Little Wanderer

 Sitting here staring at my blank screen.. I never thought I would be at such a loss for words. I know that I have things inside. Things to say. But I can't seem to make them come out. I've misplaced my motivation. You know when you lose something and you set out to find it? You start out looking so hard in every place you can think of. Sitting down and think think thinking like Pooh Bear. But after awhile, so much searching and no finding can tend to leave you.. unmotivated. If you begin to question something that you were once sure of.. were you ever really sure in the first place? If you put all that you are into some thing and come out on the other end feeling like you got nothing back.. was it worth it? And what is worth it? The term? Worth it. What does it mean? By whose standards? Do I get to say what's worth it to me?

I've been working in a nursing home, taking care of the oldies.. feeding, bathing, assisting them. And surprisingly, I like it. There is one lady that I look forward to talking with every day. I have worked there for a week and, already, I could write for an hour about the things she has told me.  The other day she began like this, "You know, sometimes I wake up here and I can't figure out where I'm at. Some mornings I think it's my senior year in high school. Other mornings I think it's the morning of my wedding day. My husband passed on 13 years ago.. but some days I still think he's going to walk straight through that door and fix things up for me like he always used to. If he'd walk in right now, I'd know everything would be all right. He was such a responsible, respectable, hard working man. I had a wonderful life and it was because of him." She went on to tell me about saving money. That she hoped I would learn the importance of setting money aside for surprise expenses that life would assuredly bring. But that, at the same time, she wanted me to live my life and spend money.. life is too short to stress about things that don't matter. Last night something I said reminded her of a John Donne poem called "Undone." In the poem he is talking to God about how he is undone. He is not ready to go on to be with Him because he is not done doing the things he was put here to do. He is undone. She sat there for a minute and then, with her face in her hands, said "this last year I've felt pretty done. But I guess I'm not.. I guess He still has things for me to do. I guess I'm undone." As I was leaving her room she apologized for rambling and said that she was sorry if she left me with the feeling that life is just one obstacle after the next, but.. it kind of is. She said she hoped and prayed that I would always have people in my life to turn to for support. People to help me up out of my chair like I help her up out of hers. She said she knows she can do it herself, because she's done it before, but sometimes just having my hand on her back helps her find her strength.. other times, just knowing that I am in the building does the trick. I stand there and wait for her to get the courage to get to her feet and straighten out her legs and back, bones ginding together. She talks to herself, "Come on, you can do this. Hands out like this, both feet flat on the floor, nose over toes, and just do it. You did it this morning! Come on now."

I can see myself in her. Her exhaustion. The way she doubts herself. The way she knows she is capable of doing things.. but sometimes she just needs a hand on her back.. a presence that brings back her confidence. The way she talks to herself. Reminding herself of what she's capable of, how far she's come. I think I forgot to do that. I think she reminded me. I think sometimes when shes talking to herself like that.. maybe she's talking to me. Helping me more than I am helping her. Could it be true that in my attempt to help someone else.. they ended up helping me? I didn't even know I needed help. I guess I have longed for a place where I can take off my worries with my clothes. A place where fingertips on my back soothe me to sleep. But not just sleep. Rest. Not just surviving. Living. Not just sitting. Going. And I'm still searching searching searching. But maybe I haven't been think think thinking like Pooh Bear beacuse it's not that I misplaced something.. it's that I never had hold of it to begin with. Me. My patchy heart. The parts of me that are too much. The parts that are not enough. The parts that are selfish. The parts that are needy. The parts that are weak. The parts that are stubborn, strong, determined. The parts that bring hope and fear all at the same time. I am a wanderer. And I am learning that being on a journey like the one mine is turning out to be can be scary and dark. But the mornings bring new light and new things to discover. The possibilities are endless. Like looking out at the lake. It's depth and seemingly endlessness.

I've found myself lately like the beginning of this post. A blank screen. No words coming to mind. And I miss words. I've been holding on to my little old lady's words. Like water, I've been drinking them in. Looking for hope in all the corners of the places I've been dwelling. And hope doesn't fail me. Not always. I'm still angry. More angry than I realized. Memories of darker days and moments peck at me. The air knocked out of me and the disappointment of things I poured myself into seeming to abandon me. "It's not true," they say, "He never left you," they say, "He did answer you," they say, "Just not in the way you asked," they say. My hearts cries are sometimes unbearable for even me to hear. As if they were velcro on my chest, I try to rip them off and stuff them away. I don't want to hear myself. I don't want to continue on like this with the wind knocked out of me, one deep breath after the next, trying ot fill my lungs with good clean air. You left me. You didn't answer me. You let me hope. You let me believe. You let me find him like that. You let me see those things. You let me fall in love with something that you knew would be taken from me. You stood by. You did nothing. You let me pray. You let me hold on so long. You let me dream. You let me sing of promises. You didn't do what you said You were gonna do, I don't care what they say... You didn't. You failed me. You left me. You left me. You left me. I hate you. I miss you.

I'm not the same. I'm not the girl I once was. And I know that there are many who miss me. Sometimes I guess I miss little things too. But yet I still wouldn't change. I'm not sorry for who I've become. And I'd like to say that I, in fact,  have not yet become at all. I am still becomming. And, you know, I think I hope I stay that way. So much anger built up inside a person can bring numbness and hardening. I can't say I am free of those things. But I wake up every day and I try to find the joy. And I think that maybe joy is supposed to find me. I think she is not what everyone makes her out to be. I think joy can be found with her hair blowing wild in the sea-salty wind, with her toes in the sand and her heart in her hands.. wide open. I think the waiting for joy to find you can be dark and lonely. I think the path to joy is more like a snowstorm, or a dirt road to travel with broken bottles and no shoes. But she is worth it. Boy, is she worth it. She helps find words when your heart is so exhausted all it can bring about is a blank screen. She and I, we have a back and forth thing going on. I think she talks to me like my little old lady.. "Come on Beth, you've got this. Let go. Soak me in." And sometimes I'm mad at her. Because it seems like it's been so long and my feet are stinging and bleeding. But once she arrives.. the tears stream down my face and I can feel her hand on my back.. her presence in the room and I remember that "I did it this morning. I can do it. I've got this."

And I find my strength. And I hold on to joy. I hold on to the fingers in my hair. The goodnight text messages. The "I miss yous." The "we're in this togethers." The hand in mine when he knows I need it the most. The last .10 of my evening run where I give it my all and wait for the fullness to fill my chest. I hold on to the smiles at work. The "bless yous." The "thank yous." I hold on to the places that make me feel at home. I hold on to peace. I hold on to the glimpses of long lost passion. I hold on to memories.. even the hideous ones. I hold on to whispers in my ear.. ones that I wish would come more often. I hold on to things that I should probably let go of.. but we'll let those find their place in my journey. I hold on to the dreams and the promises. Though I feel my trust in promises slipping away. I hold tight to them anyway. Because I have to hold onto something. Don't I? And I remember that I don't have to look to someone else to tell me what to hold on to or not hold on to. And so there. I hold onto freedom. And I'm thankful for it. I hold on to wandering. I hold it so tight I can feel it bubbling in between each finger.

"Good luck, little wanderer, good luck. How I wish you didn't need it." -Stephanie Meyer The Host

Chapter

I find myself again with the apple core. Alone. Empty walls. Empty little apartment.

Sweet memories, even in this tiny place. Here I had many nights by myself. Many nights where I made myself ramen or chicken and rice, scooted my sofa up next to my two-hour-log fire, and read my kindle until I couldn't keep my eyes open. Many nights where I'd cry and wonder why it all had to be so hard.. why 1 + 1 couldn't just = 2. Why life had to be more like one of those long complicated word problems. Why I had to work so many hours, so hard and still come up so short. Many nights where my only comfort was my clumsy puppy and cuddly kitty.

I'd come home every day to a mess to clean up courtesy of my Iris. And a meowing Booster begging for food and attention. In my tiredness and frustration I'd wonder why I had either of them at all. But it seemed to be the nights that reminded me that I needed them more than they needed me. I did a lot of searching here in this little place. A lot of growing and sharing. But mostly searching. "Aren't you tired of the searching?" they say. I'm tired in general. But I'd rather be searching than pretend that I know.

It's been a lump in my throat. It's been mascara smeared. It's been watching my efforts, my heart and all that I have to give being drained. Puddles on the floor. No one will fight for me. Not even me. When did I forget to fight for myself? And actually.. did I ever know how? Have I ever blocked a strike? You know.. I think someone forgot to teach me how to hold my arms in front of my face. Or maybe I wasn't paying attention when they demonstrated that part. Come to think of it.. I'm pretty sure I always let the other player win. Like a forfeit, from the beginning. I never fought at all. For fear that my victory would become a disappointment for someone else. Fear of losing.. for anyone but me. But I've grown to realize that I am part of this. If I don't fight, who will fight for me? If I'm not blocking and striking with all that I have, why am I in the ring? I have to fight. I have to fight or step out. No more holding back for fear of others' disappointment. No more hands tied behind my back for fear of what they might do. No more forfeiting. I will fight. For me.

And every chapter comes to an end. "Home is now behind you, the world is ahead." Home has lost its definition for me. I've made a new one. (I've been doing a lot of that lately.) Home is not a place. It's not a person. It's not a feeling. It's within myself. It's a choice. It's peace. Which some say is a feeling. But I say it's home. Some of my darkest days have been here. Times where I felt no hope. Moments where crying didn't seem to help, but I couldn't think of anything better to do. Nights where the darkness of my bedroom wasn't dark enough. And the silence was too loud. I know what they'll say, "she sounds depressed." I say depression has also lost it's definition. I'm giving it a new one. Depression is not a sickness that needs medicine. At least not the kind that I walked through. Depression is an overflow of disappointment and unanswered questions. It's a nose-full-of-water, trying to stay afloat. It's a whole bottle of sunscreen on a blistery body. No, it's not a sickness. It's a step. It belongs too. And as I close this chapter, I think I'll let the butterflies flutter in my tummy about the next one. 

I don't think I have what it takes for everyone's regular plan. And I like it this way. 

Loved

Rock-a-by. The sound of her muffled voice straight from her chest to my ear. "You Are My Sunshine." A little red mole. How I loved to touch her face and her skin.. and the way it seemed to be softer than I remembered every time. Her laugh. Sitting up and the way she'd bounce me on her knees singing songs and telling silly riddles. Her hair. Her hands. Her nose. I knew her. I had memorized every detail of her in those quiet, close-together moments. Once upon a time she was all I had. Who knew that moments of being so close would gradually and all at once become only a thought.. a vivid memory tinged with a sweet ache.

I have nothing to show for myself, yet I feel like I could explode with all that I have built up inside me. It's like this... I'm angry, but I forgive you. I'm so confused, but I understand. I'm happy, but I grieve for you. I'm sure, but I sometimes glance over my shoulder. I'm okay without you, but I miss you. I'm hungry, but I'm full. My legs are sore and tired, but I need to run. My wings are withered, but I am flying. I'm tethered to you, but we are detached. I long for a little box of you, one that has your smell. your skin. your voice. your hands. your lips. your pride in me. your acceptance. your love. So that I can have you. Because I need you. 

I want to explain it all to each of them. But I can't even explain it to myself. There are so many mes. And I've only begun to see glimpses of them each. There are new ones every day and I don't want to stuff them down anymore. I don't want to walk on the sidewalk. I want to risk running in the street. I want to feel the grass between my toes. I want to wander. I want to wonder. Why do I have to be sure? Why can't it be okay that I  just am where I am? I feel like I'm on my way.. doesn't that count for something? I don't want to stay the same. I want to always change. I want to learn. I want to sing. I want to play. I want to fly. I want time time time. And theres only so much. Why am I not trusted with my own time? One life is all I have. One life is all I need. And I can't take steps forward if you keep pulling me back. I am brave. And I am strong. When I look back at the places I've walked, I can't believe how much I've survived.. and thrived. And yet all the way I criticized myself. Making rules on top of rules on top of rules. I picked myself apart, and I let everyone else pick me apart too. I believed in the me that everyone said that I was. I looked to others to tell me who I was. I apologized for things I never did. I shriveled up and I hid under the table. Because it was safe there. They were proud there. The boat didn't rock. I didn't have anything to explain away. I wasn't lonely. I wasn't scared. I didn't have to be ashamed. I didn't need to worry.  I folded my hands in my lap. I brushed my hair. I manicured my nails. And all was well. But I couldn't stay there. I came out from under the table and began to wander. And here I am. Messy hair, polish chipped, and I didn't know that I could use my hands to create things. And I want more of what I've tasted. I can't believe that I went so long without tasting. Just eating and not tasting. And I wont keep surviving. I won't go on not standing up for me. The real me. And I won't keep pouring myself out into a nothingness hole. I can't go on giving and giving and getting nothing back. I'm worth more than that. And again with the tears. And small things break me and I can't hold myself together. I'm fighting to hold onto the bravery and the boldness. Fighting to hold in the tears. Don't let them see that you're weak. Don't let them see that you cry. Don't let them see how much you wish they would stay. Celebrate with you. Walk with you. And all the things I dreamed of begin to one by one slip away. Arms locked as I walk the walk in white. Her on the front row. Them by my side. No matter what. And they won't. And the dream has to be let go. Silly dream I guess. Maybe in another life.. another time I will matter. 

"..and yet she felt a rebellion against this good self which was too often called upon, was too often invited, to the detriment of other selves who were now like numerous wallflowers! The girl who wanted to laugh, to be carefree, to have a love all of her own, an integrated life, a rest from troubles. Secretly she had often dreamed of her other selves, the wild, the free, the natural, the capricious, the whimsical, the mischievous ones. But the constant demand for the good one was atrophying the others. But there are invitations which are like commands. She did not know how this good self had attained such prominence. She did not know how it had come to be born at all, for she considered it thrust upon her, not adopted by her. She felt much less good than she was expected to be. It gave her a feeling of treachery of deception. But they repeated obsessionally: You must be good. You must keep your dress clean. You must be kind, thank the lady, hide your pain if you fall, do not reach for anything you want, do not attract attention to yourself, do not be vain about the ribbon in your hair, efface yourself, be silent and modest, give up to your brothers the games that they want, curb your temper, do not talk too much, do not invent stories about things which never happened, be good or else you will not be loved. And when she was accused of any of these offenses, they turned away from her and she was denied the good-night or good-morning kiss which was essential to her happiness." -Anais Nin "The Four-Chambered Heart"

Be good or else you will not be loved. 

Angel Baby

I woke in the night with fresh memories on my mind. I could have sworn there was an ambulance outside, because the red and blue lights were so real.. filling my room and reflecting off the white walls. It's true that as time goes by the distance between aches gets longer and longer.. but it's always there. I think of that angel boy every day. His smiley face is in my bathroom. I see him when I first see myself in the morning. And yet the picture of him in my dreams last night.. the one that lingered in my mind for hours after I woke.. it made me ache to my core. And the memories flood in without warning.. and there is no controlling them. "Tell me about the happy memories," but thinking of them just makes me ache more.. for a boy that used to me mine. The day he was born. The day they brought him home. The day he first showed us that sweet smile. The day I held him while he slept.. all sweaty:). The days I lotioned and dressed him.. and oh how he hated lotion. The way his big sissy adored him. His chubby neck from the back:). His goofy giggle that lasted for such a short time. Why do the sweet memories hurt too? I see him sweet and bitter. I see him in all the ways.. I carry him with me. That baby boy I saw for the first time. The one that my sister, my best friend, shared with me. The baby boy that I fell in love with. The first boy that stole my heart in ways I would have never imagined. The way I couldn't wait to get to him and get him in my arms. How hard it was to leave him.. always. I'd linger at the door and make plans for my next visit. That baby boy that I found. The one that was never the same. The one hooked up to all the machines. The one fighting. The way it tore me up and left me undone. And I'm on my knees.. broken. And it hits me once again. And I can't believe that it's real. The pain is part of me. And so many times I've pretended that it's velcro on my chest.. that I can remove it when I please. I've pushed it away. I've ignored it. I soaked it up. I've hidden it. I've hidden IN it. I've lived it. And you know.. I'm not sure I know what to do with it. Some days I wish it would go away. But mostly I'm glad for it. I'm glad that it's there to remind me of him. To remind me of what he meant to me. Of what his life taught me. Life is precious. It's beautiful. And ugly. It's simple. It's hard. It's real. There are no answers. The only comfort for the dark hard parts of life are just the sweet soft whispers. The arms around me. The whispers to remember the sweet instead of the bitter. "It's okays" "I love yous" "Don't crys" Fingers and lips soaking up tears. And the promise that I'm never alone. Even when I feel like I am. I miss that boy. I long for him. I dream of him so often. More times nightmares than sweet dreams.. but I'll take what I can get. There is this place in my heart.. A hole in the shape of my angel baby. And oh how I long to kiss those soft lips.. touch that curly red hair.. smell that skin.. hear that giggle. The throbbing comes and then fades.. but it lingers. I love you Jace Richard. Aunt Bethy misses you with all my heart.

Still Singing

It’s been too long since I let my fingers freely tap the letters on the keyboard. My heart gets weary without words.. my mind cloudy. And so much goes on inside me that I can’t make sense of. Eyes full of longing and anger and hope.. all at the same time. I need the deep. I can’t stay here in the shallow waters of this monotonous life. I think of water.. of the ocean or a lake.. and how deep waters make me feel whole. They make me open up. They make me speak. And I wonder if I was meant to be a fish. Or a mermaid. And yet I so love my wings. And I dream of flying away. And my chapter is dull. Work so that I can have money to get caught up on bills, so that I can get back in school, so that I can get my degree, so that I don’t have to continue drowning like this, and so that I can begin again. So many beginnings. And beginnings come with unknown middles and ends. And oh how I love the unknown. I have so much ahead of me, and so much that my dreams are alive with. I close my eyes and wait. And that seems to be my chapter. And there is this boy.. This boy whose words and dusty corners I fell in love with. I didn’t expect to fall so hard for words. I didn’t expect to find myself in these corners so dusty.. ones that no one gets invited into. And this heart that seems so familiar.. yet so new. It’s like it has somehow always been mine. Always been a part of me. And I of it. I ache for more of it. I long for what is ahead. And the joy is so real I swear I could reach out and touch it. This boy whom I spend my days searching with.. seeking, wandering, dreaming. This boy who takes me on a new adventure every day. This boy who reminds me every day of how deeply he loves me. And no matter what. This boy who fights for me without fail. Even when there seems to be no one watching. And yet there is this bitter tinge to every step that we take together.. fingers intertwined and oh how I love the colors. How do I love well? How do I let go of my anger and live free? How do I jump into my new adventure and still love those who disagree? How do I forget all the words? The ones that didn’t sweep me off my feet, but the ones that seemed to knock me to the ground? Because it’s one thing to be fired upon, and another to be warned. It’s hard to grow. It’s hard to become something that everyone is afraid of. It feels lonely. And it feels bitter. And I’m angry that the bitter seems to always steal from my joy. It always has. It steals the sweet and stains it red. And it makes it all look scary. And maybe the trick is to choose to see the sweet rather than the bitter. Why have I let the bitter take over me? Why have I given it so much power? And I must find the truth. I won’t stop until I let it soak into my skin. And I don’t know that it is what I thought it was. I think that maybe this is what life is all about. Searching. Seeking. Never giving up. The kind of love that fights. Even when no one is watching. Even when you don’t get any credit. Even when everyone is telling you to stop fighting.. that you are ridiculous. Because the truth is worth it all. And I have to remember the roots. I have to let the bitter and the anger be what they are.. but I have to not let them control me. Because I am more than that. Because I say that I am. I am brave. And this beautiful life is the only one I have. The only one Papa has given me. And so I will live it full. And sweet. And I will search. Even if there is no end to the searching. And I will bask in Papa’s love for me. And His dedication to me. And mine to Him. And I can’t wait for the next chapter. But I will go deeper into this one. And I will do my best to let go and just love.. love well. Because THAT’S who I am. THAT’S who He made me. And the music ended. But we were still singing.

Oh my wild sunflower

So quiet. So peaceful. And if I listen close enough... there is nothing. Beautiful nothing. No one telling me how it is. No fingers pointing reminding me of what I had said. No one's opinions of who I should be.. who I was raised to be. Who the best version of me is. Oh how hard it is to drown out all the voices. And for so long I was so tired that I became numb once again. I forgot how to breath. I forgot how to smile. I forgot how to care. My Courtsie's little voice yelling "Bethy!" Moving her chair next to mine at dinner. Sitting in my lap to tell me all the things that her little heart can't stop pulsing about. Jaxon's little songs he sings. And the look on his face when he accidently ate a tomato. :) Ivy spitting up in my crotch. :) Her little pink flower. Her big giant blue eyes. Jett's avenger's song... and undies. :) And I forgot. I forgot all the sweet. Because I was so tangled and tethered with the bitter. I was too angry. I forgot about slow dancing in empty dining rooms. I forgot about feet in laps. Breakfast at a little hole in the wall pancake house. Work stories. Serious eyes. Fingers tracing faces. Eyes that tell stories. Fights for cookie dough in chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream. Glimpses of depth and essence. Kisses on cheeks. A new hand hold. Eyes opened to new selves. Letting go of "shoulds" and opening palms to "AMs." Passion. Hope. Walking on daddy's back in the living room floor. All the pillows in the house brought together to make a big pillow pit to jump in. Sister nights. Mom and Bethany day. Breathing easy. And maybe it wasn't forgetfulness. Maybe it was just a bleeding over of my tired shoulders. Carrying all these expectations. Including my own. And I think of my empathy. I think of how I soak up sadness for others. How I listen to their hearts and then spend days and weeks burdening for them. Wishing I could change things for them. And it's who I've always been. Please. Make proud. Don't let yourself think. Because what if what you think doesn't match their's? And so I put myself in a box. A neat little Bethany box. And I've been there ever since. And that's how they've always known me. Boxed Bethany. She's neat and nice, and compliant. She is responsible, on time, hard working, dependable, happy.. even if she isn't really. And all things come at a cost. This time.. it was me. And there are things about my essence that will never change. The fact that I am empathetic. I will never stop battling taking on the burdens of others. It's who I am. I care.. sometimes too much. And there is the me that is always willing to put myself aside to care for someone else. There is this thing in my heart.. something so intense.. that when I love someone and something I can't help but love it all the way. Almost to the point that I throw myself away. And I do it everywhere I go. I always have. A year ago I couldn't tell you my favorite color. Or my favorite activity. Or my favorite food. Or my favorite kind of ice cream. I couldn't tell you what I liked to do in my free time. I couldn't tell you what my own hopes and dreams were. I would have given you something to hold.. because I certainly couldn't disappoint you with no answer. I would have recited my moms favorite color. Or dad's favorite ice cream. Or annie's favorite activity. My hopes and dreams would have matched My Lydsie's life. And I wasn't. I wasn't there. Because I was too afraid to be. I was too afraid to think. Afraid of what.. I'm not sure. Disappointing? Letting someone down? Being different? Standing out? I'm not so sure. But those are things that I now do everyday. And I can tell you that they eat at me. They cause my breathing to become more difficult. Because I've lived my life to please. And it doesn't change my love for those I'm close to. It doesn't make me less me. In fact.. it makes me more me. And every minute has belonged. Every minute of who I was, was needed. And I wouldn't change it. I'm not angry. I'm not sad. If I miss things.. they are familiarity. They are a life like it once was. Like it will never again be. No matter where I choose to go from here. But the question I have to ask myself every day.. and ask Papa.. is "is it worth it?" "Is the cost worth it to me?" And it's scary. It's scary for everyone. But scary for me. Because I've always had this piece of paper with words all over it. A list of steps and rules for getting me to where I want to go in a nice clean way. That was faith. And all of the sudden I'm here with just a blank piece of paper. And the only things I know are that He loves me and that He will never leave me. And I wake up and that's all I have to cling to. The hope and the promise that He is always near. That His love will never change. And I will find the truth, even if it kills me. Not my own truth. But the truth that He has to give me. And I will do it by keeping my eyes and hands open. I wish somedays that I could continue like I used to. Pleasing. Following. It is easier to have a set of rules and steps. But I have stepped out of my nice comfy little box. And now all I have is my real faith. Blind, dark, scary. And that is real faith to me. A faith that is mine and Papa's together. And so again it looks different. I look different. And different is scary. But I'm not sick. I'm being stripped of all the things that made me not me. And Papa and I are on a journey together. And I'm scared. But I won't look back. And it's lonely. And it's dark. And it's hard. But the hard things are the real ones. And oh how I love real things. And I refuse to continue surviving. Because my Jesus died that I might have life. And life to the FULL. And so I will LIVE. And I will live full. And I don't even know what that looks like.. but I will find it. And this is where I have to go. And everyone had their own idea of what my life would look like. They want me to walk, or run, or jog. Because those things feel safe. Those things put people at ease. They look neater. They look nicer. But I want to FLY. And I can. I never knew I could. I always saw from my box. And no one could have prepared me for what I'd see when I stepped out. So many more possibilities. So much more life. So many more choices. And I can choose. Papa and I can choose. And so she gave up her arms for wings. And to those who always knew her with arms.. wings were scary. Sick. Unsafe. And fear brought hurt. And hurt brought confusion and more fear. And it all spiraled into a big fat mess. So messy. So ugly. And yet so beautiful. And what will I pay for a pair of wings? I will pay a pair of arms. Because you can't have wings and arms. Not if you want wings to the full. And I won't settle for anything but the full. I have always been drawn to sunflowers. Ever since I was a little girl. We lived in a little house when I was young that had big huge tall sunflowers lining the fence in the neighbor's backyard. I would jump as high as I could on the trampoline just get a glimpse or two of these glorious flowers. So tall. On our drive to Colorado I can't count how many wild sunflowers we passed.. and it made me remember. The smell of them on my fingers after trying to pick one and failing because of their thick stems. The memory and the lively feeling these beautiful flowers gave me, led me to some research. Did you know that the sunflower turns its face to follow the sun? It's open face symbolizes the sun itself, conveying warmth and happiness, adoration and longevity. It usually grows in scrub land and dry areas. It blooms from july to september. Then head of the sunflower consists of 1,000 to 2,000 individual flowers. Each petal is a ray flower. It is one of the fastest growing plants in the world, increasing in height up to 1 foot a day. It's lofty heights have resulted in the sunflower being symbolic of haughtiness as well as adoration. These last few days with my Papa.. there have been sunflowers everywhere. And He has whispered to me, almost non spot, 'His sunflower.' "Oh my wild sunflower." "How perfect you are." Seen as haughty at times. But adored, warm, happy.. A flower that grows in scrub land and dry areas. Dark. Lonely. But always looking at it's sun. Crazed with the love of light. What a sweet Papa. To compare me to this amazing flower.. that puts butterflies in my tummy.

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.