do not dare not to dare //

{photo by dramaticelegance}

i feel like the world has been chasing me with this thrashing. honestly, i think it's really comical that this thing that i have been hiding from for so long is now pursuing me, or at least putting itself in my path. i turn twenty-three in little less than a week, and i am just discovering. someone told me that it's because i'm aware of it, in tune with myself now.

but i don't think that's entirely the reason. i think that my eyes are finally open enough that the calling, the pulling, has finally allowed itself to crawl out from the cave and whisper i'm here. i've always been here. can you see me? 

part of me really wants to write about this. i feel like i've been waiting for my entire life to feel this strange warring freedom. but then comes that fear, the familiar flavour that weighs my soul down. it almost makes me want to let go and let the current pull me the safe way, the way that doesn't make my arms ache.


i wrote some time ago about taking off the veil and looking darkness in the eyes. i don't mean evil darkness :: the Lion already holds the key. i mean the strange unknown, the part that lingers in the  shadow when i've been too scared to pull back the curtains and let the light trace over my skin.

i'm not ashamed. i am afraid. but i am pressing my forehead against the stone wall while i seek solace from the din.

sometimes being on the ground // means a new season is coming

{photo by dramaticelegance}

it's autumn. there's a lot of death associated with the falling leaves and fading grass. but there's something resurrecting about this season. it's been hot, pressing, almost suffocating, with air so thick that i almost wanted to push it off myself like a constricting garment. 

and then comes the whispering cool air, taking my hair and floating it across my face. it's like some ethereal veil reminding me, you are seen, if only by He that holds the Wind

and He is not threatened by your questions. 

it's a digging in. it's painful. it's reaching deep into yourself with gently curling fingers and digging into the dirt. and it makes me shudder and gasp. it's gorgeous. 

sometimes He digs in His claws and flays me wide. but that's not what He's doing right now. my soul is whispering, echoing soft Lion-growl :: do not dare not to dare. (lewis) i am humming His name like it's the last melody i know. i am reaching up.

{to learn more about Mandy's book, visit messy canvas. to read all the posts in my personal thrashing journey, visit here}

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

soul-gasp :: knowing Aslan

{via pinterest}

{over the next several weeks, maybe even months, i will be writing here and there from elora's thirty days of prompts. this is something that i have never done before, something raw and fresh and gorgeous and potentially painful. so please, be gentle with me. you can find all posts i have written from these prompts here}

:: what words make you gasp with the wonder of it all?

these words have been ringing in my head since the moment i read this prompt :: i'm going to live like a Narnian, even if there isn't any Narnia. and maybe it's a strange thing to associate with this particular prompt, but i couldn't help it. for you see, i've been brushing against this gasp-educing reality my entire life.  

for me, it's like that moment when they are gathered on the beach, breath bated and eyes wide, that first moment when they see over the wave. that moment when they catch their very first glimpse of Aslan's country. and oh, the hunger that is lit in their souls, even though they may not have understood it yet. 

// did they know they would end up there, one day, forever?

did they know they had just touched the sky?

elora's first words in the prompt were these :: what would happen if you wrote down everything -- every word, every syllable, every image -- that reminds you of the soul-splitting ecstasy of colliding with your purpose? and honestly, my very first memory of this soul-splitting gasp was the first time i met Aslan.

i've met Him a thousand times since then, even as i grew up and began to know Him by that other Name. and each time His roar has whispered Life into my soul, i knew instantly. and as i have dug deeper into the life-humming earth, still rich with His song steeped into its very essence, i have uncovered this strange beautiful wellspring...the one that hums warrioress, the one that murmurs braveheart lioness, joy shall be yours. 

{photo property of dramaticelegance}

and i feel silly even admitting just how deep my love for this word-made land goes. but i remember the first time i felt my soul gasp and i never want to forget. i wanted to live under every patch of blue sky i found because He was there, and the thistles in the pasture were White Witch traps. and yes, i was teased until i cried for running to the edge of the dock and gazing over the water at age ten and whispering His name. 

:: Aslan

and i didn't gasp then. but i do now. because even then, i saw Him. and my soul raised its eyes and reach out for the Lion and buried its fingers in His mane. 

// oh, i am gasping. and my soul is bursting.

because i saw Him, and i know Him, this Lion. 

and i am writing down each gasp, even if i think that this world is dark and full of reaching out fingers for a candle that might just be pretending to be the sun.

but i am going to dance in the moonlight with the Song making waves through my hair. and i am going to live endlessly like a Narnian. 

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?

reaching out for life

{28 1/2 weeks}
photo by DramaticElegance and PinkStudios 

i've often marveled at the gravitational pull that my stomach seems to bear these days. it's as though people cannot help themselves from reaching out, from pressing their fingers against my taut skin.

:: they want to feel the life inside

and i have to admit, as much as i was dreading these outstretched hands into my personal space and even against my body itself, i've found myself seeing the profoundness in this simple gesture.

people would not be touching my stomach if it was just me, wandering around and making my way through the world on a day-to-day basis. it's not something that you do to just anyone.

but i'm pregnant, and there is life beneath my skin. it's not me they want to touch, it's her. it's not my skin they're desperate to feel, but the little wiggles and pokes that remind the world that there is indeed a person dwelling within a person.

// they're reaching out for life //

and isn't that how things should be with all of us? shouldn't spirits be gravitated toward us, whispering

you have Life. let us feel. 

we just want to touch Him. 

that's what i want, all the time, even after this little one is born and in the world. i want hands reaching out, not for me, because it's not me they're desperate to feel. it's not my spirit they want to connect with, to feel flowing like electric water through their veins.

it's Him. even the hem of His robe is enough. they just want to feel the Man dwelling within.

:: they're reaching out for life ::

passion seeker :: finder

{via pinterest}

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.

{via pinterest}

:: 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. 

sacred rest

i don't rest well.

it's something that truly bothers those who care about me most. i am more than willing to push myself into a wall and just keep going until my face is pressed into the brick and my body is broken from the futility and sheer physical exhaustion. 

i don't comprehend this idea of rest. but oddly enough, it's something i crave. it's also something i fear.

fear has a quiet voice, a grown up kind. and she has something to say, all whispery with promises and barely there:  

::

honey, can you hold on? 
because if you sit with me a while, i will teach you something sacred. 

{the secret life of fear}

i think i fear that the world will stop turning if i don't keep pushing it around and around and around the sun, and then everything will collapse, and it will be my fault. 

and fear and i have not had a chance to sit and talk, because i've been too busy racing in circles. and i haven't been able to hear the sacred whispers. 

and then God decided that i had done enough, that my flailing needed to come to an end. and so He gave me this child, this little one inside my body who drains my energy and leaves me exhausted even after just rising from a nap. 

will you listen to Me now? 

and now i have no choice but to listen. the steaming mug of tea in my hand that sends up those fragrant waves, this is my brand of incense. the tapping of the little feet against my skin from the inside out, these are my meditation drums. 

 and so we converse, God and fear and i. 


about my fears of resting, that my world will stop turning if i sit. about my fears of mothering, that maybe i will break more than i will fix, and that i am not "cut out" for this. 

and fear voices her concerns, and the bigger Voice quiets them before the last breath leaves her mouth. 


it's a cycle, back and forth. and i am content to listen. to be still and know. 

to sip my tea and to soak in the drums that will be of a different style in a few months. i know i will miss them in a way. 

and i will weave feathers into my hair, and i will fearlessly rest. 

love thyself

{via pinterest}

there's a lot of things we're forbidden to do in this life.

as Christians.
as women.
as breathers.

and it's confusing sometimes. the world whispers love thyself to the broken ones, and then the woman who just learned to love herself is covered in whispers and pointed fingers and lowered glances.

then it's broken all over again and the slices are deeper the second time around.

it is too far a step to say that my Jesus weeps when broken ones break again, especially in His house? He's the one that said come to Me, heavyladen ones. for My burden is light...


this makes me want to stomp the ground until my bruised feet bleed and sob for the unborn one dancing against my skin at night. because in barely a breath's time, i will pass a life through fire and water and blood into this world, and this small life will inhale a world that already is out to destroy.

and my little one will grow into this place of love to hate and love again turned to shredded paper scraps of hate that used to spell a love letter from Heaven to parched ground Earth.

and what they will teach my daughter is clucking tongues and judgemental glares if she doesn't quite fit the mold that my Jesus has already stomped into shards of blood-covered glass the day He spread two arms wide and wailed it is finished.

{via pinterest}

and my son will learn from the school of bloodshot eyes and tear-stained cheeks that gentlemen are dead and gone, and men are fighters and not lovers and silently seated when they should be standing on the chairs and beating the pulse of love and respect.

this breaks me down into a pool for my unborn one, for his wife or her husband, and for the ones that came before and the ones that come after.

i want my child to have the words of precious Sarah as their heartbeat rhythm, that i will one day no longer teach but they will live.

we are thumping along with you, out here in the world [soon], reminding you that you are fearfully and wonderfully made. 

and you have a voice and a reason for being. you have a future and a hope. 

know who you are, small [one], and when you forget, we'll remind you.

:: in which i write a letter... // sarah styles bessey :: 

and so i will find my place on my knees tonight, with the music playing in the background and the candles flickering around the darkened midnight room. heartbeat thudding love yourself, little one. 

because i love you. 

and He does too. 

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}

art :: haven :: soul

{via pinterest}

it's amazing how things change in the space of a morning.

from simple to grateful to glory in one watercolour stroke.

but today is artist's day. so i find it fitting, in a way, that everything becomes fluid on a day like this. a day when we take a moment to acknowledge the phoenix of art.

because we have stories. artists, you and i together. is it so strange that some paint with words and others write with brush and fervour on the canvas? but we're just the same.

art is the celebration of imperfection.

to dance, to sing, to paint, to write to compose. on the canvas of paper, wood, air, and skin.

:: it's embracing imperfection ::

it's all skin art. it's safely slicing a vein and letting it flow onto surfaces that abound in number. it's different for us all.

some find refuge in the studio with paint-streaked hair and eyes that whisper images that they conceive and birth to the world. others seek the solace of wooden floors and muted lighting and their feet and lips that move in tandem.

{via pinterest}

we need this, you see.

it's our haven. 

it's the dangled dreadlocks where we tuck our secrets, the moments of silence that create a masterpiece that speaks volumes to this universe.

it's that place where we sit, hands down and eyes turned up. the place where we sit with the Savior like little ones with fingerpaints and sticks of wax and charcoal, where His hand wraps around ours and we create with the measure of soul and love that only the Great Artist could impart.

do you see what we are?
we're clay thrown on the wheel that turns and throws a vessel itself.

we're the glorifiers. the prisms. the image-catchers.

we're the created turned artists.

every poet and musician and artist, but for grace, is drawn away from love of the things he tells to love of the telling... ~c.s. lewis

painted

{via pintrest}

every artist's tools have a story.

look at the old pen and inkpot, stained with fingermarks and blots of this novel and that world's creation. there was life born there.

the pointe shoes, tattered toes and dirt-marred satin. what leaps speak novels in these wrecked canvases?

and then there are the paintbrushes. 

flecked with paint and primer and so many colours that the layers have become one upon another.

oh, what mysteries of tender caresses and angry slashes are found here amid the horsehair and bamboo?

see this is what i desire. 

no more sketching with my charcoal that can be

 rubbed 

and washed 

and faded down 

to nothing with just a bit of pressure. 

i want raw. 

no more scrapping my brush across the surface of the palate, just covering the tip.

sleeves rolled up, arms plunged in up to the elbow. 

{via pintrest}

blue dripping to a puddle on the floor.

a single strand of hair brushed across a forehead results in a streak

of yellow 

and purple 

and red 

and aqua. 

skin once bare made perfect. 

no more surface living. no more sketches of me. no more maybe this or perhaps that. 

i want deep. down to the bottom where the richness resides. 

this is what it is to be used for glory. 

for so much beauty, for all this majesty. 

take me deeper. 

i ache for You to hold me.

melt me. 

mold me.

fill me. 

use me.

{linking up with my beautiful sisterhood. this place of real.}

Soul

You don't have a soul. You are a Soul. You have a body. ~C.S. Lewis

I haven't posted for two days.

Yes, I know this goes against my plan to post every day in the month of February.

Honestly, though, I couldn't bring myself to post.

I just wasn't inspired.

And I couldn't force myself to write meaningless posts that didn't come from my heart just to fulfill a "goal."

Because, you see, when I write, I don't just scribble down random, trivial things for no reason.

I just can't bring myself to write like that.

Everything I write has a purpose.

I pour part of myself into everything I write.

I never understood writers who used their writing as a cover...

...a disguise to hide themselves from the world and remain anonymous.

Maybe it's my personality, but I am unable to separate myself from my writing.

I want those who read my blog to be as observers gazing through a picture window, gazing up at the stars and moon set in the black fabric of the night sky.

I want them not to see mere words -- black marks upon a page.

I want them to see into my heart.

I want them to see my soul.

I want them to see Him through me.

So read with caution, gentle reader...

...for what you see here is my heart.

So please, handle my soul with care.

Unique

While we have the gift of life, it seems to me the only tragedy is to allow part of us to die - whether it is our spirit, our creativity or our glorious uniqueness. ~Gilda Radner

It's a strange puzzle, this idea of uniqueness.

It's one of those things that is so innocently simple while still being overwhelmingly complicated.

In fact, I think that sometimes people strive so hard for a certain grasp of their own intrinsic details that they loose their originality all together.

The idea of uniqueness is the epitome of Lewis' White Stag, leaping its delicate way through the forests of Narnia...it can only found by mistake. When chased, it darts deeper and deeper into the woods, eventually leaving its pursuer even more lost than when this strange crusade first began.

It takes that moment of patience...of standing still in the silence and waiting...for the illusive creature of uniqueness to captured and taken in fully.

So what is uniqueness, really?

It is that person you see in the mirror each morning. Every last inch of you is unique, even if you have no desire to be thus set apart.

How boring of a world would this be if we all were alike...if there was no controversy over movies or music, and if we all saw the same things in an abstract painting. In fact, there would be no such things as artistic interpretation, theater, or painting, for there would be no need of them. We would simply become bored with these familiar sketches of ourselves and slip into a state of colorless uniformity.

There is something so sweet, so delightful about the accidental discovery of your own personal style...your tastes...your loves....those things that catch your eye and make you stop and look for just one moment more.

And even more so, there is a pure jubilation that comes upon the discovery that each one of us are created as unique, glorious beings...showered in the delight and love of our adoring Creator as He gazes upon our beautifully artistic hearts and differently-tuned minds.

We are His symphony, each one a different instrument...

...a symphony of uniqueness.

So release the search for your own unique placement in this world...

...just wait, and it will find you.