An Invitation

So I am learning that I really enjoy being 24. While it is somewhat disturbing to move further and further into adulthood and watch the years of my youth slowly fall through my fingers like sand, I am, in very tangible ways, rediscovering myself. For the first time in a long time, I am folding inside out and becoming comfortable in admitting my own weakness, hesitations and doubts.

And in this process, I am seeing and tasting and discovering more beauty than I ever knew existed.

So here I stand at the beach of self-discovery. I visit this place often in my internal explorations, as it quickly becomes my necessary escape. It is here that I linger in reflection and collect memories like shells in the sand. It is here that I speak kindly to myself in a calm and motherly tone.

Today I play in the sand like always as I painfully allow each tiny speck to drift from my hands back to the ground until suddenly it seems, my childhood and college years become a closed chapter. The story must go on.

But with the sand forever set free, I sense something new in my hands, something invisible but heavy. I experience the weight of it in my palms all the way down to my feet. I feel it dance within each strand of my hair. I feel it nudge at my limbs and tickle my eyelashes... 

Wind.

I welcome the wind in all of her playfulness. Boldly, brilliantly, she sings a majestic sound, like music I have never noticed on this beach of golden sand. With time, the wind becomes stronger in her movement, more intricate in her choreography, until she completely and deliberately turns me around. At once, my eyes are in shock at what they see.

A body of blue perfection.

The ocean in its raw and fiery blue, is the most calming yet inviting piece of creation I have ever seen. And like a magnetic pull, it draws me in and never wants to let me go.

In this great big ocean of blue, moments combine into days and days into weeks and weeks into years and over time, I discover, this is what it means to grow up... 

To weave in to the waves of the majestic. 

Yes, the years of playing in the sand are most beautiful, I must assure you. But may I invite you to swim in the sea? May I request your arrival at this ocean of glory? Come discover yourself in the waves of desire and swim toward her horizon. And as you swim, I dare you,

Invite your Creator to pull back layers of your heart. 

Layer after layer… in all of your past, in all of your confusion, in all of your doubt, He peels. In all of your very fragile and human moments, the moments you thought impossible to forgive, He peels. So for once, let each year of your life serve as just one more layer being peeled back as you are given a deeper awareness of yourself with all of your kinks and quirks, cravings and aspirations.

The ocean is behind you. Let the wind carry you home.

Tears of Gold.

So I got my first taste of homesickness yesterday. It stung a little and still stings now if I’m telling the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Wow…just had a sudden flashback to the magical slumber party game every girl dreams of known as… wait for it… the legendary, the timeless…

Truth or Dare.

I remember that feeling like it was yesterday. We would all be in our pajamas by this time of the night. And we had (of course) already completed the other tasks on our To Do List of Sixth-Grade Fun including a 3hour-long series of MASH, make-overs, dance performances, scary movies, raiding the fridge… and NOW. It was everyone’s favorite.

Pillow in lap. Here we go.

And before you could say Backstreet’s Back, everyone was sitting in a perfectly flawless circle, Indian style and all, silently comparing PJ’s. And I swear you could actually hear hearts beating heavily around the room like rocks gloriously tumbling down the Carolina mountainside. And the longer the silence lasted between players, the louder these hearts of rock would become until suddenly, the moment when you equally love and hate your name…

Mary Margaret. 

Truth or Dare!?

At once, as if all N’sync (ha, see what I did there?), a chorus of giggles and glares would leap across the circle as each girl internally analyzed you to death, looking you up and down trying to figure out what your puberty-stricken self is made of. In retrospect, it is a bit creepy how each individual tween's eyes would gleam like diamonds as she would silently predict your answer better than a weatherman predicts the day's mood.

And as fun as it was to be the brave soul that took on the Dare every round and be forced to rush to the garage and shove a bowl of Dog food down your throat against your own Limited Too will, you do know that, most times that was the easier route. I mean, seriously, what middle school girl really wants to open all doors to any question which she is required by Slumber Party Law to uphold to in all honesty? Um… sorry, but No Thanks.

Ok so we’re on the same page? Truth is the new Dare. Just go with me for a minute…

So back to yesterday…you know those moments when you crave nothing more than familiarity? This was one of those days. Shoot, you could have thrown me in a ditch in Nashville or Tuscaloosa (take your pick) and I would have been one happy little camper. Either place would have sufficed. Just give me a voice I recognize, a face that knows my past so I don’t have to explain myself anymore. Just give me that Alabama ground, a tree at Centennial. Anything.

It’s quite hilarious, though, how upset I get at myself when those feelings come. I find myself saying things like, Just tough it up Mary Margaret. Come on. You’re a big girl now. And then low and behold, the real battle exists between a clean cheek and a wet one. And let me tell you, if those tears come, all hell breaks loose.

I get so mad at myself.

Each tear becomes one more avalanche reminding me I failed. I failed at being grown-up. I failed at putting on the happy face that people so easily associate with me… or at least that’s my desire. Tears mean soft, weak, pitiful. And this is not the time. At least save them until you are by yourself, I tell myself. Save it for a decent writing session, a lonely night before bed.

I was in Rite Aid when it happened. The battle had begun. Two of my new coworkers/friends scurried around the store to cross off their lifelong list of items… or so it seemed because it had literally been years since I purchased my one necessary item for the day: a watch. I was putting it off as long as possible. I hate wearing those heavy, ugly things on my wrist. And more than that, most days I hate knowing what time it is. It makes me feel like I live in a box… but I guess that’s part of being grown-up too.

So I was sitting in a cheap, raggedy looking chair in the front of the store that I’m pretty sure was for sale since it was in the middle of Nowhere-ville, Rite Aid. Yes, I was feeling a bit on the lazy side but I was certainly ok with that. I know I probably looked a bit silly and out of place sitting there but I somehow felt entitled to such temporary and unusual comfort, I guess because, “I’m not from around these parts.”

I’m using that line as long as possible.

And then it hit me: I’m not having fun. I feel stuck in this town, in this store, with no car and no desire to be the slightest bit social. And I just bought a watch. Really?! A watch.

Ok so mission accomplished. I didn’t cry. My new friends who are coming to know me for my quirky humor and Alabama twang never even knew I was hurting inside. But should that have been my goal?

It’s such a natural instinct for me to not let myself “go there” too many times than not. As soon as I get the shaky voice and the stuffy nose, I just want to crawl into a hole and die. Ok that’s a little dramatic but I think it’s safe to say I quickly turn into somewhat of a drill sergeant inside demanding this way, then that. This feeling, not that.

And you know one thing I am beginning to realize? While I spend all my time and efforts to withhold being vulnerable with people (A.K.A. when my heart turns plastic like a McDonald’s hamburger), I hurt those I am closest to because I don’t let them in. I don’t let them in to that sacred space where God actually dreams of me living. Because it is there that He gets to be God and we get to be human. He gets to be Father and we get to be child. He gets to be Creator and we get to be creation.

Simpler version? We become what we were made for: Weak.

I know, it’s a bit unsettling. I still struggle with the concept myself but God is opening my eyes to a new day, a new reality, where I actually can begin to trust in His goodness. He is inviting me to a new place on the map, an island of liberty perhaps, where He can actually hold my frail and fragile heart and let me be me.

Messy messy me. Tears and all. 

Getting to know You.

So I have officially been in the Redwoods for an entire week. I am meeting some beautiful people and learning more and more about myself. Sometimes it takes some distance from familiarity to learn such things. And what’s really exciting is the fact that God is giving me some much-needed rest that I was praying for (a lot) toward the end of the summer.

I spent my summer working at a Christian multi-cultural camp in Kentucky called Barefoot Republic and let me just tell you, it was such a sweet blessing for me. I am still processing all that God did there and all that He is continuing to do in my heart because of my time at camp.

Some of the most memorable experiences come from my time as counselor, once for high school aged girls and once for middle school. It’s crazy how much I saw Jesus in those girls. Like you think you know Jesus after growing up in the church and reading so many stories about Him in Scripture but what is so beautiful and alarming to me is this:

We are always getting to know Jesus.

It never stops. We meet someone, we hear a story, and BOOM. Jesus becomes real in that moment and you pause and you ask yourself,

Wait.. This can’t be Jesus. In this conversation? Really?!

Yes. Really.

His presence is always with us and just when we think we fully know Him, He surprises us with another layer to His goodness, another shade of His color scheme.

I think that’s what I love most about meeting new people. I get to meet Jesus again and again and again. Because this is real: Jesus loves His people. He loves smiling on His creation and He loves when we live out what we are made for: 

Relationship with each other. 

And there we meet Jesus. 

Have you met Jesus today?

A Day's Climb.

So here I am after too long of an absence. Not just from this blog but from my own creative outlet, my sacred space. The kind of space created when I actually pause and listen to myself. I listen to my desires, my fears, my dreams, my ideas (the ones that make sense and the ones that I hope to make sense out of some day).

And in this space I become a student again…

A student of myself.

And suddenly, the oh-so-missed college days return. Flashbacks to my ocean blue quirky little Wal-Mart bike (yes, it was stolen and yes, I am crying… almost) that could take me a mile a minute in any direction of campus flood my memory. And of course my favorite New College seminars like Songcraft and Creativity I and II with the infamous and dream shaping Dr. Dill. And who can forget those beautiful spring afternoons on the Quad in between classes with nothing to do but lie in a blanket of Alabama’s greenest grass and melt into the heat of the day, letting the mind run loose into the trees.

Oh, the joys of calling oneself a college student.

So not entirely different, here I sit at the classroom of my own thoughts, a student yet again. Here in this sacred space I collect, I analyze, I learn and relearn how to be human. It’s funny how we tend to forget such a thing. The art of being human, I am learning, is to listen well. To listen with my eyes, my ears, my feet, my hands. And here I feel more alive than ever.

And once again, I listen to myself as I allow my thoughts to climb high into the trees as they did on the Quad years ago. With time and years, I am learning how to watch my thoughts, how to step back cautiously yet attentively and gaze at their growing curiosity in the world around them, at their beautiful fascination with the trees. Like a child at the playground for the very first time, they climb in anticipation and wonder, alive and full.

Too easily in a culture like ours, we stand motionless underneath the trees, letting our eyes casually drift and wander from the climber we are responsible for, the climber we are belaying until suddenly, tragically, the climber falls as we have released all of the necessary tension in the rope. And just like the climber loses height, our thoughts lose what they are made for as we let them fall into ground-level normalcy. And if we’re not careful, our once creative and imagination thirsty thoughts forget how to climb trees.

I hope and pray that I can better learn to care for myself in this new season. So I step back, I look up and watch my thoughts climb. Branch by branch, they grow into the skies of my Creator.

And there He waits, watching my thoughts from above as I watch below. And He smiles down at His messy, broken child underneath the trees.

Alberta Soul

So I just got back the journal I share with my sweet friend Lydia! We swap this journal around and I am proud to say it is almost 3 years old! Wow, just realized that. When we started it, I was living in Colorado Springs for my final semester of school and she was in Tuscaloosa. Then she was in Ireland and I was in Nashville. Now she's literally all over the place... about to be in North Carolina, and I'm in Kentucky about to be in California.

Crazy times.

This journal has been through a lot with us. She has turned in to a friend of sorts as she has watched us grow up a bit, change a lot, and maybe even become young adults...? Eh, that's a stretch.

So here's an entry I wrote on August 3rd (almost a year ago!) at 12:12 AM. It's about the aftermath of the tornado(s) that hit Alabama. I thought I would share since I don't think I wrote about the effects of the tornado when it actually happened. I think it just felt too close to home, honestly, and I didn't know where to start. But now that time has passed I feel good about sharing.

Ok here goes... (Thanks for listening with your eyes.)

... Girl I totally connect to your confusion and pain and frustration during the post-tornado chaos in T-town. Even being in Nashville was hard. I can't imagine the weight you felt in your heart being so far away. Your prayers have not gone unheard. I can assure of that, my friend.

One trap that I have tried to avoid with every ounce of energy I own is distancing myself from the reality of Tuscaloosa now. It's a different world there now. And it's so easy to just fall back in to my seemingly perfect little Nashville routine and forget about the destruction, the lost lives, the injured souls... to just put that all away like a used-to-be Best Seller now collecting dust in the corner of an old book shelf. Thankfully, I live close enough to travel back fairly often and check up on things... hear names, hear stories.

I have been back three times since the tornado hit, one of them being last weekend with a group of students from the high school I work at. These kids worked for three days in the blistering heat of Alberta City without complaint... well, maybe just a little, but anyone could read their eyes and see that they were committed- committed to acting, to listening, to responding. I was truly inspired by their persistent leadership, unique and creative ideas, and passion for shedding some light into the dark struggles our Alberta neighbors have experienced.

I watched a student who I thought I had all figured out as insincere and insensitive break down in tears as she shared with the group of nearly 20 of her closest peers and adults about a lady she had met in Alberta that day. Let me try and paint the picture...

"OH THANK YOU! THANK YOU!!" exclaimed the elderly woman, looking at this group of young students as her rescue from the sinking Titanic. Her skin seemed as rough as a reptile; her eyelids getting heavier by the second.

All of the sudden, she leaped up from the brick steps that used to lead to her house of nearly 45 years, and ran as fast as she possibly could to hug the neck of whoever she got to first. The group of teenagers seemed exhausted, yet eager, afraid, yet oddly comfortable.

The old woman with her hunch-back grace and short stature hugged Lanise so tight you would'a thought the two were long-life pals. From this moment on, the woman and the girl were inseparable as shared stories and tears and praise fell so free, like the autumn leaves that used to dance across the sky of Alberta. But now the streets lay bare, exposed, more vulnerable than they ever thought possible.

"This was my house..." said the woman pointing to the pile of rubble beyond the steps she had just abandoned. Suddenly, each word became sacred as they flowed effortlessly into the thick Alabama air. The woman's voice would break at parts as the memories unfolded and Lanise held her tight, carrying her through with all the strength her 17-year old self could allow, hoping it would somehow transfer into the heart of this kind soul. Lanise knew how much this meant to the woman to share her story, and in an odd way, Lanise felt as though she was stepping into this woman's experience with her, like she had been there all along.

"Over there is where we found my mother," the woman explained as she pointed to what used to be the last house in their little culdesac in the heart of Alberta. The woman paused for a long while, her silence screaming.

"You see, Lanise, in front of that house there was a tall, beautiful tree, a tree I grew up playing on as a little girl.... my mother's body was found in its branches... all tangled up in the middle. She didn't make it."

Lanise's heart dropped. She hugged her new friend, not knowing what else to do or say in that moment, as they stood motionless in front of that tree for what seemed like hours.

Meanwhile, the guys in the group were helping the woman's husband search for his belongings in the pile of rubble. A pair of glasses, and old American flag, his Purple Heart medal from Vietnam. Since the couple was understandably preoccupied with a death in the family, they had not gotten the chance to sort through their things after the tornado in attempt to find their most precious keepsakes like wedding pictures and war medals. So here they were the first day on the job and along came these strangers from Nashville to help, to listen, to care. Perhaps they were angels undercover, blessing the troubled couple with fresh ears to receive and hands to give. Perhaps...

As the van pulled away and Lanise led the group in extended goodbyes out the window and into the streets, their voices echoing behiind them, they noticed the former Vietnam soldier do something so peculiar, they were astonished. The man pulled his lawnmower off the back of his truck and attempted to mow his used-to-be lawn. Like it was any old normal summer day, they watched the man fight for routine and regularity in his daily life like he was on the battlefield fighting for independence and freedom. He fought with the same intensity, the same passion.

And in that moment Lanise knew life must go on.

Cookin in the Kitchen

So one part of camp that has been a MAJOR blessing has been teaching songwriting class.... I wish you could hear the tune of this but here are some funny lyrics from my 3rd-5th graders.

(Prepare to get hungry.)

Cookin in the kitchen

Makin fried chicken

Eatin up some french fries (ohh..)

Eatin em how I like em

Dippin them in ketchup 

Finishin up my plate

I hope I'm not late

Alright Alright Alright Alright Alright.....

French fries chicken nuggets

And tater tots

Ravioli and steak

Is what we got

Peanut butter and Jelly 

is what we want

We're done with our dinner plate

Yeah....

(Remix) 

Peanutbutter French fries

I love macaroni

Eatin up potatoes so I can eat my ravioli  (2x)

And the Children will Sing

Oh, how I have missed this. An empty blog post, a page in my journal. This is my blank canvas. It is here that I can...

Pause.
Breathe.
Linger (without feeling guilty about it).

It is here that I can stretch out my thoughts, stringing them together to form story and context as I reconcile the emotional turmoil that is too easily paralyzed and distorted and trapped within me. And slowly my sanity is restored, shakily creeping back into existence after too long of (Un) Paid Time Off.

So Yes. I am realizing how much I need this.

Lately I have had so many split millisecond crumbs of thought pop in to my very scattered, overwhelmed, and over-occupied brain but haven't had the time to release them just yet on to a canvas of any sort.

Thus far, these intellectual beings have rested undisturbed in my To-Do List/Scratch Paper Journal (Yep... got a journal for everything). At times this journal serves as a safe place, letting my inspirations burn by the fire and cook a while so that they taste better, smell better, and of course, look more appealing in hopes to unite friends to laugh and cry and feel their heart beat again, or maybe even for the first time as they are constantly surrounded by noise, distraction, and societal and materialistic demands. Believe it or not, this journal keeps my mind somewhat settled until I find the necessary time to release, process and stretch

Emotionally.

Psychologically.

Spiritually.

So I took a class with my church recently on how to view creativity as a Christian. We talked a lot about just sitting in our desired art form and literally losing track of time because we are so locked in to our own world of color, sound or movement. And we become so consumed that we are like a child happier than we've ever been. Suddenly, things become simpler, calmer, and let's be honest, just more fun.

We also talked about Genesis 1 when God created the world. In everything He created He said,

And it was Good. 

So. Question: What would it mean for us to live in that kind of freedom with our creativity, where we don't need people to proclaim that it is good? That we call it good simply because we enjoy it. We enjoy the process, the stillness, the joy flowing from our souls as we unleash art through our fingertips, our mouths, our limbs, our feet.

As many of you may know, I am at camp for the summer which means I am around people literally all day for hours and hours and hours. (ha)

BUT.

I love it. Don't get me wrong. I love being here and love the staff and campers. But even the outrageous extrovert in me needs alone time.

Yes, MUST have some Mary Margaret time. And hey, it's actually happening today! (If I had my own talk show, I would hold up my APPLAUSE sign now.)

So my creative outlet? Well one of my favorites, at least, is this.

Writing. 

The more I write, the more I fall in love with words and their graceful, unpredictable and rhythmic movement across my blank canvas.

So my challenge to you?

Find your creative outlet and use it.

Seriously.

You need it.