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. 

no more plastic Jesus

i'm sitting on big words.

i have been a lot lately. even since i let myself swing open long-locked doors and start to let the river of Story flow out. and it's refreshing, crashing waves on the bank of my soul. but every time i bend to take a drink, i start to become afraid that i'm going to drown.

i told you all the things i wanted to tell you about my story, big pieces of me that came from years of standing in a place of not understand what it was that i believed. i wrapped myself up in what i thought was the blanket of Christianity, only to find out that it was actually something completely different, and it was suffocating me.

i was disillusioned by a plastic faith. my Jesus was dime-store cheap with a wind-up key in His back. and i was the one with my fingers around the key, watching Him toddle wherever i pointed Him. and in the process, i tied the strings around my wrists and ankles and became a wooden puppet with a hand-sewn faith core. 

when i talked about how i can't call myself a Christian anymore, many people recoiled, as i knew they would. how could i say such a thing? many people applauded because i didn't quite fit that "good Christian girl" look that they were going for, and of course, it would be better if i sat this one out. it proved a thousand points in my heart. it validated everything that i'd been feeling.

because i've watched what the Church has done. in truth, i've done more than watch. i was never a stone-thower. i made a point to never do that. but i held the coats and stood on the sidelines. i never picked up a rock, and that made it okay. i wasn't like that. except that i was.

i can't escape this now

unless You show me how.

 demons // imagine dragons 

and i refused to let myself realize it until my story matched up with the ones that were receiving the beating. and it it echoed like a howl across the wilderness. i melted.


this is what makes me want to tell my story. this is what makes me need to tell my story. it's what makes me stand up and say :: He knows what kind of woman i am. and He is letting me touch Him. 

it's why i've thrown my plastic Jesus into the trash and shut the lid. it's why i've ripped off the blue and white label clinging to my chest, the one with the scribbled Sharpie name that says, please don't touch me, you might get blood on my righteousness, and red is impossible to get out.

i'm sitting on big words. huge words. words that used to be lodged deep in my throat, in a prison that i didn't even know existed. and they're trickling out, becoming a brook, and then a stream, and then a river, bursting over its banks and pooling at my feet and there's a Voice whispering, I am calling to you. jump in. 

and this voice is Raw. Alive. Flesh.
there is nothing plastic about Him.

i'm kneeling there, beside the water, and there's mud and blood and messy wildness covering me from head to toe. and the Lion is there, breathing and real and wilder than He's ever been, crouching at my side. and He's whispering still,

it's not really drowning, lioness
when the Water is alive. 

red-lettered lowercase

{via pinterest}

i went back this morning and searched out the first post i ever wrote here sans capital letters. it was a spur of the moment, unstructured piece called ink of wait that i wrote in august of last year.

and i read that little poem and i cried like i did the day i wrote it, i remember. because oh, i wrote free then.

at the top of the blog of my dear friend, emily, there is a quote. thirteen words.

here is the world. beautiful and terrible things will happen. don't be afraid.

:: frederick beuchner :: 

and that quote grips me in the deep places that only me and Jesus can see. because it's more than just letters, after all. 

it's a fist pounding, a battle cry, a step against. because i am tired of the must-dos that Jesus didn't speak. the way the Church takes every word from their mouths and writes it in red, putting words and confinements into His mouth that taste bitter with sorrow and weigh heavy with impossibility. 

and letters are the first step.

i have turned the words of Mumford and Sons into a worship chant, a far-from-whispered battle march. 

awake my soul

awake my soul

awake my soul

you were made to meet your Maker. 

and that is where i live now. 

living in the red of His blood, and the black and white of truth and mercy. awakening to lowercase letters and unfettered freedom. 

:: releasing.  

word // journey

{via pinterest}

i marvel at how far i've come.

nineteen months of words.

this process has changed me, more than i expected. because i'm not just writing words anymore, composing my own thoughts into sentences strung together with grammar and punctuation.

i've joined a community...could i even say a family? precious ones that inspired and treasure and contemplate and push me upward and onward. fellow artists and soul searchers, those who close their eyes to boundaries and open their hearts to the King.

i never expected this when i first began.

and now, the new year is a mere thirty-three days away. and more words will come.

but God and i are choosing one word in particular for this coming year.

a word for life

for light and for love

for the sake of soul and inhaling the sacred. 

one word for transformation.

before i started reading Mandy's blog, i have never even considered the idea of choosing a word for the year. but as i read more -- this journey of a woman who stepped from existent to artist -- i found my soul being pulled.

it was a tugging at first, perhaps an inkling of whimsy in the idea of choosing a word. because isn't that what it is, i smiled?

and then the tug became a pull. and the pull became a whispered command.

{via pinterest}

:: choose a word with Me :: 

because this was not whimsy. this was mystery. this thing of holding empty hands that so often grip at cluttered nonsense for

more 

more

more

lifting empty palms to Heaven for just one gift. this is radical.

this word is still unknown. my King and i have much to discuss, much to dwell upon, and much to grasp.

i'm expecting change. my journey will be here on this blog, and there in my soul.

i'm following His pull. this still small voice whispering my word to the silence.

my word.

oh, i cannot wait to hear.

words {fifth giveaway}

THIS GIVEAWAY IS NOW CLOSED

for me, November is a month of words. 

my days become measured by word counts and how many cups of coffee i have sipped in an effort to churn just one more scrap of inspiration from my worn author's mind. 

Item No. 1

for so many of us, November is marked by 50,000 words and thirty days of writing the most mismatched, glorious novel that we could ever have envisioned. 

words are a powerful thing. they share. compel. delight. romance. intoxicate. create. i'm in love with the written word. are you?

in this theme of words and beautiful things, November's giveaway is a lovely collection of four stunning items from three generous shops and three wonderful women. 

i cannot truly convey my gratitude toward Blaine {Lori}, happydeliveries {Lori}, and coffeedripsart {Beka} for all they have done to make this giveaway such a beautiful thing, both for each one of you, but for me, as well. Item No. 2 Item No. 1: shabby chic rose locket from Blaine Item No. 2: Eiffel Tower earrings from  Blaine. Item No. 3: 11x17 pewter grey Hellen Keller quote print from happydeliveries Item No. 4: 11 x 11 hand-painted quote artwork from coffeedripsart {here is how to enter to win one of these beautiful items. please leave each entry as a SEPARATE comment, and please leave your blog address or email address in at least one of the comments.} Item No. 3 Life is either a daring adventure or nothing (IMPORTANT NOTE: If you are one of my lovely international readers...i.e. not from the United States...please comment as such in one of your entry comments. This giveaway is certainly open to you, as well, but one of these shops is not an international shipper. Many lovely thanks!) Entry No. 1 (mandatory): what is your favourite word and why? (+1) Entry No. 2 (mandatory): follow this blog and put the new and improved button on your sidebar. (+1) Entry No. 3: blog/tweet/Facebook about the giveaway, and leave a link to your post/tweet/blog post in the comment. (+3, one entry per and one comment per, please) Entry No. 4: visit Blaine and comment with your favourite item from the shop. (+1) Entry No. 5: visit happydeliveries and comment with your favourite item from the shop. (+1) Entry No. 6: follow Beka's blog, leave a comment on one of her posts, and then leave the link to the post in a comment. (+1) Item No. 4 The most important thing is life is to learn how to give out love and to let it come back in. Entry No. 7: purchase an item from one of the shops. {+10 entries per purchase; MUST BE VERIFIED before entries will be accepted} words are precious.  whether you're taking part in NaNoWriMo, or if you're just learning to walk this path of expressing oneself through the written word, never forget just how important words are. they can cut, they can heal  use with care.  never forget to love.  this giveaway closes at midnight CST on November 30th, 2011. winners will be drawn using Random.org and will be announced in the next two days. winners have 48 hours to accept their prizes, or new names will be drawn.

armour // nanowrimo

{via pinterest}

this morning started at 5am. or rather, i wanted it to begin at this early hour.

however, i found myself dozing off instead of beginning my writing adventures.

so i suppose this morning started at 7:30am. i opened my laptop and stared at the blank Microsoft WORD document. then i started to type.

the document is no longer blank. now it is the home for 3,128 words and counting. it's the home for my dreams now.

i'm learning how to turn words into life. i've done this before, you know, but not like this. i've written a 50,000 word novel before. i've done NaNoWriMo twice before. but i'm doing this my way now.

i'm wearing armour this time. 

word armour, i suppose. 

i would rather my critics be paintbrushes that breathe. but i know they'll be cannons instead.

but i have to learn to let their bullets clang against my armour. i know they might dent a bit, might break my heart just a bit.

but it's my work. 

they can't do this for me.

this is one of those things that is between me and the Author of life and a keyboard of twenty-six letters.

these are my dreams in black and white dots and dashes.

i'm turning them into a dreadlocked girl dressed in purple with magic in her eyes.

this is just the start.

{because of NaNoWriMo, i am not going to do an elaborate giveaway winner announcement post. i do hope you will all forgive me. the winners, in order of items 1-4 are Quinn, Jess, Cassie, and Kimberly. congratulations, lovely ladies! please email me with your information with 48 hours to claim your items!} 

writing eucharisteo {152-159}

{via pinterest}

this is my last Monday of rest, in a way.

at least for the next month.

each day comes with its own level of responsibilities, its own little list that softly whispers take care of me, check me off. 


but as of tonight {or rather, tomorrow morning} at 12:00am, i will officially be launching into my third year of NaNoWriMo.

 this will mean i will floundering in word counts, coupled excessive amounts of tea and coffee to keep my tired, wrung-out brain from sputtering to a halt.

this is one more thing on my self-imposed to-do lists. and i bear the slightest fear of burning out.

but i know i won't.

because i have written eucharisteo on my wrist.

 i will weave this thing of gratitude, grace, and joy deep into my soul as i compose each word. i will not grow weary, nor give way to frustration or despair of completing my seemingly daunting goal.

and even in my chaos of daily life and 50,000 words, i will continue to count my ever-growing blessings, one at a time.

• 152. the support of family and the one i love as i embark upon this {perhaps a bit insane} mission

• 153. people in my heart who bear me up as Aaron to Moses, lifting my arms as i grow weary in doing good, never letting my passion drop. 

• 154. the voice of God, clear as knell in my soul. 

• 155. contentment in staying home when i would be rather have been at Relevant11. finding my place, my corner as i wait on Him. 

{via pinterest}

• 156. the cutting comments regarding my most recent post, and being featured on a site that rips apart Christian writings. Matthew 5:11-12 has never rung so deep and true in my soul. i cling to Him alone. 

• 157. trees decked only in orange and red leaves that line the block outside my window. the artist that paints my soul has not ceased her singing. 

• 158. my new affiliation with Shabby Apple. standing for beauty and modesty, and knowing that i am not compromising. this is a blessing beyond words. 

• 159. refreshment for my heart. freedom for my soul. this is Love, dear ones. 

and so i will be writing. i will be finding my moments with the King amid the black and white scratches upon the paper. i will be delving deep with Him this month. November will be beautiful. 

wallpapered from door to window with blessings. 

{linking with Ann today}

{the giveaway has been extended until November 1st to give me some time to balance myself out 

winners will be drawn after midnight and posted on the 2nd, along with November's giveaway}

my own

{via pinterest}

there are plenty of mornings when i have no idea what to write about. it might just be one of the most frustrating things i have ever and will ever encounter in my life.

writing is my life. my pillow is words and my tongue is prose and my clothing is poetry and my blood is ink and inspiration.

and so when it is illusive, i feel as though i am missing. melting. a fog being sieved by the rocks and trees and mountains of this very real thing called life.

i look at this world and think

how can i not write? there is so much here. 


and in my dreams, inspiration comes. in those last moments before slumber overtakes, my mind is full to overflowing with this and that and so so so much richness that comes in the fog of dreaming while awake.

but then i awake, and i have lost it all.

inspiration is less frightening that i wish it was, i think.

 i wish i had a reason to be afraid of knowing this light. because there is power in this light, and it's my calling to bring it here.

His wish. 

share My words, dearheart. 

and it's frightening. because this is big.

i sit, quilts tangled and sunlight streaming. voices calling nonsense from the street below.

{via pinterest}

and i touch the play on my pandora and let the music envelop.

i let the phone ring, and press my best friend's voice to my ear as she spills life and pain and confusion and delights into my waiting soul...because she's good at that for me.

i soak myself in life. 

this melody of inspiration that never stop flowing, the one i just have to reach out and touch.

so i run fingers back through tangled locks

and smile.

i need Your grace

to remind me

to find my own.

{linking with laura -- this playdate with the King} 

shatterglass

{via pinterest}

truth is not always a delicious thing in which to revel.

sometimes truth is harsh. not always in how it is presented, as truth can be laid out in a pattern of love that charms even the sharpest of opposition. but then there are still those who press fingers to ears and hum their childish la-la-la to block out any whisper that might make it past their tight-shut hearts.

and when He speaks and says,

tell My truth. speak this Word. 

and tender obedience follows this whispered command


and the hate comes, the tears can flow and the heart can break.

i pray that is allowed. for it is what i have done, and now i reel in this cold reality that truth is not always sweet to the ear or tender against the heart.

sometimes it cuts, and sometimes it is too much.

and so friends can flee. 

when i wrote this post {a emphatic yes and amen to this treasure by my beautiful friend Sarah}, i spoke what He told me to speak. i wrote His words, not mine. they flowed from my fingers and i pressed "publish" with a sense of trepidation and confidence in what i had just done.

i had obeyed.

and then the flood came.

i began to lose followers. first one, then two. then ten.

i began to receive comments some were rich, laden with power. hurtful ones. sharp-toned emails from women in my life and in this world of blogging. crying out curses on me for the language i used, for the tone i set, and for my lack of pious humility.

did i not want to be a mother? was my "calling" as a wife not enough for me? am i unwilling to stay in the "bounds of Scripture"? where was my silence? my humility? my prudent tact befitting a woman of God?

of course i do. 

of course it is. 

but wife and mother is not the end-all. it is not the end goal for all. some are called to singleness, others to wifehood. some are called to fullness of womb and home, others are handed this task of childlessness.

but that does not mean we are less than one another.

He chose the least of these. the lesser, the outcast.

we all still crave. 

i stand by my original words. and by my King.

i only speak what He speaks.

and this is truth amid the shatterglass. 

S'ensuivre (Follow)

I know I've already posted today. Maybe I need to break this habit of posting more than once a day.

But in all honesty, this topic has been brewing in my mind for quite some time now. And after reading today's post on Jocee's blog, my heart's whisperings have been confirmed.

Blogging is not a popularity contest.

I don't know when the focus shifted from beautiful words and stunning photography...just enough to make you catch your breath and really thing...to the pursuit of comments and high follower counts.

It has stopped becoming a place of elegance, of soul and depth.

It's become high school all over again.

The ones with the most followers are the ones to know, if you're lucky enough for them to cast your gaze over you.

Please understand --  I know I'm generalizing a bit here, as there are so many of you who have the most beautiful hearts that only amplifies your popularity.

I'm not saying that having hundreds of  followers or a high view count is a bad thing. Not at all. It's a very nice thing, I will admit.

But this is my point.

Blogging is not a contest. 

It's not a war to be won, or a status symbol to be proclaimed. 

50 followers or 5,000. 

Since when did it start to matter so much? 

I won't lie and say that it doesn't feel amazing when I see my follower list increasing, or when I read more and more comments flooding a certain post...or that it doesn't sting when my numbers go down, or my page views decrease. 

But I don't understand why. 

I just want to write. I just want to sing. I just want to paint my watercoloured poetry across this tiny corner of canvas I've been given. 

...since when did that become not enough? 

It's about light. 

It's about words.

It's about friendship.

It's about Him. 

Be my friend or don't. Follow me or don't. Read my blog or don't. It's starting not to matter anymore.

But I will be your friend.

Regardless. 

Diary

The life of every man is a diary in which he means to write one story, and writes another; and his humblest hour is when he compares the volume as it is with what he vowed to make it. ~James Barrie

Visiting the library is like stepping into another world. Shelves and stacks of books line the room from ceiling to floor...

...the rich aroma of ink and dusty volumes whisper of worlds yet hidden in bindings of leather and paper...

...but yet, between these seemingly innocent pages, is danger and mistrust and anger.

For these books are more than just words...more than stories...more than records of fiction or fact...these are the thoughts of an author laid bare before our eyes.

Their secrets are no more.

For I have not yet met a writer who was able to strip all hint of personal emotion from their work.

In fact, the thing that makes an author great is their ability to step into the pages and let their hearts do the writing.

For it is an unmistakable truth that, for a writer to allow another to read their work is to expose their soul.

It is as if we have opened the pages of our most private diary, held it out to the world and begged them...

..."come and read my soul. Feast your eyes upon my hidden mind. And please...be gentle with me."

This may be why so many of us struggle with allowing the world to read our work. It is nothing if not a terrifying idea for someone else to take something that we have poured our hearts and souls into and bring it out into the light.

Pieces of the writer themselves have become lost among the words. It's more than just a fairytale or a retelling of a historical event. It's part of our story, a scrap of our legacy, wrapped up in these fragile pages.

The work itself might be perishable, but the dreams, hopes, and fears that are represented there are enduring.

So please.

Be gentle.