Tiny Taste

Communion is tiny. 

Simple. 

Like the pinky of a newborn baby, her nail so minute you can barely see it at first glance.

Receiving is a gift to be cherished. I walk away my hands crossed awkwardly, my eyes on the floor. Do I bend my elbows? My breath is short, shallow. I feel dizzy, lost in the crowd, the never-ending ocean of strangers waiting their turn for the same beautiful gift.

The taste of wine always seems to linger on my lips.
Sweet and Warm.

My tongue moves around nervously, not knowing what to do or where to go with such a distinct, tiny taste. Impulsively, it rolls over and over at the roof of my mouth, allowing my chin to dance in circles obsessively.

Communion can be lonely. 

Sometimes I dread it, my feet gaining weight with every step as I sometimes grudgingly force myself to the front of the room.

I like to watch the children.

They are my sanity. 

They calm my breath and give final destination to my fluttering, frightened eyelids.
The little girl with blonde angelic curls, her smile so welcoming, so kind.
The baby boy in his father’s arms that never stops moving for a second.
And the father rotating hips, clearly embarrassed at the wild, elaborate scene his son is causing.

Yet the magnetic energy draws me forward. 

My robotic steps follow behind the mob of strangers, in tune with the silent reverence surrounding me.

I feel small at communion, yet connected to something enormous. 

A House for the Soul.

In my soul house, there are lots of empty chairs handcrafted in the finest wood one could imagine. Each chair spaced out like wandering ants at a summer picnic, no one necessarily following the other but searching for its own source of food, along its own journey.

A guest may wander in and sit, her ankles crossed, hands on her lap, with scattered breath and a first-day-of-school kind of anxiety. She waits for the agenda and her eyes wander, looking for corners to define her space. But there are none. She finds no end to this madness, just miles and miles of empty chairs in every direction, all turned at various angles.

The sun climbs up and down the sky of my soul house, yet the chairs remain.
Waiting to be used.
Waiting to be noticed.

My soul house is a resting place. I wander from chair to chair depending on my mood and settle in, sometimes with difficulty, sometimes with ease.

A rocking chair that leans back like a fearless child, letting go of all restraint.

A chair with little to no room for my achy back, forcing me to find rest despite my high-maintenance expectations.

A queen’s throne, elaborate with jewels, shining with glamour of all kinds.

I find my chair.

It finds me.

I sit.

I rest.

The Little Girl

There is something magical about a little girl.

Her smile.

Her fear.

Her dreams.

Her stories.

I never want to let go of that little girl.

Sometimes she stares deep into my soul, my heart beating out of control as the sound of her silence overwhelms me.

Her stare becomes heavy, like rocks buried in your sweatshirt as you carry them home to brag on your new discoveries. With every year I gain, the fear of losing the little girl within me increases. My knuckles become white as snow as I stand weak in the knees, in fist-clenched denial.

Growing up is hard.

Scary.

Depressing.

Embarrasing.

I miss the simple life of the little girl, whose imagination is from an outside world with animals that talk and humans that fly.

No makeup.

No deadlines.

No meetings to attend except tea parties and fancy balls at the castle.

Relationships are easy for the little girl- no secret conditions or hidden agendas. Simply best friends who you can trust or enemies never worth a second glance.

I used to make my own jewelry and write my own songs.

I used to play pretend like it was required and never be ashamed of my dreams.

Growing up is boring, time-consuming.

Like a sneeze, it attacks you and you can never seem to stop it from coming. It consumes your body. It stops you in your footsteps, until all you can do is close your eyes and wait for it to pass.

Yet the little girl is a stranger to the concept of time. 

The sun and the moon are her clock, moving across the sky like a dance.

Ocean Blue

I attended a conference for work.
There was a poetry session.
I couldn't resist....

I am the sound of raindrops against the tin roof of an old, forgotten cabin along the outskirts of town. Sometimes my chatter is soothing, relaxing the mind of my listeners. Sometimes my passion and overactive brain gives way to my sound as each word, each raindrop of my vocal cords, introduces a storm approaching over the mountains of life.

I am the season of summer, barefoot and wandering along the trails with their deep chocolate brown soil that finds its hideaway underneath my nails, in between hair strands, along my cheeks.

I am the aroma of grass glittering in the sunlight. Bent over from human footsteps, wild and free.

I am a seagull soaring high in the clouds, floating with the wind, each drop, each lift, letting the sky carry me and choreograph my every move as I watch all movement below.

I am an ocean blue, the calm of my sanity.

I am the subject psychology simply because I ask a lot of questions. Questions are my preferred language, my avenue to humanity, the skin of the earth.

The Real Deal.

Sometimes I can be so confident. A good day and I feel like I created it… like I strategically laid brick upon brick and poured my own sweat and labor into the making of its entirety.

My imaginary sweat drips off my forehead, my eyelashes, above my upper lip.

Tickling my entire face.

Sparkling all of my features like gold.

Every second of praise so well deserved. Every honor, every accolade worn like a necklace and momentarily frozen in time to remember forever, adding it to my “Fine Gallery of Achievements”.

My pride is like a boulder creeping in, silently slipping through the back door after curfew.

It destroys me.

This mindset is so addicting. I stand like a prisoner inside of myself, toiling away at life’s finest details, all for a second of attention, a second of fame. When suddenly, my self-imposed castle is nothing but a mere replica of a pile of sand whispered away by the magnitude of the tide.

What builds real castles is Hope. Love. Truth.

May I never lose sight of such things.

Let the Water Fall

This weekend I went camping with strangers.

Strangers that soon became friends.

We were an odd bunch, really.

All from different walks of life with different stories, different opinions.

Different Attachments, Detachments.

Accents, Travel Experiences.

Reasons for moving to Nashville.

Reasons for coming on the trip.

Some were simply bored and needed an easy getaway. Some do this nearly every weekend. Others told stories of their recent ex: husbands, wives, boyfriends, girlfriends. And they just needed some fresh company. Fresh stories. Fresh faces.

But we all had some sort of deep appreciation for nature- being in it, a part of it, walking under it, through it. We spent our weekend treading on tree roots, our pulse pressing into theirs. Talking about bears but thankfully not seeing any. Talking about spiders and seeing plenty.

We jumped across the creek on rocks bigger than our beds at home, all in hopes of standing underneath a considerably enormous and unruly waterfall. Many of us did and we spent every second laughing like children. Eyes wide and mouths open, as the mist fell on our hair and clothes like pebbles. 

Sometimes that’s what life is to me- just hiking to the waterfall. Hiking to that unbearable source of life, that wild taste of tangible beauty, where we simply let the sound of the falls become the beat of our heart. Her mist becomes our breath. And her playful spirit gains every ounce of our attention.

And all we can do is let our gaze exceed our thoughts as we throw our heads and arms up to this incredible source of wonder.

And somehow we feel protected, loved, cared for. Somehow we feel more like ourselves than we have ever known. Our real, exposed, naked selves.

How I wish to spend my days under the waterfall.

The Divine Creep

Sometimes my emotions seem to take over my day.

Own my day.

Choke my day.

Collapse wholeheartedly into every passing Hour.

Minute.

Breath.

Blink.

Before I even know what’s hitting me, they sneak up from behind, boldly strutting over my shoulder like a shadow-less spider creeping in. Light-footed and fast. Intricate and detailed. Terrifying yet oddly appealing, requiring more than just a glance.

I shyly surrender to these odd creatures, completely ignorant to their direction, their timing. I am blindly and eagerly led into the deep wilderness of Despair, Loneliness, Extreme and Utter Joy, not knowing what to do with any of them.

Like a rock to the windshield, I am caught breathless as my first few mindful layers are in fist-clenched denial.

Until.

Until the split forms.

The ice breaks.

Like an abrasive, uncompromising gash on my glass heart, my weak spots are revealed. And yes, some see it as that. Weakness. But I choose not to. I refuse, even.

One, because that’s just where I’m at.

Or maybe who I am.

And two, because my emotions have the divine capability to awaken me to what’s real. What’s eternal.

Through the revelation of these domestic beings, layers of my internal scabs are gently, sometimes ruthlessly ripped away as I see new colors and feel new textures of myself.

And that, to me, is worth it.