the theft of words

you want the truth? I forgot about plagiarism.

I'm not in high school or college anymore. the word stopped being something I heard all the time. but somehow, it was one of those things that slipped away from me.

plagiarism is one of those things that almost seems surreal. it's the concept of taking the work of someone else and putting it out into the world under your name. in the literary world, it's the taking of words. someone else's words, breathed from their spirit, and putting your name on them.

it's theft.

and then it happened today, right in front of my nose. a post made its way around the internet, a good post, one that felt familiar but it felt good also. I shared it, so did others. we commented and ooh'd and ahh'd and tweeted the link to our corner of the internet. and then today, we understood why it felt so familiar.

{photo by Jennifer Upton}

someone else had written it, long before it made its way to this new space. the words we were sharing, they didn't belong to this new voice. they were taken. stolen.

it makes me feel like I'm watching The Little Mermaid. a voice stolen, pulled from a throat and swallowed down into someone else's body. it's a deeply personal destruction. if you take someone's television or their wallet, you're taking a piece of earth. something physical, something replaceable.

when you take someone else's words, you're taking a piece of spirit, a piece of themselves. sometimes, it's not replaceable. the words can be repeated, but there is something deeper taken. it's a guttural, visceral violation.

i don't understand why it's ever done.

****

there's a big lie out there, one that seems to slip in among the writers like poison gas that can kill us while we are completely unaware. it's the lie that you don't have words. it's the lie that you have no story, that you have nothing to say of worth. it's the lie that your words don't exist.

but there's something we've forgotten. there was a Voice in the beginning, speaking words over empty space and watching light and earth and sea and sky and plants and creatures appear from the void. simply through words. His words. His song.

and then, on the sixth day, there came more words: come and let Us make man in Our own image. hands and words joined together, art of a whole different sort began. He spoke, and there was Life.

do you know what that means? do you understand?

{photo by Jennifer Upton}

you are made of words. 

your skin. your soul. your wild parts, your sacred parts, your everyday parts. it's all words. they're waiting, lingering just beneath the surface. you have your own words.

you don't need someone else's words to make you a writer. 

you have a story. it's pulsing beneath the surface. you have thoughts, points, valid observations about the world around you. you have a voice. and maybe it's a little rusty from lack of use. maybe it's a little skittish because of the way you were treated. maybe it's a little soft because you weren't taught how to raise it up.

but it's there.

you don't need someone else's words to make you a writer because you already have your own.

because you already are your own. 

the end of passe love

{photo via dramaticelegance}

i am a voice on the internet.

it is sacrilegious to say that i feel like being as blogger has given me a deeper understanding of John the Baptist? i can identify with the sand and the voice and the wildness, his voice echoing in a wilderness, bouncing off rocks and scrub brush in an effort to reach the ears of those who needed to hear :: the Kingdom is at hand. 

the final result of John's words were a sword that severed his head from his body. bloggers deal with words. it's a different kind of pain. 

i knew that when i wrote this post, and especially this one, that there would be backlash. it's to be expected when you put your heart on the expanse of the internet :: you're not always going to get a gold star. but there are things i didn't expect.

:: i didn't expect to be told that Jesus didn't want me anymore. 

it's culture shock to hear words like that, be it from a stranger's anonymous mouth or from lips that have smiled at you in friendship time and time again. it's hard to wrap your mind around, hard to appear strong when your mouth is opening and closing and your brain is spinning and the tears are coming without permission.

i grew up in a place where the words Jesus loves you was repeated almost without meaning, to the point that it became as parroted as a lunchtime prayer. it had purpose, of course, to comfort and assure and fix the broken hearts that surrounded us. it was almost part of the liturgy :: stand up, sit down, pass the plate, Jesus loves you.

{photo via dramaticelegance}

i wonder when we stopped believing the chant. when did the fact that we are loved become so passe?
when did it become easy to tell the ones that we disagree with that maybe it's good that they're running, that they're scared, that they are turning down torn and battered labels because He didn't really want them anyway. when did that happen?

it's killing me.

i'm not sure when love became synonymous with damnnation within the Church :: to be used with care, only in appropriate situations, but most often directed toward those who are headed toward a path that doesn't "look right."

maybe the path is a little bit darker because His wings are spreading a broader shadow.

i'm over the debates of whether heaven is meeting earth unforseen or sloppy wet. i would so much rather drown in the sea that whispers against the sand, oh, how He loves.

even me.
especially you.

// releasing all over again

{via pinterest}

i used to blog every single day.

before the season of my life when i was pregnant with our daughter, i was hitting publish every single day. and it was less because i was prolific, and more because i had a simple selfish goal in mind: i wanted to be famous.

at the time, i was barely out of my teens {which, if you want to be technical, i'm still barely out of my teens} and was shuffling my way around the youth blogging world. and let's be honest, there are some amazing young bloggers out there who are really putting their voices out there.

and of course, i wanted to be just like them. i've wanted to be a famous writer my entire life, and i suppose i thought, if i can't get a book published, i'll put my blog in the limelight instead.

but i lost myself somewhere in that process. i can remember staring at the laptop nearly sobbing with fear :: i don't know what to say. i'm out of words. but i have to write. 

my pregnancy which started out my 2012 spun me for a much needed loop. and down i came from my self-constructed pedestal , striking a lot of rocks on the way down that rocked me to the very core. my husband calls it the demolition. i call it the dark night of the soul. my wrestling with the Most High.

:: it was here that i started to find my voice.


the poet-king wailed his psalms, his poetic voice. and like David, wrapped in a cave in the side of a mountain, i started to strum my soul's strings and things started to come out. scary things, things that intimated me, things that made me want to shut down and give up.

but something told me not to do it, that maybe there was a purpose in this little internet corner that was about more than being famous, that was about reaching out and smearing warpaint on the cheeks of those who needed to know there was more, that they were more....and that they were seen. 

there is a gush of sacred, an embracing of selah, and the screaming wailing war-cry akin to giving birth. because it's a hard process, and it takes incredible strength. and it's okay to reach out, to take the hand of a soul-doula and press your forehead to hers and let it pour.

maybe it's not about the amount of words i can pound out in the space of a week. because i've started to find my groove, less posting but more writing. my word for 2013 was release, a word that i did not fully understand until these past couple months. a word that has been gripping me by the heart and speaking in the voice of the Lion that i adore

:: let. the eff. go. 
release to Me, you lioness.  
because I promise, I have not failed you yet.

and i've started to exhale, feeling all of me unclench and the surrender coming like a broken dam that brings a lot of tears and a lot of clinging to the One who is counting every single drop. the One who is seeing my awakening and is stroking my hair while i let it all go.

the King of Kings is holding back my hair.

and i'm not done yet, not by a long shot. i'm still working on my book, a dream that i have never given up. i have a brand-new jar of warpaint and a beautiful tribe with their hands on my shoulders.

and i'm ready.

listening ::

{photo property of
and used with permission
by gypsymothsol}

when i was little, there was a poem i used to whisper

:: is anybody listening, listening...

and i said it in little-girl hush, and giggles accompanied each little word as i held my fingers against my lips and whispered. and sometimes i say it in adult groan where there is no one listening, no one seeing me. i mean, i'm here, don't you know that? but no one listens.

and i feel tiny. everyone does sometimes, but in this blogging world, it's hard not to be drowned out by a crushing roar of words that overwhelm and make me feel like my fingers are reaching up for a tiny bit of oxygen and i'm whispering

:: is anybody listening, listening...

but there's something profound about the whisper, even if no one else hears the words that leave your lips. because Lion's ears are acute and they pick up on everything. i swear the little tears that plink against the glass in His hand are the loudest chimes to Him.

and i haven't written a book. but something i wrote earlier this week made a splash and my brokenness was heard, louder than i anticipated. and i'm learning that there is someone listening, just the right someone. it doesn't have to be kings and queens up on the high places, but that tear-stained momma tugging herself to fit the mold that doesn't fit on her like it does on the other "hers" across the street.

and maybe it's just the plink of a tear in the bottle. one little drop.

but i promise
He is listening, listening...

{linking five minutes of uncensored stream of consciousness with the gypsy mama}

patient wait

{via pinterest}

i'm not patient. 


i may seem to have a better grasp on waiting for things that matter


but in truth, i cannot bear this thing of wait. 


it's agonizing, to know something could be and is not yet. to know that what i want cannot yet come to pass. 


to know that His answer is always there. 


but sometimes it is wait. 


i'm learning to discern. to hear. to listen. to recognize His voice and leap like a lamb to His feet. 


but oh, how hard is this thing of wait. 


but when He speaks, it pours like water, like rain on the parched soul. 


it is worth this thing of wait. 


it takes such faith to sit under this rock, in this long-standing shade, with the only goal to hear. oh how i fight myself here. 

{via pinterest}

i despise waiting. 

i want now. this now here now. instant. 




but His will is not mine. why is it not? i have been His for years. why do i still reach out with impatient little girl fingers, stomping my petulant foot with pouted lip and crossed arm.


now, Daddy. now. 

but He knows more. 

and so He touches my cheek and whispers

wait. 

and so i learn to unfold my arms and raise them up.


waiting here. 

we're waiting here for You

with our hands lifted high in praise

and it is You we adore

singing Alleluia 

{christy nockles}

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, including my mother-in-law, 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.}

lamb's ears

{via pintrest}

some of you may know that i'm on a journey.

a journey to find my voice in Him. a journey to seek the sacred.

this week, both of these journeys have met in a merging of roads that caressed my soul in ways i never could have comprehended.

His voice is sacred to me. 

and now we must discuss sheep for a moment.

in the days of Scripture's pen, sheep were kept at night in groups, enclosed within low stone walls and guarded by one shepherd who laid across the doorway to keep all univinted guests from harming the sheep.

and in the morning, the shepherds would come.

and one would stand at the gate.

and he would call. 

and from all those flocks nestled within the stone pen, only a few would step forward. his sheep would come forward. because they knew this voice that spoke to them. this was from their shepherd, their master.

and they followed him with love.

Rachel Lee. little lamb in the meadow.

{via pintrest}

i am a sheep, clustered in the pen with so many others. the voices of the universe, the crush of confinement, and the rush of life has nearly wiped my mental slate clean.

and then He speaks. 

and i know His voice. 

because i belong to Him. and i run to Him, crying Abba Daddy. 

because i am learning to know His sacred voice.

His way is not safe. but He is so good.

and i follow. 

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.}

am

dear self: 

you have to hear me now.

this is what i am not.

because this is what you keep telling me i am. 

knife-point. razor edge. whispered screams that never stop chanting this mantra, as though you are tucked between my earlobe and my throat. 

i'm sick of hearing what i am not. 

your voice is too sweet. too smooth. too easy to take in, this poison pill.

empty. broken.

measured in loss.

worthless to all. 

you have been weighed. measured. found wanting. 

no. one. loves. you.

i hate to break it to you.

but YOU. ARE. WRONG.

because you have failed to take into consideration

the other voice.

the stronger voice.

the gentler voice.

the voice of Love. 

Strong. Beautiful. 

Fixed. Repaired. Adored.

Loved THIS much. {arms outstretched to fit the rugged cross}

I love you. 

Mine. 

your voice will fade to white noise.

you will be one day be forgotten.

it is His voice that will endure 

through eternity. 

Linking up with Emily: imperfect prose on Thursdays
Yes, this now a weekly song for which I wait each week. 

Voice

Freedom has a thousand charms to show,
That slaves, howe'er contented, never know.
~William Cowper

I was recently given a very great compliment by a blogging friend of mine. She commented to me that she loved how I had "found my voice."

It broke my heart and yet gave me such freedom to have to tell her that she was mistaken.

I don't have my voice yet.

Every post is an example of over-analysis...self-deprecation...doubt that allows nothing but perfection to escape into this blogging world.

Or into any part of the world, for that matter.

There is a tiny voice in my head that points out my every flaw...makes me feel guilty for mistakes I have not even made yet...for posting things that might offend my readers.

No, I have not yet found my voice.

Posts like skyeyes and grace alone. are slow steps of bravery.

Slow steps to freedom.

I won't even begin to pretend perfection, as much as I wish I could. Even as I wrote those above posts, my fingers shook at the idea of releasing just broken imperfection to the world at large.

I'm a broken mirror...I don't want my fractured reflection to ruin me.

I don't have my voice yet.

I'm currently undergoing vocal surgery.

I'm under the knife...

...it hurts as each cleansing pass of the blade cuts away more and more of my self-shame and indescribable fear.

He's changing me. He's mending the mirror.

I won't be the same when He's done.

I'll finally have a voice that I will be unashamed to use.

I never want to go back to prison.

To bondage.

To silence.

If I could hear Christ praying for me in the next room, I would not fear a million enemies.  Yet distance makes no difference.  He is praying for me.  ~Robert M. McCheyne