twenty-three :: the year of shedding

{photo by dramaticelegance}

it's six'o'clock in the morning. being awake at this hour wasn't exactly my plan today. after all, it's my birthday. but there is something about this year :: this twenty-third year. it cries to be remembered. there's something impending, something important about this year. and i have no idea what it is.

// this is the year of shedding. 

i haven't seen a sunrise in such a long time. i treasure my sleeping. it's a very rare commodity in this house, what with a sweet small one who sets the time clocks with her precious voice. but this morning, i'm awake at six'o'clock. and i'm more than alright with this change of plans.

i've written a lot about thrashing in the past couple weeks :: this concept of letting go of answers and letting questions become acceptable, of having no idea what i'm doing...and it being okay. it's this flailing thing, dipping my arms to the elbow in the paint. it's that trying to dance, the learning, the splashing. and it might be more ridiculously awkward than i care to envision at this point.

i'm learning more about God than i ever did from my fundamental seat. i finding myself more undone by Him than ever before. i'm feeling like i've had a blindfold on, and i'm lifting it up, one inch at a time, and letting the Light in.

it's releasing my inner selkie soul. selkies are seals, magical and ocean-dwelling, emerging from the sea to be all woman, wild and beautiful. and that's what this twenty-third year will be for me. it's an emerging, a releasing. i'm reaching in deep and drawing my wild out. this time last year, i was holding a week-old baby girl in my arms, too overwhelmed and too afraid to mess anything up for any sort of awakening. i was where i needed to be.

{via pinterest}

and now i'm still where i need to be. it's all new and fresh, a one year old daughter curled into the curve of my arm, and my shoes left far behind on the path. it's holy ground, this venturing, even if i have no idea just how holy this space might be.

part of me is still sitting in grief from the loss of my grandmother on Saturday. my soul is still kneeling, sitting in a quiet shiva. but there is that low Voice in my ear ::

grief is great. only you and I know it yet.
let us be good to one another. 

and i feel the breath on my neck, and i know that twenty-three will be a year to remember. i am selkie girl in a year of shedding. and He still holds me there. not safe but good. He's been there for twenty-three years, curled at my back. i don't think He's going to stop now.

i'm right by the window.
and oh, this sunrise...it's luminous.

a question :: selah cottage

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today is the birthday of my dearheart soul-sister, Beth. she's having a giveaway over at her place for her precious art awakening e-course, MADE, which begins in four days. my own heart cannot bear the excitement of stepping beside amazing artist-souls and merging in community with them. but there, at her place, she asked a question.

:: what question has been pressing on your heart lately?

we closed on our new home on Monday.

we got in the car after the papers were signed and i cried. i still don't know why. there was a lot of emotion in this entire process, more than i could ever hope to sort out into the neat little piles most prefer when it comes to feelings. i'm okay in my jumble right now.

in the jumble, there comes questions. beautiful, wild, frightening questions that i honestly don't know how to answer. but there is one that comes up and holds my hand, nestles in the crook of my neck and whispers softly,

what are you going to do with what you've been given? 

i've been handed a precious gift. a new space, wide and untouched yet by our hands. we've smeared paint on the walls, covering over the cracks and spaces left by previous owners, changing pale blue and white to dark purple and slate grey. we've carried in cardboard boxes with hand-scrawled words like cookbooks and fragile and DVDs and placed them in each room where they belong.

i've been given a canvas of wood and stone and cement and plaster. now what am i going to do with this space i have been given? it comes back to that word i chose for 2013, before i knew what was coming, before i knew the way this road would feel beneath my feet.

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// release //

every year i pick a word. and every year it changes me, powerfully, in a sweeping strange way that i can only equate to fingers dipped into paint and spread wide to change the very depths of my soul, as though a wall needed repainting. 

and so i'm packing up each thing i own, shaking off the old dust and leaving in this place. i don't want to take it with me to this new place. what am i going to do with what i've been given?

i'm going to release the old. i'm going to smear the new on my canvas, dipped straight from my soul. i'm hanging the portrait of the Dawn Treader on the bedroom wall and whispering close, Aslan, Aslan, Aslan...

we named our new home selah cottage :: the little home of peace. and that's what i want to find there. i want to reach out my hands, open and waiting, and let the Peace beyond all i can know rain down and fill me up. i'm laying down art here. i'm making an altar, a monument to Glory, in the selah of my new space. 

i'm being made new. 

You make me new

You are making me new

You make beautiful things out of us. 

{beautiful things :: gungor}

safe and sound

have you ever reached into the fire for gold with dross pouring over your fingers
as it burns away flesh and earth and leave behind sacred?

have you ever dared to take a flower petal in your fingers to study the lines

the ones that spell life and sun and Light and little things?

{via pinterest}

these are the things we forget to remember. that Light erases darkness and flower veins spell mystery, that value is found where money is missing and silent touch is often more important than too many words? 

don't you dare look out your window, darling

everything's on fire

 the war outside our door keeps raging on

 hold onto this lullaby

 even when the music's gone

// safe and sound :: the civil wars //

it's about seeking Him where He may be found, in all sacred corners that are most often forgotten. because if He wrote in the dust, why can't i?

 it's about holding on to music when everything burns, and all that's left is you and Him and the lion's song, ringing clear in the night, crying

see, I am doing a new thing.

all things are made new, dearheart. 

i'm spinning in these dustmotes, cape in hand and candle in the other. 

i'm closing my eyes and leaping into crystal pools. it's His country i seek. i'm safe and sound, drowning in His glory. 

the first

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i can hardly believe that today is the first of December.

each time a new month comes around, i sit back and ponder where i've come from, and where i'm going. december is the month that draws the most contemplation, the deepest inhales, the quietest dwellings.

it's my favourite, if i'm being the most honest.

because it's the start of the end, after all.

there's a freshness in realizing that we're so close to crossing our toes from one full year to a brand-new empty canvas.

this artist embraces that, swims in the paint that could become 2012, if i let it free.

december holds much. we start the anticipation today. children tug sleeves with knitted mittens and squeal

Christmas is coming

there is an innocence with december, a newness even though the year is crammed to brimming behind our backs. it's like the closet door that slowly swings closed on the year, cluttered or organized, because the door must close eventually. there are new ones to open, after all.

{via pinterest}

that's what awakens my soul in this twelfth month. the countdown to Christ's coming is made so much more real as we hang small figures or read pages from special books, lighting the candles and murmuring

come quickly, Lord Jesus. 

:: Advent Sundays become Advent everydays :: 

so cue the instrumental music that leaves room for the soul to sing its own words at the close. because that's the best we can do, the greatest gift we can give Him, is to let our souls compose His song.

i'm tossed in Light now. in soul now. i'm sitting with my King, legs dangling over the edge as we speak together in the silence.

we're choosing words, my Jesus and i. we're making our preparations with joy, counting down the moments until the start.

and so with anticipation, we begin the final measures of this two-thousand-and-eleventh symphony. the ending is the prelude, the expectation building toward Glory.

i'm elated to discover now. and forever.

seasons // time

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this is a morning for musings.

a morning for acoustic guitars and indie lyrics that soothe the soul with a caress. 

i feel like i'm sinking more and more into Ecclesiastes

there is a time...a time...

what is this time? 

i know this is the time for new beginnings. the time where earth must die for newness to be born. 

autumn is the fade. winter is the rest. 

unless a seed falls into the ground and dies, it cannot bear much fruit.

i think we forget that. we focus on the brightness and rejoice. but when the fade comes, prelude to the rest, we groan. 

but there is beauty in the fade. beauty in the rest. 

the sun is not going away. it never leaves us. it just takes a moment to slip behind the clouds. the light does not go out, it merely changes for a time.

only for a time. 

do we forget this passing of time? winter is not forever. 

it is not a White Witch curse.  

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it comes and goes. 

it has a time. 

this is why i cannot curse or begrudge any season. each one is a cloak of beauty for this earth in which we dwell, a sign of Love's fingers. 

He died for life. 

a step from Throne to earth. a Life given for life to be made new. there is a time for everything.

He did not stay below the earth. He rose. He returned. He lives still. 

this glorious conundrum that is my Jesus. 

this season is passing. 

this time of autumn is caressing, this time of winter is swift aproaching.

curse not. 

only love. 

there is a time for everything...

growing real.

"The Christian does not think God will love us because we are good, but that God will make us good because He loves us." ~C.S. Lewis


it's a funny thing, this concept of growth.


honestly, it's not what i expected it would be, or what it would feel like. 

it's so much scarier than i ever imagined.

if you've been following me at this blog for any length of time, you will have noticed that i have made a lot of changes in my writing style. the way i express myself has truly molded into truth as time has passed. 

in the beginning, i was never real. i never shared my 

pain

struggles

heartache

i never talked about the hard things.

i wrote what i was sure people wanted to hear. 

what was the popular way to feel? what was the right way to write? what was okay to share? where was the imaginary line in the sand that i dared not cross?

i have only recently begun to let go of my own intense perfectionism. 

this includes writing with much more abandon, less drafting and more living. and honestly, it means letting go of capitalization sometimes and just letting things flow. 

i'm still learning how to let go, how to let the Gardener prune me into His most beautiful creation. growth is a funny thing. 

sometimes, it really hurts. and oh, it's terrifying. 

i have the occasional minor moments of panic after posting something that isn't a ray of sunshine or a post regarding the beauty of daisy petals. 

pray for me.

because more than anything, i want to be changed. 

i want to be clay on His wheel.

i want to become a new thing. 

a fresh thing. a clean thing.

a real thing.

(first post at Eat, Pray, Write this morning. giveaway ends in five days.)

Behold, I will do a new thing, now it shall spring forth; shall you not know it? I will even make a road in the wilderness and rivers in the desert. ~Isaiah 43:19

Linking up with Jen and this beautiful weekly sisterhood.
Soli Deo Gloria