for when there aren't many words left {#Furgeson}

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as far as Ferguson goes, I've been silent. 

I mean that as literally as you can get. nothing on social media. not my Facebook or my Twitter or my Instagram or my blog. nothing. period. 

silence. 

and that, for me, is odd. there are very few social issues that leave me at a loss for words. this one, however, has done exactly that. 

I am at a loss for words. 

let me be very clear here :: I have not been silent because I am white. I have not been silent because I have an unpopular opinion. I have not been silent because I am afraid. 

I have been silent because it has been one of those moments where you are confronted with something so overwhelming that it leaves nothing behind. there have been so many amazing words shared already. {you can find a couple fantastic and powerfully gentle posts here and here.} there have been arguments on both sides, strong words flung and feet planted into the dirt. the Internet is good at controversy, after all. 

what could I possibly say? wouldn't I only be adding to the noise?

because let's be honest :: there's been a lot of noise. madness. tumult. 

all I can do is pray. 

and that's pretty much exactly what I'm going to do here. 

:: 

oh God. 

bring peace. 

oh Lord,

bring comfort. 

oh Jesus. oh sweet Jesus. 

bring clarity. 

Spirit of the living God,

fall fresh. 

oh Lion, 

breathe. 

oh mighty Father, 

sustain. 

selah. selah. selah. 

krispie treats + grief

I'm grieving.

which conversely means that I'm in the kitchen a lot.

it's a thing I've always done. cooking is a sign of the placement of my emotional barometer. when I'm feeling things strongly, I bake and cook until the kitchen overflows and counters brim with goodness.

my grandmother is standing on the edge between earth's shallow pale and the glittering Holiness that is Aslan's Country. and she's ready to make the leap. and so we wait, wait for the appointed time.

I don't like to talk about grief. I really don't.
so I'll talk about Rice Krispie treats instead.

I'll talk about the way I stirred the melting marshmallows and butter together without thinking, a groove into which I fell so easily. because that's grief. it happens without thinking. it just comes and falls heavy and you find yourself doing the dance without understanding the steps. you just do.

I'll talk about the way I usually don't butter the pan, but this time, I did. because that's grief. you can't predict how you'll handle it, or if it'll be the same as it was last time or next time or the times before and after. when you find yourself bowing against it, you grieve your way. not his way or her way or your mother's way. you pour out in your own stream. no one else's.

I'll talk about the way I flung butter with my fingertips instead of neatly with a spatula. normally, cooking is tidy intricacies for me. little steps by little steps. but this time, it was just a little sloppy. a little haphazard. because that's grief. it's not tidy or ordained. we can try to make it that way, but it really isn't. it's greasy and slippery and creeps up your elbows and clings to everything it touches.

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I'll talk about the way I burned my hand on the still-too-hot mixture of cereal and vanilla-aroma'd sticky goodness that poured from pot to pan. because that, that is grief. it hurts. even if you don't want it to, even if it was an accident and you would just rather not hurt at all no oh god no not even a little please...

grief hurts.

and I'll talk about the way it fell into the pan and filled in all the gaps. the way I used my hands, again, slathered in butter over the knuckles and over the little pale crease where my wedding ring normally sits. because that's grief. sometimes you just have to let yourself be buried in it, just a little, where you can still see yourself through the thin sheer coating that slips over your life. your hands are still there. just covered.

and then I'll tell you about the promise of deliciousness. I'll tell you about the way it seeps into my body through my tastebuds and fills me up with the knowledge that soon there will be treats. soon there will be sweetness. but there was burning and slathering and mixing and aching and weeping so that this particular pan of Rice Krispie treats might have a tinge of salt mixed in among the goodness.

because I know the ending. and oh, it hurts so bad that everything burns. but there is a promise. a whisper of what it will taste like when the door opens and I see it all, so clear and plain.

oh death, where is thy sting?
oh grave, where then is thy victory? 

that wailing rhythm

the rhythm is a funny thing. it's an entity of its own. can't you hear it, thudding and pulsing slow below your skin, that gentle thumping by which our bodies sway?

there's one in the air, too. i can feel it, the rhythm of thunder crashing and lightning answering back in brilliance of light. it's majestic and strange and powerful. i don't think i understand it fully...will i ever?

life is a rhythm, one of those things that isn't really composed with ink and pen on paper. i wish it was, because my words seem paltry to sum up the inhale-exhale that seems to make up every second of every day until the day it just doesn't anymore.

:: but apparently vulnerability is the rhythm i needed to find. 

the very night after i wrote about releasing, we were struck with a strange sort of loss. we had been chasing a dream, a purple house tucked into a grove of green countryside and garden mermaid groves. and we had it, right there in the curve of our fingertips, and then it was gone, because that's how real estate works.

and i wailed. // oh, that wail. 

see, i write about the Lion's song a lot. it's a melody that hums beneath my skin and courses through my body like blood and electricity wedded together in the strangest and holiest of matrimony. i can hear it, that low growling hum to which my feet have found a rhythm to stamp and my lungs have found notes to cry and keen.

and yes, sometimes, you have to wail.

sometimes it's all we have to keep us going when everything seems a muddled blur and off-center to the point that even the melody seems to have faded. but there's always that rhythm.

sometimes it's hard to find your original self when everything under the sun has been done. and you watch yourself drumming on the side of your cup with a bamboo stick as the teabag bobs like a ship in the calm, and you wonder, am i in the calm too? 

i had never understood that expression until the day my life stood still and i caught my breath when i raised my hands and begged the moon to stand still over me. Joshua needed the sun to fight, but somewhere, the moon stopped too over some corner of earth.

before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,

you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.

you must wake up with sorrow.

you must speak to it till your voice catches the thread of all sorrows

and you see the size of the cloth.

:: naomi shihab nye

and perhaps in the calm is a place to catch your breath, when the crush and rush of the world is pulling you right and left and backwards and forwards and pinching off pieces of you until there is nothing left at all.

{via dramaticelegance}

and you need a minute to heal from the scrubbing, so you bury your nose in the tea and you breathe. the poking and the prodding leave fingermarks all over you in shades of invisible bruise, like starry-night constellations that tell a story, something glorious that might heal another when they touch the marks the world left behind.

so weave a crown of blooms from the basket by the door labeled "weeds" and peer up at the world through one-too-many loose tendrils of escaping hair. find the pool, still in the calm, and study the freckles like cinnamon sprinkled over something made with apples and dough and that whisper of love that you don't understand how you can taste, but you can.

and pick up your drum from beside the door and dive into that pool until the bottom becomes the top and out you emerge into glorious Light where the world hums in a fresh newness. and the rhythm of your heart merges with His.

and you and the Lion count the beats together.

passion seeker :: finder

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but how do you find your passion?

no, really. how do you find your passion?

:: the sacred life of rain

it's a simple question. isn't it?

i'm an artist, a dreamer. i'm a passionate person with overflowing dreams and an electric surge under my skin. but how do i find my passion? 

i feel like my passion hit a wall this week. we had something in our grasp, something i didn't know i wanted quite this badly until it fell apart. it was a home, and it was beautiful and green, and i heard our future in those walls and planned moments in those rooms. 

but then, it went away. and then i wept until my body ached. i was on fire for this dream. 

and now, i feel swayed by this wind that has gushed through my body and whispered i wanted this so bad. and i wailed to my husband,

this is why i don't get excited

and i opened my mouth and dared to wrestle with the Lion like Jacob.

 why? 

i don't understand

why did you let us get this far?

and i sobbed for all the memories that could have been, and i broke for the passion that i would have possessed there. i stared at drab brown and white walls that i am not allowed to paint, and the too-much-stuff that crowds my corners with not even room for an easel, and i felt my passion compressing down into a cube that barely fit in this tiny place. 

i felt squished. i felt grey, like all the colour had been rung out of me. i felt limp and helpless and empty. no more passion, because i left it in the foyer of this perfect dream.

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:: and so we wrestled, He and i, until the dawn.  

and then somehow, i dried my tears. my soul woke up and looked around this place, this little corner where he and i and soon our daughter have been placed. and i started to see dark bookshelves in a corner, and swooping dark purple fabric hung like bunting from corner to corner in the back room now-turned nursery. 

we went and bought new sheets for the bed. soft gold fabric to match the flowers on our midnight blue bedspread. and we put down the corners and made up the bed with the gold hidden inside until the blanket got pulled back after midnight. 

i slid my body between those sheets and let out a breath that was more of a prayer than a sob. because my passion isn't dead, it isn't gone, and it wasn't left wrapped around the perfect hardwood banister. 

it never left. i just forgot where it was. i didn't have to find it after all, because it was never lost. my focus had just become blurred. my passions aren't controlled by where i am, by what i have, by what i experience. 

they just are. 

they are in a two story dream, and they are here, in a four room canvas that i just haven't been bold enough to embrace. 

they don't need to be found.

they just are. 

Return

Pick a star on the dark horizon / And follow the light / You'll come back when it's over / No need to say goodbye... ~Regina Spektor, The Call

Yes, this is another post about Narnia.

And I'm not even a little bit sorry.

To be honest, I didn't plan on writing another post about this magical land that has inexplicably woven its spell over my heart and soul.

But then I went to the blog of a friend and read her newest post (which you can read at http://avoiceofpraise.blogspot.com/)...and that set me off again.

Because there, in her own post on the land of Narnia, she opened another tiny wardrobe door to my soul...this one not quite as happy and fanciful as those in the past.

It was the idea of never going back.

For as much as there is a sense of beauty and passion in each visit to Narnia by each little group, there is always that moment...first tasted by Peter and Susan, and then heartbreakingly continued with Edmund and Lucy...

...that moment when they are told "you will never come back to Narnia."

To be honest, Peter and Susan's final moments in Narnia never struck such a wrenching chord in me as those of Edmund and Lucy.

Perhaps it is because Peter and Susan never seemed to need Narnia the way that their two younger siblings did.

Peter was the oldest. Proud and strong, the High King. Once there, he immediately staked his claim as a King. It was almost as if he didn't need anyone else.

Susan was the oldest girl. Beautiful, gentle, and beloved almost immediately. In fact, her pride never died, and she was the only one of the four who, once home for the final time, abandoned Narnia entirely.

It was Edmund -- the broken traitor, the forgiven one. It was Lucy -- the innocent one, the first believer, the one with the closest connection to the Great Lion Himself. These are the two that needed it more than anyone else.

And they are final of the Kings and Queens to be told that their time had come to its end.

But I will never deny that Aslan had a plan. I will never take away His credit. He knew what He was doing.

He knew they had lives to live, futures to embrace...and he knew their time in their own world would be short-lived.

For soon, they would come to Him forever.

They would pass through the Shadowlands in a loud and twisted train accident...they would pass over the silver wave, and come to Him forever.

They simply had to wait.

And while their first visits were beautiful, this final resting place was beyond all words and all imagining.

So for myself, I will visit Narnia while I may...reaching out fragile fingers from this world to the other, touching only the barest corners...

...patiently awaiting the day when I will crest the silver wave, and make my home in Aslan's Country forever.

I wait for the dream to end.

I linger at twilight...for I cannot wait for the morning.

It started out as a feeling / Which then grew into a hope / Which then turned into a quiet thought / Which then turned into a quiet word. / And then that word grew louder and louder / Until it was a battle cry. I'll come back / When you call me / No need to say goodbye...Regina Spektor, The Call

Separate

"The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched. They must be felt with the heart." - Helen Keller

There are so many things about life that confuse me.

The cruelty of separation is one of them.

It's a hard thing for me to wrap my mind around. Why is it that those people who mean the most to us are generally so very far away?

I am surrounded by friends who are involved in long-distance relationships, or are simply kept from seeing the one they love for one reason or another. Having dealt first-hand with the struggles of being in a relationship with someone living in another state, I know exactly the ache that creeps in from time to time.

It's not even those with whom we share a romantic connection that feel so very far away at times. I live with my husband and see him on a fairly regular basis; however, the rest of the people I care about are spread far and wide. Some are much closer to me geographically -- as close as a ten to fifty minute drive -- while others live in different states or even in other countries. Some are even as far away as Heaven.

So why do we do it? Why do we endure the separation from those people that mean the most to us, and still fight it out, even in the most complicated and crucial of moments?

Because it's worth it.

We do have the blessings of modern technology through cell phones, email, and social networks to keep us connected to those we care about. But even those things fail us sometimes...

...how many nights do we go to bed with a heart twinging with the familiar ache of distance?

...the wish that we would hear the lilt of that familiar voice or catch a whisper of a too-long silent laugh?

Separation is hard. The fingers of loneliness and the chill of missing are very real.

...but then, does that not make the reunions all the more sweet?

"All days are nights to see till I see thee,

And nights bright days when dreams do show thee to me."

~William Shakespeare, "Sonnet XLIII"