inked and unfolded

{photo by Rachel}

I want to unfold. let nothing in me hold itself closed. 

for where I am closed, I am false. 

I want to be clear in your sight.

:: Rilke 

every time I get a new tattoo, people ask me why. in fact, it's become such a habitual thing that I immediately start to consider my why the second my body touches the artist's table. it's a holy experience for me, stepping from the wide open outdoors into the small shops with needles on the tables and art in its own right covering walls and bodies. 

on Friday, as I leaned back on the table with the leg of my jeans rolled up and the buzzing of the gun in my ears ringing like a holy chant, I could feel the reason, the why flowing through my soul like electricity. 

I get tattoos so that I never forget and so that I can never hide again. especially this one.

I've hit that point in my life where I'm actually willing to be transparent. actually, if I'm honest, I'm less willing to be this open as I am realizing that I am meant to be splayed wide, visible for all to see. 

it's a strange sort of untucking. 

some of it is smooth and easy, the way that skillful hands fold and refold and unfold crinkled paper to form a crane. most is awkward, a dissecting, a flailing akin to the way the fitted sheet pops off the corner of the mattress when tossing and turning and nightmares cling tighter than sleep. it's not as graceful as I'd like you to think, less ornamental and tidy than my carefully placed words might lead you to believe. 

the new words on my skin read simple and smooth :: we are all stories in the end. there's a reason I got these words, this quote from my favourite television show of all time {Doctor Who}. because my life is stories, everything about it and every aspect of me. I have steeped myself in stories, my story

{photo by Rachel}

and her story and our stories all merged together. it's something I can't avoid anymore. it's something that has followed me forever. 

but that's why I get tattoos. that's why I walk again and again into the place thick with the scent of ink and cigarette smoke and something else, something rising like sacred incense from the Holiest Place toward Heaven. it's wafting out through the tear in the curtain. it's a thin place, where the Lion's roar is clearer and His breath smells sweeter still. 

because if it's there, permanent, on my skin, I can never shrug it off and leave it on the side of the road. even when I get scared. 

these marks on my skin, this new one in particular, are my Ebeneezer stone. my place of help, my flesh-guides to remind me that I am called, that I am not hidden. I am unfolding, one smooth piece and one awkward flail at a time. and each of these marks are helping me remember. 

I am clear in Your sight. 

{inspired by a Story Sessions prompt. join us? there's always room for you here with us}

:: gentle, gentle

{via pinterest}

 we are not gentle people. we have very heavy feet, and so often, they find their way to treading heedlessly on the dreams of others.

dreams are gentle things. they are big things, even if their keepers have no idea just how wide their wings might spread. they are delicate things, easily broken if they are not given care. it doesn't take much for careless fiddling to pluck each feather from its place and leave them a pile. and then the dreamer must rebuild, if they ever dare again.

there is sweetness deep inside, a kind of fruit worth savouring but so easy to bruise and destroy if we press too hard. and we are not gentle people.

:: but i want to be. 

i've started to focus on my mouth recently. the way my lips form words, the way they open when i inhale. what comes out with the breath, i wonder?

is it Light, radiant and luminescent, whispering Life into each soul that i encounter. or is it too late because my fingers caught the flame and pinched it dark?

because the seekers are met with sideways glances and the wrestling ones are given a wider berth, and the lonely hearts echo like windchimes in a wasteland, an empty beauty that everyone else is missing. and the whispers come, how dare they? they should know better. 

what you held in your hand, 

{photo property of dramaticelegance}

what you counted and carefully saved, 

all this must go so you know

how desolate the landscape can be

between the regions of kindness. 

{Naomi Shihab Nye}

and i can't help but look at them and quietly weep because i've been there, just where they are. and maybe i still am, a little bit, because my footing is learning these mountain heights, where the other does leap like grace and i'm still white-knuckled. but i look to my left and to my right and see others there. beautiful ones with half-plucked wings wrapped in linen and eyes so full of soul that it takes my breath away.

this is my tribe, my Love-sisters. and we've made a circle of shoes on the ground where we all sit together, this holy sacred place that hums with hints of Lion's song still so alive in the earth. and we plant our seeds, one beside the other, and watch them lift their boughs to the sky and murmur, He-Who-Sees is here. 

and we hold hands and hum familiar notes that shimmer in the new-breathed air from a Lion's mouth, the place where we have all found ourselves. there is water there, for we are deep-living mermaids with transforming souls. there is fire there, soft and warm to comfort shivering souls. and softly, together, we seek His face.

and we are holding hands and whispering together

gentle, gentle 
:: we are brave

kumbaya

{via tumblr}

it's more than three syllables, more than a simple campfire chants with guitars and jean shorts. it's more than that.

:: kumbaya. 
come by here. 

it's the word my soul speaks in the darkness when i'm reaching out into seeming nothingness and i'm empty and the dark night of soul is pressing in tighter and tighter.

:: kumbaya

it's the dance of the soul bathed in light as joy comes bringing in the morning with a laugh and a whisper of better things, beautiful things made new like He promised.

:: kumbaya

it's a silly song, one that every little child can sing by the time they've seen five summers. the words are used to mock, even, those who seem to want to lower weapons and hold hands across enemy lines. but it's more than that.

{via pinterest}

:: kumbaya
oh Lord, come by here. 

it's the rings in the tree, repeated and widened year after year. it's that knitted line in the scarf, threads woven by hand that speak of love when wrapped around neck and palms. it's the sacred footsteps of the seeker who has nothing left, the nomad who wanders the desert to find the spring of water and sits in the shadow of Him that sees.

for I have stood in the presence of the God who sees me.

kumbaya.
a word transforming.

it is come by here, Lord. it's a little girl crying come find me, Daddy. 

and El Roi, the God who sees, Abba Daddy. oh, He comes running.

it's more than a firelight song. it's a heart's burning cry.

it's the breath of our lungs.

::kumbaya::

watching her watching me

{via pinterest}

are you breathing just a little, and calling it life? 

:: mary oliver :: 

it's odd, this thing of breathing. it's the ultimate release, every day a thousand and one seventy, and we don't seem to notice until we suddenly can't catch it anymore. 

and that's what life is. a die-daily, a live freely. 

but sometimes fear takes over and we breathe shallow and live the same way, afraid to put our toes in all the way and get our hair wet and streaked with color. 

there's walking and there's leaping, and there's a way to put a spring in the simple steps. there's a way to live like you're free and not like you're bound. those chains are broken, so stand up straight and dance, why don't you?

i have little eyes that watch me, big blue orbs that follow my every move and light up when i speak. and she sees the way i live. this little life breathes free against my chest every night, grabs my face in chubby fingers and looks deep in ways that only little ones can do. 

{my little seeker, my warrioress in training}
3.5 months 

and she is teaching me freedom to breathe, to squeal at the little things and embrace life. and it's okay to cry heartbroken and not hide behind pursed lips and pressed-together fingers. 

we're dancing in the living room and laughing. and we read the Colour Kittens and she watches my lips with each word. 

that's a reminder to live if there is one. and i'm still unsure, baby steps of my own, living in freedom and light and love and so much grace. 

there is no end to His kingdom, my limitless King. 

releasing here, living here. 

for my little one. 

for me. 

for Him. 

name-seen

{via pinterest}

we are all soul creatures, made to be seen; we are created to be cradled and tenderly adored. 

:: and yet we tremble at the thought of it ::

{the sacred life of rain}

the above passage from the lips of my bohemian sister have been haunting me since i first read them. i knew they were important, i knew they were resonating with me for a reason. 

i just didn't know why. 

but i do now. because now my warrioress spirit is churning up and my fingers and tangled with grief into thick dark curls and i feel like breaking down into two kinds of weeping. 

once for the joy of truth known.

twice for the agonizing grief of truth kept hidden.

dear Christian women of the world, stop. please, please stop. please put down the measuring cups and brush your hands down your aprons for just a moment, tip your heads back, and cry your name to the skies. i dare you. wherever you are, wail those beautiful syllables from earth to Heaven. your name, the one given by parents, the word known before the creation of the earth. 

the one etched in blood and ink on the pierced palms of the One who died for you, too. 

whoever told you that you had to blend into the woodwork, to be a wallflower and wait with lips pressed together in the silence and shadows...oh, sweet sister, they lied to you. 

because you are seen. and He craves to see you. 

did you know that? 

{via pinterest}

did you know that your name is beautiful and that He speaks it with a smile? have you ever been told that His heart sings when He looks down and sees His daughters with open palms raised to the skies and a warrior-beat thudding between their ribs?

the introverts who peer up from swooping bangs and sing in the silence, the extroverts who leap to bare feet and dance up one aisle and down another. you are warrrioress, and you are too, sister. 

the veil was already torn, dearheart. why do you crave to cling to shredded fabric and hide there with your face shrouded and your eyes down to the stones by your feet. 

He is not down, He is up! He is risen, and you are raised to glory. so tip back those beautiful faces and speak that name to the sky. speak for your daughters, those ones who need a hand to guide them down the bravery path just for now. their feathers are still forming, these dove-daughters, and they need a map to follow. and He made it, and you speak it to their little ears. 

this is truth. open, honest, raw, beautiful truth.

you were made to been seen, to be heard, to be known. 

leap in the meadows and roar with your Daddy Lion. cling to His mane and sing His song at the top of your lungs. 

you were made be to loved this much. 

{linking this warrioress soul prompt with rain and emily}

eyes reprised

{via pinterest}

my obsession with eyes is no secret.

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

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

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

don't judge a book by its cover

but then again, do. 

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

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

read me. 

study me. 

just hear me. 

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

you know that, right? 

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

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

they must like it there. 

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

neither then do I condemn you.

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

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

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

come unto Me

heavy-laden child

and I will give you rest. 

sacred seeker

{via pintrest}

i am on a search. 

i am learning this thing called sacredness.

to be honest, i have never understood what it means. not really. 

the dictionary: 

devoted or dedicated to some deity or religious purpose. 

consecrated. 

regarded with reverence.

i grew up in church. in a Christian family with the fear and knowledge of Christ Jesus in my heart and soul. 

i know this word

the concept of sacredness

backwards and forwards

but only on the outside.  

because i never dared to look inside.

and i am almost twenty-one. 

and only just now i have begun the seeking of this internal mystery within external familiarity. 

i think i have forgotten that my Jesus is a gentleman. 

never entering where He is not invited. this God-Man does not carry a battering ram, forcing down my walls. 

this Rabbi is gentle. easy yoked, lightly burdened. it is nail-scared Palm atop clenched little-girl fist, slowing working open fingers with caresses of love and patience. 

stones come down one by one. these petals cannot be torn open. they must be done with care and pain and agonizing slowness at times

but oh, His sacred beauty within.

and so i seek Him. i seek to taste that which is sacred.

fingers gently tangle with the King of Kings. the sovereign One refuses to let this weak child wander alone. 

we take this treasure map together. and walk this path toward eternity. 

slow steps

hand in Hand. 

from now until the beginning of May 2012, i have embarked upon a study: discerning the voice of God by priscilla shirer. i do this in company with a small group of women from our church, led by my dearest mother. 

this walk is new to me, this concept of truly being still and hearing Him speak is familiar but oh so foreign. 

each week, i will be pouring His voice here. 

expect Him here.

 {pray for me.}

Illuminate

I would hurl words into this darkness and wait for an echo, and if an echo sounded, no matter how faintly, I would send other words to tell, to march, to fight, to create a sense of hunger for life that gnaws in us all. ~Richard Wright

There's this thing with writers. It's something I've noticed with almost every blogger, poet, or novelist I have ever had the pleasure of knowing over the years.

We write what we know, not what we see.

When we write, we sit down in front of our computers or take our pens in our fingers, and begin to express everything that our hearts are feeling...that our minds know...that our souls ache to reveal. Every written document in the world has the personal stamp and touch of the writer brushed across it like an invisible watermark.

Recently, I took the time to go back over my blog and read the past fifty-two entries that I have published since May of this year. It was a bit frightening and a bit like revisiting an old friend.

It's similar to the feeling a young woman might get when going back over some old private diary or rereading old unsent love letters. There are sprinklings of amusement, maybe even a flush or two of private embarrassment. However, it also brings with it a fairly large portion of self-reflection and recollection.

The same was true for me. As I went back over my old posts, re-reading my ramblings, I was reminded of how far I have come in the past eight months. So many things have changed, and I will admit, my life is in an entirely different direction than I ever could have anticipated.

And then I sit back and look at what I had written and marvel that God allowed me to see a peak of something so sacred...so marvelous...as a fragment of His plan for my life in the months that have passed and in the years yet to come.

It's like He's given me this "gift" of writing as a sort of illumination to help me see the road He has laid out for me.

Sometimes, it's a flashlight...a broad beam leaving nothing to the imagination.

Other times, it's a flickering candle...a tiny little splash of light cutting through the darkness, just enough for me to follow His footsteps on the path.

But either way, He gave it to me. I just have to keep moving forward...

...upward, inward...

...closer and closer...

I have no way of knowing what the end of 2010 holds for me. Nor do I have even the faintest idea of what 2011 will look like -- where I will go, who I will become...

...all I know is that I have this candle of words in my hand, the King of Kings at my helm, and an incredibly valiant team of warriors on every side.

I'm gonna keep writing what I know instead of trying to write what I see.

I'm gonna make it.

One word at a time.

"In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God...in him was life, and that life was the light of all mankind...the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it." ~John 1:1,4-5