A work in progress.

Through the darkness of the night
I'm granted hope to endure the fight
Keeping my head above the surface of
The swirling lies and desperate cries
That drown the truth and smother the joy that pave the path unto the light.

Though I feel like I'm not capable
I believe that He is faithful
Despite deep oceans of my emotions
That carry fear, I know He's near
For He's my refuge and my anchor when my world remains unstable.

Native paths to foreign places.

We often say we take two steps forward and one step back
But really it seems like in life we only move forward
And look back over our shoulder
More times than we need to.

Stepping out of an old friend's house today
Made me appreciate the freedom to walk home,
To walk anywhere.
Growing up we never really needed to drive somewhere
To reach a familiar face
Or drop by the home of someone who'd take care of you.

The air weighed heavy with moisture,
Rubbing against the summer
That hung overhead.
My body brushed through the barbecue perfume
Coming from one of the houses down the street,
And I crossed the road past my elementary school
Whose inner dwelling was more comforting
Than the ghostly walls that stood before my eyes
In the middle of its off-season.

Francis Lewis Boulevard didn't discriminate who she'd let pass
Of her border between Bayside and Fresh Meadows
Or the other way around -
She'd only warn you to look both ways and be careful.

Water tickled my legs as a sprinkler waved hello,
Lifting a bit of summer's burden as I passed right through,
And a nostalgic helicopter leaf propelled its way
Down
To the ground below me.

Some streets seemed abandoned
While others had an occasional smattering of people
Watering their grass.
They were strangers to me,
But they seemed almost like strangers to each other.

Along the familiar path
I glimpsed into someone's backyard
And spotted an unfamiliar hammock,
And I nearly stopped.

A hammock would be nice.
Yes, a homemade one.
I don't know how to make one,
But I'm sure it can be done.

This started spinning a dream 

Of a life with neighbors passing through

Coming in and out,

And a homemade hammock sitting between two trees,

With evenings at dusk spent crafting

New things

New worlds

New ideas

With people who were learning how to deeply care for one another

Sharing stories

Sharing hearts

Sharing dreams

With endless invitations for new people to become new neighbors.

This is the world you are called to create

Wherever this is,

Whatever it looks like,

This is where you are called to be.

My path grew more and more familiar

With every step and every turn,

And I knew where I was going

But my mind felt like I was going the wrong way,

As though this familiar life was telling me to leave it be

And take all of its memories like seeds

And plant them somewhere else,

Somewhere else that isn't here.

Let someone else grow their branches here

Deepen their roots here

But this familiar life was telling me to leave it be - 

You are called to branch out somewhere else.

And as I pulled out the ordinary key
To the house I'd always known,
And Mom swings opens the door before I even touch the knob
To the home I'd somehow outgrown,
I rush into my haven,
Excited that I had met some inspiration
To nourish my craving
To write.

Writer's Throwback!

Dying to Live
Looking back on my yesterdays
As a child at heart and frame
I was sapling,
Frail and weak
Fell apart at a gentle touch of a “no”
Crumbled within when a head turned away
And every time it happened,
I died just a little
While I tucked my enervated heart a little deeper inside
To hide in shame as it recovered from its failures,
To try and fill in what was drained.

Renewing is never easy.

Pulling myself together,
Getting back up
Is always hard, especially when I’m pushed down
Over and over again.
Picking up the pieces and starting with a fresh beginning
Is always easier said than done.

But it helps.

Each time I’ve staggered and tripped
Been knocked over and collapsed to the ground
Broken by the storms of life
Abandoned by those whom I thought cared,
I died just a little
To myself,
Slowly learning again to give up a little bit more of me
To make room for something so much better for me
Someone so much greater than me
To turn the doorknobs of my heart,
Opening the doors a little wider
Allowing me to see a little more
More of the bigger picture
That I had not seen before.

Being turned down from anything
By anyone
Slaps me against the cheek
Lands me on the ground
Slams the door in my face
And opens a window not too far,
Letting in a breeze that cools my temper
And shines a new light upon me
That draws in new strength and hope
As I die to myself to live for others.

I am becoming a tree,
With my thick trunk enduring longer through every storm,
Every shower,
Every drizzle,
And rooting myself deeper
Whenever I’m turned down or away,
Into the soil of what is more important in life
As someone older at heart and frame,
Looking forward to new tomorrows.

So I came across this when I was cleaning my room a little bit. It was in one of my old notebooks that I'd carry around with me everywhere. Something that shocked me a little (which really shouldn't have) was how many poems I used to write when I was younger. Most of them, such as this one, may seem a little on the too-emo side, but at least I wrote. I liked writing. That was what surprised me, I guess. I had forgotten how much I used to just...write.

Reading some of my old poems/writings and some other small social-image-issues that have come up numerous times this summer made me realize how much I'm strangely inconsistent with how I respond to people's opinions. When it comes to how I respond to my physical image, I'm extremely resistent to ideas such as losing weight for the sake of losing weight, painting my nails, getting tanned, or plucking my eyebrows. And I don't care what people think. But when it comes to other things - like my writing - I've let my fear of what other people would think so much that I've practically stopped doing it altogether, even to a point where I don't do it for myself.

Isn't that weird? Aren't I weird?

I still get lots of ideas of random things - possible story lines, character traits, poems when I'm passionate, blog posts, or ideas for other things - but for some reason I've fallen out of the habit of picking up my pen or typing on my computer, and fallen into the habit of thinking, "Well, that's a stupid idea," or, "No one would like reading about that." It's really quite terrible for me if you think about it. A writer that doesn't passionately write anymore?

I've even told myself I would get into the habit of freewriting furiously every morning after spending some quiet time with God so that I'd at least be writing something. But I've been telling myself that for years now. I probably just need a little push in the right direction.

Thankfully, I've been working on a new song this summer. The idea came up one night when I got really frustrated about some of my relationships with people and not really knowing what to do about it, but at same time knowing exactly what to do about it. Wow, that's confusing. Maybe when I'm done I'll post it up. I'm pretty much done, I just need to let it sit for a few days to make sure there aren't any little things I don't like and may want to change. That usually happens in the chorus...not my favorite section because it's where it gets tricky with sounding cliche or like some other song that already exists. I'm a verse kind of girl.

Okay, that was a longer post than anticipated. I would've had a post about my wonderful family vacation that I just returned from a few days ago, but my computer is being difficult again and has been under construction (backing up video files onto my bigger harddrive and taking forever because it keeps shutting down and stopping the process in the middle of the night) for the past couple of weeks. Lame, I know. Believe me, my dad and I are very frustrated with it. I hope it finishes soon...I'm returning to campus soon!

the beauty of excellence

the beauty of excellence is that it is art.
you make it your own.
you want more color? pour on the color.
you think it needs music? bring the music to life.
you think it's easy? heck no it isn't.

the complex thing about art is that there is a standard,
but it's taking a step beyond that standard
or breaking that standard
that makes it unique,
makes it beautiful,
makes it art.
that's the beauty of excellence.

what's remarkable about this beauty of excellence
is that it can't be found in this world we reside in,
but only in God.
He finds superiority in our brokenness,
our sufferings,
our weaknesses,
when we find inferiority.

if we strive to meet the standards,
we'll fall short.
so why strive at all?

the beauty of excellence is that if the standards of the art aren't broken,
you wouldn't be able to find
grace so deep or
mercy so wide
that it mends the brokenness
we once fought to prevent.

car rides.

sitting in the back seat, staring at cars fly past ours in the other direction,
wondering where they're going,
how long it'll take for them to get to their destination,
what they're thinking while they're on the road.
sitting in the back seat, not having to navigate,
to pay attention to signs,
whether or not cars are signaling,
not needing to talk to the driver or anyone else.
keep to yourself, think as loud as you'd like.
you've got the whole back seat for your own,
so fill the space by emptying everything you've got.