Dedicated to...you.

"Dedicated to everyone who wonders if I'm writing about them.

I am."

I saw this quote on Pinterest and I was immediately in love with it. It's true, after all. But then I really began to think about it...I wonder how often I have told the stories of other people in my writing? Laid out facts about their lives the way I saw them. I've stolen bits and pieces of other people and wrapped them up in pretty words. I've made them mine because I witnessed them. They've woven in and out of my own, but were their stories mine to tell?

I write a lot about the human condition: Loneliness. Loss. Love. The silence between heartbeats. The things we should have said. And I write a lot about people. I know people. I've always had this innate ability to sense someone's character...I feel as though I know them before they let me. It's intrusive and unfair. But this is how I was made.

How are we made? 

It's in me to wonder this. Instinctively, out of the blue. Why are some of us hardwired to wonder and wander and always, always, always be consumed? It's in my blood to never be satisfied. Which, I suppose, is why I write outside myself. I could tell you every emotion I've ever felt--the overflowing happiness, the deep, roiling passion, the bitter and solid emptiness--but would it cause you to know me any better? Would it make you understand? I can promise you it wouldn't. I am in a constant state of flux. Everything is tenuous. As soon as I find the words for my feelings, they've already changed twice. This is who I am and I'm used to it. Instead of boring you with myself, I'll write about you. You; the nameless, faceless vestiges of my sanity. I can see inside you. I know about numbers and the counting. The tiny scratches on your inner thigh. Scars that line the insides of upper arms. Little white pills  wrapped in cellophane. Stolen kisses on a race car bed. Broken Christmas lights. Selfishness hiding behind sweet words. The way you pause before you kiss her. Dark circles hidden under too much makeup. Wondering if you settled. That hidden playlist. 

40°46′31.48″N 73°58′28.59″W. The way she never looks at you, not really, not the way I did. The way I do. 13 different people. Stories not my own. So if ever you wonder if I'm writing about you....rest assured, I am.

Oh, we dreamed of life.

Heavy.

Everything about this morning is heavy. 

I woke up with tears leaking out of the corners of my still-closed eyelids. Aren't dreams supposed to be pleasant and warm? Comforting? Kindred? Otherwise, aren't they nightmares? What if they're neither? 

I didn't dream she was alive and well. She was still gone. But maybe that dream would have been easier to deal with...her absence is so ingrained in me that I think even in my sleeping state, I would have known I was dreaming. And it would have been nice to see her face. I miss it so much, so very much more than I ever thought possible. Pictures are lovely things, but they can only go so far in capturing a person. One dimension distortion almost feels inappropriate; like staring at a ghost.

I dreamed that I was going through her old vanity the way I did when I was a child. Pulling out lipsticks that I wish I remembered the exact name of, gently sniffing the perfumed powder I loved to feel between my fingertips. That scent haunts me. To this day, whenever I'm in a new department store, I will undoubtedly wander around the fragrance department absently searching for it. I never mean to wind up there, but I always do.

I pulled out her hairbrush. Ran the soft bristles over the skin of my arm. Still felt the same little-girl wonder I always felt about her hair. So abundant and midnight shadow dark. Always perfectly placed. I reached farther into the drawer and came back with a folded piece of paper. I unfolded it and read. It was a note to us, her family. It contained $35. I don't remember exactly what it said, but it was something about using the money in case anything ever happened to her. And it said she loved us..."Bigger than the moon and farther than the stars." It felt so unbelievably real. Not because the amount of money holds any significance, it doesn't. Not because she had ever said those words, she hadn't. Not because it was written in her handwriting. It may well have been, but I don't consciously know what her script looked like. I wish I did. No, I believe it felt so real to me because it is something I have wished for and wanted for the last 4 years. It seems like such a small and trivial thing, but I would love to have something she had written. A letter. A memo. A grocery list. Some little piece of paper her hands had touched. I cried tears of joy in my dream. And then an over-full bladder caused the pitbull laying next to me to whine loud enough to bring me back to reality. It was the rudest awakening. Harsher than the streaming sunlight in my sleep filled eyes, my hope filled heart broke.

I don't know where to go with the rest of my day. If I'm being honest, the rest of my life. There is so much I wish I could talk to her about. I feel like she knew me best. Her skinny arms always enveloped me more fully than anyone else. I miss that sense of safety. Everything feels precariously balanced, like a gust from either direction will send me toppling. I'm still trying to become that person she believed I would be. Something. Someone. And I don't know how. I want to be happy. I want to be fulfilled. I believe it's possible, but I'm constantly feeling shoved into obligations. I'm stuck in this weird in-between...an adult, but stunted. When did I become this scared person? I used to have so much fight. I want her to hold me and tell me I'm beautiful again. Just one more time. Because maybe then, I could face a world that so often makes me feel so ugly inside.

1.

My soul is weak
But I am strong
in You
I come before You
Broken
Deaf though I am
I hear You now
Choirs and choruses
Saving me
Singing me home
Wrapped up in a lullaby
And buried in belief
I am wicked
Weakened
Resurrect this spirit
Make me whole
Wreck me
Create me new
These damaged hands
Clinging to Your truth
Falling in love for the first time
Absolute
Unyielding
Boundaries undefined
Wild and reckless
Wings no longer clipped
A promise of the heart
And soul
A taste of immortality
I am only human
But because I have You
That is enough

Aurora, Colorado.

***I've been sitting on this post for a few days...ping ponging back and forth about whether or not I should post this publicly or keep it set to private. I wrote in a state of sleep deprivation and deep sadness. I know I'm long overdue for a blog and I have a poem I wrote in church today that I could post, but these are the thoughts that keep niggling in the back of my head. So here it goes...***

Maybe I shouldn't be blogging about this. Maybe I shouldn't. Maybe I should leave it to those better informed. More judicial. Less emotional. The last thing I would ever want to be is disrespectful of the deceased or those mourning. So maybe I should just go back to sleep. But I can't.
There's a hurricane inside me and it's stirring up broken pieces of things I wish were forgotten. 
I remember watching the news in October of 1998 and hearing about a 21 year old named Matthew who was beaten, tortured, robbed, and left for dead. I remember being so sad and confused. I remember asking why anyone would do something like that and being told that at 10 years old, I was too young to understand. 
Some months later in April of 1999, I remember hearing on the radio about two high school seniors named Eric and Dylan who killed 12 of their classmates and one of their teachers. I remember being scared to go to school the next day. I remember asking who would do such a thing, and being told again that it isn't something an 11 year old can understand.
A few years later, packed into a classroom with 70 of my peers and 3 teachers, I watched in horror as thousands lost their lives in the middle of  lower Manhattan on a September morning. We held each other's hands as silent tears poured down our faces and we asked our teachers what it all meant, what would make people do something as terrible as this. We were 13 and 14 years old, we could do algebra and read Shakespeare, surely we could understand the reasons behind this. But they refused to give us any and told us to speak to our parents about it. 
Several years after that, at 19 years old, I read on the internet about an English major in Virginia who took the lives of 32 people on campus. Shocked and heart broken as I was, I didn't ask a single question. Because I knew, finally, I would never understand these acts of malice and it had nothing, nothing at all, to do with my age.
There are always all these analysts and experts and pundits and lobbyists all over the tv after a tragedy. They blame this video game or that mental illness or demand stricter laws. They toss around big words and try to make sense of the situation. They plaster images of the "shooter" or "perpetrator" or "assailant" everywhere. They inundate us with their history of instability or extremist beliefs. They vilify. They make it easy to place blame. Despite all of that, I've come to believe that it would be better placed on the reflection we see in the mirror. Do not misunderstand me, I know that each one of us is responsible for our own actions. I know that the majority of people on this planet find the thought of harming another soul in anyway to be completely abhorrent. I know that. But I also know that most of us are too busy, too wrapped up in our own pain to notice the hurt of others. How  often do we walk around with our eyes down, fingers glued to a keypad, earbuds in, oblivious to all but ourselves? There is a brokenness in the world. It is deep and vast and dark. It is also inside each of us. It is the reason why we hate the sinner instead of the sin. I know because I am as guilty of it as anyone else. I am reactionary. I hear about 12 people being murdered and 50 others being injured at a theater and I immediately reach for anger and outrage. But I am learning to fight my nature. Because I have to. Because it is what Jesus has asked of me. 


"For if you forgive men when they sin against you, your heavenly Father will also forgive you.  But if you do not forgive men their sins, your Father will not forgive your sins" Matthew 6:14-15


"And when you stand praying, if you hold anything against anyone, forgive him, so that your Father in heaven may forgive you your sins. " Mark 11:25


I know that there will be those who criticize me, saying that I have no right to preach about forgiveness in these situations because I am not directly involved. "How would you feel if it was your family member or friend?" I would hurt. I would mourn. But I hope with all that I am that I would still come to the same conclusion: we have more hatred and fear than the world should hold. We are sorely in need of love and acceptance. I will pray for peace over those left behind. I will pray that the Lord take the souls of the departed. Alex Sullivan. Jessica Ghawi. Matthew McQuinn. Micayla Medec.  John Larimer. A.J. Boick. Gordon Cowden. Veronica Moser-Sullivan. Jonathon Blunk. Jesse Childress. Alex Teves. Rebecca Wingo. And I will pray that He forgives the shooter, James Holmes. 
Instead of asking questions about the whys and hows, I am working on letting go of my bitterness and anger. Because I believe that God has a plan more infinite than any one of us can comprehend. And to those that question what I would do if it was my loved one murdered...I ask you, what would you do if James Holmes was yours?

Honestly. Insanely. Deeply. Ferociously.

I was listening to this song today. Just another sad love song and there are a million others exactly like it. I listen to them everyday, and sometimes they make me think and feel things. Strong things. True things. And sometimes they don't. Sometimes, they're just words given a rhythm and set to music. Just words. They don't make me pause. But today, listening to this song, for some reason...I paused. It caught me so off guard. One second I was washing dishes, not really paying any attention, and the next I'm sitting at my kitchen table writing this. It feels like it was written for me, this song. And in some weird cosmic way, maybe it was. Maybe it was written about some other girl somewhere, but maybe also so I could hear it. And pause.


I'm pausing. 


I used to be so sure about love. Knew that I had been in love and knew exactly what it was. What it feels like to love. Most of the time, I still think I do. What I have become unsure of is whether or not I've ever been loved. Really loved. Honestly. Insanely. Deeply. I've never felt loved like that, not by anyone outside of my immediate family, but I believe I could. I believe it exists. It's what all the poets write about, and what every musician sings about, and it is what a soldier fights for. It's why we breathe. And it is the reason we associate our most vital organ, the very core of our being, our hearts, with it. Because our love defines us. It is not something you settle for.


I am always settling.


I settle for no credit (even though credit isn't the point...) for the things that I do. I settle for selfish, inconsiderate friends (not all of them...) who consistently put me last. I settle for being told I am inadequate (sometimes, by myself...) and I settle for believing it. I deserve more. But I settle. Over and over again. So I suppose this is a promise to myself;  I won't settle when it comes to things I love. Not anymore. I deserve to chase my passions. I'm going to throw everything I have into doing this whole writing thing, because I love it. Ferociously, I love it. And instead of accepting the love I convince myself I deserve, I'm going to work on believing I deserve better. Because I do. I deserve to be loved. Honestly. Insanely. Deeply. Ferociously. And so do you.


We deserve to be loved.

OKAY! I hear You. I hear ALL of you. I'm going to make an honest go of it. Really, truly. okay.

She

She's a teal haired beauty
Gypsy soul
Carries leaving in her bones
Friday night scene-stealer
Rolling Stone
Always somewhere new to roam
So she runs
Like heaven itself is chasing her
Jesus, hot on her heels
And she steals
Mostly kisses
Sometimes hearts
She leaves them broken on the side of the road
She knows the devil loves to dance
And she'll gladly take her turn
Gives lessons on things she refuses to learn
Blazes trails through cities
Just to watch as they burn
And in turn
She'll plant a field full of wild flowers
Rebellion blood boils in her veins
A free spirit, chained
And oceans roil in her womb
Filled by fists
Friendships
Final words
She tastes of chaos and serenity
And whole worlds are present
In her battlefield eyes
Enough space to swim for eternity
In those midnight skies
Californian by way of Neverland
Citizen of nowhere
Chew you up, spit you out
Leave you discarded
She had it decided before you even started
Skinned knees
Tanned skin
And a rhythm in her toes
She was made for the places no else knows

Special thanks to my muse, the ever-stunning Miss Melissa-Anne de Obaldia. And to Jesialex Photography for the use of her AMAZING photo. Be sure to check out her page; she's doing a series this summer of girls with out-of-the-ordinary hair coloring and every shot is beautiful!