So am I

I need to write. I can feel the words forming in my fingers. I'm not sure even what it is that I need to say. But I find myself here, my hands on the keyboard. And I can't stop typing. I can hear my own voice in my head.. putting words together to form sentences and its like my fingers can't move fast enough. My mind and my hands and my heart even are on this wave length.. I almost feel left out. I'm here, at this point in my path.. on my journey. A journey that I sometimes hate.. but all at once love so much that I hold it tightly to my chest. I wouldn't give it up. And I wouldn't change a thing. Not any one of the pebbles that bruised the soles of my feet. Or the cracks in the dried soil that made me lose my step. Not the patches of silky green grass that made my tired feet want to sing. Or the cool puddles that rinsed away the grime just long enough for me to remember what it feels like to be shiny clean. Only to begin walking again and dirty them right back up. Sometimes I can soak. Soak it all. Like skin. And other times something happens within me and I numb. But when I numb from sad things.. I numb from all things. Joy. Happiness. Peace. All. And I've been struggling.. fighting myself. "Everything in me is tightening, curling in around this ache. I am fighting to stay open." Open to all the things that Papa has to bring me. All gifts. Even the ones that seem to be horribly awful. Empty walls where pictures hung. Furniture stacked up in the corner. An apple core. A single roll of toilet paper in an empty bathroom. A bed frame with no mattress. One last view of the sunset from my little porch. Memories playing in my mind.. the sound of two little girls spying. Laughing. Promising. A box full of school notes. Pictures drawn. Letters written. Sworn secrets. Endless hours of laughter.. the kind that made you sore the next day. Friendship. Acceptance. Love. Momma's fingers braiding my hair. Daddy's arms around me so long. His kisses soaking up the tears on my cheeks. Courtlynn's super bag, with everything you could ever need. :) Jett's favorite part of the morning. Jaxon's teeth. Ivy's big round eyes. Bay's forgiveness. My Lydise's voice fighting for me. Babe's eyes drinking me in. My fingers intertwined in his and oh how I love the colors. A picture of two birds flying away together. An invitation to just be me and that I'm wanted that way. Bubba's courage and unwillingness to give anything but his all. Rocky's sweet softness and the way I can feel his love for me in the air... almost breath it. Nightmares. Ones that wake me with loud sobs. And the ache of that long hallway walk. The turn of the doorknob. Jace's pale, cold face. And waking up to realize it's a dream. But not really. It's a memory. It's reality. One last kiss on his dry, cold lips. One last run of my fingers through is bright red curls.. that somehow just didn't feel the same. A last peek at his toes. A last attempt at holding his hand in mine. And I'm angry. And I don't want to be skin today. I don't want to soak. Not this. But I realize that this is life. And when you live free and open, you risk a whole lot. And you get things that you wouldn't have picked. You find yourself on parts of the path that make you want to sit down and never take another step. But you can't. Not if you want the fullness. Not if you want the sweet things. The ones we were made for. But the sweetness just doesn't come without the bitter. And so you choose to let the bitter soak too. Pool around you. And the tears come. So long. Your eyes are swollen shut. Your head is pounding and you feel like you could sleep for days. "Bring the wind and bring the thunder. Bring the rain til I am tried. When it's over bring me stillness. Let my face reflect the sky. And all the grace and all the wonder of a peace that I can't fake." Maybe the tears are purely a trickle of memories.. ones that you have to somehow let go of, so that they can just be what they are. Maybe tears are the softest and sweetest way we can let heart ache the way it needs to. And I hate them. But I need them. And so life is mean. But it's also sweet and full. And you can't have one without the other. They come together. They are tethered. Like my braided hair. And so I will soak. Even the brutal ugliness of the world. Because the sweetness is worth it. And so am I.

Skin

What is time wasted? Who defines the word wasted? And who names time? The other day I was sitting in the sun, and as I felt the rays burning my skin I thought about how I want to soak up life, like my skin soaks up the sun. But how? How do I find it inside myself to look past all the different definitions of wasted? Definitions of time? For skin to soak sun is so easy. It happens on its own. It’s made that way. Skin was made to soak. Could I be made to soak? Can I be skin? So much of life is different than I expected. And much of my life is different than I planned. Each choice that I have made has brought me to here. Today. I know I’m not too far along the road.. only 21. But I feel the pressure of time. I feel the expectations of others. Of myself. And its like there are two of me. There is the me that just wants to please. Cross my legs, fold my hands, brush my hair, follow the rules, make them proud. All of them. She is responsibility. She is on time. She is hard-working. She is respectful. She is clean and neat. She is tired. And then there is the me that aches to run, to fly, to let my hair blow-dry in the breeze, to unfold my hands and let them make beautiful things, to open my mouth and speak, to stand tall and make myself proud. Myself and my Papa. She is raw. She is passionate. She is real. She is determined. She is free. She is skin. When I think of her I get butterflies in my tummy, like I do sometimes when I’m lacing up my tennis shoes before a run. Like Merida in the movie Brave. I love her. I need her. When I embrace her I feel more me. And I think there are things about the other me that I need as well. I can’t throw her away. She is part of me too, and so I learn to love her. I haven’t figured it all out. Though the mystery is almost addicting. I want to solve it. But I know that if I could, then there would be nothing left to strive for. How sweet it’s been to begin to let heart be who she is. And every day I’m closer to my true self. Still so far.. but closer than I once was. And as I look back I can’t find it in myself to call any of my choices mistakes. Wrong and right? Yes. That is a completely different story. One that, frankly, I’m not equipped to discuss quite yet. My thoughts are too confused and scattered for that. But every place I’ve been, whether good or bad, has been a place that Papa was always willing to go with me. He’s never left me. Even in my so-called wandering. I love that pinterest that says “Not all those who wander are lost.” In my silly human way, I find the ache to know things. To know them, not just as rules and regulations. Not just as a formula for the best outcome of life, but to know them for real. To let heart know them for herself. To risk. To live, rather than just survive. To venture close enough to the water’s edge that I risk getting my shoes wet. There are choices I’ve made that I wouldn’t want to go around bragging about, but I can’t name them. I can’t bring myself to name bad or good. They just are. And they’ve been what has made me myself. Every step has been needed. Every action taken, every hand held, every eye opened, every heart broken, every tear, every apology, every I love you, every drop of joy, every wound, every chance taken has made me closer to skin than I was before. And so my story looks different than expected. But expected by who? By me? By them? Certainly Papa is not surprised. He knew every line of this picture from the blank sheet of paper. And though sometimes the pencil’s stroke may be rougher, it is equally part of the beauty in the ends masterpiece. I don’t know everything. In fact I know very little. But that’s what keeps me coming back for more. Its where the burn in my chest comes from when I take a look at the track in front of me before I take the first stride. I think that’s the skin.. soaking. And all I want in this life is.. all of it. Every minute. Soaking. Even the "wasted" ones. Because I've come to realize that sometimes the wasted ones are my favorite ones. A sunday evening riding my bike to the park to sit in my favorite swing. I say.. no time is wasted time when you're skin soaking. I want the wonder. I want fullness. I want marvelous. "I am so thirsty for the marvelous that only the marvelous has power over me. Anything i cannot transform into something marvelous, I let go. Reality doesn't impress me. I only believe in intoxication, in ecstasy, and when ordinary life shackles me, I escape one way or another. No more walls." -Anais Nan I forget too easily. I forget the living. I forget the wonder. I forget the wholeness. When I get so caught up in money and plans and my own sight for whats ahead I find myself empty. And when I let Papa fill me.. all the things I ached for so much seem so insignificant in this feeling of fullness. In this place of true joy. Can I stay here forever? Can I always be skin? Could I ride my bike til my legs are noodles? And sit in my swing until my butt is numb? :) I ache for the moments like these. I ache for them always. I am determined to soak. I am determined to name my own time. And to name my own moments. Choices. Name them for what they are to me. To heart and I and Papa. And the trick, I think, is letting go of expectations.. of others and of myself. And letting go of fear.. fear of disappointing. Because there will always be someone that disagrees. There will always be someone that is disappointed. So I'll continue on my track.. watching my feet take on the road ahead of me... not sure what will be around the next corner. And wanting so badly to know.. yet addicted to the mystery. This is how I want to live. I want to be skin. Always soaking. Soaking in the joy. Soaking in the sadness. Open hands to receive what might be brought to me. Even the things that are hard to hold. I am reminded of a little boy that used to be mine. A baby angel boy that I used to bathe, lotion, change diapers, dress, feed, play.. sing to. I can see him in his hospital bed all swollen. And I remember the ache inside me.. not knowing how to hold this new sadness. Not sure what it meant, or what to do with it. It was close to christmas time and I'd sing him "hear the angels sing.." Today, he does. And I don't doubt that he did, even then. I still dream. I still dream that dream where I walk down that hallway and find him drained. And some days I don't want to soak. Not this. And I'm angry. And I want to scream. And I wish I could make someone understand. The haunting. The hole. The black darkness that's always there under my skin, waiting to surprise me and slither out with no warning. As time goes on, you don't miss him less. You don't hurt any less. You just learn to live with the pain. You learn to let it be a part of you. Because it is. You hate it. But you need it. So you soak it in too. What choice do you have? Because when you risk living as skin.. you get to soak all. Not just the happy.. but all. And somehow, its worth it. I think it makes life sweeter. It makes colors deeper. It makes skin softer. Freedom. I want to be free. But are you willing to pay the price for your freedom?