This... this courage knows no shame;
till its jekylle borrows time in a panicked attempt to save face. It thrives on the chance to risk it all for even just one moment of unmitigated sense.
But wasn't this the original sin? To speak before I think, to feel before its safe?
This... this is nothing like me.
I'm the archaic walls built higher than your will to climb.
I'm the promise that your heart will break well before mine.
I'm the distance that I'll run before your inch takes a mile.
I'm the lie that claims indifference masquerading with an elusive smile.
I'm the symptoms of a little heart with too many ancient inner vows to keep.
I'm the surprise that sees a crack in the hardened shell of concrete.
I'm changing it seems.
This... this terrifies me.
Shackle my confessions to the roof of my mouth, stop these floodgates from impulsively rushing out.
Dare me to be silent, dare my heart to recall solitary confinement, dare me to use my better judgement.
Anything but this...
Daily wars are waged in the caverns of my soul; my pride seeking to protect at all cost, my heart begging to feel and count all as loss.
This... I think this might kill me.
Thursday, December 22, 2011
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Wake.
There is a silence that breathes louder than my distractions and it's living in my numb.
I feel words but they cannot find my lips; they gather like the autumn leaves upon my doorstep.
Comatose.
I float, alive and weightless, above the truths of my reality in the hopes that they will disappear.
They have not.
Linger longer near these terrors and you'll come to understand my listless air. Yet, there are no excuses I can hold tightly; I am wholly responsible for my current disrepair. I see my faults more plainly than these lines that define my weathered hands. I could run from these fears forever, but I cannot escape their source within me.
Here's that moment where I wrestle a "yes" from this hearts beating breath; trapping my fleeting feet beneath duty and raw hunger. Give me a few seconds to collect courage and dim the lights on my souls childish outrage and I promise I'll begin.
Begin to turn and run towards the fears conceived in pain.
Begin to feel enough to have to choose to forgive.
Begin to remember what an unguarded heart even sounds like.
I will begin.
I feel words but they cannot find my lips; they gather like the autumn leaves upon my doorstep.
Comatose.
I float, alive and weightless, above the truths of my reality in the hopes that they will disappear.
They have not.
Linger longer near these terrors and you'll come to understand my listless air. Yet, there are no excuses I can hold tightly; I am wholly responsible for my current disrepair. I see my faults more plainly than these lines that define my weathered hands. I could run from these fears forever, but I cannot escape their source within me.
Here's that moment where I wrestle a "yes" from this hearts beating breath; trapping my fleeting feet beneath duty and raw hunger. Give me a few seconds to collect courage and dim the lights on my souls childish outrage and I promise I'll begin.
Begin to turn and run towards the fears conceived in pain.
Begin to feel enough to have to choose to forgive.
Begin to remember what an unguarded heart even sounds like.
I will begin.
Monday, December 5, 2011
To the first.
All your letters... I finally let them go.
I remember the time when I thought I'd never have to and that it was ok to hold onto them for memories sake, but yesterday a different point of view found me.
I took the time to carefully read each one... my fingers feeling the familiar textures of the different types of papers you used for each letter and note.
I saw the moments that accompanied each word.
I heard your voice bending to the inflection of your thoughts in each phrase.
I felt the sparkle in your eyes as if you were standing right there bleeding your love onto the pages.
I wasn't just reading and remembering your letters; I was reading and remembering you.
I let my wounds and their protest drift far from my mind in that moment and I chose to remember you.
Just you.
Not the pain, not the conflict; only you.
And within that window in time I loved you as you were... where we were.
But this time was different because I didn't want to go back.
I wanted to remember you well, to remember you beautiful... And I did.
But I realized that after months of begging my soul to forget you, my heart had finally made its way back to me.
Suddenly there's room for something new and I no longer ache for you.
My tears fell freely upon the pages in my lap and I felt the weight of that defining moment. I could have wept as each one slipped from my fingers into the grossly undistinguished trash bag assigned to the ending of this process.
As I started to breathe in the new borders to this season that I'm entering, I knew that I couldn't take these pieces of you with me. You can't be the memorial that I run to when I feel scared and alone.
As I pack my life and my memories away to see a new time and space, I quietly lay you aside and whisper my goodbye.
I don't believe that I'll ever forget you...
But this is where I make room for all things new.
This is where I take one more step of letting you go completely.
This isn't where I bitterly get over you; this is where I peacefully move on.
This is where my love goes free.
I remember the time when I thought I'd never have to and that it was ok to hold onto them for memories sake, but yesterday a different point of view found me.
I took the time to carefully read each one... my fingers feeling the familiar textures of the different types of papers you used for each letter and note.
I saw the moments that accompanied each word.
I heard your voice bending to the inflection of your thoughts in each phrase.
I felt the sparkle in your eyes as if you were standing right there bleeding your love onto the pages.
I wasn't just reading and remembering your letters; I was reading and remembering you.
I let my wounds and their protest drift far from my mind in that moment and I chose to remember you.
Just you.
Not the pain, not the conflict; only you.
And within that window in time I loved you as you were... where we were.
But this time was different because I didn't want to go back.
I wanted to remember you well, to remember you beautiful... And I did.
But I realized that after months of begging my soul to forget you, my heart had finally made its way back to me.
Suddenly there's room for something new and I no longer ache for you.
My tears fell freely upon the pages in my lap and I felt the weight of that defining moment. I could have wept as each one slipped from my fingers into the grossly undistinguished trash bag assigned to the ending of this process.
As I started to breathe in the new borders to this season that I'm entering, I knew that I couldn't take these pieces of you with me. You can't be the memorial that I run to when I feel scared and alone.
As I pack my life and my memories away to see a new time and space, I quietly lay you aside and whisper my goodbye.
I don't believe that I'll ever forget you...
But this is where I make room for all things new.
This is where I take one more step of letting you go completely.
This isn't where I bitterly get over you; this is where I peacefully move on.
This is where my love goes free.
Monday, November 7, 2011
numb.
It's one more drink;
one more hit;
one more day spent in bed.
It's one more hour of living vicariously through another fictional happy ending sitting stationary staring at the screen set before you;
one more haircut to be the answer to your dissatisfaction;
one more minor manipulation prescribed to fix your devastating self loathing.
It's one more risk;
one more near death experience;
merely one more cut just to focus on the pain.
It's one more surface friend to keep you from even just one moment of terrifying silence;
one more makeshift lover for fear of ever being the one caught alone.
So when do you know when you're just filling the space to numb the ache?
At what point does it become just another way to medicate?
Today.
Today I wasn't ready to let myself figure it out.
one more hit;
one more day spent in bed.
It's one more hour of living vicariously through another fictional happy ending sitting stationary staring at the screen set before you;
one more haircut to be the answer to your dissatisfaction;
one more minor manipulation prescribed to fix your devastating self loathing.
It's one more risk;
one more near death experience;
merely one more cut just to focus on the pain.
It's one more surface friend to keep you from even just one moment of terrifying silence;
one more makeshift lover for fear of ever being the one caught alone.
So when do you know when you're just filling the space to numb the ache?
At what point does it become just another way to medicate?
Today.
Today I wasn't ready to let myself figure it out.
Friday, October 7, 2011
Find me breathing
If I were to paint my life I would paint it always on the edge of the shoreline. Sometimes I imagine that my heart swells just because it carries some of the dangerously beautiful ocean within it, almost as if it was born of it. There are moments that I forget my place and begin to feel the breathless ache for what could only be called home. I don’t know when it started, but as far back as I can remember I’ve always known this love affair with the ocean.
It was only a year ago that one of my dear friends started to point out a consistent problem in my day to day; I simply wasn’t breathing. At first I thought she was crazy and I gave her a hard time for making an issue out of nothing, but I slowly realized that she was right. I was living off of shallow breaths and never taking the time to breathe deeply like my body needed me to. Now it wasn’t until this past September that I realized the significance behind my breathing problem... and it’s directly connected to my relationship with the beach.
This year is the first time in years that my family did not go to Long Beach Island (or any beach for that matter) for vacation. I realized after September came and went that every year for the past ten years we’ve held our breaths till we were able to rest our weary hearts at the shoreline. I don’t know that we planned it to be that way, but its as if we waited to release a sigh of relief and breathe deeply till we were standing at the ocean letting go of a years worth of pain held in. At least that’s how I’ve related to the shore…
I’ve never been one to rush into the ocean upon arrival after three hours of driving, almost as if the childlike buttons lining my heart have been stuck in sleep and cannot be accessed without the hand of another holding mine and leading the way.
I approach the ocean much like a long lost love that I must slowly take in and remember... it takes time. I stand at the edge of the shoreline and let my toes sink in, only hoping that somehow that will keep me rooted there forever. I then begin to give all my senses a chance to slowly be awakened to the ache that will finally be met with what feels like a comforting embrace, and finally, I exhale the breath held for far too long and I begin to breathe.
It’s there that I wrestle with the questions that have merely accompanied the weight that I slowly push from my heavy heart. My chest aches from the pounding of the unknown upon my humanity; the tension of waiting within the confusing in-between. But still, my heart melts with every deep breath taken and then released and I begin to imagine myself captured only by this dangerous beauty before me. This is the moment that reaches into the depths of my soul and whispers, “You are far from alone, My love… I am with you.”
This is home.
Now I realize that I can’t spend my life holding my breath and living off of what can only be known as shallow and barely there, and I’ve begun to practice the art of remembering to breathe. It takes time.
But here I am… if you look you’ll find me breathing.
It was only a year ago that one of my dear friends started to point out a consistent problem in my day to day; I simply wasn’t breathing. At first I thought she was crazy and I gave her a hard time for making an issue out of nothing, but I slowly realized that she was right. I was living off of shallow breaths and never taking the time to breathe deeply like my body needed me to. Now it wasn’t until this past September that I realized the significance behind my breathing problem... and it’s directly connected to my relationship with the beach.
This year is the first time in years that my family did not go to Long Beach Island (or any beach for that matter) for vacation. I realized after September came and went that every year for the past ten years we’ve held our breaths till we were able to rest our weary hearts at the shoreline. I don’t know that we planned it to be that way, but its as if we waited to release a sigh of relief and breathe deeply till we were standing at the ocean letting go of a years worth of pain held in. At least that’s how I’ve related to the shore…
I’ve never been one to rush into the ocean upon arrival after three hours of driving, almost as if the childlike buttons lining my heart have been stuck in sleep and cannot be accessed without the hand of another holding mine and leading the way.
I approach the ocean much like a long lost love that I must slowly take in and remember... it takes time. I stand at the edge of the shoreline and let my toes sink in, only hoping that somehow that will keep me rooted there forever. I then begin to give all my senses a chance to slowly be awakened to the ache that will finally be met with what feels like a comforting embrace, and finally, I exhale the breath held for far too long and I begin to breathe.
It’s there that I wrestle with the questions that have merely accompanied the weight that I slowly push from my heavy heart. My chest aches from the pounding of the unknown upon my humanity; the tension of waiting within the confusing in-between. But still, my heart melts with every deep breath taken and then released and I begin to imagine myself captured only by this dangerous beauty before me. This is the moment that reaches into the depths of my soul and whispers, “You are far from alone, My love… I am with you.”
This is home.
Now I realize that I can’t spend my life holding my breath and living off of what can only be known as shallow and barely there, and I’ve begun to practice the art of remembering to breathe. It takes time.
But here I am… if you look you’ll find me breathing.
Friday, September 16, 2011
Beautiful
Growing up I was that girl that just "didn't care" about her appearance and never obsessed about her weight.
My clothes were always at least 4 sizes too big for me and if you asked me what my favorite color was my answer would have been, "Um... I guess earth tones..." (I'm not going to pretend like I don't STILL love my earth tones). My poor mother practically begged me to explore a little more color in my wardrobe. But I fought passionately for my right to look frumpy and unfeminine. It's somewhat painful to look at pictures from those years because of how truly terrible it was.
Much has changed since those days.. I take care of my hair and much prefer to wear it down rather than pull it back like I always did before. I wear the basics when it comes the makeup and I'm not afraid to doll up when the occasion calls for it. I wear skinny jeans and I own at least one pink shirt that I, in fact, have worn more than once. The sure sign of a changed woman, right?
Maybe...
I'm beginning to wonder if that little girl with the raspy voice and the collection of army men ever really stopped hiding from the risk of not being found beautiful. Here I am at 22 years old and I'm more aware of my weight and what my eyes can only judge to be "mediocre" than I've ever been before. I never thought I'd be one of those girls that constantly picks their physical appearance apart as if tearing stitches from a garment to prove how very cheap and worthless it really is.
I suddenly care... I suddenly own the sad and shallow belief that a big portion of my worth can be gauged by how much attention, or lack thereof, I get when I leave the safety of my apartment and brave the public eye. It sickens me... I don't even know this person I've let myself become.
I'm convinced that my self loathing can only be rooted out from within... It's this whole choice to love yourself and accept yourself that I've been fighting with for my entire life. Whether I'm hiding my femininity and "not caring" about how i look by wearing a trash bag, or if I'm trying on every single article of clothing in my wardrobe to find something that will make me feel beautiful and yet still feeling defeated when I've thrown the very last shirt on the floor, alas, either way I am found without love for myself.
In the end this really isn't about my physical appearance... I am left feeling wanting when I judge myself,
body and soul. The moment that I cannot embrace a piece of myself I begin to try and improve/manipulate another part of myself to draw attention away from the insufficiencies I've found. That's not what we call balanced or healthy. It's not how i was made to live... bound by my own rejection of self, and beauty therein.
I want to be whole... I want to love myself enough that I can also love others well. I want to believe the truth about what it means to be seen as captivating. I want to accept and embrace the beauty that knows my name and my frame.
I want to just be.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Becoming
Barefaced, my anger bleeds colors retained too long. Surviving just beneath allegiance and it's propensity to deny; this is no newborn screaming for ignorance sake. This is the ancient brew which was placed on a shelf by idealism only to age into the brutally strong elixir merely waiting to devastate the foolishly bold lips that seek to tempt it's source.
Even I am afraid of what these rumblings will breed. I would choose to hide away rather than candidly leak this malignant toxin into the beauty around and without my troubled frame. I am not so blind as to deny how grotesquely this acrimony hangs on me. Grace and beauty cannot know my name as I am now; I can hardly choose to embrace it myself.
I am...
Unbecoming.
My bitter anger, my grief unveiled...
Unbecoming.
The conflict that breaks my neck and bends my black and white to gray...
Unbecoming.
I am...
...on the road to what's becoming of me.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Shadows of death
It's a difficult day when you begin to come to the full reality of your own humanity. The frailty of life suddenly comes crashing in and the mind can no longer live by the invincible mentality conjured up by the four year old with a sheet acting as a cape tied around her neck. Childhood never looks so sweet as in the moment you meet the fragrance of death.
At what point do we make peace with the idea of our own deaths? Has it been assigned to terminal illness or the moments before the accident that will steal your last breath? When is it ok to wrestle with whether or not you're ever going to be ready to die? When is it appropriate to look the fear of death straight in the eye and bid it farewell for the sake of fully accepting life?
I know I wasn't necessarily a normal child, but in my estimation the definition of normal has been lost somewhere in the vast sea of individuals who can all claim insanity on some level.
As a small child at the age of five I encountered this thought process about death. I wasn't looking for it, but trauma had a hand in bringing such dark topics to the forefront of my little mind.
My favorite grandfather, whom we called Dadu, gave in to a lifelong battle with depression and, quite unexpectedly, committed suicide leaving his entire family behind including my five year old self.
Suddenly the cold, hard, fact that death is not always out of your control was presented to my devastated heart. Suddenly this five year old was holding her own life in her hands questioning whether or not she had the right to live it or not. Thus began my battle of struggling with depression and being suicidal.
It wasn't because I hated my life. I had a magical childhood in most respects... I was blessed with wonderful parents who could do nothing but lavish love on their children. I wasn't looking for some sort of escape from anything. I just couldn't grasp why such a wonderful man had died. If he, being untouchable in my little mind, took his own life then why did I deserve to be alive? Incredibly twisted thoughts, I know, but I wasn't expressing them to anyone. So, unbeknownst to me, those thoughts slowly grew into solid pillars of truth within my heart. I lived most of my childhood subconsciously believing that I didn't deserve life; that I was worthless. It wasn't until I was eighteen that all of these lies began to surface. It wasn't until I stood toe to toe with my own death that I finally started to combat this secret struggle. It took time, honesty, and lots of love from the people in my life. I'm alive today because of that.
So all of that to say, that wasn't the way i would have liked to encounter the moment of wrestling with death. I would have preferred to look at it from a distance and contemplate how I was choosing to LIVE my life.
It took a few years before I could look at my own potential death in a healthy way. The moment came when I was incredibly happy and overflowing with love and joy. The question was not whether I wanted to die, or even if I was ready to die, but rather whether or not I could make peace with the idea of dying in a space of time when I didn't want to die. The question was if I died tomorrow; have I lived well? Have I loved well? Have I released well? Have I received well? Have a rejoiced well? Have I mourned well? Have I searched well? Have I accepted myself well? Could I make peace with whatever would happen next? Yes.
It was a good moment. Difficult, of course, but good.
I'll probably have more moments like that in my lifetime. Healthy ones. I can spot the unhealthy ones by now and I know what to do with those.
So for now I choose to live raw. I choose to wear the truth of my heart on my sleeve; whether it's beautiful or not.
I choose to live embracing love; even when it kills me.
I choose to live challenging every dormant corner in my soul to remember movement; even when I'm weary of growing pains.
The best part in it all is that I choose to live.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Digging in the archives 04.08.08
I shut my eyes tightly entering the world behind my eyelids; the hopelessness of being visionless is swiftly out of sight. Colors birthed from pressure create a suddenly starry night begging me to loose these bonds before they break through this porcelain skin. Sound is abruptly blurred, creating space for the faintest of beating…
Here I am. Silence has become me. Perfect peace suddenly knows me. I can just be.
From the darkness of unmeasured depths logic remembers its name and quickly reminds me that I’m only seconds away from ending this quiet reverie… I must open my eyes.
Digging in the archives 03.18.08
I ache for something real, but I'm weary of hope.
I'm tired of digging, remaining so politely unearthed.
Rending my heart to the mirage of depth, I find that I'm sick of grasping at these mere shadows only to descend into these unmerciful laments.
The tide is coming in...
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Little Blue Umbrella
I can count on one hand the number of times my family went camping. We're beach people... Sleeping in a tent while bugs crawl into our ears doesn't appeal to all of us! It's the time that's currently being represented by my thumb that I happened to recall today. It was as I was walking in the pouring rain through the streets of Philadelphia, huddled under a mangled blue umbrella, that I remembered one of the first of the few memories I have of camping.
My brave parents were selfless enough to attempt camping with their five children (10 and under). I don't remember the to and from or even the where and when. I just remember the part where all seven of us were packed into the tent preparing to fall asleep. It was raining, both my parents were frazzled from their efforts at setting up camp while trying to rein in their five unruly children and quite ready to collapse. I can clearly remember my dad trying to explain to us why we couldn't touch the tent fabric while it was wet. “Guys, do not touch the tent fabric while it’s raining because it will allow the water to leak into the tent and WE WILL GET WET!”
Well I don’t need to explain how the letter of the law arouses sin… I was born into my rebellious ways and I had to touch the fabric and see what he was talking about! I wasn’t the only one… Soon they had at least four out of five of their children directly ignoring the warning that was given. We proceeded to finger paint the thin ceiling of our small tent in a wildly inspired fashion. Or at least that’s how we saw things at the time. It didn’t take long before the rain made good on its promise to seep through the fingerprints of our curiosity and splash us with the consequences of our free will choices.
Needless to say, our camping trip came to an abrupt end and what had seemed to already be an eternally exhausting excursion for my parents became more like hell in the woods. My father’s poor head was already on its way to grey, and I’m quite positive that we helped it along on this memorable camping trip.
So here I am trying to stay somewhat dry on my journey to the subway station, and failing quite miserably, and I can’t help but contemplate how that childhood memory almost seems a shadow to the realities in my life now. I can’t help but picture the sky above me as the tent over my heart, my imagination conjuring up images of my now adult fingers tracing the fabric of my starry ceiling. I had never dreamt of the flood to which I was beckoning.
This time there was no fatherly warning about where I’d lay my fingers or what I’d reach for. This time it was just me and my desperate longing to explore and touch the outermost edge of my own comprehension. This time it’s just me clinging to a little blue umbrella, begging it to keep me from this rain that I cannot will away. I can’t help but feel for the umbrella, as it cannot bear the onslaught from the sky. Even with all of its courage and heart, this little blue umbrella will not be able to keep me from this flood. There’s just no staying dry this time.
I guess it’s time to learn to swim.
My brave parents were selfless enough to attempt camping with their five children (10 and under). I don't remember the to and from or even the where and when. I just remember the part where all seven of us were packed into the tent preparing to fall asleep. It was raining, both my parents were frazzled from their efforts at setting up camp while trying to rein in their five unruly children and quite ready to collapse. I can clearly remember my dad trying to explain to us why we couldn't touch the tent fabric while it was wet. “Guys, do not touch the tent fabric while it’s raining because it will allow the water to leak into the tent and WE WILL GET WET!”
Well I don’t need to explain how the letter of the law arouses sin… I was born into my rebellious ways and I had to touch the fabric and see what he was talking about! I wasn’t the only one… Soon they had at least four out of five of their children directly ignoring the warning that was given. We proceeded to finger paint the thin ceiling of our small tent in a wildly inspired fashion. Or at least that’s how we saw things at the time. It didn’t take long before the rain made good on its promise to seep through the fingerprints of our curiosity and splash us with the consequences of our free will choices.
Needless to say, our camping trip came to an abrupt end and what had seemed to already be an eternally exhausting excursion for my parents became more like hell in the woods. My father’s poor head was already on its way to grey, and I’m quite positive that we helped it along on this memorable camping trip.
So here I am trying to stay somewhat dry on my journey to the subway station, and failing quite miserably, and I can’t help but contemplate how that childhood memory almost seems a shadow to the realities in my life now. I can’t help but picture the sky above me as the tent over my heart, my imagination conjuring up images of my now adult fingers tracing the fabric of my starry ceiling. I had never dreamt of the flood to which I was beckoning.
This time there was no fatherly warning about where I’d lay my fingers or what I’d reach for. This time it was just me and my desperate longing to explore and touch the outermost edge of my own comprehension. This time it’s just me clinging to a little blue umbrella, begging it to keep me from this rain that I cannot will away. I can’t help but feel for the umbrella, as it cannot bear the onslaught from the sky. Even with all of its courage and heart, this little blue umbrella will not be able to keep me from this flood. There’s just no staying dry this time.
I guess it’s time to learn to swim.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Admission
"Bind me up in nickels and dimes
clothe my unrelenting pride.
Will you still meet me beyond next years demise?
Masking colorful dreams behind blind eyes,
I torture my desire and suffocate my screaming hunger.
I am a mere thief.
I steal mercy and beg for unconditional peace.
Tell me, has truth ever looked so appalling?
Find me.
Leave me.
Break me.
Keep me.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
5.31.11
You.
You're a train that has more stations than rails in my heart.
Songs secretly whisper your sound leaving melody and her companions feeling lonely and forlorn.
You.
You're the trace of lingering fragrance caught in this intersection that finds me passing through; stealing my thoughts and rendering me captured.
You.
You're the keeper of my secrets and now I can't even hear you holding them tight.
You.
You're the color which I won't forget, void, or reassign... Yet can no longer paint with.
You.
You're the memory within the memory folded inside of the dream. Sleep knows no escape.
You.
You're the touch that fingertips recall and the feeling that skin can't shake.
You.
So far from resembling a tragic mistake;
you are the beautiful ache.
Monday, May 16, 2011
Digging in the archives: Behold, a dry and weary land
Questioning the rhythm to which my heart finds its approval I am disquieted within.
Does my joy merely ride behind conditional sighs of relief?
The wells I’m drawing from warn me that they’re empty yet still I pull buckets of thirsty air from their silenced depths.
How long will these hands hold so tightly to the rope which I’ve appointed to save me?
Hunger bruises the walls of my heart in violent protest to emptiness.
I ache.
Will my lips forever defy the cup that’s been so freely set before me?
No, they will not.
This thirst must be quenched.
Does my joy merely ride behind conditional sighs of relief?
The wells I’m drawing from warn me that they’re empty yet still I pull buckets of thirsty air from their silenced depths.
How long will these hands hold so tightly to the rope which I’ve appointed to save me?
Hunger bruises the walls of my heart in violent protest to emptiness.
I ache.
Will my lips forever defy the cup that’s been so freely set before me?
No, they will not.
This thirst must be quenched.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Farewell
There are varying degrees of goodbye. There is the goodbye that will see you tonight at dinner. There's the goodbye that follows the "Oh, hi! I haven't seen you in a long time. I didn't know you shopped here!" The tearful goodbye confined within the time allotted by the train conductor. The goodbye that says "See i told you that you'd tire of me.." The goodbye that only lovers can know when the beginning of a mere weekend of separation can only leave them feeling bereft. The goodbye that breathes relief at the end of what could only be described as a nuisance. The goodbye that holds the one that you had lost and only just recently found once more. The bittersweet goodbye following the ongoing conflict and the love that stays even when it just can't win the fight. And then there's the goodbye that feels final and forever when 6 feet of earthen clay separates you until eternity finds you reunited.
But what about the long goodbyes? What about the goodbyes that have layers of color and texture that you can't predict? What about the goodbye that lingers, fingers laced in honest denial yet raw acceptance? This is where you trace your goodbye a hundred times, continually refreshing it in your heart and mind.
Catch.
Release.
Catch.
Release.
Catch.
Hold. Hold.
Let go.
I've come to the conclusion that there is no safe goodbye. Rarely will you find true closure in the controlled goodbye that you've so hopefully prescribed. Sometimes the end is just a drawn out intermission cloaked in the pretense of love grown cold.
I wish it was as simple and easy as once said and done. There are times that i wish my goodbyes would stick rather than turn around and say hello again.
My heart would much rather say goodbye while love is still alive, than be saying hello only to find that love has indeed truly died.
But, like I said... there is no safety in goodbye. More often than not, it's just a heartfelt line.
But what about the long goodbyes? What about the goodbyes that have layers of color and texture that you can't predict? What about the goodbye that lingers, fingers laced in honest denial yet raw acceptance? This is where you trace your goodbye a hundred times, continually refreshing it in your heart and mind.
Catch.
Release.
Catch.
Release.
Catch.
Hold. Hold.
Let go.
I've come to the conclusion that there is no safe goodbye. Rarely will you find true closure in the controlled goodbye that you've so hopefully prescribed. Sometimes the end is just a drawn out intermission cloaked in the pretense of love grown cold.
I wish it was as simple and easy as once said and done. There are times that i wish my goodbyes would stick rather than turn around and say hello again.
My heart would much rather say goodbye while love is still alive, than be saying hello only to find that love has indeed truly died.
But, like I said... there is no safety in goodbye. More often than not, it's just a heartfelt line.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
244
Nearly 9 months.
34 weeks.
244 days.
2,928 hours.
175,680 minutes.
10,540,800 seconds.
It's strange how very real time can become when you're folding each minute and coloring in every second. Suddenly moments hold names and hours find faces.
It's only when you're standing in your home anchored to the center of your favorite room, flames creeping up the newly painted walls, that you begin to count the number of times you stood there and bitterly curse the times that you just walked through. It's at that moment that every inch of those bright yellow walls crave your attention and you, in turn, crave theirs. Suddenly you'd risk your very life to save that scratch near the far right corner that you made 4 weeks ago. It's now that you're jealous for the empty space on the walls that have been yours for months. It's in this fragmented space in time that you have the audacity to wish you could dream for the emptiness within this small radius.
How long has this fire been breathing through these walls? And how long have you fought to just believe the flames away?
You're faced with a choice; scramble to save this domicile you've known as home... as safe... Or, flee with your life and the few precious belongings that sit within your feeble reach?
You'll run. You have to. But you wont run far. You'll stay close enough to at least feel the heat, to watch it's very last heartbeat. And this burning house won't beg you to stay... It will continue to burn until it's embers can only breathe your name.
But what if you had the choice to stay and watch it fall around you, unable to change anything, but untouched by the flames? Would you stay and watch, coveting every ounce of life and death left in it's bare bones? Or would you choose to leave it behind without looking back, rather seeking what seems to be the impossible courage to one day build again?
I can't say that I'd forsake the chance to remain till the very end... But here we are in skin that can do nothing but be repulsed by the scorching heat. Reality gives us no choice to remain yet survive. Death will not indulge idealism.
Still... There is beauty in these ashes.
34 weeks.
244 days.
2,928 hours.
175,680 minutes.
10,540,800 seconds.
It's strange how very real time can become when you're folding each minute and coloring in every second. Suddenly moments hold names and hours find faces.
It's only when you're standing in your home anchored to the center of your favorite room, flames creeping up the newly painted walls, that you begin to count the number of times you stood there and bitterly curse the times that you just walked through. It's at that moment that every inch of those bright yellow walls crave your attention and you, in turn, crave theirs. Suddenly you'd risk your very life to save that scratch near the far right corner that you made 4 weeks ago. It's now that you're jealous for the empty space on the walls that have been yours for months. It's in this fragmented space in time that you have the audacity to wish you could dream for the emptiness within this small radius.
How long has this fire been breathing through these walls? And how long have you fought to just believe the flames away?
You're faced with a choice; scramble to save this domicile you've known as home... as safe... Or, flee with your life and the few precious belongings that sit within your feeble reach?
You'll run. You have to. But you wont run far. You'll stay close enough to at least feel the heat, to watch it's very last heartbeat. And this burning house won't beg you to stay... It will continue to burn until it's embers can only breathe your name.
But what if you had the choice to stay and watch it fall around you, unable to change anything, but untouched by the flames? Would you stay and watch, coveting every ounce of life and death left in it's bare bones? Or would you choose to leave it behind without looking back, rather seeking what seems to be the impossible courage to one day build again?
I can't say that I'd forsake the chance to remain till the very end... But here we are in skin that can do nothing but be repulsed by the scorching heat. Reality gives us no choice to remain yet survive. Death will not indulge idealism.
Still... There is beauty in these ashes.
Monday, March 21, 2011
Strange skin
This morning I awoke to the silence just before the sunrise. Letting the moment seep into my numb I felt my fingers begin to explore the meaning of recalled movement once again. Breathing deeply I shut my eyes tightly just to feel the tension; savoring the shock of bright pressure under my eyelids. The very dawning of the day seemed to sweetly sing the melancholy melody of missing you. The tone was set.
Six hours and four outfits later I'm finding myself still absently tugging at what should have been the answer to my overly self-aware discomfort. No matter what outfit I choose to try and solve the problem in my mind I am left feeling bereft and unlovely. What is it about today that finds me as an alien in my own skin? Nothing seems to feel like it fits even as it hangs so perfectly on my despondent frame. It's as if the ache that holds my heart is attempting to dress me up in what memory recalls to be your favorite gray shirt and the faded jeans you loved me in, but you're not here to tell me that they're not really what makes me lovely. So I'm found wanting.
I don't know this person I've been so deftly impersonating. I don't recognize this edge of reason that I'm living on. I'm just not usually this nonsensical.
But here I am... changing my outfit four times in one day; just trying to be more than okay. Feeling like a stranger in my skin.
Six hours and four outfits later I'm finding myself still absently tugging at what should have been the answer to my overly self-aware discomfort. No matter what outfit I choose to try and solve the problem in my mind I am left feeling bereft and unlovely. What is it about today that finds me as an alien in my own skin? Nothing seems to feel like it fits even as it hangs so perfectly on my despondent frame. It's as if the ache that holds my heart is attempting to dress me up in what memory recalls to be your favorite gray shirt and the faded jeans you loved me in, but you're not here to tell me that they're not really what makes me lovely. So I'm found wanting.
I don't know this person I've been so deftly impersonating. I don't recognize this edge of reason that I'm living on. I'm just not usually this nonsensical.
But here I am... changing my outfit four times in one day; just trying to be more than okay. Feeling like a stranger in my skin.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
The fugitive
There used to be safety in the moment when my head would meet my pillow; a comfort in sleep discovered. I'm finding that this is no longer true. Sleep is the fugitive I so violently seek.
It seems that as soon as I try to rest my tired eyes that I am assailed by the vivid memories which wait just beneath the delicate haze of my fatigue. My minds eye is forcefully commandeered by bright scenes set on repeat. Looking around I'm suddenly realizing that I'm the only one in this theater. The screen is larger than life and I'm front and center; paralyzed by my own need to remain.
This is a silent film, yet still the empty space cannot help but pull sound from this quiet, my chest rising and falling to the rhythm of the running color before me. Rebellious tears liberally traverse my porcelain skin, falling noiselessly upon the hands that rest in my lap. Shadows play upon my face as the figures on the screen before me dance between the darkness and the light. I am held in timeless reminiscence; caught in the layers of my blurred consciousness. This is where agony earns it's infamy.
The moment I catch up with the fleeing feet of sleep the room I'm in suddenly vanishes and my minds eye succumbs to the coma I so desperately seek.
Now you could tell me to direct my mind elsewhere, and you'd probably be right, but I'm finding it to be harder than my preconceived "three step guide to stewarding your thoughts" that I had prescribed for myself. Maybe I've been foolish or maybe just not as strong as I wanted to be, but still, I'm not giving up... Don't worry.
In the meantime, I chase sleep and hide from my dreams.
It seems that as soon as I try to rest my tired eyes that I am assailed by the vivid memories which wait just beneath the delicate haze of my fatigue. My minds eye is forcefully commandeered by bright scenes set on repeat. Looking around I'm suddenly realizing that I'm the only one in this theater. The screen is larger than life and I'm front and center; paralyzed by my own need to remain.
This is a silent film, yet still the empty space cannot help but pull sound from this quiet, my chest rising and falling to the rhythm of the running color before me. Rebellious tears liberally traverse my porcelain skin, falling noiselessly upon the hands that rest in my lap. Shadows play upon my face as the figures on the screen before me dance between the darkness and the light. I am held in timeless reminiscence; caught in the layers of my blurred consciousness. This is where agony earns it's infamy.
The moment I catch up with the fleeing feet of sleep the room I'm in suddenly vanishes and my minds eye succumbs to the coma I so desperately seek.
Now you could tell me to direct my mind elsewhere, and you'd probably be right, but I'm finding it to be harder than my preconceived "three step guide to stewarding your thoughts" that I had prescribed for myself. Maybe I've been foolish or maybe just not as strong as I wanted to be, but still, I'm not giving up... Don't worry.
In the meantime, I chase sleep and hide from my dreams.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Aisle 10
I found myself pacing the other day in aisle 10 of the nearest super market, staring down the pens set so perfectly before me.
This isn't a new habit... I've found that I can be quite obsessive when it comes to buying a new pen. I can spend over 15 minutes trying to decide which one will be the one I risk buying.
I'm sure that people passing by, accidentally overhearing the conversation i've been holding with myself, must think that I'm slightly off kilter. So they make it their business to get in and out of aisle 10 in record time, which of course I won't complain about.
By the time I've chosen the pen that I've been seeking FOR MY ENTIRE LIFE (or at least that's how I'm acting, isn't it?), I can barely contain my need to use it right away! So since I'm in the aisle which also has notebooks, I quickly grab one off the shelf and declare it a match made in heaven. I lose no time in making my purchase and getting out to my car.
Settled in my comfy and reliable Sven, I proceed to shred the casing off of the pen and notebook. Sven so willingly receives the gifts I so generously offer to his floor... While the pen and notebook remain with me.
I then take the liberty to finally use this pen of ultimate destiny!
So that's usually how the story goes when I'm on a mission to purchase a pen. Sometimes it's a success, sometimes an utter failure. It varies.
But this past time that i went on my pen pilgrimage it resembled nothing of my previous visits to aisle 10. Yeah, it started out like every other time. I even had a smile waiting just behind my eyes. But instead I was met by yet another bittersweet memory; and it's focal point was a pen.
My smile remained for a moment to celebrate the sweet portion of this memory, but knew that it would flee before the bitter finish.
My adventure in aisle 10 was immediately cut short. I quickly and mindlessly chose a pen that i already knew to be reliable and then retreated to my own thoughts.
A pen. A small object that can be found in basically any room if you look hard enough. It bears no visible marks of emotion. It's a pen.
So here i was trying to escape memory lane, but instead i found it in aisle 10 with the pens.
This isn't a new habit... I've found that I can be quite obsessive when it comes to buying a new pen. I can spend over 15 minutes trying to decide which one will be the one I risk buying.
I'm sure that people passing by, accidentally overhearing the conversation i've been holding with myself, must think that I'm slightly off kilter. So they make it their business to get in and out of aisle 10 in record time, which of course I won't complain about.
By the time I've chosen the pen that I've been seeking FOR MY ENTIRE LIFE (or at least that's how I'm acting, isn't it?), I can barely contain my need to use it right away! So since I'm in the aisle which also has notebooks, I quickly grab one off the shelf and declare it a match made in heaven. I lose no time in making my purchase and getting out to my car.
Settled in my comfy and reliable Sven, I proceed to shred the casing off of the pen and notebook. Sven so willingly receives the gifts I so generously offer to his floor... While the pen and notebook remain with me.
I then take the liberty to finally use this pen of ultimate destiny!
So that's usually how the story goes when I'm on a mission to purchase a pen. Sometimes it's a success, sometimes an utter failure. It varies.
But this past time that i went on my pen pilgrimage it resembled nothing of my previous visits to aisle 10. Yeah, it started out like every other time. I even had a smile waiting just behind my eyes. But instead I was met by yet another bittersweet memory; and it's focal point was a pen.
My smile remained for a moment to celebrate the sweet portion of this memory, but knew that it would flee before the bitter finish.
My adventure in aisle 10 was immediately cut short. I quickly and mindlessly chose a pen that i already knew to be reliable and then retreated to my own thoughts.
A pen. A small object that can be found in basically any room if you look hard enough. It bears no visible marks of emotion. It's a pen.
So here i was trying to escape memory lane, but instead i found it in aisle 10 with the pens.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Mine own.
It comes quite suddenly at times... the ever tightening grip on my heart... the race against fear that my mind can't seem to win... panic.
There is no pattern to when it happens, but i guess that's just one more piece of this process that i'm only now truly tasting.
I hadn't known what it felt like to suddenly feel like i needed to rip open my aching chest just to manually slow my own treacherous heartbeat as it sought to betray me.
I hadn't known the moments when memories would find me and I'd lose my ability to breathe through them.
So I urgently dig to the deepest part of me for just one ounce of courage to talk myself down from the crumbling ledge of hopelessness. Gently i whisper life to my spirit, begging peace to know my name. It's here that I've learned, once again, to cry out, "Abba, help!"
Slowly I begin to feel my heart remember itself and my breathing begin to fall into a steady and unchained movement through my chest.
Selah.
This is a shade of grief I've never known before. It bleeds to the point of death and then forgets to kill me. It continually tears at my memories like flesh from my bone... Piece by piece.
So I remain.
Here is where I've met the ache that for now I'll live with and learn from, but It will not define me. It will not own me.
There is no pattern to when it happens, but i guess that's just one more piece of this process that i'm only now truly tasting.
I hadn't known what it felt like to suddenly feel like i needed to rip open my aching chest just to manually slow my own treacherous heartbeat as it sought to betray me.
I hadn't known the moments when memories would find me and I'd lose my ability to breathe through them.
So I urgently dig to the deepest part of me for just one ounce of courage to talk myself down from the crumbling ledge of hopelessness. Gently i whisper life to my spirit, begging peace to know my name. It's here that I've learned, once again, to cry out, "Abba, help!"
Slowly I begin to feel my heart remember itself and my breathing begin to fall into a steady and unchained movement through my chest.
Selah.
This is a shade of grief I've never known before. It bleeds to the point of death and then forgets to kill me. It continually tears at my memories like flesh from my bone... Piece by piece.
So I remain.
Here is where I've met the ache that for now I'll live with and learn from, but It will not define me. It will not own me.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
The things I write sometimes 1:3- english class homework 5/4/09
Faint light discovers my buried eyes as I push my sleepy face further into the abyss of my fluffy and delightful pillow. Willing myself to remember sleep for just a little longer, I swiftly squeeze the life from my eyelids, borrowing another moment of peace from the lifeless bed beneath me.
The loud vibrations of my supposedly silent phone brusquely steal me from my moment of self-made heaven, begging the anger of a sleeping bear awakened too early to creep from my belly if only to devour this unwelcomed disruption. My fingers fly to the edge of my covers and throw them from my overly annoyed self, revealing feet that can only bitterly cringe at the touch of air belonging to open space. Boldly jumping from my solace, ready to wreak havoc upon the one who dares to wake me from my slumber, I grab the phone, which is at this very moment betraying me. And just as I prepare to annihilate my foe, I suddenly recall to my mind the wonderful joy of the morning… coffee.
A smile escapes from within and finds my lips, as I smell the aroma of this peace offering. My thumb gently clicks the little green button on my phone, and slowly I introduce it to my ear. Still in my supreme state of happiness, I hear the voice of the one who had indeed dared to awaken me… my mother. Immediately I hear the echo of her voice, and I know she is indeed placing this phone call from the kitchen downstairs. So aware of her victory, she cleverly invites me to join her downstairs, if at all possible, in the next few minutes. How can I refuse?
Ah, the wisdom of a seasoned mother! She knows too well the dangers of a close encounter, so she chose the better way, a phone call. Not only did she avoid the penalties of interference in person, but she also knew the only way to calm my exasperated being was to prey upon my weakness, which is my ardent love of coffee. The timing of even just the aroma could be measured as almost close to perfection.
In awe of what has just occurred, I take the time to ponder my opponent’s strategic thinking, and cannot help but forgive her for her conniving ways. She made me coffee. What else can I ask for?
As I saunter leisurely down the hall towards the stairs, a smirk slowly creeps upon my face. Today was quite the joust. A hushed laugh floats to the ceiling as I think upon what will come later. Today she might have won the battle, but the war has only just begun…
The loud vibrations of my supposedly silent phone brusquely steal me from my moment of self-made heaven, begging the anger of a sleeping bear awakened too early to creep from my belly if only to devour this unwelcomed disruption. My fingers fly to the edge of my covers and throw them from my overly annoyed self, revealing feet that can only bitterly cringe at the touch of air belonging to open space. Boldly jumping from my solace, ready to wreak havoc upon the one who dares to wake me from my slumber, I grab the phone, which is at this very moment betraying me. And just as I prepare to annihilate my foe, I suddenly recall to my mind the wonderful joy of the morning… coffee.
A smile escapes from within and finds my lips, as I smell the aroma of this peace offering. My thumb gently clicks the little green button on my phone, and slowly I introduce it to my ear. Still in my supreme state of happiness, I hear the voice of the one who had indeed dared to awaken me… my mother. Immediately I hear the echo of her voice, and I know she is indeed placing this phone call from the kitchen downstairs. So aware of her victory, she cleverly invites me to join her downstairs, if at all possible, in the next few minutes. How can I refuse?
Ah, the wisdom of a seasoned mother! She knows too well the dangers of a close encounter, so she chose the better way, a phone call. Not only did she avoid the penalties of interference in person, but she also knew the only way to calm my exasperated being was to prey upon my weakness, which is my ardent love of coffee. The timing of even just the aroma could be measured as almost close to perfection.
In awe of what has just occurred, I take the time to ponder my opponent’s strategic thinking, and cannot help but forgive her for her conniving ways. She made me coffee. What else can I ask for?
As I saunter leisurely down the hall towards the stairs, a smirk slowly creeps upon my face. Today was quite the joust. A hushed laugh floats to the ceiling as I think upon what will come later. Today she might have won the battle, but the war has only just begun…
The things I write sometimes 1:2- 6/24/09
breathing in the ocean air i feel the ache befall me
what started as just a thought has now become desperate longing
i dig my toes into the sand begging my heart to slow
but just beneath this thin facade the tears threaten to finally flow
biting my lip i plead with my eyes to wait just one day longer
will groans forever wait to overthrow the calm which i borrowed?
the waves dance upon my buried feet wishing they would follow
the wind caresses my porcelain skin willing me away from the shallow
you stand beside my frail frame promising you’ll never stray away
but i miss you
i miss you even as you hold me
even as you speak my name
your voice is the one that i long for
i still miss you
and the ache
it remains.
what started as just a thought has now become desperate longing
i dig my toes into the sand begging my heart to slow
but just beneath this thin facade the tears threaten to finally flow
biting my lip i plead with my eyes to wait just one day longer
will groans forever wait to overthrow the calm which i borrowed?
the waves dance upon my buried feet wishing they would follow
the wind caresses my porcelain skin willing me away from the shallow
you stand beside my frail frame promising you’ll never stray away
but i miss you
i miss you even as you hold me
even as you speak my name
your voice is the one that i long for
i still miss you
and the ache
it remains.
The things I write sometimes 1:1 Sharai- My Setting Free
That morning I awoke to the sound of unremitting fear knocking upon the gate of my sluggish heart... Something was wrong. Hearing the sound of footsteps near my room and watching as the light sang through the cracks around the door, I crept nervously from the choice of disregard. I slowly opened the door to find my aunt despondently introducing her weary feet to each step upon the staircase.
Only my eyes could beg for the answer to the disquiet that wrestled beneath the surface of my skin. The foreboding weight on my heart seemed to apprehend the very breath within my being. Feeling the charge of panic followed by surrendering sorrow, I watched as the tragic words fell so warily from her grief kissed mouth.
“It’s the baby… They- they can’t find the heartbeat.” She whispered softly.
Clutching the banister, I crumbled into her arms and wept.
We had arrived in Charleston, South Carolina, only a few days earlier. It was barely a week before Christmas; but after a month of no work for my father and my brother-in-law, my uncle had graciously stepped in and invited all of us to come down and temporarily work for him for a week or two.
It swiftly became an exciting trip for all of us. The group consisted of my father, Mark; my two younger brothers, Jesse and Josiah; my sister, Hannah (along with the little one in her womb), and her husband, Micah.
Unfortunately my mother, Kathi, and my older brother, Jeremiah, were unable to go with us due to prior engagements. Nonetheless, our joy and excitement for the excursion could not be disenchanted!
After we arrived we immediately began working. The men worked with my uncle and my sister and I worked with my aunt in the quaint shop that she managed downtown.
At that point my sister was already five months along in her pregnancy and the small bump on her stomach seemed to grow larger every day. I couldn’t help but get caught up in what seemed to be such an enchanting time. We were indeed in the most magical season of the year, and the joy of expecting new life held me captive. I was going to be an aunt!
The last five months had been a journey of discovery as each day unfolded a new tier of what was to come. Being the photographer in the family I made sure to document each variation in the beautiful process of Hannah’s pregnancy. This child whom I had yet to truly know was already holding my heart.
I remember the nights when I would just sit with Hannah’s tummy and talk to the little one on the other side of the flesh bound wall. I can recall the first movement that I was excitedly summoned to feel. All of us could hardly contain our elation as we waited with bated breath for this child to arrive. This baby would be the first of many.
It never occurred to me that anything bad would happen. How could it? We wanted this child! There wasn’t a moment that this little one was found wanting! We lavished our love without even the thought that perhaps our hearts might end up broken.
The hours that followed that first moment of sorrow unveiled seemed to be unending. How is it that one day could feel like a lifetime? My uncle, without hesitation, decided to fly my mother in that very day.
After the initial shock and wave of grief, I was driven to the hospital to stand beside my Hannah Day. I took those few minutes in the car to remember that I must remain strong for her. I had to be the pillar that could hold her as she collapsed.
As I walked into the hospital room that had been nominated for her anguish, I overheard the doctor say with great commiseration, “I’m so sorry. I’m afraid you’re too far along… You’re going to have to give birth.” I watched as my grief stricken sister succumbed to yet another wave of tears. Her eyelids had by now become swollen after two hours of this heartrending cycle.
I slowly made my way to her and gently sat down beside her on the bed she had so feebly come to despise only for what it represented. My hands carefully found her colorless face, imprisoned within her trembling hands, and lifted her eyes to meet mine. The eyes that were once filled with the sparkles of life were suddenly hollow and endlessly sad. My heart ached at the sight of her despair; it only took an instant to gather her shaking frame to myself, and rock her just as I remember my mother rocking me as a child. Hannah desperately needed her mommy… I knew I was the only one who could stand in the gap.
With her head pressed against my chest, breathing through her tears, I hardly heard as she drew a ragged breath and faintly whispered,
“I’m going to give birth to a dead baby…”
She wept in my arms until she gradually fell into a deep and troubled sleep.
The rest of the day seemed to be a surreal mixture of numbingly fast, yet excruciatingly slow moments in time. It wasn’t long before my mother arrived at the airport and was swiftly brought to the hospital to comfort her frail daughter. The nurses quietly scurried through the preparations leading up to the impending birth of this fully loved stillborn.
The induced labor steadily invoked painfully small contractions. They relentlessly pounded the surface of our grief like the oceans waves callously hitting the unmoving shoreline. Helpless, we waited.
After hours of waiting for this unnatural birth to begin, the doctor announced that it was time. My mother, my brother-in-law Micah, and I held our breath as our Hannah Day gave birth to the unborn child she had taken such joy in for the past five months. It was done.
The doctor pulled the baby ever so gently from Hannah’s womb and said with tears in her eyes,
“It’s a girl…”
The words seemed to provoke mixed feelings… Hannah and Micah had been hoping for a little girl, but neither had known she would come like this. The doctor tenderly placed her delicate body on a towel and put her on her mother’s chest. Hannah had asked to hold her little girl.
Gathered around her, we once more wept for the child who still held our hearts. We celebrated the five precious months we had with her, and stood firm on the promise that we would one day see her again.
We each took a moment to hold her, and mourn the loss of her. She was beautiful.
Hannah tearfully looked up at her husband and said,
“We’ll name her Sharai. It means, “my setting free”…”
At the moment I can’t say it felt like my setting free. But nothing taught me to hope as disappointment did. Nothing taught me to love as heartbreak did. My teacher was grief and it taught me to endure, to hope against hope.
It’s been over three years since that day. It was a journey that I pray we will never have to venture out upon again.
Today my sister and her husband have two beautiful children. The older of the two is an adorable two-year-old boy named Aridai, and he holds all of our hearts with his little stubborn fingers.
The beautiful ending, or shall I say beginning, is that only 8 months ago Hannah gave birth to another little girl who is now the light of our lives. Her name is Aurora Hadeshalyne, which means, “The dawning of a new day”
Only my eyes could beg for the answer to the disquiet that wrestled beneath the surface of my skin. The foreboding weight on my heart seemed to apprehend the very breath within my being. Feeling the charge of panic followed by surrendering sorrow, I watched as the tragic words fell so warily from her grief kissed mouth.
“It’s the baby… They- they can’t find the heartbeat.” She whispered softly.
Clutching the banister, I crumbled into her arms and wept.
We had arrived in Charleston, South Carolina, only a few days earlier. It was barely a week before Christmas; but after a month of no work for my father and my brother-in-law, my uncle had graciously stepped in and invited all of us to come down and temporarily work for him for a week or two.
It swiftly became an exciting trip for all of us. The group consisted of my father, Mark; my two younger brothers, Jesse and Josiah; my sister, Hannah (along with the little one in her womb), and her husband, Micah.
Unfortunately my mother, Kathi, and my older brother, Jeremiah, were unable to go with us due to prior engagements. Nonetheless, our joy and excitement for the excursion could not be disenchanted!
After we arrived we immediately began working. The men worked with my uncle and my sister and I worked with my aunt in the quaint shop that she managed downtown.
At that point my sister was already five months along in her pregnancy and the small bump on her stomach seemed to grow larger every day. I couldn’t help but get caught up in what seemed to be such an enchanting time. We were indeed in the most magical season of the year, and the joy of expecting new life held me captive. I was going to be an aunt!
The last five months had been a journey of discovery as each day unfolded a new tier of what was to come. Being the photographer in the family I made sure to document each variation in the beautiful process of Hannah’s pregnancy. This child whom I had yet to truly know was already holding my heart.
I remember the nights when I would just sit with Hannah’s tummy and talk to the little one on the other side of the flesh bound wall. I can recall the first movement that I was excitedly summoned to feel. All of us could hardly contain our elation as we waited with bated breath for this child to arrive. This baby would be the first of many.
It never occurred to me that anything bad would happen. How could it? We wanted this child! There wasn’t a moment that this little one was found wanting! We lavished our love without even the thought that perhaps our hearts might end up broken.
The hours that followed that first moment of sorrow unveiled seemed to be unending. How is it that one day could feel like a lifetime? My uncle, without hesitation, decided to fly my mother in that very day.
After the initial shock and wave of grief, I was driven to the hospital to stand beside my Hannah Day. I took those few minutes in the car to remember that I must remain strong for her. I had to be the pillar that could hold her as she collapsed.
As I walked into the hospital room that had been nominated for her anguish, I overheard the doctor say with great commiseration, “I’m so sorry. I’m afraid you’re too far along… You’re going to have to give birth.” I watched as my grief stricken sister succumbed to yet another wave of tears. Her eyelids had by now become swollen after two hours of this heartrending cycle.
I slowly made my way to her and gently sat down beside her on the bed she had so feebly come to despise only for what it represented. My hands carefully found her colorless face, imprisoned within her trembling hands, and lifted her eyes to meet mine. The eyes that were once filled with the sparkles of life were suddenly hollow and endlessly sad. My heart ached at the sight of her despair; it only took an instant to gather her shaking frame to myself, and rock her just as I remember my mother rocking me as a child. Hannah desperately needed her mommy… I knew I was the only one who could stand in the gap.
With her head pressed against my chest, breathing through her tears, I hardly heard as she drew a ragged breath and faintly whispered,
“I’m going to give birth to a dead baby…”
She wept in my arms until she gradually fell into a deep and troubled sleep.
The rest of the day seemed to be a surreal mixture of numbingly fast, yet excruciatingly slow moments in time. It wasn’t long before my mother arrived at the airport and was swiftly brought to the hospital to comfort her frail daughter. The nurses quietly scurried through the preparations leading up to the impending birth of this fully loved stillborn.
The induced labor steadily invoked painfully small contractions. They relentlessly pounded the surface of our grief like the oceans waves callously hitting the unmoving shoreline. Helpless, we waited.
After hours of waiting for this unnatural birth to begin, the doctor announced that it was time. My mother, my brother-in-law Micah, and I held our breath as our Hannah Day gave birth to the unborn child she had taken such joy in for the past five months. It was done.
The doctor pulled the baby ever so gently from Hannah’s womb and said with tears in her eyes,
“It’s a girl…”
The words seemed to provoke mixed feelings… Hannah and Micah had been hoping for a little girl, but neither had known she would come like this. The doctor tenderly placed her delicate body on a towel and put her on her mother’s chest. Hannah had asked to hold her little girl.
Gathered around her, we once more wept for the child who still held our hearts. We celebrated the five precious months we had with her, and stood firm on the promise that we would one day see her again.
We each took a moment to hold her, and mourn the loss of her. She was beautiful.
Hannah tearfully looked up at her husband and said,
“We’ll name her Sharai. It means, “my setting free”…”
At the moment I can’t say it felt like my setting free. But nothing taught me to hope as disappointment did. Nothing taught me to love as heartbreak did. My teacher was grief and it taught me to endure, to hope against hope.
It’s been over three years since that day. It was a journey that I pray we will never have to venture out upon again.
Today my sister and her husband have two beautiful children. The older of the two is an adorable two-year-old boy named Aridai, and he holds all of our hearts with his little stubborn fingers.
The beautiful ending, or shall I say beginning, is that only 8 months ago Hannah gave birth to another little girl who is now the light of our lives. Her name is Aurora Hadeshalyne, which means, “The dawning of a new day”
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Friday, January 21, 2011
The Beggar Folk
If you've never had the immense privilege of listening to this enchanting couple sing straight to your story, almost drawing from the very well within you, then I must say you've been missing out.
My roommates and I recently decided to host an in house show with The Beggar folk at our new apartment and it was just so perfectly wonderful to have them! The Homeless Gospel Choir opened for them and did a splendid job kick starting the evening with his unique sound; beckoning smiles, laughter, and truth from each heart present. We, of course, suffered no lack as we were then ushered into the folky and warm sound of The Beggar Folk, only to be claimed by the softly compelling melodies dripping from their hearts as they poured themselves into each song. You cannot leave one of their performances feeling empty or unfulfilled. The experience can only be called deep and wealthy for ones heart and soul.
Here are a few shots from the evening...
The Homeless Gospel Choir
The Beggar Folk
Make sure to check them out! http://www.myspace.com/thebeggarfolk
My roommates and I recently decided to host an in house show with The Beggar folk at our new apartment and it was just so perfectly wonderful to have them! The Homeless Gospel Choir opened for them and did a splendid job kick starting the evening with his unique sound; beckoning smiles, laughter, and truth from each heart present. We, of course, suffered no lack as we were then ushered into the folky and warm sound of The Beggar Folk, only to be claimed by the softly compelling melodies dripping from their hearts as they poured themselves into each song. You cannot leave one of their performances feeling empty or unfulfilled. The experience can only be called deep and wealthy for ones heart and soul.
Here are a few shots from the evening...
The Homeless Gospel Choir
The Beggar Folk
Make sure to check them out! http://www.myspace.com/thebeggarfolk
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
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