPrxj3FEwb2SuboVwJm8X_5_C3YDa40NaLKCWKCI8/s1600/IMG_2963.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih3VFFKe7QwHb6UZKo6HFj6Q7gc35H79C5sHuv1ylyh2C1aDGiM_lDofMMpILe6Ab_ecknH8EVaWeD16XPF5mx2p78xX7cfIbz-edPrxj3FEwb2SuboVwJm8X_5_C3YDa40NaLKCWKCI8/s1600/IMG_2963.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a>this morning, I pondered as she nuzzled into my breast, an eager face at 7:02am beside my bed. it's been two years with this child, nine months before that of her nestled under my skin. motherhood is a funny thing. you can read every book in the world, and still realize that you know absolutely nothing when that child is born. and you have to learn. and they say that you learn from experience and doing and "as you go." but really, it's your child that does the teaching.<br />
<br />
cliche? maybe.<br />
true? entirely.<br />
<br />
and so, as my Marian-girl begins her second year of life, my heart is swelling full of holy hopes + wishes for her.<br />
<br />
<div style="background-color: white; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; text-align: center;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;"> :: I wish for her bravery to be acknowledged. she is not fearless, she is brave.</span><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;"> </span></i></b></div>
<div style="background-color: white; display: inline; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-top: 6px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i></i></span></div>
<div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">:: I wish for Holiness.</span><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;"> </span></i></span></div>
<div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;"> :: I wish for delight in small things and joy in big things</span></i></span></div>
<div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">:: I wish for her pain to be allowed. I do not want her to hurt, but when she does, I want her aching to be FELT instead of being brushed over or dismissed.</span><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;"> </span></i></span></div>
<div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">:: I wish for a drawing near to Grace and the Throne upon which it sits.</span><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;"> </span></i></span></div>
<div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">:: I wish for might. not power or fame or glory, but might.</span><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;"> </span></i></span></div>
<div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">:: I wish for laughter (have you heard this child laugh? music.)</span></i></span></div>
<div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">:: I wish for Kleenex and ice cream and shoulders and companions and light and Glory abundant.</span><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;"> </span></i></span></div>
<div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">:: I wish for LIFE.</span></i></span></div>
<div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;"><br /></span></i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">happy second birthday, my beautiful girl. </span></i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">I love you. </span></i></span></div>
Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05927558035256871985noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8842811545737336269.post-83655778062855667542014-09-14T20:38:00.000-05:002014-09-14T20:38:30.186-05:00drop your coat<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFZkGqDcrnsXSVZ7mNV-HqBNGIaWuZiohnBfjLGPVMfbGjhL_2c_Wtqe77geJLJjxDZrrGSJHXNctR5IOrX8MJuJUsgMDMrChWlT_tRMtoeG-f3KAw5N88FN3EKMD3npVXevX5wDzobmo/s1600/4f48df128a119481f668b1be73d82d34.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFZkGqDcrnsXSVZ7mNV-HqBNGIaWuZiohnBfjLGPVMfbGjhL_2c_Wtqe77geJLJjxDZrrGSJHXNctR5IOrX8MJuJUsgMDMrChWlT_tRMtoeG-f3KAw5N88FN3EKMD3npVXevX5wDzobmo/s1600/4f48df128a119481f668b1be73d82d34.jpg" height="400" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">{via <a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/418764465321754367/">pinterest</a>}</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
dear you,<br />
<br />
you wanderer through the Valley of the Shadow<br />
<i><b>drop your coat.</b></i><br />
<br />
you who haven't figured out how to process the change or the ache or the new or the rejection<br />
<i><b>drop your coat.</b></i><br />
<br />
you who are finding yourself in the season of "no" or the season of leaving or the season of lots of taking and very very little giving back<br />
<i><b>drop your coat. </b></i><br />
<i><b><br /></b></i>
<i><b>// </b></i><br />
<i><b><br /></b></i>
do you know what that looks like, to drop your coat and leave it there?<br />
<br />
there is unspoken courtesy, ingrained in us from the very beginning. you do not just drop your bag, your coat, your shoes on the floor. not in another's house, not even in your own house. you pick it up. you find the hook or drawer or little nook. you hang it up. tidy, organized, everything appropriately tucked away.<br />
<br />
even when the fabric is so heavy that it almost seems unbearable, this idea of crossing another twelve steps to the closet. even when the smile is pasted on, and the "let me take your coat" feels falsely cloying because you would just rather not lean into the pity (even though it's nothing more than your host being polite).<br />
<br />
so I want to tell you something. I want you to look me in the eye.<br />
<br />
I want you to rest. drop your coat. right there, in the hallway. shoes too. kick them off. let them thud against the wall.<br />
<br />
I want you to find freedom. leave it there, on the floor, in a crumpled pile of soft fabric and silken lining. leave it there.<br />
<br />
because it's not just a coat, is it, love? it's grief and heaviness and weight and confusion and a lack of knowing which direction to step next. and there may not be answers there between the hardwood slats. but there is a solid surface on which to rest. and sometimes that works better than answers. at least for now.<br />
<br />
so drop your coat. leave it there. the world won't end while it lays on the hardwood.<br />
<br />
dust washes off. you can use my machine.<br />
<br />Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05927558035256871985noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8842811545737336269.post-61527023469864406882014-08-28T13:52:00.000-05:002014-08-28T13:52:19.908-05:00the blessing of more<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8rvdN3TU2PZwX4otdXr4hT57hQY8ancJzDbi4sJnXjp83A465dUfOt2sNa4ewWTbG0Tjy3OahftlX7fSpcsiQZdCAu3vi3WV3hNue6Fde_RgDo8FgwhmY_gXuavi5nhAyY8BX5xNhqoo/s1600/ce8ef913744f9d0713e470947edeceb4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8rvdN3TU2PZwX4otdXr4hT57hQY8ancJzDbi4sJnXjp83A465dUfOt2sNa4ewWTbG0Tjy3OahftlX7fSpcsiQZdCAu3vi3WV3hNue6Fde_RgDo8FgwhmY_gXuavi5nhAyY8BX5xNhqoo/s1600/ce8ef913744f9d0713e470947edeceb4.jpg" height="400" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">{via <a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/86975836528505264/">pinterest</a>}</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
"can you show me the sign?"<br />
<br />
my own words hit me in the face as I asked my toddler daughter to recreate the ASL word for "more," tapping her tiny fingertips against one another. she was asking for another cracker, another drink of water. we've been teaching her these simple little signs since she was barely old enough to hold up her head on her own. and now here, as we approach the second year of her life in a matter of weeks, she still knows every gesture.<br />
<br />
<i>please. thank you. milk. <b>more. </b></i><br />
<i><b><br /></b></i>
that last one still takes my breath away.<br />
let me tell you why.<br />
<br />
::<br />
<br />
I remember seeing her, sitting casually on a too-tall barstool, her tattoos clearly visible, her blonde hair fresh with pink and purple streaks. she looked like a vision of everything I wanted to be. there was about fifteen of us gathered around her, listening to her speak over us.<br />
<br />
her words caught me off-guard.<br />
<br />
<i>I want you all to see me as more than just the founder, more than your coach, more than a published author. I want you to see me as more than just that. see me as me, okay? </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
the concept was so foreign. it didn't feel right. surely she misspoke. because how could any of us do that? she was all these amazing things, this powerhouse badass of a woman who had come up gasping from grief + destruction + hardship. she was a phoenix. how could I see her as "just her"? that was a disservice to her greatness.<br />
<br />
wasn't it?<br />
<br />
and this thing of her -- <i style="font-weight: bold;">just her </i>-- being more. I didn't understand it.<br />
<br />
except then I sat down on the couch with her and looked into her eyes.<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>// how are you? </i><br />
<i>// how are you? </i><br />
<i>// how are <b>you</b>?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
and then it started to click.<br />
<br />
::<br />
<br />
"can you show me the sign?"<br />
<br />
that simple little phrase knocked me back. as I watched my daughter's baby fingers form that word in the chaos of my lunchtime kitchen, I found myself breathing a blessing over her.<br />
<i><br /></i>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>you are more, Daughter of Eve. </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>you are allowed to ask for more</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>and that <b>more </b>is you. </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>you are Lion-breathed, filled with wild Holy breath from the lungs of the Most High</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>what more does anyone need but </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>just simply you? </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>dwell in your muchness, your more-ness. </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>oh my daughter, accept the blessing of more. </i></div>
Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05927558035256871985noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8842811545737336269.post-66828712834923140852014-08-22T14:27:00.001-05:002014-08-22T14:27:13.195-05:00for when there aren't many words left {#Furgeson} <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTnpsxKVPEIdFKLJB0Ain6Dng6C3UCsqB7ILzt8hZFcsXwJvgz9cKL-azDqprZ7Cj9_GKL_l_Nr_iVlRs5d7f_tJlM38mvRf5bhhaCjY-NsFvW8iiKgxgtq4LDqufaE-3KvHTdB3kCQ2Q/s1600/ae0a46ef0c039cc8050095e191a61bed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTnpsxKVPEIdFKLJB0Ain6Dng6C3UCsqB7ILzt8hZFcsXwJvgz9cKL-azDqprZ7Cj9_GKL_l_Nr_iVlRs5d7f_tJlM38mvRf5bhhaCjY-NsFvW8iiKgxgtq4LDqufaE-3KvHTdB3kCQ2Q/s1600/ae0a46ef0c039cc8050095e191a61bed.jpg" height="400" width="245" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">{via <a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/66217056994885620/">pinterest</a>}</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
as far as Ferguson goes, I've been silent. <div>
I mean that as literally as you can get. nothing on social media. not my Facebook or my Twitter or my Instagram or my blog. nothing. period. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
silence. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
and that, for me, is odd. there are very few social issues that leave me at a loss for words. this one, however, has done exactly that. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I am at a loss for words. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
let me be very clear here :: I have not been silent because I am white. I have not been silent because I have an unpopular opinion. I have not been silent because I am afraid. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I have been silent because it has been one of those moments where you are confronted with something so overwhelming that it leaves nothing behind. there have been so many amazing words shared already. {you can find a couple fantastic and powerfully gentle posts <a href="http://prestonyancey.com/blog/2014/8/22">here</a> and <a href="http://eloranicole.com/blog/clenched">here</a>.} there have been arguments on both sides, strong words flung and feet planted into the dirt. the Internet is good at controversy, after all. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
what could I possibly say? wouldn't I only be adding to the noise?</div>
<div>
because let's be honest :: there's been a lot of noise. madness. tumult. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
all I can do is pray. </div>
<div>
and that's pretty much exactly what I'm going to do here. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
:: </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<i>oh God. </i></div>
<div>
<i>bring peace. </i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>oh Lord,</i></div>
<div>
<i>bring comfort. </i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>oh Jesus. oh sweet Jesus. </i></div>
<div>
<i>bring clarity. </i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>Spirit of the living God,</i></div>
<div>
<i>fall fresh. </i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>oh Lion, </i></div>
<div>
<i>breathe. </i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>oh mighty Father, </i></div>
<div>
<i>sustain. </i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>selah. selah. selah. </i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05927558035256871985noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8842811545737336269.post-60444834280810016482014-08-18T13:38:00.001-05:002014-08-18T19:23:50.242-05:00the one where I talk about sex {again}<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNv7ZKD9gBdSXogQeRzRhU8fC-mu0VsPtr0EfNq5Z4OGUV63Rne20GQAXmTUMy5GSUTmSjNttA2XjnOskL1NXgpda3SWwTjmyWqp5BC31WMvH4q3S3MeCQWIDrQWhY9B0t9JOVw43KGYQ/s1600/77b33c84a859b3c76017e7c89a761500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNv7ZKD9gBdSXogQeRzRhU8fC-mu0VsPtr0EfNq5Z4OGUV63Rne20GQAXmTUMy5GSUTmSjNttA2XjnOskL1NXgpda3SWwTjmyWqp5BC31WMvH4q3S3MeCQWIDrQWhY9B0t9JOVw43KGYQ/s1600/77b33c84a859b3c76017e7c89a761500.jpg" height="400" width="341" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">{via <a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/134896951313799821/">pinterest</a>}</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
let's talk about sex.<br />
I'm serious.<br />
<br />
it's everywhere.<br />
I'm serious about that too.<br />
<br />
but you know something else?<br />
it's also a really big secret.<br />
{especially in church}<br />
<br />
I grew up in a world where gateway drugs weren't seven-leafed plants held rolled and drooping between teenage fingers. it was the fingers themselves that were the problem. because if skin touched skin, that was the start of a slippery slope...<br />
<br />
...a slope that led to bodies and skin and nakedness and words that were alluded to, but rarely spoken aloud. just in case there was someone listening. and the idea of it being mentioned in church? never. just in case God might overhear.<br />
<br />
we talked about purity, of course. about guarded hearts and the mystery of a man with a woman and the way it should be for marriage. but what, exactly, should be for marriage? we were never sure. not really.<br />
<br />
it was all a mystery. until churches and white dresses and rings slipped onto sweaty fingers and hotel rooms where the door shut with a heavy thump...<br />
<br />
...and then it was still a mystery.<br />
<br />
because it was a secret until that minute, except that everyone seemed to have forgotten the "sex kitten" potion that was to transform a blushing new bride and a nervously fidgeting groom into ravenous sexual creatures. they forgot about what happened when the door closed and we stood there with shuffling feet and the acute awareness that there was nakedness under our clothes.<br />
<br />
this is the part where I am supposed to present a solution.<br />
the only one I have is for us to talk.<br />
<br />
we have to stop making little words that start with "p" and "v" and "s" into dirty unrepeatables that linger like forbidden fruit squashed into pulp on tongues. we have to find that line and realize that it's written in the dirt, not carved into rock.<br />
<br />
we need to talk.<br />
with words, not euphemisms and "when you're married, you'll understand."<br />
<br />
because it doesn't work that way.<br />
<br />
we need to talk.<br />
about sex.<br />
about penises and vaginas and hormones and sex. hear me say it. sex.<br />
<br />
because the most important thing is a heart.<br />
not a hymen.Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05927558035256871985noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8842811545737336269.post-30554007676125400382014-08-08T00:01:00.001-05:002014-10-27T11:53:44.914-05:00broken benches<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgHUExFfQTLBegHaDEzw5I8Zl-MO3PHKRmyFfTWH5NjcMRDI0w2A6A7MYxbnBm2Z4TnDABRuufhUIY7I0KyYWftN8V55muGIHV5itAekUWJT5NGKlbcsSTEtgNoRKDh0dF7dBNzykGxyw/s1600/IMG_3012.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgHUExFfQTLBegHaDEzw5I8Zl-MO3PHKRmyFfTWH5NjcMRDI0w2A6A7MYxbnBm2Z4TnDABRuufhUIY7I0KyYWftN8V55muGIHV5itAekUWJT5NGKlbcsSTEtgNoRKDh0dF7dBNzykGxyw/s1600/IMG_3012.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">{photo taken via VSCOCam :: by Rachel Haas}</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
writing is hard when you're writing. <br />
you become a broken bench, in a way.<br />
<br />
there are slats falling down<br />
side<br />
ways.<br />
you're still a bench.<br />
but there are holes and sitting<br />
<br />
<br />
it's complicated.<br />
<br />
writing a book is hard, period.<br />
it's one of those things where you could jump up and down and pat your head and rub your tummy and walk across hot coals to bring back rubies clutched in your teeth<br />
<br />
...and it would still be easier than getting those words down.<br />
and yet we do it because we <i style="font-weight: bold;">are it. </i><br />
we are writers who write things.<br />
<br />
writers who don't write things are benches made of fog.<br />
you can see us<br />
we just go away when you breathe a little too hard.<br />
<br />
writing is complicated<br />
with a lot of parts and pieces and bits and bobs<br />
and upside down handstands.<br />
and coffee.<br />
<br />
and you can feel like a broken bench.<br />
but you're still a bench.<br />
when people fall on you, their hands connect with solid wood and scrappy frame.<br />
you're plucky, you are.<br />
<br />
they can rest there.<br />
because broken benches are still benches.<br />
<br />Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05927558035256871985noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8842811545737336269.post-16670396408841479952014-08-06T10:00:00.000-05:002014-08-06T10:00:01.069-05:00"somewhere between water and sky" by Elora Ramirez :: cover reveal <div class="MsoNormal">
oh my loves. today I am so excited to be doing something new. something wonderful. something exciting. </div>
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today I am honoured to be part of the cover reveal process for my beloved friend, mentor, and Story Coach Elora's new book :: <i>Somewhere Between Water and Sky. </i></div>
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<i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijPXl8JgBn0jwcvJzpvhyphenhypheneMoauJETNaR7x3w41kJkluuokhZ5zggnnexEvj5lkn6phPYD5ocLeAQi0FoM10mNW3_5z8lKSp9layQW1XqzSEY0hd8z7JC3G0Faf2PfGtFQJ5ED9T0ox0qo/s1600/SBWaS+AmazonGRSW.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijPXl8JgBn0jwcvJzpvhyphenhypheneMoauJETNaR7x3w41kJkluuokhZ5zggnnexEvj5lkn6phPYD5ocLeAQi0FoM10mNW3_5z8lKSp9layQW1XqzSEY0hd8z7JC3G0Faf2PfGtFQJ5ED9T0ox0qo/s1600/SBWaS+AmazonGRSW.jpg" height="400" width="265" /></a></i></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit;">Title: <i>Somewhere Between Water and Sky <o:p></o:p></i></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Author: </b>Elora
Ramirez<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Release Date: </b>September
18<sup>th</sup><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Cover Artist: </b>Sarah
Hansen of Okay Creations<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>About <i>Somewhere
Between Water and Sky :: </i></b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I heard it said once that every human is a story with skin. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">If this is true, paragraphs would be etched in the scars on
my wrists. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Whole chapters could be written about the way my heart
pounds when I startle awake.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">And every single one of my tears could fill a book.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">But stories, with all their promise, only leave room for
disappointment. I don’t have room for that anymore. I left it all—the hope, the
love, the promise—back in my old life with the ghosts I’d rather forget: Jude.
Emma. Pacey.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Kevin.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">This is how I dare to move forward and to believe in a new
beginning. I let go of the old. I just grab the new and run. I don’t wait
around anymore. I can’t.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Waiting leaves room for the voices. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Somewhere between water and sky, I'll find a way to burn
these voices to the ground.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>{<a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/22024059-somewhere-between-water-sky?from_search=true">Add on Goodreads</a>}</b><b><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLi2kbGsQzaaV0whccizIWKB1uMBU_sYXhMyBV321xphDrm72ogHzmwVLSY01eU2J-fD14nFxVIH971AUo1WZoFKwtVFzixUn7FlLZ9r7aG5uURP_tMASk8Nuey1FSgv103ynfobmPisU/s1600/SBWaS+Full+wrap.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLi2kbGsQzaaV0whccizIWKB1uMBU_sYXhMyBV321xphDrm72ogHzmwVLSY01eU2J-fD14nFxVIH971AUo1WZoFKwtVFzixUn7FlLZ9r7aG5uURP_tMASk8Nuey1FSgv103ynfobmPisU/s1600/SBWaS+Full+wrap.jpg" height="452" width="640" /></a></span></b></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit;">Exclusive Excerpt: <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I heard it said once that every human is a story with skin. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">If this is true, paragraphs would be etched in the scars on
my wrists. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Whole chapters could be written about the way my heart
pounds when I startle awake.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">And every single one of my tears could fill a book.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I watch the people sitting around me on the bus. The single
mother with two rowdy toddlers, the older couple on vacation with cameras
strapped to their necks, the boy rapping beats under his breath and writing in
a journal—all of them breathe into this poetry of life. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Normally, I’d want to know their stories. I’d wait for hints
of who they were inside, the poetic shifts that make us human. Now I just
watch. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The boy rapping pauses with his hand in mid air and thinks
for a minute. Breaking into a smile, he nods vigorously and lowers his hand to
his paper. I frown. I used to have a piece of that poetry inside. It’s just all
a little broken now. I don’t know how to fix the one thing that used to put me
back together. The poems still come; I just don’t know what to do with them
anymore. If I’m feeling particularly brave, I’ll attempt to scratch them into a
journal. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Usually, I just write them with my finger on my jeans. No
one needs to read them anyway. Besides, I can’t hold on to them for very long.
The silence is on fire and the sentences and scenes that used to extinguish those
flames do nothing but fan it hotter and brighter. I’m a new person here—no one
knows anything about me. All of my journals are in various trash cans around
the city. I fill one up and then throw it away, shedding the skin and finding
someone new underneath every single time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">This is how I dare to move forward and believe in a new
beginning. I let go of the old. I just grab the new and run. I don’t wait
around anymore. I can’t.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Like clockwork<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">the words disappear at
dusk<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">empty cans filled up <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">like dust.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Rapper boy looks back up and catches me watching him and
then offers a shy smile. My fingers pause their lines and curl in to the
protection of my hand. I flip my lips upward into a quick grin and then look
away before he can strike up a conversation.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I don’t want to know his story. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> Stories, with all of
their promise, only leave room for disappointment. I don’t have room for that
anymore. I left it all—the hope, the love, the promise—back in my old life with
the ghosts I’d rather forget: Jude. Emma. Pacey.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Kevin.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Something like grief catches in my throat and a small burst
of air escapes through my parted lips. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I miss him. I miss him and I can’t miss him. If I give into
these feelings…this emptiness…I shake my head and wipe the stray tear on my
cheek. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">This is ridiculous. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Reaching into my bag, I pull out my phone. One missed call
shows itself on the screen and I frown. No one has my number. I swipe the
screen open and scroll through until I notice UNKNOWN NUMBER in red font. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Red like blood.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I shudder.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">After the life I’ve lived, I’m nothing if not over-dramatic.
It’s whatever. I feel I’ve earned it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">With a few more quick swipes, I delete the notification and
sigh the misgiving away. There’s no voicemail, and so there’s nothing to worry
about yet. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">No harm, no foul. No one knows your number. No one knows
your number.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I’ve learned different but I’m choosing another way of
living. I repeat these phrases in my head, tapping the rhythm of the words on
my knee.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit;">About the Author:<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEc84yIemulxMTCT3zQvrSbmStJZx9dNNbXzRsn6PCb30-348AtK6ayJ-CzW5vmLoWToF7kaLVbRFYRGKnc5RcbQr4KPhLVIpUVGehFJ-ztjRlhDnddjAe6yDuVhyxnh0R5BSR376kKZY/s1600/1555334_10153643110030004_531682707_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEc84yIemulxMTCT3zQvrSbmStJZx9dNNbXzRsn6PCb30-348AtK6ayJ-CzW5vmLoWToF7kaLVbRFYRGKnc5RcbQr4KPhLVIpUVGehFJ-ztjRlhDnddjAe6yDuVhyxnh0R5BSR376kKZY/s1600/1555334_10153643110030004_531682707_n.jpg" height="313" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Elora Ramirez lives in Austin, Texas with her
chef-husband. At the age of four, she taught herself how to read and write,
cutting her teeth on books like Dr. Seuss and writing anywhere she could find
the space--including her Fisher Price kitchen set, the pages of picture books
and Highlights Magazine. Since then, she's grown to love the way words feel as
they swell within her bones. Writing holy and broken is her calling, and
pushing back the darkness and pursuing beauty through story is her purpose. She
embraces the power of story and teaches women from all parts of the world how
to embrace theirs. She has a knack of calling things out , the truth and the
detail, the subversive threads that make a life a story. She loves hip-hop,
wishes she lived by the beach and cannot write without copious amounts of
coffee, chocolate, music, and her husband's lavender liqueur. </span><b><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://eloranicole.com/">Blog</a> | <a href="http://www.facebook.com/eloranicolewrites">Facebook</a> | <a href="http://twitter.com/eloranicole">Twitter</a> | <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5786742.Elora_Nicole_Ramirez?from_search=true">Author
Goodreads</a></span><o:p></o:p></div>
Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05927558035256871985noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8842811545737336269.post-70793931761766205372014-07-25T19:34:00.005-05:002014-07-25T19:34:57.113-05:00krispie treats + grief I'm grieving.<br />
<br />
which conversely means that I'm in the kitchen a lot.<br />
<br />
it's a thing I've always done. cooking is a sign of the placement of my emotional barometer. when I'm feeling things strongly, I bake and cook until the kitchen overflows and counters brim with goodness.<br />
<br />
my grandmother is standing on the edge between earth's shallow pale and the glittering Holiness that is Aslan's Country. and she's ready to make the leap. and so we wait, wait for the appointed time.<br />
<br />
I don't like to talk about grief. I really don't.<br />
so I'll talk about Rice Krispie treats instead.<br />
<br />
I'll talk about the way I stirred the melting marshmallows and butter together without thinking, a groove into which I fell so easily. <i><b>because that's grief.</b></i> it happens without thinking. it just comes and falls heavy and you find yourself doing the dance without understanding the steps. you just do.<br />
<br />
I'll talk about the way I usually don't butter the pan, but this time, I did. <i><b>because that's grief.</b></i> you can't predict how you'll handle it, or if it'll be the same as it was last time or next time or the times before and after. when you find yourself bowing against it, you grieve your way. not his way or her way or your mother's way. you pour out in your own stream. no one else's.<br />
<br />
I'll talk about the way I flung butter with my fingertips instead of neatly with a spatula. normally, cooking is tidy intricacies for me. little steps by little steps. but this time, it was just a little sloppy. a little haphazard. <i><b>because that's grief.</b></i> it's not tidy or ordained. we can try to make it that way, but it really isn't. it's greasy and slippery and creeps up your elbows and clings to everything it touches.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDahOaAstD-Rq8AoEw7_d4_iH-ihGwo4D2vn5U0_CfGBeuNo5ZihZoL6zMB7sPv5JOZuRGdZwzSYAmTJYXM1H3EmT7RQlnRaSj4V1sIWAEchToM9zUzJKPu8E5Jq15xsYtjRANH_mB5OU/s1600/dbf7f2c63ccd9bb5bcdcf1730d377b7f.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDahOaAstD-Rq8AoEw7_d4_iH-ihGwo4D2vn5U0_CfGBeuNo5ZihZoL6zMB7sPv5JOZuRGdZwzSYAmTJYXM1H3EmT7RQlnRaSj4V1sIWAEchToM9zUzJKPu8E5Jq15xsYtjRANH_mB5OU/s1600/dbf7f2c63ccd9bb5bcdcf1730d377b7f.jpg" height="400" width="278" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">{via <a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/127086020706419993/">pinterest</a>}</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I'll talk about the way I burned my hand on the still-too-hot mixture of cereal and vanilla-aroma'd sticky goodness that poured from pot to pan.<i> because that, that is grief</i>. it hurts. even if you don't want it to, even if it was an accident and you would just rather not hurt at all no oh god no not even a little please...<br />
<br />
grief hurts.<br />
<br />
and I'll talk about the way it fell into the pan and filled in all the gaps. the way I used my hands, again, slathered in butter over the knuckles and over the little pale crease where my wedding ring normally sits. <i><b>because that's grief.</b></i> sometimes you just have to let yourself be buried in it, just a little, where you can still see yourself through the thin sheer coating that slips over your life. your hands are still there. just covered.<br />
<br />
and then I'll tell you about the promise of deliciousness. I'll tell you about the way it seeps into my body through my tastebuds and fills me up with the knowledge that soon there will be treats. soon there will be sweetness. but there was burning and slathering and mixing and aching and weeping so that this particular pan of Rice Krispie treats might have a tinge of salt mixed in among the goodness.<br />
<br />
because I know the ending. and oh, it hurts so bad that everything burns. but there is a promise. a whisper of what it will taste like when the door opens and I see it all, so clear and plain.<br />
<br />
<i>oh death, where is thy sting?</i><br />
<i>oh grave, where then is thy victory? </i>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05927558035256871985noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8842811545737336269.post-4130293697883025782014-07-13T14:01:00.000-05:002014-07-13T14:01:16.161-05:00peeling<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCNv9-1rO6PVJiVq_WXp10LryVr_n8dQcdgZOx3mD6bmnkWrDAYEsDVIkskzoB2RnGP3HvfKvVybjJ8KI_-JeHLyuU81hvPwXinSoGSoXPxwfxHNUnbLA9sUSw69CPAlnZEDch8b0Fd6M/s1600/712caa69bed095a9a677dd06a69269d0.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCNv9-1rO6PVJiVq_WXp10LryVr_n8dQcdgZOx3mD6bmnkWrDAYEsDVIkskzoB2RnGP3HvfKvVybjJ8KI_-JeHLyuU81hvPwXinSoGSoXPxwfxHNUnbLA9sUSw69CPAlnZEDch8b0Fd6M/s1600/712caa69bed095a9a677dd06a69269d0.jpg" height="400" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">{via <a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/104919866291376623/">pinterest</a>}</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I.<br />
<br />
I'm peeling.<br />
<br />
it's because of the beach. the water reflecting the sun back onto my paler-than-pale skin that has forever been my bane. that night was pain with only cold water and aloe for soothing.<br />
<br />
the pain has traded out for peeling.<br />
fresh skin. the roughness turning into something smooth.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
:: :: </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
II. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I'm peeling. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
it's because of the journey. the reflection of the water filling the eyes of my sisters as they grasped my hands and whispered words over things that have forever been my bane. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<i>sage, </i>she called me, and something inside me fought hard. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<i>you remind me of Maya Angelou</i>, another whispered, and I started to crack. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<i>Mother Earth, </i>breathed another, and the first layer crinkled up like paint in the sun. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
:: :: </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
III. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I'm peeling. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
its because of the words. the reflection of myself, shadowy, in the screen of the computer. the peeling is one of those things you can't predict. there is no magic formula. you might slather yourself in protection.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRsm-jh_m1MRiycFEz6PaGN9krtf5pOI9dBqe2FzOzXTbsod5YMTW95uo6afug389J0w2A2NAnpl1tp-ODEfJun47959KzTTCqvd9SQTWU6GxKPWsa8G_lg3cZucYr3Oo1Mxc5MHdOin8/s1600/securedownload.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRsm-jh_m1MRiycFEz6PaGN9krtf5pOI9dBqe2FzOzXTbsod5YMTW95uo6afug389J0w2A2NAnpl1tp-ODEfJun47959KzTTCqvd9SQTWU6GxKPWsa8G_lg3cZucYr3Oo1Mxc5MHdOin8/s1600/securedownload.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a>and this is where the metaphor breaks. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
because :: </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
on your physical skin, it's the best idea. stay safe. stay alive. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
but sunscreen on your soul is smothering. certain death. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
curling close to the fire, reaching your fingers up. and sometimes the rough layer gets burned off. and then you ache. because oh God, please no more, it hurts. even the laying down on the ground and burying yourself into the ashes // it hurts. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
and then you peel. and the first layer falls to the ground like snow, a shedding of the outer dragon layer into a heap of scales alongside the pool. and it burns a little, but that burn reminds you that you're alive and new and big things are springing out of your very pores. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
because peeling. </div>
<br />Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05927558035256871985noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8842811545737336269.post-23840246017012395662014-06-26T11:38:00.001-05:002014-06-26T11:38:30.069-05:00faucets and keys <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXtbYbXlsaZvlL3eDGoWhZl0eetRTaOSU3ghSjLnvTUacUOpwgsMX0x2oR-rbO5k2rtYIEO7w_XxhkPJuuKgu_g8hVfHrchRZGAlcxnnS6wLoo5v3fecnbO9YnsYdfO4pxB9D5kkH0Cmo/s1600/577d7014448dbb27f3442f43c852532a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXtbYbXlsaZvlL3eDGoWhZl0eetRTaOSU3ghSjLnvTUacUOpwgsMX0x2oR-rbO5k2rtYIEO7w_XxhkPJuuKgu_g8hVfHrchRZGAlcxnnS6wLoo5v3fecnbO9YnsYdfO4pxB9D5kkH0Cmo/s1600/577d7014448dbb27f3442f43c852532a.jpg" height="400" width="265" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">{via <a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/266416134181638367/">pinterest</a>}</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
this past weekend, I drank out of the faucet in my bathroom.<br />
<br />
I was in a new place. the kitchen was unfamiliar, the cabinets not mine to paw through. the faces and voices that surrounded me were familiar, members of an online community that had seen the darkest parts of me for the past year.<br />
<br />
but the house wasn't mine and the faces were real-life. they weren't profile pictures anymore. these were flesh and blood women standing around me, calling my name and smiling at me. I was so thirsty -- the plane ride had been long and turbulent, leaving the flight staff unable to bring us any sort of beverage.<br />
<br />
but I was too nervous to ask where the glasses were kept.<br />
<br />
and so that night, during one of the sessions, I slipped away from the center of the group and made my way to the bathroom. I bent my head to the side and drank deeply of the water pouring from the sink faucet. my lips were still damp when I returned.<br />
<br />
:: ::<br />
<br />
I told them the next day. we were talking about fear, about insecurities, about who we <i>were. </i>about what we <i>needed. </i>and I told them that, yesterday, I needed water. a basic need required for life. it wasn't chocolate or wine or even a towel to dry my hair. but I was too afraid to ask my sisters for a drink. and so I drank from the faucet.<br />
<br />
they laughed at the story. we all did, really. but it wasn't the mocking laughter that accompanies something foolish. it was a pure opposite. it was the laugh of love. the kind that comes when understanding and community and love merge into a familial glow between women who had never before been in the same room.<br />
<br />
::<br />
<br />
I took four copies of my manuscript with me to Austin. three in my suitcase, one in my purse. I studied those words on the front :: <i>Portals of Water and Wine, by R.L. Haas. </i>when I got to Texas, it took me hours before I could hand the first copy to the first pair of waiting hands. the night we wrote lies on index cards and threw them onto literal flames, it was all I could do to not run to my room for a manuscript to burn with the "rest of the lies."<br />
<br />
that was another lie.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUdZMAPW55PSKAWHkfTFHMYeRk6WzuILvsY0jTtkHB-NOCSo0vIc4tvGARH5JYwV9lXIw5JBgtsSMfIrCv8djj3mJtzHyzNnayPM-vmqxOkKSTNIXTrkLMW-s0CGiodTNXcTn62yRjfio/s1600/10422541_10152941334083642_1280492008192104286_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUdZMAPW55PSKAWHkfTFHMYeRk6WzuILvsY0jTtkHB-NOCSo0vIc4tvGARH5JYwV9lXIw5JBgtsSMfIrCv8djj3mJtzHyzNnayPM-vmqxOkKSTNIXTrkLMW-s0CGiodTNXcTn62yRjfio/s1600/10422541_10152941334083642_1280492008192104286_n.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">{photo by me, via instagram}</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
because they all took it, pulled it against their chests with smiles. "I<i>'ve been waiting for this," </i>they told me. and I believed them.<br />
<br />
<i>"we see you. He sees you." </i><br />
<br />
because we had been talking about dropping keys instead of building cages. they were dropping keys at my feet. I found myself unlocking my lips for the ability to ask. I slid the little metal fixture into the lock and swung open the door of "your words are good."<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
::<br />
<br />
the day we left, someone brought me a glass of water. I didn't even have to ask. but I could have, if I needed a drink.<br />
<br />
if I was thirsty.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>{I spent the weekend in "pop-up, 3-D" community with my Story Sisters in Austin, Texas. it was beyond words. and you know what? it was exactly the same as it has been online. the only difference was the face-to-face. there is room for you in our circle. not on the outside, but right here, next to me. <a href="http://www.thestorysessions.com/subscribe/">join us? we are waiting for you.</a>}</i></div>
Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05927558035256871985noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8842811545737336269.post-89364502160514088362014-06-09T14:47:00.000-05:002014-10-27T11:53:29.352-05:00I'm no John Green. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh14YdebhAvuC2XhNH5MOSnJATH2Dg3VKMx-C_HaDKsfk4chyphenhyphenQxVw62E2kwh-XIKiLruWhRAilhPvWurPp-cT3CdB-W4umQsBrMxL6YMZD2bLxApg0NQmZFFoQ0FiMlYLZGKPscKfnq5gE/s1600/10330221_10152835002893642_3077090301313135262_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh14YdebhAvuC2XhNH5MOSnJATH2Dg3VKMx-C_HaDKsfk4chyphenhyphenQxVw62E2kwh-XIKiLruWhRAilhPvWurPp-cT3CdB-W4umQsBrMxL6YMZD2bLxApg0NQmZFFoQ0FiMlYLZGKPscKfnq5gE/s1600/10330221_10152835002893642_3077090301313135262_n.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
as you might have gathered, I'm writing a book. I've been quiet about it here for no other reason than because my words have been channeled in a different direction.<br />
<br />
sometimes it feels more like I'm throwing words at a page hoping some will stick. even more often than that, I find myself sobbing my way through yet another John Green novel and wondering, <i>why can't I write like this? </i><br />
<br />
{in case you're curious, comparison is a bitch. steer clear, loves}<br />
<br />
I've been trying to figure this book out. I've spent hours pouring over the <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/seller-account/mm-summary-page.html?ie=UTF8&ld=AZFooterSelfPublish&topic=200260520">FAQs for indie publishing on Kindle</a>. see, the big dream is to be picked up by a publisher. to have someone read your words and fall in love with the characters and the worlds you've invented. but that isn't the only road.<br />
<br />
and so I'm in the process of becoming an indie author. just writing those words is terrifying. in the best possible way.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
when you're a writer, terrifying is what you sign up for. when you're a writer, don't expect little things. because if you do, you will get little things. if you walk in with your eyes open and your fingers twisted in that half-prayer, half-nerves kind of way, you're going to get big things. </div>
<br />
even if they aren't the big things you imagined.<br />
<br />
sometimes I sit back and I laugh at the very thought of what I've undertaken. I understand that moment when Gideon stared into the eyes of the Son of the Most High from the bottom of a fear-stained threshing-floor and said, <i>me? but I'm no one. I'm the least of the least. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
except I'm not. I'm sitting at my computer, wielding words that have turned into holiness by mistake. this wild magical book, this tale of portals and spilled blood and triumph and a song that breathes magic back into drained-dry bodies. and I'm realizing more and more that I am writing the essential story.<br />
<br />
I'm no John Green.<br />
<br />
and that is the very best thing.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>{this book is closer than you think. did you know it has a <a href="https://www.facebook.com/portalsofwaterandwinebook">fan page on Facebook</a>? find me there!}</i></div>
Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05927558035256871985noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8842811545737336269.post-22033244655276597332014-05-25T12:04:00.001-05:002014-05-25T12:04:36.243-05:00dear Focus on the Family, Fantine was a prostitute. <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHIu-VyWLh6JCoUObFKEyaHthVy2d99M5J2uWhMLmIbyMd11BHG8N5p2rI15obRBUWfPwH23WWteGBTe4l9JS-B4xzaWN1_uVJdWW3-F017nxNeahUDzzzMnxJYq8DE7cjzew0APczQ8M/s1600/85515897815783f19d9dc7987c5b5589.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHIu-VyWLh6JCoUObFKEyaHthVy2d99M5J2uWhMLmIbyMd11BHG8N5p2rI15obRBUWfPwH23WWteGBTe4l9JS-B4xzaWN1_uVJdWW3-F017nxNeahUDzzzMnxJYq8DE7cjzew0APczQ8M/s1600/85515897815783f19d9dc7987c5b5589.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">{via <a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/344736546447646184/">pinterest</a>}</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
dear Focus on the Family,<br />
<br />
I want to ask you about shame. I want to ask you about the way you dug your hands into a big pail of soapy water and scrubbed away at the dirt that is humanity.<br />
<br />
and then I will press the play button on that ancient cassette player and let you listen to the words you wrote down on a piece of paper and handed to a woman to read as she voiced the role of Fatine in your radio drama recording of <i>Les Miserables. </i><br />
<br />
and then I want to ask you more about Fantine. they called her a prostitute in that alley and she was appalled. you could hear it in her voice, the way she spit the last syllable of her accused profession. "I am not a prostitute," she snaps.<br />
<br />
except she was. and you changed it.<br />
<br />
did you think you were doing her a favor, tidying her up and making her presentable for the hordes of Christian listeners that would be gathering around their listening devices with their children and their grandparents. did you want to make it easy for them not to answer questions from inquiring little mouths :: <i>daddy, what's a prostitute? </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
but really, you did Fatine a disservice. and in the process, you did us all one, too.<br />
<br />
Van Jean saves her, gathers her fever-riddled body into his arms, vows to tend to her little girl. the story is beautiful, yes. <b><i>but it was beautiful the way it was. in fact, it was better before you changed this important detail. </i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
she is worthy of saving because of her humanity. does supposed morality make her worthy somehow? does her profession of sex worker make her less allowable? or does it make you uncomfortable? that idea that Jean Val Jean, Prisoner 24601, gathers into his arms the body of a woman who has slept with countless men for the money they press into her palm -- does it make you clear your throat and side-step the issue?<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhUU1Ft_LwVb_P8lwqpQ3AAPfn_zB_HwBFvXfG5kObeeMgYUC02c-1j_rfmqms7dKqha126eZVNM0kEqfWSqX0IvEUh0lV8fMbt5dnpF64NDSYAcV-FIP9QsbIRE88-GmKsnxUGQaWhbk/s1600/461782063b374ee1fd0898f17e4ec84b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhUU1Ft_LwVb_P8lwqpQ3AAPfn_zB_HwBFvXfG5kObeeMgYUC02c-1j_rfmqms7dKqha126eZVNM0kEqfWSqX0IvEUh0lV8fMbt5dnpF64NDSYAcV-FIP9QsbIRE88-GmKsnxUGQaWhbk/s1600/461782063b374ee1fd0898f17e4ec84b.jpg" height="400" width="286" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">{via <a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/472596554617035680/">pinterest</a>}</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
obviously it does. because you took it away. you made her fragile and moral, a newly made virginal woman with a child from long-repented sin, caught in the wrong place at the wrong time.<br />
<i><br /></i>
what then do you do with this Man, Jesus, as he reached out his hands to the naked woman flung into the dirt with pointed fingers from Pharisees? will you scrub her clean, too, until she is covered from neck to toes with a cloak and pretend no one knows what's underneath?<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><b>to love another person is to see the face of God. </b></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">{les miserables}</span></i></div>
<br />
because when you take away Fantine being a prostitute, you take away the Gospel-glory that clings to the edges of everything. you take away the holy breathing of the One who speaks Life over the gory and the broken and the smelly and the base. He takes the sh***y and pitches His tent there.<br />
<br />
so, Focus on the Family, Fantine was a prostitute.<br />
and the glory in that is immeasurable.<br />
<br />
<br />Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05927558035256871985noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8842811545737336269.post-45195742278427362112014-05-08T17:52:00.000-05:002014-10-27T11:53:14.807-05:00what writing a book looks like<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiojy6xTYZBQ3WylmQYTe32VViGTVYDZUVDr3_LktgCF-rFukMTKb986MKlE61KZV1-mKvBzUzgp2lJ7NoIBs5vYe81UZz_00-49eE0qg0BLRrfP_D-7rEkEC6F1CXfC1zh2xVdjFc4qbU/s1600/10177231_10152821702593642_3782191037616336143_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiojy6xTYZBQ3WylmQYTe32VViGTVYDZUVDr3_LktgCF-rFukMTKb986MKlE61KZV1-mKvBzUzgp2lJ7NoIBs5vYe81UZz_00-49eE0qg0BLRrfP_D-7rEkEC6F1CXfC1zh2xVdjFc4qbU/s1600/10177231_10152821702593642_3782191037616336143_n.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">{what writing a book looks like to me}</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I want to tell you what writing a book looks like.<br />
<br />
<div>
it's not all log cabins and ocean waves and sand beneath your toes. it's not all pens and notebooks stacked romantically haphazardly perfect. it's not all quiet moments and hot tea and moments curled into corners of coffee shops with that perfect smooth music playing. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
sometimes it's crammed between moving boxes and un-hung paintings laid in piles against half-painted walls. sometimes it's tables brimming with unfolded laundry and half-drunk soda cans. sometimes the soundtrack is less Spotify and more barking dogs and fighting cats and toddlers who just won't take a nap. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
writing a book isn't just for the perfect. if it was, there would be no books. because books can be born in the tidy and the neat, but that isn't the only way. their spawning ground is not specific, not confined to optimum temperature and light and ground softly fertilized with coffee grounds and old tea bags. </div>
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there is only one piece of magic advice that will cause a book to grow :: you have to write it. </div>
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you have to find that slow flow, the one that comes at two in the morning when the house is quiet and the dog is snoring and you can hear the buzzing sound the television makes. you have to find the words that come strange and awkward and sometimes feel like mucking out the stables of giant horses. you have to let them come to the surface and float between piles of homework and a slow-burning candle that sometimes sizzles when sweat and tears drop on the flame. </div>
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<i>if you love writing—and you have to love it to write a book—you hustle and you cry through the late nights and you don't get any sleep and then you sleep too much </i></div>
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<i>but you keep going because you love it. </i></div>
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<i>it's the words—not time—that brings you back to the page.</i></div>
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<div style="text-align: right;">
<i>:: <a href="http://eloranicole.com/">elora nicole</a></i></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsM5A1xlQu3EwAY58QRdPZO9nd_vOBpS9zp15BugdhEiyNNdF-1CfMfTExEk0i7NmGYhwfQGCFdzoB4kmwl22YVjiQ_BzkcJWUcCVWqHkBMwYAEN8YlZjAS-BtvemLNEcEZCpr5QxlUm0/s1600/10294428_10154074087905004_84961941067892462_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsM5A1xlQu3EwAY58QRdPZO9nd_vOBpS9zp15BugdhEiyNNdF-1CfMfTExEk0i7NmGYhwfQGCFdzoB4kmwl22YVjiQ_BzkcJWUcCVWqHkBMwYAEN8YlZjAS-BtvemLNEcEZCpr5QxlUm0/s1600/10294428_10154074087905004_84961941067892462_n.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">{what writing a book looks like to <a href="http://eloranicole.com/">elora</a>}</td></tr>
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I want to tell you what writing a book looks like. </div>
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it looks like that fallen dead tree on the beach, digging thick marks into the sand. it looks like no stone unturned, finding words hidden between diapers and electric bills. it looks like lighting a candle and pressing your forehead to carpet or stone or ceramic tile while you breathe in the story that fell on the floor in a puddle that looks more like a portal to another dimension instead of spilled milk. </div>
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it looks like holy holy holy in the dead of night. it whispers like suitcases and cardboard boxes and Sharpie markers for labeling. </div>
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I want to tell you what writing a book looks like. </div>
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it looks like where you are. it looks like who you are.</div>
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<i>{show me what writing a book looks like to you. use the hashtag #whatwritingabooklookslike :: which was invented by my dear friend <a href="http://prestonyancey.com/">Preston Yancey</a> :: on Instagram. I want to see you.} </i></div>
Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05927558035256871985noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8842811545737336269.post-27589412204899178192014-04-28T23:10:00.003-05:002014-04-28T23:10:55.885-05:00when I was one of the X-Men<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRuGErAziMGJfOk_IDejcEsj_Dv53R8cUYoIiiA7DyULW376GYm7ukLRuvFrlVZUHWa7z8cQKTp7mX9zuJMXZ7ap2vJNab9PfpvxTYooyqgvdSFPDOLfhyYarp5uQpk80n1Jf951D6CY4/s1600/5dedd2c77dffa2e445c10ccc9ece84db.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRuGErAziMGJfOk_IDejcEsj_Dv53R8cUYoIiiA7DyULW376GYm7ukLRuvFrlVZUHWa7z8cQKTp7mX9zuJMXZ7ap2vJNab9PfpvxTYooyqgvdSFPDOLfhyYarp5uQpk80n1Jf951D6CY4/s1600/5dedd2c77dffa2e445c10ccc9ece84db.jpg" height="265" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">{photo via <a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/117797346476001601/">pinterest</a>}</td></tr>
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we were given lessons in how to touch. I wouldn't think it was real unless I had experienced it myself, first hand, sitting shoulder to shoulder and toe to back with my peers. there were big smiles as they demonstrated on the stage, one boy and one girl.<br />
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<i>always from the side. never from the front. girls have breasts. don't cause a brother to stumble. arms around the shoulder, quick squeeze. </i><br />
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we called it "nacho"-ing, a playful turn of phrase coined from the lauding of the "non-committal side hug." we were being taught how to stay pure. we were being taught how to protect our brothers from stumbling, from being ruled by that strange thing behind the zipper of their jeans. we were proud of ourselves.<br />
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my body was dangerous. I had to be careful. we all knew that. we were dangerous beings, with our shapely hips and our growing breasts that might press into a boy's chest and send impure thoughts racing though him like poison.<br />
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I was one of the X-Men. my name was Rogue. to touch me was to die.<br />
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because I was a girl. and girls were poison, except to our one-day husbands.<br />
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I'm going to let you in on a secret. <b><i>it didn't protect me. it did the exact opposite. </i></b><br />
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it taught me that I was dangerous. it taught me that my body was a cactus. all I could do was hurt, all I could was destroy. it taught me to hate me.<br />
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this same dangerous theology creeps through the ranks of the youth groups and the purity conventions. raps and songs and t-shirts and seminars abound. we grip the hearts of those girls, sitting shoulder to shoulder and toe to back with their peers, and whisper, <i>you are in charge of his mind. you are in charge of protection. <b>you are the problem. </b></i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHENO-O0XSnzD8xH-0w1Ehvh-yVUMgKbk0QG4vWZ8sgW3j0Ld1qLIBl7JphlmOgnXWaHfofqujne5h2p3j0oH2KUFJsgDEk2rjzdzFQmojl1Dl6uaRfBTKsKq8Wnv8Mte7kQ4AwgT2d1A/s1600/261_26154008641_7806_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHENO-O0XSnzD8xH-0w1Ehvh-yVUMgKbk0QG4vWZ8sgW3j0Ld1qLIBl7JphlmOgnXWaHfofqujne5h2p3j0oH2KUFJsgDEk2rjzdzFQmojl1Dl6uaRfBTKsKq8Wnv8Mte7kQ4AwgT2d1A/s1600/261_26154008641_7806_n.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
who put us in charge of stripping them down until they keep their arms crossed across their chests and their heads down with shoulders bent to hide that they are women, God-made and Heaven-adored? where is the mandate to shake the least of these, the little ones, until all their worth comes dropping out the bottom like gold doubloons down the storm-drain?<br />
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we are resisting innocence in our chase for purity. we are hanging stones instead of breaking them to gravel.<br />
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I remember the first time I hugged the man that would become my husband. I mean, really hugged him. I had just returned from a summer in South America, long weeks of sleepless nights and experiences that filled me with wonder. and there was my boyfriend, standing on the curb beside my parents' van, smiling. I didn't think. I hugged him, hard. from the front. and I can promise you this :: the thoughts in our head were not about breasts or penises or sex or impurity or stumbling blocks.<br />
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we were embracing.<br />
that was all.Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05927558035256871985noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8842811545737336269.post-69568140175531183042014-04-26T13:37:00.004-05:002014-10-27T11:52:57.023-05:00the silent-growing green<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEUkVUrGaU6hP1RoIBWUVpsxU6ZjjEHdWnZ3B88rKGoaZ3wmTiU0u3_kE8g5CYQ9u0g0jEVYAgJOTXtSRYQy4TKn-ruqPPcc9i-WwGE5tmu03vM-h3nZOaeqpEgSpJ3BXTI0HWt6CQgD0/s1600/1424513_10152789523718642_8170040773920214199_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEUkVUrGaU6hP1RoIBWUVpsxU6ZjjEHdWnZ3B88rKGoaZ3wmTiU0u3_kE8g5CYQ9u0g0jEVYAgJOTXtSRYQy4TKn-ruqPPcc9i-WwGE5tmu03vM-h3nZOaeqpEgSpJ3BXTI0HWt6CQgD0/s1600/1424513_10152789523718642_8170040773920214199_n.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
today I cracked eggs into a bowl and blended them with milk and garlic powder and hand-cracked black pepper from my own little grinder. the jagged little lines on the edge of the broken eggshells are as tidy as I've been lately.<br />
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expected sharp edges.<br />
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today I climbed on my hands and knees under my art table set up kitty-corner from the washer and the drier and picked up little pieces of torn cloth and ripped paper and matchsticks and little boxes of laundry detergent. the mess is where I've been at lately.<br />
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it felt good to tidy it up.<br />
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sometimes i think we get lost, as writers. we find a goal and pound toward it, head down and jaw set. at least, that's how it is for me.<br />
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and it's so easy to get lost in the words and the ever-rising word count and let my own story get lost completely in the haze. my fictional self is the kind that delves deeply into worlds made from scratch. and when I sink my fingers in, I let the story ooze all around and fill in all the spaces that aren't made from flesh and bone and blood and skin and family ties. that's how it works in my head.<br />
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other spaces become quieter. I used to think it was me dropping the ball, letting my blog fall slack. now I realize that it's an expectant hush.<br />
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a friend of mine asked the other day, <i>is it okay if I still write books even if my blog has quieted down? </i>the answers were resounding. <b><i>do you. yes. oh yes. </i></b><br />
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I wasn't the one that asked the original question. but I've been asking it for a long time. and I've been getting lost in this story of mine. I couldn't help but wonder, <i>is this a bad thing? to turn my focus toward my book and my family and let my internet voice fade a little bit? </i><br />
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there are writers that fill the internet, voice after voice after ringing chiming voice. they seem to be doing all the things, filling up pages upon pages of books and tending to their little wild ones and loving their spouses and writing blog posts on the regular.<br />
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but they aren't me, are they? and they aren't you.<br />
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I talk about the wave a lot. that wave that separates Earth from Aslan's County, the one that crests and hides and then dips just enough for a sneak peak of what is to come. and sometimes I feel like I'm surfing that glorious wave. I can taste the salt.<br />
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I'm writing my book. still plodding on, adding pages and paragraphs, watching the word-count go up and feeling the excited prickle as things fall into place in the story that my dreams wove and my mind is baking from scratch like a new muffin recipe. I have no idea how it's going to turn out in the end. but I know that I can bake, and I know that it smells amazing.<br />
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so I'm on that wave. and yes, this place has fallen quiet, waiting in eagerness for the next wave to come. there are nights I sit in the darkness of my house at my desk with my candle flickering and the aroma of incense filling my nose as I compose just one more set of a thousand words. and I'm basking in the holy ground that is this particular kind of creation.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWWfU20p_oA250TDs_ewtxklDhv8CywvH3eDfKx28SOs-uRFVGzhFiU4jwpXfAjk-VwNvvV_R_cQbq-X5tcES1SyLPQDEaQnHzIiOl9Ae1HaZN4CueHpZuHQKBrxMJRY14VzfBynUyxP4/s1600/1395686730.053410.8.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWWfU20p_oA250TDs_ewtxklDhv8CywvH3eDfKx28SOs-uRFVGzhFiU4jwpXfAjk-VwNvvV_R_cQbq-X5tcES1SyLPQDEaQnHzIiOl9Ae1HaZN4CueHpZuHQKBrxMJRY14VzfBynUyxP4/s1600/1395686730.053410.8.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a>:: ::<br />
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today I went outside in my bare feet with grass between my toes to scrape away dead leaves and sticks and growing maple seed trees away from the roots of my hearty little rose bush.<br />
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it felt good to see the silent-growing green.<br />
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and that's where I'm at right now. I'm cresting a wave and catching just a glimpse of what lies on the other side. I'm feeling Holy Ground at my feet and my sides and my back. it's glorious, loves. and it's so frightening and so new and there are days when I cry a lot and swear that I cannot do this.<br />
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but then I get back up and I feel that salt water splash in my face. and I <i>know. </i>this is my place. this is my calling, where the God who sees me has shifted Heaven and Earth to place me. He shed precious crimson blood to dye a thread to hang in this window.<br />
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<b><i>here is where I want you. </i></b><br />
<b><i>come dwell here. come write here.</i></b><br />
<b><i>with Me. </i></b><br />
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keep your eyes open for the silent-growing green.Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05927558035256871985noreply@blogger.com3