auld lang syne

{via pinterest}

it's the end of 2012. how did that happen already? 

this year has been full of a thousand moments, a million things that i wasn't expecting. i am better for them, i know, even if they broke me as they came. 

the last day of 2011, He gave me the word -- one word -- brave, and i didn't know why. and then i found out why thirteen days later when expecting brave became reality, and Marian was waiting for me then. and then everything went up and down in a kaleidoscope of colour and newness and fear and tears and joy. oh, so much joy in this year. 

i used to look back on the calender squares and wrinkle my nose. good riddance to that 365. but not anymore. now i look back and whisper i was brave. i was so brave. 

i was also silent a lot this year. looking back at my blog, i've watched my words slowly trickle down to a drip and my stream of consciousness become dammed up and locked away. is it out of place, sacrilegious even, to compare myself to Mary in these months? both Marys of the Word, in fact.

one bore the King of Heaven under her skin, bound up all these things and treasured them so deep within her heart. silent solitude was this mother of the Holy One. 

and the other sat at the feet of the Man and listened, worshiping there on the ground with eyes turned up to hear away from the business and the pull of others to come and be lost in the grind of life. 

{via pinterest}

both listened. both were silent. and i've done much of that in 2012. 

i learned that brave does not mean unafraid. if it did, no one could ever be brave because fear is there wherever you go. it means exhaling and letting go, leaving the empty to be filled by He who is greater than i. 

starting last year, i gave up resolutions and took a word instead. my word is brewing in me now. i can taste it, feel it stirring so electric and so passionate within my heart. 

2013 is a blank canvas yet. untouched. but oh, soon it will be full of paint and lines and so much colour. i'm carrying brave over and i'm adding on. and my soul will magnify the Lord. and i will declare, oh, He is Risen and Alive and thus, i too will live in the volume and the grace of the King of Glory. 

i will leap barefoot in paint puddles and cry holy holy holy. 

see, I am doing a new thing!
    now it springs up; do you not perceive it?
I am making a way in the wilderness
    and streams in the wasteland.

::isaiah 43:19::

the sacred yes // the sacred no

{via pinterest}

i've been doing so much soul-searching over the past several weeks. my blogger voice has been silent, i know, as i have tried to bring some sort of semblance to my life.

and then rain wrote her soul-prompt on the sacred yes and the sacred no.

and it was then that i realized that my whole life has become a sacred yes. and then, it has been a sacred no at the very same time.

 // By the sacred yes or sacred no I mean that affirmation or negation that comes from a deep place of wisdom and courage, even if it creates conflict or disagreement. The sacred yes is not willful or egocentric, but rather is willing and surrendered. The sacred no is not rebellion or refusal, but always the necessary protecting of boundaries. ~richard rohr 

i am a new mother of two very fragile and breathtaking months that have pressed me beyond what i ever thought possible. on 01 January, 2012, i said "yes" to being brave. twelve days later, i discovered that my yes was more expensive than i ever imagined.

and over and over, since that day when i discovered that my body was no longer my own and that my life would never bee the same again, i heard His voice whispering inside my soul

you gave Me your "yes."

and I have taken it. 

and I will show you beyond your wildest imaginings 

what can happen when you give Me yes. 

{via pinterest}

and my sacred yes has expanded to include much. so, so much.

yes :: i die to myself daily and live in Him for him and for her. 

yes :: i love boldly, even though i know it will one day hurt me beyond my wildest imaginings. 

yes :: i will raise a warrioress in a world where warrioresses are absent and fingers down the throat prevail. 

yes :: i will find my identity in Him. 

and in this journey, i have had to do something that i find so hard, almost horrible, almost impossible to do.

i have had to say no.

no :: i cannot do everything, i cannot please everyone. i must stop or else i will destruct

no :: i need please no one but my Jesus. i am my own, and no mold will contain me

no :: i will no longer chase 50K this year. maybe next, but not now. it is not the time. now is Marian's time.

no :: i will not allow fear or guilt or shame or pressure to cloud me, and in turn, cloud my marriage and my daughter's life.

and in my wrestlings with God, i have become Israel -- no longer Jacob, the usurper of the Throne of my soul. but a new nation of mother and leader and warrioress in my own right. 

driftwood

{via stylemepretty}

these days i have felt very unpoetic, very uninspired.

all of my artistic energies have been focused on my NaNoWriMo novel, and all of my strength has been poured into the care of my precious warrior-daughter of now eight weeks.

and then the doctors said i needed more surgery. my gallbladder quit working, as though it wast just as tired as i was. and i went under the knife again two days ago. my body is rung out like a rag in the bottom of the kitchen sink, tossed and crumpled and completely without strength.

i am weary. i am without poetry. i am simply exhausted.

i am driftwood.

lead me to the Rock that is higher than i.

and i am tempest tossed and oh, so forelorn.

i am a ship and the waves are swelling. 

but there is One who calms the waters with a word.

peace. be still.

for I am the Lord, your God, the Holy One of Israel.

and He has gone before me, unsurprised by a single thing that has occurred over the past month. and all i can do is whisper "thank you" to the stars that illuminate my night. because the Cross is what i cling to without ceasing these days, or i would be smashed to pieces against the shoals, carved with lies. 

insufficient becomes :: enough

broken becomes :: whole

empty becomes :: filled

and i am driftwood carved to elegance, leaning against the Rock that is higher than i.

inked :: redeux

{songbird for joy, flower for feminine, branch for strength}

two days before 2012, i crossed an item off my bucket list with ink of permanence on my skin.

four days ago, i did it again.

and now my shoulder bears the reminder of the best thing i have ever done. this is a memorial of her birth in the most perfect of ways. pain and blood that results in beauty, and this is what birth is and this is what i will bear on my skin for all eternity.

but it's more than that.

and these stones shall stand as a memorial...

for when your children ask

what does this mean?  

:: joshua 4

one day she will touch the mark on my shoulder, and the one on my wrist, and the ones that i have yet to get but will soon bear. and she will ask, what does this mean?

and i will tell her our story. i will tell her how i wrestled with God the day she was born, and how i was humbled, and how He was victorious. and how she was pulled from me like Moses from the water and laid in my arms. and she is my ultimate memorial to His grace. 

{via pinterest}

and that i am marked on my shoulder, and that i am marked from hip to hip, because i love her. 

and then i will point to the cross and tell her of the One who gave her to me. 

i will tell her that He is marked, too, because He loved her, too. because He loved her most. and that His Father has her name engraved on His heart, and that He wrote love in blood.

some people glace at my skin and wrinkle their noses. 

that's permanent, you know.

 even when you're old. 

and i smile. because i never want to forget, and i never want them to disappear. i'm proud of them, my story. my tattoos are my stones in the water, stacked high to remind the children of God from where they have come and where they are going instead.  

and i want to remember always what my Lord has done. 

and so i am inked. 

{linking imperfect with emily today. won't you join us there?}

and yet she sleeps

i have the future of the world in my arms.

and she's sleeping with little mouth open and tiny eyes shut. she makes the tiniest little snuffling noises and wiggles slightly against my chest. i wear her these days, or else i get nothing done, wrapped in green cloth as i pace the floor, browning ground beef and singing it is well with my soul, to remind me as much as to soothe her.

and she's a drop in the next generation, one grain of sand that could form a pearl in the mouth of the universe if she just gets under their skin enough.

and she's my daughter, and so i know she will be. this is not a child born to be silent.

and she's sleeping.

so often i take these times to stare at her face, to memorize her every feature and dimple, the tiny roll of her chin and the long flutters of her dark lashes. it makes my heart clench, to know that she is a month old today, and i will blink and it will be twelve and she'll not be a baby any more.

always my baby, not always a baby.
and my mountain-mover will grow up and hold the world in her tiny fingers grown long and feminine and womanly.

no...no, not yet.

:: for now, i will let her sleep ::

:: for when she wakes, she will move mountains :: 

my word for 2012 was brave. it was my plan, my goal to start my new year with a new measure of something i struggled to possess. and then twelve days later, i received word that my world was changing, and nine months from that, my gift was delivered into my arms wailing as loud as my heart.

{via pinterest}

they say your child is your heart born around outside your body. and with a wild child that already sings of bravery at one month old, she is truly my heart. my wolf-child and my dove girl, still a puppy, still a fledgling with down for feathers.

and she wakes with the sun and coos in my ear and gazes with wide eyes at the world around. and i think...this is the future of the world. and i hold her now, and she sleeps now in my arms wrapped in green and pink and softness all over.

a lioness in training, still a cub but with a roar of her own.

Aslan's daughter, the weaver of her own dreams who holds the hand of the One who holds the loom that bears her one-of-a-kind pattern.

my woven warrioress.
my brave little girl.
my sleeping shaker who teaches me with every snuffling breath...

...she teaches me to be brave.

sprouting branches : day five/ten

i'm learning to sprout extra branches these days.

two hands used to be enough for cell phone and coffee and driving down the road with too much on my mind all at the same time. but now i have precious cargo in the backseat, and so now i drive ten miles slower than i used to with sneaky sips of coffee to stay alive. 

and i'm growing extra branches and blossoming here, because i'm seeing what's important. i'm slowing down and savouring these moments, because i looked at her this morning and saw a growing flower in my garden. 

my seed is already sprouting a little bud with hints of pink petals, signs of life of her own. she's brushed off all that dirt from her shoulders and reaching up fingers all on her own toward the light. she's seeing more, knowing more. 

it's already almost been a month. 

can you believe it?

so everyone in my house is growing as the world starts to hibernate. i'm getting the hang of juggling little girl on my hip while i do the banking with one hand and raise the other toward the sky with a whispered prayer of

can You send me an extra whisper of strength today?

not too much, just enough...

{via pinterest}

and i'm resonating with the leaves that fall on the ground in this season, but i don't have the time to fall. i can't fall down until she's tucked up asleep with little lips open and curving into a sleepy smile from mysterious baby dreams.  

and then maybe i can crumble for a moment into strong man arms and cry for just a second from overwhelming moments of emotion and the realization that my branches are extending, and growing pains hurt after all. 

but i have a Daddy to carry me in the moments when the ground seems very far away, and i'm being parented while i parent by the ultimate Father who gets it all. 

and so i'm taking a breath, and tying on a babywearing wrap of fabric and facing life like i used to...just with a few more blossoming branches.

carved on one is mother

and another says woman

and yet another speaks warrioress

some are new. some are old. some are rediscovered. 

but all are my branches. 

and He's tending them all. 

{being imperfect with emily today}

humble communion :: day three/four

{via pinterest}

being a parent is a lesson in humility. this i have learned already.

i've started in with the litany of stammered apologies at the state of my house to any guest that might stop by, and the blushing shame that lingers even when they assure me that they understand. because part of me thinks they don't, and they simply cling to polite courteosy as a way to make the frazzled new mom feel better.

and then today my mom came by with a box of things from home, and the stammering began. could she come upstairs? well...yes...but...my house is a mess...i'm so sorry for the mess...

and then my mama started in with her love. she held my daughter while i showered, and when the tiny warrioress slipped to slumber, she started in on my dishes. and dishes turned to floors and sinks and the toilet and tub and the messy stack of haphazard books and welcome your new baby cards in every shade of possible pastel.

and i again started with the i'm sorry you're seeing my house like this...and my mother lifted her head up and looked into my eyes and spoke words that melted my soul like wax.

:: that's the devil's lie

i wept in secret as i fed my daughter and my precious mother scrubbed the limescale from my tub. and  i felt my pride starting to fold in on itself.

because i was living in pride, in this dark land of messy dishes and unvacuumed floors that were crushing me from the outside in and bringing me to this place of overwhelmed confusion. and He was giving me a thousand outs, a thousand chances to rest and breathe again, and i was tossing them back in His face.

i am enough. i can handle this. 
i don't need You. 

{yesterday, me and my daughter) 

and then i broke. and i sat in the armchair while my mama brushed my hair and twisted it into a French braid out of my face and told me that i was radiant in my new motherhood. and we washed and dried dishes and laughed while my infant heart-clinger slept in her basket nearby.

we shared communion without the bread and wine, but with our mother-daugher-granddaughter hearts all meshed together. and i know He sent her to melt me down and restore me whole again.

even if it was just a shower and a tidied house and no more stammering apologies.

i need others. and i need Him.
there's no surviving without Him.

i'm inhaling His breath. and i'm loving my baby and letting the pillows fall where they may for now. no more pride, just on bended knee between the notes of the Lion's eternal song.

no more devil-lies. i'd rather share communion with my mama.
with my baby.
with my Jesus.