craving space

i am craving my own space.

ever since we lost the dream house, the place in which we are tucked now has seemed to slowly be closing in around me. it's begun to feel smaller than it every had before.

i find myself sitting at the kitchen table with my art, merging paint and canvas with dishes and bank statements. it is not my space, it is collective space but not in a communal artist way. it in shared in a life way, a way that doesn't ever stop but simply moves around me. and sometimes, it feels like it is slowly pushing my artistic spirit down the nearby garbage disposal.

mermaids crave the ocean, the wide and the open, the salty spray and the peace of the selah-crashing waves. i am landlocked, in more ways that one, with the nearest water being bottled and chilling in the fridge.

and maybe that is why i have grieved the loss of this house so deeply, in a way that almost seems like a part of my physical self had fled. it has been a rending, a true exploration into that word that has become far stronger than i could have ever anticipated :: release. 

art has become something powerfully present in my life in recent months, especially as my own faith journey has taken unexpected twists and turns. it's that demolition, as my husband calls it, the breaking down of all i once knew save for the foundation of the Lion to whose shimmering mane i cling. i'm relearning the sacred, finding my soft Psalmist voice again. it's release. 

:: and even in the crush, releasing myself might be part of the grand scheme of the things after all. 

because i'm past the point of being able to find a corner of my own in this tiny little place we currently and i reluctantly call home. though home is where your heart is, and my loves are here. so this is home. i am creating in the midst of our life, where the Light shares between my ink and paper pages and the aromas of home-cooked food and laundry soap.

and so i'm laying out the brushes and opening the journal, a new blank page in the middle of my worship place at the kitchen table. i light a candle and exhale the holiest of God-Light to the tune of stillness in the midst of the household busyness. i'm learning how to find my warrioress self amid the pulsing thrum of vacuums and pasta water boiling.

finding my space which i crave so desperately.
even if it means this mermaid swims {for now} in the kitchen sink.

{linking with dear emily for imperfect prose}

art is for you

{via pinterest}

i remember the first time i saw the ocean. i was a little girl, landlocked from birth, with a swimsuit that matched the ocean and short hair hacked by even younger hands. and my soul inhaled the salty air and murmured,

:: i am home. 

it takes diving into a pool and sinking down to rise up into the place He sang into Life. it takes cresting the ocean's wave to even catch a glimpse of His eternal country. there's something powerful about this idea, that it takes deep immersion until all you can see is the Light hovering on the surface of the water from down below.

we are all soul-creatures, made to be seen, 

created to be tenderly cradled and adored, 

yet we tremble at the thought of it.

love like water :: wild rain

so often i wish i had a mermaid tail tucked away in the closet, shimmering and waiting for me to slip inside and dive into the sea :: to return home, in a way, to a place that i never truly held but always flowed through my fingers.

i think it's part of why i've gone back to being an artist in recent days. it was something i had given up after comparing myself to others who were "better" even though all we were was different. i was seventeen when i put down the brush. all it took was an art teacher's slightly raised eyebrow and the words, maybe art isn't for you. 

all i can do is reflect back on words i've written before :: it's those moments in the dark where we wrap our arms around our knees and kneel within ourselves to the waves of crashing Love that threaten to overwhelm us. it's a tremble, not a cringe. it's a breathing, not a hyperventilation. 

{sketch by alexandria for dramaticelegance}

this is for me. and my mermaid soul is seen by the One who wove kelp into my hair and called my soul to love of depths.

there is a seacove of my own, tucked gently beneath the waves at the edge of Aslan's Country, that place that hums a familiar melody and whispers of one day, forever. there in that place is a set of paintbrushes made from the mane of the Lion who gave it up for me to Live freely. 

it's a metamorphosis of sorts, a shedding of the ugly and the embracing of the mantle of glory.  it's stepping away from the shadows that confines my feminine soul into certain boxes that aren't allowed to stand here because it might not be right. 

it's being brave and letting down my hair. He promised to come to us like rain, and like water does He fill my soul to overflowing. 

and this is where i am :: tucked in my cove surrounded by sisters of soul and ocean, the crash of the ocean and the roar of the Lion harmonizing tender. 

because He promised
art is for you,
My mermaid daughter. 

:: kinsman redeemer

{via pinterest}

i wish i could reach down and smear my fingertips with paint and streak them across your eyes so you can see what i see.

i want to look up and count the stars, the ones tucked away in a sacred place that even my own human eyes cannot find them. the ones that were there the night among the piles of honey-toned barley where a whispered exchange passed between the lips of a man and a once-cursed foreign beauty.

spread your cloak over me, for you are my kinsman redeemer. 

and she slept that night on the threshing floor at the bared feet of a man who swore to save her, joining the ranks of the world-forgotten women that reached up and wept to be seen.

she was third of five, this Moabitess who begged for the covering from her saviour-turned-groom. they all bore the familiar shame, the whispers and pointed fingers. they were stamped with an ugly word, one too quickly spoken still two thousand years down the road. but from their blood, oft murmured "tainted," came the Life-Bringer.

:: the One who spoke to the slave in the wilderness, 

who rested hands on the unclean and whispered

dearest daughter

I knew you would not be long...

{via pinterest}

there's a reason that Lewis wrote so often of the breath of the Lion on the face of those He treasured. the wind from the mouth of the Risen One against the cheek of His bride, the whisper in the night that He is coming to bathe me in Light. i am not forgotten.

the rocks on the seashore, grit and earth and dirt

until they are picked up by the fingers of one who knows

and then they are treasures. 

so i'm finding my own place on the threshing floor, under the stars with the moon as a witness, and speaking to the One who is not safe, but oh, so good

spread Your cloak over me, 

just let me touch the hem

// for You are my kinsman redeemer 

upward gaze ::

{via pinterest}

i've decided to stop looking down

because all that's down there is grass and dirt and my feet and the path less traveled. 

and He's not underground anymore, because He's risen and now sits among the stars. and i'm going to spend my hours in the stars this spring. no more shame with downcast eyes and hesitant steps that aren't exactly sure, that aren't exactly steadfast. 

now that she's back in the atmosphere

with drops of Jupiter in her hair

she acts like summer and walks like rain

reminds me that there's a time for change ::

drops of jupiter // train

people are living on the "even the..." too much these days, while i'm rubbing the eraser over those words until they disintegrate into thin rubber strands on the paper and get brushed away as far as the East is from the West. 

i'm resolving and loving regardless. and that includes loving you in the skin you're in, and looking past sex and race and orientation because those are words but they're are who you are, too. because He didn't stop and pass out checkboxes just to make sure the crowds were lovable before He stretched out His arms and poured out pints and pints of redeeming blood. 

so why do i?

so no more looking at the crowds with pointed fingers, Church-Bride. no more figures where faces should be. see the dove daughters and rainbow hued sons and paint-streaked kings and offbeat queens, just like He did. 

and that means loving you too. it means loving me like i'm worthy of His death and rising and loving and sword to the throat of Hell for me, oh all for me. and for you. and them.

:: amen.

so let it be.

in which we share the road

{via pinterest}

so when your hope's on fire

and you know your desire

don't hold a glass over the flame

don't let your heart grow cold

i will call you by name

i will share your road

:: mumford and sons

it's been a rocking chair morning, the kind where my little one won't stop fussing and wiggling and wants only to be held close to her momma. and so we spent our morning in the rocking chair, back and forth motions with coffee for breakfast. 

and these are the times when i ponder the beauty of community, ironically in the silence and solitude provided between breaths when the little one dreams curled against my shoulder. 

there's something essential about community, that moment where a hand finds another hand and skin on skin whispers i've been there; take heart.

there's a sweetness here, a precious air of understanding that comes from shared experience. it's that candle in the window, that tiny beacon that signals welcome to the wandering heart that hasn't found a place to settle yet. 

{via pinterest}

i've become passionate about encouragement, placing my flag on the mountaintop and reaching down a hand to those struggling in their coming after. this is why i stand and say to those sweet ones climbing hard behind, 

do you know just what you are to Him? 

do you know the world needs someone like you to make it better? 

and i'm still learning, a student at His feet, and we're making plans and laying foundation together. and it's going to be beautiful when it's all done, because it's His blueprints, after all. i'm just the follower who lays the brick and paints the wall with colour streaked in my hair and smudged on my cheek. 

so take heart and reach up, sister warrior, brother braveheart. He'll catch you, and we'll walk in light together. 

may you trust God that you are exactly where you are meant to be.

may today there be peace within.

may you not forget the infinite possibilities that are born of faith.

may you use those gifts that you have received, and pass on the love that has been given to you.

may you be content knowing you are a child of God.

let this presence settle into your bones, and 

allow your soul the freedom to sing, dance, praise and love.

it is there for each and every one of you.

:: St. Teresa of Avila ::

{joining with dear em today; join us?} 

barefooted :: painted one {191-199}

{via pinterest}

there are times when i feel like my life is a painting. strokes on a canvas, some soft and some harsh. like standing back as i watch the artist compose the piece in front of my eyes, unable to see the final product until i touch the shoulder of the concentrating painter, and ask

show me what you see. 

this has been a brushstroke canvas week for me. i've felt peace and war, even at the same time, pressing me inside and outside. this has been a week full of laughter, oh, so much laughter until my eyes streamed and my sides ached for mirth. 

and then there were the moments where the floor and i were companions, fingers curled to my palms as tears coursed their way down my cheeks in unison with the silent sobs where no voice could give way to the

why // why // why?

this is why i love my God. because there was always joy. always eucharisteo found in the midst of the sobs. because of Him. this grace, this promise. 

• 191. His grace which is sufficient. His promises which are never returned void. 

{via pinterest}

• 192. music. that kind that makes you leap and spin and toss your hair until you drown in melody

• 193. blackberry merlot and the company that comes alongside as you sip and laugh and confide and plan and grieve and exchange those knowing looks. 

• 194. raspberry tea and Adele beside the flickering Christmas tree

• 195. this expectation, this anticipation for this coming Salvation. 

• 196. counting down the days like an eager child. we're down to twenty now.

• 197. strawberry Nerds and a tow-headed lad of barely six years giggling, "you're a silly nerd, sister!"

• 198. these brothers and sisters, not by blood but by love.

• 199. the picture of freedom in a day-old baby girl, the symbol of freedom between two freed ones. even her name echos with life: ariadne grace {very holy one with grace}

i have much. i am flooded with His brushstrokes, from head to toe with the soul unforgotten. 

oh, my God holds me close. His arms are sanctuary, His blood is life. 

i cannot rise from this bare-footed hallowed ground. this burning bush of surrender and gratitude and sacred.

barefooted and paint-streaked at His feet. 

{linking with Ann, sharing my gifts as they grow}