vespers in the wild :: uncensoring glory

{photo property of dramaticelegance}

my soul and i had vespers in the rain tonight beside the river with the Most High. the funny thing is that i didn't even know what to call the moment. and then came the word into my soul, gentle but strange.

vespers. an evening prayer service. 

and we hummed a gentle song to the splash of water-drops on the surface of the water, a song i've whispered familiar since the day i first dared to touch, even before i knew what it was. we had church together, me nestled at His feet, the rain tapping out the hymn-rhythm

what wondrous love is this

oh my soul, oh my soul

all i wanted to do was press my face into the sandy soil. even now, sitting here in my space, sky darkening and stars rising on the other side of the windowpane, i yearn to lean up and brush my cheek against His palm. 

why do we only think that God is in a building, tucked among supposed "sacredness," confined in a neat-pressed suit in the front row? He isn't a tame Lion. what is our obsession with caging God? 

the sky is big, but He's bigger, and He made it string by string. the Lord of Heaven was humble enough to spin threads into skeins, weaving chords into fabric, tossed out wide and streaked with His own brand of love-paint. 

:: why must we make Him fit our tiny space? 

{via pinterest}

we debate heatedly between unforseen and sloppy wet, back and forth as though all salvation depended upon words in a song that mean nothing when we should be in wondrous soul-gasping at oh, how He loves us, oh...

we shut the door on His story and tie a muzzle around the mouth of the Lion of Judah because the words He speaks aren't the ones that sit smooth. milk is cool and simple, nothing complex, nothing wild. and so we pour out the Blood behind the bushes and pass the milk-filled chalice around. it's easier to swallow. 

we censor glory to fit our mouths and shut the lid on Light when it's just too bright without sunglasses, and we left ours at home. He is Light without a spotlight or a pulpit or a podium to make His space appropriate. 

He is where His are.

and so i'm going to have vespers in the wild, tucked in the moments between His every breath. i'm diving into His space, the ocean of His glory, and letting Him shed away my snakeskin for a sacred-Lioness mane and a mermaid tail.

what do i know of You who spoke me into motion? 

where have i even stood but the shore along Your ocean? 

what do i know of holy // addison road

what the silence taught me

{my space, unafraid of clutter}
photo property of dramaticelegance

i've been practicing silence this week. i didn't press myself hard one way or the other, and i refused to let legalism be my governing force. i simply let myself sink down, down into the ocean-rushing.

oh, the things that happened when i stopped shouting and let the Light soak in deep.

we met a new place, a white cottage tucked into the urban wild. we put our names on a piece of paper and let the Lion prepare to sing us a new word :: home. and oh that space has potential, and my fingers can twist gently around the banister of a place called mine, and his, and ours, and His, too.

dearhearts, we're buying a house and making it home. 

the irony is, i finally found my space here. tucked between the kitchen sink and the front door, there it was. i think He was waiting for me to exhale, ending up with my forehead on the table with ink on my fingers and paint in my hair, before He slipped this new space into my grasp.

i learned to embrace
:: and i learned to sever. 

i learned to cut and rip and take something mysteriously called "whole" and make a new kind of wholeness from the pieces. there's nothing wrong with reaching out and finding the secret messages humming deep within a secret place.

oh, let us know Him.

His going forth is established as the morning;

He will come to us like the rain

:: hosea 6:3

{via pinterest}

i'm excited about August. the last month in our place of almost four years. it's a page-turning, a severing embrace. it's bittersweet, i'll admit. but oh, am i excited.

it's like i'm finally seeing the design among the broken pieces. because July was so deep and full of grief, so full of shattered bits that didn't feel smooth like seaglass but were jagged enough to gash and scar. but then i realized that there was something beautiful coming. it's a birthing, a labour in blood and
tears and even some breaking deep inside.

and then Life streams forth, and glory is born. i've been fired like molded clay, not made hard but made strong. a few feathers floated to the ground, but my wings are still beating strong in the wind.

the silence taught me to grasp tight while i sever. the silence whispered to me of strength. because He was not in the fire or the wind or the crushing storm. but that still small voice, that hush-holy selah...

the Lion found me in the silence and spoke a hard thing into my soul.

it is coming.
and i am eager to breathe.

sometimes it takes darkness and the sweet

confinement of your aloneness

to learn

anything or anyone 

that does not bring you alive

is too small for you.

// david whyte :: sweet darkness \\

broken stems dancing

{photo by dramaticelegance}

today is the day i forgot my laptop. all i have is twenty-four coloured pencils in their brand-new packaging, and a black ink pen, and the new shinji moon book from rain. and i'm sitting here, tucked neatly away in the corner of the coffee shop, in the frustration, and i've decided to exhale instead.

because i'm eternally grateful for this life, to the One who breathed life in the whispering silence of nothing. and i have hands and fingers and the knowledge to write at all, and that's something alone.

and the homeless man from under the bridge came in with barely enough quarters for hot coffee, hold the cream, and i didn't look up from my phone. because the way he spoke made me uncomfortable. he spoke poverty and a world i didn't know, and it hurt my pride.

and then i looked up and saw the two flowers in the vase in the window, and one was whole and the other was broken. but i didn't judge the broken flower like i did the homeless man. and neither did the other flower in the same vase, in the same world. and their stems touched and draped one over the other.

and i judge me now. silly backwards upside down heart.

:: He promised, after all.

{via pinterest}

come to Me

all you who are laden-heavy

and I will give you rest. 

and He brought the long-haired one into His temple as perfume dripped down from the strands like material world whispers of love. and the men murmured under their breath with priestly robes clutched tight in holier-than-thou fingers,

"He must not know what kind of woman is touching Him."

and He reaches down and lifts her chin, and i catch her eye for the barest second. and i realize, she is me. and i am touching Him. and He loves, oh how He loves.

sometimes, i don't know who this woman is, either. the one who dares to remember His death until He comes. the one who wraps the scarlet chord -- yes, that simple sweet melody written in the blood of the spotless Lamb, the Lion of Judah -- around her soul and clutches there, tight. the one who wanders with the moon to the tune of clucking tongues and shaking head and scolding words.

and i wish i could write the way this music feels when He reaches out and takes my soul in His hand and softly whispers,

daughter
may I have this dance?

women :: wild-blessed

{photo via pinterest}

i speak about the wild here quite often. sometimes, i'm not even sure myself how to find that perfect grove of trees. and the smudge of dirt on my cheeks feels a little foreign, almost like a virginal bride awakening that morning to find her husband-love in her bed with a blush of blessed now.

i'm embracing that wild with shaking fingers, the wild that is woman, that is me somehow strange. the whisper of woman that was in the forefront of His mind, composed with God-Daddy smiles and sunrise-stained fingers that i cannot comprehend without weeping. because He formed me, hips and hair and eyes and mouth all in one, and whispered I see that you are good, wild daughter. 

and i can't help with the pinching and the frowning and the clumsy fingers clutching a chisel to gouge away the parts of me that He must have made wrong, the spots where the Wild-Maker slipped. and the mirror laughs and the sky cries as the Lion lets tears fall as i wrap myself in filmy black mourning cloth and block out the Light.

but He comes in the morning, like a bright-eyed groom with fresh unchanging love in His holy gaze and scissors to snip away the veils until i'm exposed and raw and maybe even bleeding just a little because pruning is pain, but it's beauty too. and then He spits on the ground and smears Heaven-made mud mixed with the Blood of the Lamb on my soul and whispers see again, for your faith has made you whole.

{photo property of DramaticElegance, taken via instagram}

He writes His name on my eyelids so when i blink, i remember. and every flicker of the eyelashes is a flicker of the Spirit-flame sent down after forty days of waiting from the day He rose. He calls me woman, He calls me daughter. and it's not a dirty curse but a whisper of admiring glory woven in Light.

and Heaven to earth is only a whispered prayer away, a half-step to glory. and for so long, i've been loving and living like fire and ice, never touching without burning and melting. but now i'm flying close to the Light and i am not burned, for the One at my side is like the Son of the Most High

so i'm leaving my shoes on the threshold because this place is holy ground, and the dirt feels good between my toes and the wild is calling my name.

run further up and further in
for this is the place of which you have dreamed
for which you have been waiting all your life.

:: be wild, dove-daughter
for your faith has made you whole

metamorphosis

{via pinterest}

metamorphosis. this has become my state of being, my mind-set.

there is so much about this place, this condition of womanhood set upon me, that i have grown to fear and grown to loathe. but this cannot be. how can i raise my daughter to love herself, to face the world with a lifted head and a cry to the heavens, if i do not believe it myself?

i ache to redefine womanhood. i am more than tatted lace and teatime socials. i yearn to let my hair down and dive in, swim down deep, to drown in His spirit and rise anointed from the ashes holding the hands of those who walked before me. 

Hosea whispered, 

He will come to us like rain. 

and i want to dip my head back, mouth open and eyes aglow, and take Him in with my whole heart. i want to be baptized in the water and fire that is His glory. i am unwilling to wrap myself in a veil that He tore in an impossible way for me, and if only for me, it would have been enough. 

and so i am breaking from this place of stagnant dwelling, this place of sit here silently. i am a Lioness, He promised, and renewed i shall be. 

paint scales on my skin, for i shall be a mermaid. 

no fear of depth, great fear of shallow living. 

:: a paraphrase of a quote by anis nin

i will be a mystic, with candle light and war paint mingling on my cheeks. and i will lift my small hands and place them against His pierced palms and speak bravely. 

mermaid girl come to drown

to rise again. 

to live mightily. 

for my God hears me. 

daughter rising

{via pinterest}

i forgot what this felt like. to write my heart, i mean. i've been so tired and so worn for so long that these words seemed to have faded from me, illusive like grass on the wind. and as beautiful as they were, they were lovely to watch float away, too.

and so i let them float, maybe a little too long for some, but just long enough for me. because this life within me, this little tiny heartbeat that we have since discovered beats the warrioress rhythm like mine, has been drawing much from me, and leaving little behind.

yes, i am carrying a girl-child. another daughter for the world, another pair of feminine hands for the Kingdom's banner. and all i can do is wrap my arms around my ever growing stomach and whisper

courage, my dearheart

you are not a daughter alone.

i am almost afraid to bring another woman into this world. the burden already placed upon her tiny shoulders almost breaks me down to weeping at every thought. for who knew that so much would be required of innocent eyes and fragile fingers?

rain has told me to blurt. to impulsively speak my heart to the wind. and maybe that's what this is, a blurting out of my heart's overflowing emotion that has been building up and flowing through my veins at a pace too fast and to the tune of some music that i've forgotten that i've missed for weeks. 

{me large with our daughter, 18 weeks}

but this much i know well, and i know strong in my soul.

i will not raise a quiet daughter of sewn-shut lips and discreetly bowed eyes. i will raise an earth-pounder, a piller-shaker, and a battle-crier. 

if she is the gentle warrior, let it be and i will love her. ::

if she is the loudest singer with hands raised to broken clouds, let it be and i will love her.::

 i will not dictate her steps; He has that laid smooth without my desperate attempts to push and prod His mighty Hands. 

her path is on Him, and my smile is on her. 

my Marian Abigail. my evening star, her father's joy. 

my little girl growing. my warrioress rising. my unborn champion, my silent voiced miracle. 

my daughter. his daughter. Aslan's daughter 

sacred :: remembrance

i awoke with a pull. a voice in my head, whispering things undecipherable and beautiful.

He's trying to tell me something. 


because as i opened my laptop and began to read, soak myself in Lion's song and sister's words, i began to sense a pattern. again, a pull.

because rain wrote of truth in the thin places, of memorials of the sacred moments. and sarah wrote of love up to the dark, of life written out and remembered in Glory.

and i felt my soul crumble, not in the way of broken stones and shattered dreams. but in the way, the way you only understand if you've felt it before.

that crumbling of release and refreshment that comes when walls of fear and shame come tumbling down and all you can  see is the sun and Son, both shining down on your face, but One brighter than the other.

sacred spaces worth remembering etched in ancient lines across palm, 

and did you know that remembrance is synonymous with love? 

love-marked space says 

something special is here, 

something mysterious 

and worthy

 and holy.

:: rain: lullaby for light ::

and oh, how those words pounded tribal of brave to me. 

because memorials frighten me, sometimes. i'm apt to step into His shoes, into that place of writing in the dirt, scribbling hard with bleeding fingertips of every shame and every broken moment. somehow, i feel i must remember my shame, remember why i am unworthy. 

and then come sandal-clad feet, pierced and bleeding. and they are not the silent feet that some focus upon...

no, these are the pounding Feet that stood on the neck of Death and ground him to powder at the base of the Cross. they belong to the Gentlest Warrior who holds Hands high and cries in Lion's roar

Mine. 

and He destroys my memorial to shame. because He did not die so i would remain. oh, He died that i would rise with Him. and together we gather stones with carvings strange and markings still unfamiliar. 

grace. 

forgiven. light. 

eternity. brave. warrioress. 

Mine. 

and on this altar, i burn my rags and stand scarred and unashamed beside my memorial. i am barefoot, in the sacred place. 

He and i both. 

droplets :: rain

{via pinterest}

i love the rain.

some find it gloomy, overbearing. almost depressing when the sun is blotted out with grey and fog, when water pours like tears from Heaven's eyes and there is nothing bright anymore.

but in my experience, tears heal.

and the rain cleanses.

there is no sun seen, but it's still there. it's just waiting for the healing.

driving in the rain is complicated. the roads are slick and damp, and there are puddles that gather in the low points that lead to a skid or a tidal-wave splash. but it convicts me, too, when i drive while the water pours from sky to ground.

but there's that blur when the water patterns the windshield and for that moment, you can't see the road. and then the wipers glide over the glass and all is clear again.

and that's the way it should be. the tears come and for a moment, all seems blurred and unsure. and then the fingers brush the tears aside. the bottle in Heaven fills with a few more drops, and peace descends.

{via pinterest}

You have taken account of my wanderings

put my tears in Your bottle. 

are they not in Your book?

{psalm 56:8}

these are not just our sorrows, i think. He keeps our joys in this bottle, too. and i think one day that He will take me into this room, this place where this bottle is stored.

and He and i will talk, and He will take this bottle off the shelf. and He will pour them into His palm where my name is written and smile.

i keep Your tears

of sorrow and joy and Light and pain and beauty and confusion

so that You could see

that I am greater

and I love you. 

so this is why i love the rain. the knowing that while it is unsure, there is beauty. and while the joys overflow into water down my cheeks, or the pain trickles down in the only release i can understand

i can stand. secure and dry in the Light of the Son. 

breathing phoenix rain

{via pinterest}

sometimes i wonder just what i am. i wonder if all this writing i do ever amounts to anything, if all it will ever do is sit in the recesses of my computer.

every time i read over my old work -- those worlds of my own creation, those characters whom i love like pieces of myself -- i wonder if anyone will ever see them, ever treasure them like i do.

and if they did see, would they love? or would my mountain become their molehill, lost in translation and unconveyed in their importance to me, to the world?

this fear almost cripples me. it's almost enough to jerk my words from me into darkness and shut the light tight on all my aspirations.

but without words

i wouldn't be able to breathe. 

not really. because see, that's what He gave me. to some He gave song, and to some He gave paint, and to others He gave a stand.

but i received words. He poured them into my soul, wove my spirit from ink and parchment and inspiration that i have yet to fully uncover. and He begs me

be writer, dearheart.

be this thing I made you to be. 

:: be writer ::

{via pinterest}

and so i keep writing. not for money or fame or any sort of plans set in stone.

but for love. 

only for love. 

and in this darkness, in the silence of night, my fingers grasped something and held on tightly. and i set my fingers to paper, and the ashes parted to reveal that which was hidden.

phoenix rain.

right now, there is so little. but it's enough to pull at me. for love, for wings, for future and dreams.

i have my breath. my paint, my canvas.

my story. 

her story. 

:: His story ::

all together now.

{unwrapping this glory today with emily}

sacred becomes you

people leave footprints. even if it's only unintentional marks on the world, they still manage to dot the world with their own mark.

good or bad.

some people carry sacred with them wherever they go.

they just live like Christ.

these people are

rare. 

beautiful. 

gifts. 

these dear souls leave me deeply nourished in beautifully unique ways. they lift my spirits, make me laugh or reflect; they weep when i weep and offer a soft place to rest. they keep dreams alive and are the ones I return to again, and again, and again.

You are one I return to because 
you live such truth and grace. 

You embody wisdom hard-earned along the curves of life; 

you emerge from darkness bearing life and light. 

You, warrioress you, inspire others to not only survive, 

but to live gratefully, tenderly, thoughtfully, and well.

You live your sacred, 

and it becomes you.

i was granted this blessing by my beautiful and inspiring rain, the creator of this gift. 

the sacred becomes you award.

and now i, in turn, want to grace the souls of those who have graced mine. 

i have carefully chosen the following amazing women to receive the Sacred Becomes You award:

• Heather at Raining Silence. oh, my beautiful sister. every time I find myself at your corner, i am refreshed. it is as if you are watering my parched soul with your simple observations and acute. you are a flower in this desert of cacti.  never cease your growth. never cease to find your voice. 

• Charla Beth at Heart Like Mine. you are a gem. a jewel. i am so blessed each time your posts appear. i cannot stop smiling and weeping all at once when i read your words. you bare your soul to us all, and for this, you are a heroine among women. 

• Grace at Puddles of Memories. your strength is legendary. you are honest, in richness of pain that i cannot even begin to wrap my mind around. you are unafraid to let the world know you struggle, you ache, and you fight your way to life each morning. you rely on nothing but your King. never stop breathing this love. 

• Emily at imperfect prose. you taught me to let go. you taught me to write like i had no audience but my Jesus. you showed me that it was okay to let go of perfection, of capital letters, of fears of what the world might say or think of me. you are a child of paint and love and salvation uninhibited. never cease these blessings to us all. 

• Rain at the sacred life. you are a white rock in this pit of blackness. you face this world with pen and ink, with strength and tears, and with more love than most carry in their little finger. you inspire and encourage and overwhelm with more love than i could ever pray to possess. bless you for your love. for your faith in the One who supersedes all.

Rules:
Actually, there aren't many. This is an award designed to honor the recipient without obligation. However, if you choose to pass it on, please consider the following guidelines:

1) Always link back to the one who awarded you and share what this award means to you.
2) Choose your recipients (as few or as many as you like!) and write something about how they have touched your life.
3) Include the award! 

Reflétant

Did you ever stop to think, and forget to start again?  ~Winnie the Pooh

Tonight, I am taking the time to think.

I'm not sure what it is about tonight that is causing my mind to become lost in thought.

Perhaps it is the fact that the sky is finally calm...after almost three days of storm-churned clouds and pounding rain.

Or that I had my second dose of the final Harry Potter movie tonight, and was reminded yet again just how much my heart belongs in the stone corridors of Hogwarts.

Maybe it was the taste of the entire pack of strawberry Twizzlers I slowly nibbled through this evening until the wrapper was empty and the fruity taste of the only member of the licorice family that I enjoy lingered gently on my lips.

Might it have been the growing list of questions that have begun to collect on my blog...brimming with untouched inspiration, awaiting  my answers in the coming days?

Perhaps it was the way I spent my day...curled on the couch in the company of three other women whom I greatly admire, laughing and weeping and learning together amid plates of summer salads and fresh-cut fruit.

Whatever the cause, my mind is lost in itself tonight.

I'm not even sure what I'm thinking about, to be honest.

I'm simply overflowing with the beauty of life.

My thoughts dazzle me, as though the stars had melted with my dreams, calling me to waltz with them tonight.

There is much to be said for the beauty speaking...

...but there is much unsaid for the elegance of secret thoughts.

And then, when the Empress ran aground / And my eyes turned blue and green, / I heard a gorgeous sound, / And that's when it became a dream / When the sky fell in, / When the hurricanes came for me, / I could finally crash again, / And that's how I became the sea. ~Owl City, How I Became the Sea

Inspire

Creativity is allowing yourself to make mistakes.  Art is knowing which ones to keep.  ~Scott Adams


One thing that I get asked more than anything is how I get so much inspiration...how it seems like I have an endless pot of artistry, and it flows from me in a copious amount.


I will be honest...I really have no such thing.


I run out of inspiration on a regular basis. I start posts constantly that never find their way to being published onto the blog. 


I try to write pen-to-paper, or rather, fingers-to-keys...not letting my overly-analytical brain to get in the way of my dreamer's heart.


But, to my own deep regret, I turn my nose up at my own work and allow it to sit without ever seeing the light of day. 


There are so many things that inspire me, though...so many things that move my fingers to dart a new path across the keys. 

• Summer days, complete with lemonade and fresh-picked orchard fruit
• Those people in my life who love me, comfort me, and reassure me...who bless me beyond compare. 
• Rainy afternoons, the chorus of raindrops beating against the windowpane, the percussion of thunder acting as the perfect accompaniment. 
• The melodic streams of Owl City and Imogene Heap flowing out from my rolled-down car window into the humid summertime air. 
• The sweetest scents of vanilla, white jasmine, and lilac...the kiss of fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies and cinnamony peach cobbler...the natural scents of damp soil and blossoming tea roses. 
• The words from my favorite book...reminders that there is more to life than facts and numbers...parchment letters from Hogwarts, back-of-wardrobe fancies that may just lead me to my long-chased Narnian home, and the floral gardens of Jane Austen romance.

These things are my bliss...rich and sweet, strong and deep

These are my inspiration...full of light, rich with power.  

These are the gifts of my loving King...the soft whisper of my Savior reminding me that He cares for me closely.

This world is hard and strange and can feel, oh, so empty. 

But there are gifts here. 

There is love here. 

There is glory here. 

There is inspiration here. 

Art is a collaboration between God and the artist, and the less the artist does the better.  ~André Gide

Las Gotas de Lluvia (Drops of Rain)

Don't you fret, M'sieur Marius / I don't feel any pain / A little fall of rain / Can hardly hurt me now / You're here, that's all I need to know / And you will keep me safe / And you will keep me close / And rain / will make the flowers grow. ~Les Miserables, Little Fall of Rain

It's raining.

Again.

While I can't say that I don't love the soft kiss of rain on my face or on the pattering of moisture on my windowpane...

...I'm starting to be a bit fed up with all this rain.

The weather has been nothing but unusual in this part of the world...raining one moment, beautiful blue sky the next.

I think it's feeling as off-kilter and strange as I myself have felt recently.

One minute, my skies are grey...broken...tears flowing as steady as Midwestern rain.

The next, the clouds break and my soul is flooded with a strange sort of joy, as though the windshield wipers of my heart have been turned on, and my vision clears again.

It's odd, to be sure.

Maybe I should go to Narnia, as I've always planned...

...and ask Aslan to turn me into a nyad or a dryad, one of the tree or water nymphs.

It might be a nice change...

...to weave my hair with rose petals and ivy vines...

...or to wear water droplets like nature's diamonds about my neck...

...to clad myself in a gown of clouds...

...to wander barefoot through the softest grass that merges with my soul.

Perhaps I shouldn't complain about the weather so much.

Maybe I need to just embrace it.

Love it.

Wear it.

Take it into my soul and breathe it into my lungs.

I think I shall leap into puddles,

and make a necklace out of raindrops.

The best kind of rain, of course, is a cozy rain. This is the kind the anonymous medieval poet makes me remember, the rain that falls on a day when you'd just as soon stay in bed a little longer, write letters or read a good book by the fire, take early tea with hot scones and jam and look out the streaked window with complacency. ~Susan Allen Toth

Dreams

"In dreams, we enter a world that's entirely our own." ~Albus Dumbledore, Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban

I love these rain-glistening nights.

These nights that I spend leaning against the windowpane, gazing out at the raindrops running down the glass, glinting like diamonds in the streetlights.

It's nights like these that allow me to dream...

...to dream of tumbling down the rabbit hole after Alice and her White Rabbit...to find a place where up is down and tea is the balm to any complicated mind.

I wish to dream of carousels, rising and falling atop a painted horse...secret kisses on the boardwalk, his lips alive with hints of sea-salted air.

My mind is alive, eager to find the place whispered to be located just past the second star to the right...

...to find the land where my King is a Lion and centaurs leap through the trees.

The wind carries me over the sea...to sip my tea and pour through the pages of a leather-bound novel, tucked away at a tiny cafe table in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower.

These are my dreams.

These are my wishes.

They are not possible in my waking moments...

...not yet, anyway.

So now, I will sit and gaze out the window at the sparkling raindrops...

...and I will simply dream.

"You are never too old to set another goal or to dream a new dream." ~C.S. Lewis