It's not normal to get up at seven and be overcome with a desire to write. It's not normal to read a textbook and be so inspired that the tips of my fingers tingle. My stomach does a flip, and I begin to whisper ideas. And it's only seven in the morning. And I'm in the middle of reading a TEXTBOOK.
My thoughts flow best from a pen. Perhaps it's the years of in-class essay training for AP tests... my fingers grip the thin pen, my wrist flicks and my mind starts spewing ideas while my hand tries to keep up. Perhaps it's the ten years of journaling... Thirteen notebooks filled with the worries of a ten year old overshadowed by the prayers of a college student. When thoughts, emotions, anger, and joy come so fast the hand cramps, the ink stops marking, or the handwriting droops off the evenly measured lines.
Writing used to be my obsession. I would announce that I was going upstairs to write, and that I was not to be disturbed. I wrote story after story: of my friendly wolves in the backyard, the time tornado, adventures on horseback, and my unfinished fantasy story: "The Basement." Reading over these old "manuscripts" written in my large, 8-year old handwriting usually leads to hilarity: laughing at myself for the way I spelled words, the silly ideas, my obsession with animals.
Somewhere in the process of growing up, I lost it. I lost the joy in writing. My writings were nothing more to me than a joke. There was nothing interesting there... only fantasy governed by childish imagination, or copies off of my favorite books. Nonfiction research papers soon took up the rest of my writing life... and any desire to write deeply meaningful things was dimmed by the memories of foolish childhood scribbles. Anything even slightly meaningful was recorded in one of my thirteen journals.... never to be read by anyone...except once by a nosy brother, which was very close to the end of the world.... and me.
After years of writing and feeling like I have nothing to say... I gave
up. I stopped writing my fantasy. I stopped writing real. I stopped
writing for people.
And then I read this textbook about teaching kids to write. And all the emotions of writing come flooding back. My fingers tingle. I reach for a pen. In the middle of reading about poetry I stand up, march over to where I keep my precious (fourteenth?) journal and begin to draft poems about things that have been consuming my mind. And there on those pages, months of emotion are poured out in a metaphor. And the anxious, gnawing thoughts ebb away... recorded on that paper... no longer in my mind.
Slowly, I have come to discover that one of the most freeing feelings lies in picking up the pen again... in grasping it... in laying it firmly against my writing callus, and letting the ink make marks on the page. And once the scrambled emotions are unleashed, to let someone else in... to share the thoughts...and to listen to feedback.
Monday, January 30, 2012
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Retiring
It's been years. Ten to be more precise. For ten years this book has been my best friend. It has crossed oceans with me, tucked safely inside my colorful, childish carry-on. Its words have shimmered in the afternoon sun as I have pondered and thought and wrote and napped in the heat of the summer. It has sat buried under covers and pillows and blankets on Saturday mornings. It has rested on the glossy pews of church, and the scribbled-on tables in the Sunday school rooms. It has journeyed across the country with me... through the dust of the West and the cozy inns. It found its home on the shelf next to my brother's and my mom's. It has taken me through middle school drama, high school growth, and college renewal. This book has taken me through ten years of immense growth: from the simple understanding of a child, to the ever-increasing wisdom of a perpetual student... and still I have not reached the vast depths of its truths.
The pages are barely bound together. In fact, the last fifty have to be carefully tucked between the covers. They are crinkled... from the lotion before bed, the wet hands after morning dishes, the summer dew, and heavy, fast-falling tears. Nearly every page is marked: purple gel pen, smooth "grown-up" pens, scrawlings of mechanical pencil in the margins. And tears. Each page is treasured. Each page has a meaning... my favorite passages are etched in my mind.... Proverbs 4:23... blue pen. big tear drop blotting the blue pen and chasing it into the neighboring pages. Psalm 73. Colossians. Isaiah 43. Romans 8. Two flips and I'm there. I know which side to look for, I know what color. I know what I wrote in the margins. I know the dates that mark particularly painful times... and I know the passages that have wrapped their arms around me and whispered truth to me then. From the age of childhood lisps, I memorized in this version... these words are not just on the pages of this dear book... they are written in my heart.
But it is time for retirement. It has served me well. I have cherished it. I have grown from it. I have loved it... tracing my fingers over the precious, comforting, life-giving words.
The new one doesn't smell like me. Its pages crinkle when I open it... but not because of dew, tears, water, or lotion. It smells like a book store. The cover is immaculate, the pages are intact. There is no underlining or highlighting... no dates scrawled in between. It's a different "version" and the words are not nearly so familiar. I stare at it... read it... put it down... pick up my old friend... read....put it down, and try to become friends with this new one. Perhaps some tears, some underlining, some folded pages would help it feel like my own. I know that one day we will become friends... I know it will take effort. Time.
The best part, though, is that it isn't new content. It's the same. The same stories, the same encouragement, the same warnings, the same TRUTH. And though it looks different, and though it's not covered in my underlining, the same truth is there. I can now look at it in a new light, new wording, and a fresh excitement.
I have so much more to learn. Here is Truth waiting to be discovered.
This little brown leather Bible... Guiding me perhaps through the next ten years of life? Graduation, teaching, marriage, kids? Despite all the uncertainty, it is most certainly a comforting thought.
The pages are barely bound together. In fact, the last fifty have to be carefully tucked between the covers. They are crinkled... from the lotion before bed, the wet hands after morning dishes, the summer dew, and heavy, fast-falling tears. Nearly every page is marked: purple gel pen, smooth "grown-up" pens, scrawlings of mechanical pencil in the margins. And tears. Each page is treasured. Each page has a meaning... my favorite passages are etched in my mind.... Proverbs 4:23... blue pen. big tear drop blotting the blue pen and chasing it into the neighboring pages. Psalm 73. Colossians. Isaiah 43. Romans 8. Two flips and I'm there. I know which side to look for, I know what color. I know what I wrote in the margins. I know the dates that mark particularly painful times... and I know the passages that have wrapped their arms around me and whispered truth to me then. From the age of childhood lisps, I memorized in this version... these words are not just on the pages of this dear book... they are written in my heart.
But it is time for retirement. It has served me well. I have cherished it. I have grown from it. I have loved it... tracing my fingers over the precious, comforting, life-giving words.
The new one doesn't smell like me. Its pages crinkle when I open it... but not because of dew, tears, water, or lotion. It smells like a book store. The cover is immaculate, the pages are intact. There is no underlining or highlighting... no dates scrawled in between. It's a different "version" and the words are not nearly so familiar. I stare at it... read it... put it down... pick up my old friend... read....put it down, and try to become friends with this new one. Perhaps some tears, some underlining, some folded pages would help it feel like my own. I know that one day we will become friends... I know it will take effort. Time.
The best part, though, is that it isn't new content. It's the same. The same stories, the same encouragement, the same warnings, the same TRUTH. And though it looks different, and though it's not covered in my underlining, the same truth is there. I can now look at it in a new light, new wording, and a fresh excitement.
I have so much more to learn. Here is Truth waiting to be discovered.
This little brown leather Bible... Guiding me perhaps through the next ten years of life? Graduation, teaching, marriage, kids? Despite all the uncertainty, it is most certainly a comforting thought.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Skating
I used to skate. I used to enjoy being on the ice. I used to know my skate size when I went to the front desk. I used to know how to lace my skates without missing a loop. I used to know whether a coat was necessary at the rink or not. I used to skate fast: backwards, forwards, do a turn, spin, stop.
And then I stopped. Too busy. Too many other things. And slowly I forgot.
Now when I skate, I tremble as I step out on the ice. I must hold someone's hand. My knees feel weak, and I feel the rush of adrenaline every few seconds as I catch myself... tottering uncertainly. I remember the rush of the still air as I pushed it out of my way. I remember not being afraid of falling.
This season I have gone skating two times. Slowly those confident feelings begin to fill me again. They start in my toes, stretch to my heels, and lift upwards to steady my ankles, my knees, my beating heart. I am by no means a "good skater" but at least now I can sail without the hands of others, without terror etched on my face. The freedom of the air, the bite of the cold on my face, and the laughter of friends.
And then I stopped. Too busy. Too many other things. And slowly I forgot.
Now when I skate, I tremble as I step out on the ice. I must hold someone's hand. My knees feel weak, and I feel the rush of adrenaline every few seconds as I catch myself... tottering uncertainly. I remember the rush of the still air as I pushed it out of my way. I remember not being afraid of falling.
This season I have gone skating two times. Slowly those confident feelings begin to fill me again. They start in my toes, stretch to my heels, and lift upwards to steady my ankles, my knees, my beating heart. I am by no means a "good skater" but at least now I can sail without the hands of others, without terror etched on my face. The freedom of the air, the bite of the cold on my face, and the laughter of friends.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
The World is Small
When one of your best friends is an ocean away, the world is big.
When your family lives on another continent, the world is big.
When you don't understand someone's culture, the world is big.
When an accent is unfamiliar, the world is big.
But.
When you get on a plane, travel 8 hours and find yourself in the arms of your family, the world is small.
When you get online and read about how a crisis in the United States affects Europe, the world is small.
When you skype and get to hear the voice of a friend... and see them too, the world is small.
And then sometimes... the world is just tiny.
Like when you go to a tiny college in a tiny town
And at the rec center where you work out you meet someone who speaks your "secret" language
Who lives in your mother's country
Who went to college in the city where she was born
Who is from the town where your mother's cousin lives
Whose boyfriend studied under your mother's cousin.
And this cousin happens to be your godfather.
Yep. The world is small.
When your family lives on another continent, the world is big.
When you don't understand someone's culture, the world is big.
When an accent is unfamiliar, the world is big.
But.
When you get on a plane, travel 8 hours and find yourself in the arms of your family, the world is small.
When you get online and read about how a crisis in the United States affects Europe, the world is small.
When you skype and get to hear the voice of a friend... and see them too, the world is small.
And then sometimes... the world is just tiny.
Like when you go to a tiny college in a tiny town
And at the rec center where you work out you meet someone who speaks your "secret" language
Who lives in your mother's country
Who went to college in the city where she was born
Who is from the town where your mother's cousin lives
Whose boyfriend studied under your mother's cousin.
And this cousin happens to be your godfather.
Yep. The world is small.
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Reunited
We're on the same continent again. We've skyped once. We've texted some (ok, a lot). We've counted down the days.
And finally: January 10th comes. She's just a dark smear in the hallway (thanks to my poor vision), but the smear comes closer and closer. My eyes focus... she's feet away... and then... we're hugging. Her shoulders are once again the perfect headrest. A few tears. Lots of laughing. She's home.
The weeks leading up to this joyous reunion have been some of anxious anticipation, but also stomach-knotting fear. Fear that things won't be the same. Fear that we won't be as close. Fear that she won't even like it here anymore. Fear that she'll pull away. Fear that I'll be too busy. Fear that maybe our friendship was a shallow one that only happened because of circumstances. Fear that we have both changed so much that we won't be able to be what we once were.
But the fear has subsided. Not because we haven't changed. In some ways, we've become more alike... we now both have a passion for learning about other cultures, have friends all over the world, and know what culture shock is like... we've swapped jetlag stories, "weird food" stories, and stories of God's faithfulness.
I'm learning that true friendship allows for change. I can't selfishly expect everything to go back to being the way it was. But if I allow room for growth, change, and flexibility, our friendship will deepen and grow and change (for the better). It might not be as it always was... but who says that "those days" were perfect? True friendship allows for mistakes. It comforts in pain. It celebrates with success.
The best part is that we always will have common ground... no matter how many years go by. We are sisters in Christ. And such a bond can never be broken.
And finally: January 10th comes. She's just a dark smear in the hallway (thanks to my poor vision), but the smear comes closer and closer. My eyes focus... she's feet away... and then... we're hugging. Her shoulders are once again the perfect headrest. A few tears. Lots of laughing. She's home.
The weeks leading up to this joyous reunion have been some of anxious anticipation, but also stomach-knotting fear. Fear that things won't be the same. Fear that we won't be as close. Fear that she won't even like it here anymore. Fear that she'll pull away. Fear that I'll be too busy. Fear that maybe our friendship was a shallow one that only happened because of circumstances. Fear that we have both changed so much that we won't be able to be what we once were.
But the fear has subsided. Not because we haven't changed. In some ways, we've become more alike... we now both have a passion for learning about other cultures, have friends all over the world, and know what culture shock is like... we've swapped jetlag stories, "weird food" stories, and stories of God's faithfulness.
I'm learning that true friendship allows for change. I can't selfishly expect everything to go back to being the way it was. But if I allow room for growth, change, and flexibility, our friendship will deepen and grow and change (for the better). It might not be as it always was... but who says that "those days" were perfect? True friendship allows for mistakes. It comforts in pain. It celebrates with success.
The best part is that we always will have common ground... no matter how many years go by. We are sisters in Christ. And such a bond can never be broken.
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
The Second Row
I have a walk-in closet. Normally it's not "walk-in" because I have so many extra boxes and junk blocking the floor. Currently it's a pile of old textbooks I can't decide whether or not to sell. I have a row of hanging clothes... the ones I use. They're familiar. They smell like me (whatever that smells like).
But there's also another row. The clothes hanging in this row haven't been touched in years. They are from decades long past. Some are precious clothes from my childhood. Some are my mom's dresses from before she met my dad... shoulder pads, big flowers, loose... odd to the tastes of my generation. Some are just "strange" to my culture... dresses from Kuwait or Hungary. They smell of dust. Waiting to be worn, to see the sunlight. To be loved.
Today I decided to push through the first row of clothes. And explore the old ones. The ones loved, but perhaps forgotten... Loved enough to be stored rather than thrown away. But when I brought them to my parents, they couldn't place them... they couldn't remember where they came from.
Some clothes I tried on made me feel like an elegant princess in Kuwait. Some made me feel like a clown. Some made me feel like a hippie.
Some clothes I could only look at... gently feel their loved fabric. I remembered days when the yellow dress nestled comfortably among the clothes hanging in the first row. Now it hangs dusty in the second. The teal sweater that saw many New Year celebrations, the black skirt that sat on the piano bench at church as I plunked through simple hymns.
But some of the clothes I tried on suddenly felt like me.
They might be a little odd, but so am I...
The ones with Hungarian embroidery suddenly grabbed my attention. Maybe it's because I just came from there. Maybe because I'm finally beginning to learn to truly love and cherish my heritage. I don't really know... but I decided they're moving to the first row. They will see sunlight.
But there's also another row. The clothes hanging in this row haven't been touched in years. They are from decades long past. Some are precious clothes from my childhood. Some are my mom's dresses from before she met my dad... shoulder pads, big flowers, loose... odd to the tastes of my generation. Some are just "strange" to my culture... dresses from Kuwait or Hungary. They smell of dust. Waiting to be worn, to see the sunlight. To be loved.
Today I decided to push through the first row of clothes. And explore the old ones. The ones loved, but perhaps forgotten... Loved enough to be stored rather than thrown away. But when I brought them to my parents, they couldn't place them... they couldn't remember where they came from.
Some clothes I tried on made me feel like an elegant princess in Kuwait. Some made me feel like a clown. Some made me feel like a hippie.
Some clothes I could only look at... gently feel their loved fabric. I remembered days when the yellow dress nestled comfortably among the clothes hanging in the first row. Now it hangs dusty in the second. The teal sweater that saw many New Year celebrations, the black skirt that sat on the piano bench at church as I plunked through simple hymns.
But some of the clothes I tried on suddenly felt like me.
They might be a little odd, but so am I...
The ones with Hungarian embroidery suddenly grabbed my attention. Maybe it's because I just came from there. Maybe because I'm finally beginning to learn to truly love and cherish my heritage. I don't really know... but I decided they're moving to the first row. They will see sunlight.
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