pen and paper rain

2012-01-14T06:21:00.000-08:00

Two winters ago, when all I had
left of you was the ache of
your leaving, I taught myself
to crochet the folds of my raw edges
into a scarf. There are only three
basic knots to learn: the single,
double, and half double. Yet
I had to tear them out and try over
for hours on end before I saw
the difference between one
knot and another lay in how
I held my hands as they moved
the yarn. Now

when I begin a hat or scarf, though
it's been two winters and I have you
with me once again, I still hold
the yarn as I learned:

loosely, with firmness in my fingertips,
pressing the latch and yarn
as I might a rosary; I mark minutes
with each thrust and loop,
remembering that only time
and the letting go and holding
of a thing in the right way
can bring about a warm scarf,
or a healed and full heart.

From Brooklyn

2011-10-21T21:38:00.000-07:00

I sit by the window as the R train lurches
toward Manhattan. Then, we all know
the type: a tired, unshaven man struts
through the cabin, feigned energy in his step
and fingers as he pounds the aging
keys of his accordion. He is resolved,
yet resigned, separated from the people
he plays for by the very fact that he plays.
I think I know him before he strikes
the first note. But then, a tired, disheveled

little girl walks from behind her daddy,
shaking a homemade maraca.
She does not feign energy as she thrusts
her arms up and down and looks out the window
to another place. Her face is a locked gate
with widely spaced bars. Has she already learned
to hold back from a world that asks for
everything, yet does not see her? Still, I turn
toward the window, closing my eyes each time
we pass through a tunnel where I see
my reflection in the darkness.

Maryland

2011-09-02T14:19:00.000-07:00

My aunt's Christmas tree farm has slept
in the middle of Maryland for
forty-something years. When I was seven,
I walked alone between the firs; their fallen
needles driven into the snow by my heel,
their scent, a gift to the November air. I remember
the silent magnitude, the quiet remaining,
the way their bows cradled the early snow.

The firs' life had come slowly, each seed
latched deep before stretching outside
the soil's womb into the wide air of seen things.
That is the way of Life,
to not show itself for a season.

My aunt's Christmas tree farm has slept
in the middle of Maryland for
forty-something years. How much of me
is there that I have not seen?

2011-09-02T13:03:00.000-07:00

It is the fault of infinity to be too small to find. It is a fault of eternity to be crowded out by time. Before our eyes we see an unbroken sheath of colors. We live over a bulk of things. We walk amid a congeries of colored things which pan before our steps to reveal more colored things. Above us hurtle more things, which fill the universe. There is no crack. Where then is the gap through which eternity streams? Materials wrap up seamlessly; time propels us ceaselessly. Muffled and bound we pitch forward from one filled hour to the next, from one filled landscape or house to the next. No rift between one note of the chorus and the next opens on infinity. No spear of eternity interposes itself between work and lunch.

And this is what we love...our lives, our times, our generation, our pursuits. And we are called to forsake these vivid and palpable goods for an idea of which we experience not one trace? Am I to believe eternity outranks my child's fingers?

-Annie Dillard

2011-08-26T13:44:00.000-07:00

To walk quietly down the fog-cloaked road,
knowing neither the route nor the reason
why you've been asked to walk it;

To carry the timber of your inner fallen forest,
and place it in the arms of Longsuffering
and Patience;

To sink your hands, elbow-deep, in the fallow
patch of loam and silt at your feet, trusting
time and work will stir the earth awake,

To pray as you breathe, for it is your breath;

Is this to be a living sacrifice?

Mary Oliver

2011-07-14T18:07:00.000-07:00

"You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
call to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting –
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things."

— Mary Oliver

2011-06-08T16:49:00.000-07:00

By chance, I lift the blinds
to check on my romas and oregano
at the very moment a robin, rust-breasted
and beady eyed, skirts through the rosemary
with a marvelous glistening worm, wrenching
for freedom. Through the tunnel of the moment's
standstill, I see the quilled stubble beneath
his chin, and also the way he bounds without
regard to audience, exulting.

I would like that kind of life,
plowing through the dirt for the day's
grub, caring neither for the stubble
on my chin, or for the future worms
I will need. Perhaps I can do it, if
I stop looking for another life.

2011-05-13T20:43:00.000-07:00

Before there were words, there was the language of silence. People filled the silence with expectation, dreams, and vision- the vision pulled them onward through the silence, like a strong rope tied to the helm of a boat, always leading the boat through still waters towards further, newer silence. As time passed, people began to notice more things- such as the way the twilight hit the lily, turning it into a translucent flame- and people wanted others to notice. It began as a tap on the elbow, a raised eyebrow, a nod in the direction of the thing worth noticing. This soon led to a knock against the side of the boat- the first sound- and the world of sight, scent, taste, and touch met another dimension. Silence was forced to share its space. It was not long before sound crowded out silence, and because silence was lost, the language of words came. The language of silence never diminished in beauty nor its ability to communicate; it merely diminished in use, since it required patience and time, both of which were hard to find in a world that had filled itself with things not worth noticing.

Though born into the world of sound and language of words, the boy and girl first spoke to each other in the first language. It began with a look that grew into a tunnel that lead to a mirror deep inside. The boy traveled the tunnel of the girl's gaze, as she did his, and when they reached the end and saw their own selves reflected, they knew they had unearthed another language. Like archaeologists, they began to excavate one another through the quiet noticing of things. He liked how she snatched up her glass of water to examine the rainbows the sun dropped inside the cup. She liked how his whole face smiled, even his eyebrows and hairline. They carved one another's bones out of the layers of earth, carefully brushing off the dust from which the other came, and there was no need for the girl to tell the boy why she did this, nor he her. When they finally did speak with the language of words, it was only to echo what had been said with the eyes, and learned through patience and time.

2011-05-11T11:51:00.000-07:00

This is Christ's body broken for you
I pick up a cracker-
and His blood shed for you.
and dip it in the plum-hued juice.
A thin vein drips down the palm
of my hand before I consume
the covenant. Its sweetness sticks
to the metal handle, and the soft
kha-tuh of crutches precedes me back
to my seat in the silent sanctuary.

Into my brokenness, I receive
brokenness. Into my pain,
I receive the promise of pain atoned.
I believe you bore my passion,
and drank my bitter cup. But
what of the child who will walk
with no toes the rest of life,
the mother with pins in her spine,
and the boy, now man, who still
sleeps with two pillows to muffle his cries?
I see your pain had a clear end,
and the promise of a greater purpose. So
where are you in this specific place of need,
need so thick its emptiness could be sliced
and swallowed? Please come off the pages,
and out of the elements. Into my emptiness,
I receive your presence. Jesus,
I believe. Help my unbelief.

2011-05-04T09:05:00.000-07:00

"In both domains of nature and faith, you will find the most excellent things are the deepest hidden."
-Erasmus, The Sages, 1515

The cream-breasted vireo belts forth
a symphony of wind chimes from atop the fence post-
his mate echoes from a neighboring oak.
The indelible jest that nature plays is to
grant vast beauty to modest creatures,
then leave it to be discovered by those who seek.
Am I to find the vireo's song by dissection
of his chest, lungs, heart? It is not there, and yet,
it is exactly there.

I am offered a free performance every day, if I
will only step outside and sit below the looming oaks.
On the days I accept this invitation, I sense the Gardner is
glad, and wants to show me something new. Do you see
the young monarch sipping nectar from the milkweed?
And the way the magnolia and black pine lean over
the fence that divides them, sharing a great joke?

Beauty is a question I will spend my whole life answering.
It cannot be learned; it must be noticed, and in noticing
what the Gardner names beautiful, I learn to love Him further.

transfiguration

2011-04-12T08:33:00.001-07:00

How often do you come to me
in a way I did not expect-
such as the call of geese
over the fog-cloaked pond,
or the intent stare of
the neighborhood stray's
piercing yellow eyes, or
the way the sky's light
seeps in between my
loosely closed blinds-
and instead of listening,
I filled the moment with talk
of building a tent to keep you
in a place I understood.

2011-03-23T21:12:00.000-07:00

Why is it that when children draw and paint, and unreservedly bestow their sloppy creations upon us, we find no fault in their bold assumption that their offerings are welcome? Why is it that there is not only grace to receive the drawings or paintings, but in addition to grace, there is gratitude, and in addition to gratitude, joy in receiving what they offer? All I know is that today a three year-old gave me a picture of a lopsided pink horse, and I felt valued, honored, loved.

God, you ask that I have faith like a child. If that means faith like the children I have in my life, it is faith not only to receive you, but also faith that you will receive me just as unreservedly as the three year-old girl believed I would welcome her without hesitation, rejoicing in her offering.

On Memory

2011-02-16T07:20:00.000-08:00

The lightly trodden trail's shape
shifts as the wind's hands tousle
nutmeg and cardamom-colored leaves
across its length. They murmur-those leaves-
filling the air with confessions, memories,
leaving the forest heavy with invisible life.
Perhaps leaves and wind are like
protons and neutrons-created
to convey a concept our minds
cannot grasp without a tangible sign,
like freshly fallen snow: though it has no voice,
it teaches all day of the beauty of forgiveness.

And what is this life worth, if from it,
my soul does not wake up just a little more?
I forget my lungs live off loans, and that the sky
does not need to keep holding its sloping canopy
over me. I forget, and yet I am still granted
more time.

Every day is either a remembrance
or a fading from what I've known since birth.
Your love doesn't cease to exist in the places
I lack an understanding of it.
Lord have mercy, help me to remember.

2011-01-10T19:51:00.000-08:00

Dear friends, it is my great joy to let you know that I have published
a book of poetry. I am so very excited to be able to share my work
and my heart in this way, as this has been a dream of mine for quite
some time. The book is available to the public for purchase through
the link below, or if you would like a copy of a limited illustrated
edition, you can purchase one from me personally. To so many of
you, thank you for inspiring and supporting me in the venture.
Peace and grace.

Awakened, Requ...

By Jessie Donaghy

Book Preview

Ritual

2010-11-12T16:21:00.000-08:00

The elephant leaves dwindle down,
their middles fray to onion skins-
humble, aware. Winter has begun
to burn away their life. Are you
awake? Now here, see what you look
at every day: the mail lady pushes her

clear-rimmed goggles up the bridge
of her pale nose, carries
lost-but now found-notes
and return-to-sender boxes
back to her idling van. Do you
wait? The neighbor's cat comes

calling down the sloping gray lawn,
with crackling meows she tells you
what she's seen, and the golden leaves
fall in your hair, giving way to
a sky that must peer back at you
through the barren trees. How many

signposts go unheeded each day.

2010-10-05T14:52:00.000-07:00

I find you, Lord, in all things and in all
my fellow creatures pulsing with your life;
as a tiny seed you sleep in what is small,
and in the vast you vastly yield yourself.

The wondrous game that power plays with Things
is to move in such submission through the world:
groping in roots and growing thick in trunks
and in treetops like a rising from the dead.

-Rainer Maria Rilke
(The Book of Hours)

2010-08-25T23:00:00.000-07:00

As I gaze into your youthful face- no more than twenty-seven or eight, I see myself reflected. How were you to know what lie waiting along the further path, what unknown pains would crash,
opening into chasms?

Your smile-so pure and reserved, incandescent over the field
of wild daisies and strawberries-is inside you, though
now held fast and sleeping. You are strong, and beautiful; I know

because part of you is in me. And there is also something
else: a whispering, flickering flame, lonely and wild,
on a Winter night's wind-whipped beach. It is dark
and the nightwatcher nods, but you burn,

burn wildly, praying your light is noticed, praying that the pain of your burning
ushers in redemption, and the answer that
no human can grant.

2010-08-13T06:53:00.000-07:00

Nothing restores the sense of being alive less ambiguously than the birth of the unexpected, the finding of a person who one did not know one loved so much.

-Ralph Harper, On Presence

Grant Street, Summer

2010-08-05T10:19:00.001-07:00

If I am but a breath, if there is only
this morning walk in the park,
only one conversation with my sister,
just paper and ink enough for these words,
all the more deeply must I breathe.
If my grains of sand are counted
and flow without pause through
the funnel of time,
may I fully feel the dawning
and finality of the one thing,
that I am given,
that I have to give, which
is everything.

Norway

2010-07-31T18:41:00.000-07:00

I remember the summer of driving
quickly past the Baltic waters-
their blue so cold behind
the warm piping red roofs, and clean
white cottage walls. The heat
pushed into my bare arms as if
it had eyes to look through me-
muscle, bone, soul.
Far away from all I'd ever known,
it felt vaguely like home.
Why does mystery often feel like a memory
as it turns the corner, falling out of sight?
I often wonder if my full-bodied
longings are nostalgia for the place
my heart sleeps in my dreams-where
upon waking, I am rushed back to the path
that leads to the sleeping house I am still
very far away from, still
very much a part of.

Firstborn

2010-07-20T08:42:00.000-07:00

A firstborn day is birthed

across the sky, crying

in pangs of red

and quivering, clear heat.

As the emerging sun casts light

along the canyon’s higher parts,

parting night’s womb from dawn,

I feel the pangs of loss and newness,

and also, the gain that loss grants,

in between now

and from now on.

We are very near the brink

of unknown regions;

the machinery behind

the bolted door cranks, churns

without audience.

I know not how the clock keeps pace

with time, or how the sun follows the same

grooved horizon line, or how my spirit draws

water from an ancient book.

Yet, it is so.

Weighed not by gain,

but by loss, the measure

of sand in my body’s hourglass

shifts with the currents of time.

This day breaks across the world but once.

What will you do with your one precious gift?

2010-07-08T21:00:00.000-07:00

History
is
prophecy
as
today
ushers in
the dreams
we dared not
harbor
in winter's death,
in spring's first stem.

Yet,
it is so.
It is here
and true,
I am so much
younger than before,
as are you.

With soft ankles
and new hands
we walk and
relearn the
feel of breath
in our lungs,
the feel of hope
in our blood.

6.25

2010-06-25T21:20:00.001-07:00

In folds of rolling gray,
the sky's cloth gathers
quickly overhead, hiding
a secret I am, perhaps,
no longer young enough
to remember.

What led me to this field
of wind-whipped, knee-tall grass,
and to where does the invisible covenant lead?

On the outer crest of my periphery,
silhouettes skirt and dip to the meter
of the song I was born singing.

When does the middle become
crowded and tunneled?

I once knew where I came from,
and once again I will remember
when I leave here to return.

ibid

2010-06-14T19:40:00.000-07:00

the hour of fulfillment
is buried in years of patience

mary oliver

2010-06-12T13:26:00.000-07:00

Also I wanted
to be able to love. And we all know
how that one goes,
don't we?

Slowly

pensees

2010-06-04T20:10:00.000-07:00

There can be no newly winged seeds
if death does not first come.

I have known the weight of emptiness
in these winter and spring seasons.

We are all gifts,
and all unworthy of the gifts granted us.

The weight in one's chest is a deep teacher:
do not shy from its heaviness. Deep calls to deep.

I once knew what I wanted,
but now that fades in the presence
of what I know I love.

We are all covered in pitch,
grappeling for a touch from the flame.

Memories are such vagrant beings;
they drift beyond thought,
but rush swiftly back with but a glimpse
of handwriting or crack of laughter.

Winged seeds were seen across the morning sky;
there are rumors of a maple forest
rising in the east where they died.

2010-05-26T20:36:00.000-07:00

On the other side of fear
is the very thing you long for.

2010-05-18T22:47:00.000-07:00

What is your thread,
and is there patience
in those lips
to wet it,
in those fingers
to hold it?

Is there faith
in those eyes
to look through the eye,
and see what could be?

He hems you in
before and behind,
threading His needle
with your surrender.

my heart's first rest in its hull

2010-05-10T21:10:00.000-07:00

Pushed off shore
by a caustic gale,
I'm now mid lake,
safe, away from further words.

Only wounded feet
may walk across
these widening waters,
grab my helm,
and whisper peace
be still.

2010-05-07T21:32:00.000-07:00

if two eyes find
their reflection
in another, while
covered in the
ink-dark night-

if five fingers
brush by and feel
their allies alive
in another hand
in the rushing crowd-

if the incense i light
sparks and lifts
ten thousand memories
up to the wind, as
i breathe in the sky
with closed eyes-

is that amen?

lune

2010-05-01T18:07:00.001-07:00

How often have I stood and stared at the moon
of unanswerable questions, wondering what to do
about its distant eminence, while forgetting the
very soil I stand on that silently bears up my feet
and begs to be tilled with the vigor I've displaced
in my gaze at the night sky

and to other unanswerable questions I have asked,
such as the shape of yellow, or the color of a lark's song,
or why that heavy throb clouds the peripheral as love
leaves, walking out ahead- to these, what is the answer?
or are these mine to ask?

The soil is cool with the shadow of night's blanket,
my toes feel its damp softness as they curl under
and stretch full, flat. I will look away from the moon.
I will center my weight where I am
and feel what is within my realm this night.

2010-04-26T11:56:00.000-07:00

Insofar that you were fettered by me,
I release my hold and set you free,
for that is what truth does.
I loved in honesty,
and honest still,
but my eyes are so small
and your gaze holds the fullness of the ocean.
I cannot bear the weight
of both my diving bell and yours,
but prayers pour forth from my inner spring
like water from the barren rock
struck by our Deliverer.
Do you pant, as I do?
Where has thirst led you?
Present is our only gift,
so I pray for the grace to gather it
and follow Him further,
leaving behind a trail
for others to drink of.

holiness

2010-04-22T21:49:00.000-07:00

Our deepest need is not to be filled,
but to be emptied and rid of our shoes.
Only then will we see the flame of His presence
in every common bush and human being.

2010-04-20T21:25:00.000-07:00

home is not a place,
but meeting the gaze
of another, and finding
both mirror and eternity.

i am still,
and always,
a sojourner
in the country
of the heart.

lotus

2010-04-18T21:16:00.000-07:00

the soul
unfolds
as a flower.

who am i
to hasten
its opening?

only time
can grant
the touch
of fruition

and we are
but small blooms
this day.

so friends, every day

2010-04-13T12:28:00.000-07:00

Love the quick profit, the annual raise,
vacation with pay. Want more
of everything ready-made. Be afraid
to know your neighbors and to die.
And you will have a window in your head.
Not even your future will be a mystery
any more. Your mind will be punched in a card
and shut away in a little drawer.
When they want you to buy something
they will call you. When they want you
to die for profit they will let you know.

So, friends, every day do something
that won't compute. Love the Lord.
Love the world. Work for nothing.
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it.
Denounce the government and embrace
the flag. Hope to live in that free
republic for which it stands.
Give your approval to all you cannot
understand. Praise ignorance, for what man
has not encountered he has not destroyed.

Ask the questions that have no answers.
Invest in the millennium. Plant sequoias.
Say that your main crop is the forest
that you did not plant,
that you will not live to harvest.
Say that the leaves are harvested
when they have rotted into the mold.
Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.

Put your faith in the two inches of humus
that will build under the trees
every thousand years.
Listen to carrion--put your ear
close, and hear the faint chattering
of the songs that are to come.
Expect the end of the world. Laugh.
Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful
though you have considered all the facts.
So long as women do not go cheap
for power, please women more than men.
Ask yourself: Will this satisfy
a woman satisfied to bear a child?
Will this disturb the sleep
of a woman near to giving birth?

Go with your love to the fields.
Lie down in the shade. Rest your head
in her lap. Swear allegiance
to what is nighest your thoughts.
As soon as the generals and the politicos
can predict the motions of your mind,
lose it. Leave it as a sign
to mark the false trail, the way
you didn't go. Be like the fox
who makes more tracks than necessary,
some in the wrong direction.

Practice resurrection.

Wendell Berry, The Country of Marriage

understory

2010-03-22T13:13:00.000-07:00

The seeded word
speaks of a world
other than this snow-covered
street, abandoned
and riddled with the aftermath
of our battles.
I am with sisters,
spurred by the wind's hand
on the small of our backs,
in the pools of our eyes,
through the holes in our hearts.

Hunger and longing
walk ahead and steal
glimpses of our
windblown hair
and war-torn hands
before turning the corner.
I know not the secret
to my own heart,
but my spirit whispers
that these who now walk
before us will lead
to the Gatekeeper.

The promise of home
grows along my heart
like a flowering vine.

Keep us tender and
strong in the war
field, preserve my sisters
as we walk through
shadows, and may each
step bring us closer to
the bearer of our
heart's secret.

known

2010-03-18T13:11:00.000-07:00

She lived on the side,
younger than her years,
longing to grow tall.
"I'm here! I see what surrounds me.
Do not forget that quiet souls have deep eyes,
and my longings, though unspoken,
stretch my empty rooms into vaulted chambers."
The house was small;
her room, to the side,
and the hearth's kindling
crackled and filled
the forgotten parts with warmth,
and her silent words
were heard
in the glowing stillness.

Longsuffering

2010-03-16T13:09:00.001-07:00

Do not hasten to do my work for me. I know just how to deal with you in your hour of weakness. In due season I will bring about the fruit of your vine; though now barren, I will redeem you so you may remain in the garden. Do not uproot yourself because you see no fruit. You know not how the seed grows after it is planted below the soil. I am in the fig tree of your soul as I walk by you and grant your branches more time. For a little while you may feel looked over, but the life blood of communion with me will sustain you and awaken your unknown parts. Stay, let death pass over, for I have marked your heart with my preserving blood. Let my waves and breakers rush over head, so you may be cleansed and healed.

Hunger

2010-02-22T11:59:00.000-08:00

I wade out into the deep,
the round stones of the river
smooth beneath my feet
as I cross the cleansing
currents and look up to face
the brightness of your sun.

The water's deep
calls to my deep,
and I'm swallowed.
Your waves and breakers
wash over and underneath
inside and in between,
pulling me from an invisible chrysalis,
lifting me to new life.

Well pleased, your dove
alights and drives
me to the wilderness
of appetites, passions,
and presumption.

Holy Spirit, grant me your grace
to walk where you've placed
me, and thrive where the
briar and barren dwell.
Feed with your words,
which are seeds
cast upon my spirit's field,
so I may spring forth and
speak remembrances of You
when I am reaped.

May I not be found wanting,
only empty,
holding the mirror of your Word
and a well-oiled lamp,
longing for
your arrival
once again.

Joy

2010-02-17T09:57:00.000-08:00

"...let us lay aside every weight, the sin which so easily ensnares us, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, looking unto Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith, who for the joy that was set before Him endured the cross..."
Hebrews 12:1-2

We are called to run with endurance the race set before us.
Jesus, for the joy set before Him, endured the cross.

Are these not one in the same? Is not the path before us our joy because God has set it? Is this not why we can endure what comes across our paths, because we see what is set even further ahead?

With joy, I am learning to endure sorrow, for I am growing into the realization that sorrow is only a mask for joy. It does not diminish joy, but rather, conceals it, like a winter snow conceals the seed. Even as the wind whips the frail branches and leaves of the tree's outward life, the deepest roots grow down and feed off life in the earth's depths. Joy is the root strengthened by the fires of life; it is set before us as a beacon, and set within us as a flame. It is the seed that grows in spite of winter, and it will spring forth in its due season.

"Let us not grow weary in doing good, for in due season we shall reap if we do not lose heart." (Galatians 6:9)

"He has made everything beautiful in its time. Also He has put eternity in their hearts..." (Ecclesiastes 3:11)

Awake, O Sleeper

2010-02-02T21:22:00.000-08:00

For some months now, I have been in a pattern of loss; God has truly stripped me of countless things that were core to what I hold dearest in life. The other side of loss is surreal; loss brings you to a place of displacement, where you must learn to take what is left and build anew. On the other side of this shipwreck, I realize that I have indeed lost much, but I still have all that I need. Hope is anchored in my soul. My Father is faithful, and He holds me as the waves of aftershock gradually begin to lessen and lap gently around me.

"Awake O sleeper, rise up from the dead, and Christ will give you light" (Ephesians 5:14)

What does it take to be awakened, truly awakened? The surging jolt of electric paddles? A bucket of icy water to the face? The whisper and gentle touch of your mother? The gracious hand of a Heavenly Father, who knows just what to give and take away?

Right now, it is the knowing hand of my Father that awakens me.

The voids left by my losses feel like an empty tomb: cavernous, hollow, dense with the reality of why it exists. Each loss has caused me to die a small death. Yet, here I am, still alive. And I am beginning to realize, with mounting joy, that the tomb is in fact empty. I may feel the gravity of death and loss around me, but it is only a shadow. He is not here, shrouded in death; He is risen. In light of this, Philippians 3 infuses me with new life:

"But what things were gain to me, these I have counted loss for Christ. Yet indeed I also count all things loss for the excellence of the knowledge of Christ Jesus my Lord, for whom I have suffered the loss of all things, and count them as rubbish, that I may gain Christ and be found in Him...that I may know Him in the power of his resurrection, and the fellowship of His sufferings, being conformed to His death."

He calls me to arise from my tomb so that I may share in the joy of knowing Him in all aspects of life: not just the mountain peaks of joy and ecstasy, but also the valleys of sorrow and pain. He leads us to the valleys to show us that He is there, and He will not leave us to face our perils alone.

Pain teaches you who you are. It awakens you to yourself and causes you to look at what you place your trust in. Right now, I just want to be His. I cling to Him. He may lead me to the valley depths, but as long as I am His, it no longer matters where He takes me. Christ has passed through death and come out on the other side, and He extends His hand back to each of us, promising to lead us through the mighty, rushing waters of this life. We may be stripped bare, but we shall not be consumed.

Abandonment

2010-02-02T20:41:00.001-08:00

I can't stop listening to this. I just want to galavant barefoot through a field of poppies in a big sweeping skirt.

Hallelujah

2010-02-01T22:23:00.000-08:00

Hallelujah,
cry the mountains
and valleys,
the deep forest interiors
and boundless clear skies
within us.
There is a world within
a world,
a hidden life
of the soul
as textured as the
landscapes we live in.

My inner quarries
and river beds
cry to be unearthed
and refined,
sifted and chiseled
of impurities
until only depth
and treasure are mine.
This interior land
stretches vast and far,
in all directions,
yet remains here and now,
fully present in this moment.

My soul begs
exploration,
discovery,
pilgrimage,
even if only
to travel to the edges of itself
in this moment.

Hallelujah
cry the mountains..

The Telephone Collective

2010-01-21T09:51:00.000-08:00

I have the honor of being a part of a collective of artists that has just recently embarked on a journey of collaboration, inspiration, discovery, and creativity, inspired by the common source of God's living Word. Below is a small introduction of what we as a collective are about. We will be blogging and dialoguing throughout the process. Please feel free to follow us, and take part in our journey as we aim to follow the flow of the Holy Spirit and open our hearts to everything that God has in store.

"After lots of dreaming, a project called The Telephone Collective has started. The Telephone Collective is a group of artists from different disciplines who are collaborating to play a game, to create something together, to learn from each other, and to encourage others to do the same.

The collective takes its name and inspiration from the game Telephone that most of us played as a kid. This is how Wikipedia describes the game: “The first player whispers a phrase or sentence to the next player. Each player successively whispers what that player believes he or she heard to the next. The last player announces the statement to the entire group. Errors typically accumulate in the retellings, so the statement announced by the last player differs significantly, and often amusingly, from the one uttered by the first.”

In this game of Telephone, it all starts with a passage from the Holy Bible. This passage is chosen by the first player with no restrictions and then given only to the second player. The second player then has to communicate the truth or truths of this passage through his or her art, be it song, dance, painting, etc. Keeping the passage a secret, the second player will then give only the work of art to the third player. This will continue until all of the members of the collective have created something inspired by the piece they received. At the end there will be various distinct works that are all informed by the passage in some way.

The Telephone Collective all share a passion for the art they create and the gospel of Jesus Christ. Though it is likely that the original passage will be lost early on this project, the common desire to communicate the truth of the gospel will tie all of the works together.

In the coming days, I’ll tell you more about the specifics of The Telephone Collective and tell you how you can follow the progress of the game online. The game has already begun, and we are excited to see what we learn from the process and the outcome. My vision and hope is that The Telephone Collective will be an ongoing project with lots of games and lots of players so that we can learn how to create together and appreciate different kinds of art that glorifies God. I hope you’ll enjoy following this process with us." -Mark Nicks

Winter

2010-01-11T06:58:00.000-08:00

1.

I, a flower,
fade, fall away
under the scythe.
To the earth I return.
You, a seed,
plant your word in me,
redeeming me as I die,
sowing me in tears of rain.
As life slowly fades
from my eyes,
I cling to your promise
to bring me back
to life.

2.

Joy, full-feathered,
unfurled her wings
within my caged heart.
Bristled, whispering,
beating against bars,
her strength and stature
spoke wordlessly of a
larger world.

She slowly broke through my battlements
-as a moth pries from cocoon,
gaining strength in the struggle-
and spread her wings in flight,
only to alight in my heart.

The prisoner, now captor,
holding me in her feathers,
hiding my empty prison
beneath her wings-
my heart faintly throbs
at the sight of my own emptiness.

"He is not here.
For he is risen."

He leaves you with life
in the midst of loss.
He calls to your
Lazarus heart
and bids you to
awake and
beat again.

3.

My lover hung
with arms outstretched-
He died in my arms
He died by my hands.

I've fallen for lesser loves,
but still His whisper woos me from my tomb.

My lover is the wind,
unseen, but felt,
moving me
strong and gentle.
He is my sun,
the bright light of the world-
by him I see all else.

He holds without hands,
heals with words,
and plants seeds of treasure
in my hiddenness.
Prodigal, I run again
to him, longing for the freedom
that relinquishment brings.

Love is forgiveness,
and forgiveness, freedom.

A Thread, a Bird, a Home.

2009-11-12T09:56:00.000-08:00

Fragile thread of hope
sewn straight through me,
I'd be falling fastly downward,
if not for the wings you've
sewn me to.

It hurts, but I'm held-
whole and feeling things fully-
the emptiness stretches my heart's cavern
more than the presence of what remains.

Hallelujah, I am broken,
but You are binding me,
hope perches in my soul;
She sings sweetly, holding me.

The field is vast and flat,
the wheat, ready.
Reap me and I shall be clean.
Wash me and I shall be free.
Hold me and I shall be yours.
Give me wings and I will lose myself in your vastness,
where your center is everywhere,
and your circumference, nowhere.
Lost and found,
hemmed in and sewn
to your wings of hope.

Sweetly Still

2009-10-07T20:57:00.000-07:00

All Heaven and Earth are still,
though not in sleep,
But breathless,
as we grow when feeling most.
-Lord Byron

As I wait for word of my work visa, I find myself living in a dichotomy.
My toes are edging towards the tip of the great precipice of the fast approaching future.
From behind, I feel the pull of many things that I love and hold dear.
My own mythological Siren cries,
"Stay where things are safe and warm. Where you know what to expect."
Comfort invites me to embrace its shelter, its numbing shackles of complacency.

But my spirit is fueled by God's promise of eagle's wings.
I am meant to fly.
This is something that I will never question, like the existence of oxygen, or the warmth of the Sun.
Air, Sun, and Wings.
Gifts from my Father.

For the first time in a while, the fog is lifting.
As the future's precipice is unveiled of its deep mist
and the gleam of the Sun faintly peers over the horizon,
I catch my first glimpse of where I am going.
I know not where I will be in the far off future,
but for now, I have all that I need in Him.

I am still now,
not in sleep,
but in breathless anticipation
of life's fullness.

Rended Curtain

2009-07-03T20:46:00.000-07:00

Where do I fit in, in the world of beauty and ugliness? All is not good and right. Things are not as they should be. In the midst of this unfinishedness and pain, I long to make sense, to wave a white flag of surrender and invite peace to perch in my soul like a dove, olive branch in mouth.

In the midst of the darkness, the transience, the unsurety, I catch glimpses of beauty, truth, and goodness. The mountains break through the dusk of morning and whisper life to me, and mystery. The baby mockingbird peers at me with Mona Lisa's eyes: peaceful, deep, in possession of a secret that means everything. The world groans for things to be as they should be, its surface cracks in longing.

One section of a symphony is only a piece of a greater whole. A trace of beautiful song, but not a song in itself. There are gaps, holes that other sections fill in. Harp, Lute. Violin. Piano. Bread. Wine.

We hold parts, but not all of them, and all creation groans in expectation for what is missing, for we were created to hear and sing the entire song. Heaven veils its fullness from us. As my heart sits before its drawn curtain, the holes in the symphony whisper for my attention. They are wide open spaces, meant to be filled with imagination's stain. So let the artist, the poet, the dancer, and the musician fill in the spaces with their creations, their Creation. Imperfect, yes. But a glimpse of the greater whole.

Let imagination reign and fill in all the empty parts with the peace You have given us. Abba, breathe life into our imaginations once again, so we can create what has never before been created, and live in faith, the substance of a thing hoped for, the evidence of a thing we may not yet see, but believe we shall one day see in all glory, fullness, and annunciation.

Unfinished

2009-04-10T13:45:00.000-07:00

The green ceramic pot sits atop the dusty faux-wood desk, its irregular mouth distorted further by the penetrating stream of the sunlight shining through the hinged window. The pot’s glaze is clear and glassy, as though just doused in water and left to dry in the heat of the summer, like a child turned raisin from hours in the pool. Torn papers scatter my desk. Fragments of stories not quite formed. Pictures in the form of phrases. A stanza about an old church. A black bear walking through a wet, morning forest. Yellow umbrellas dotting the August beach in perfect symmetry. Gulls. Polaroids. Russian ballets. O’Connor and Percy. The meaning of existence. The meaning of emptiness. The purpose of emptiness in existence. Torn papers. A green ceramic pot. Dusty dusty. I push my right pointer finger into the darkness behind the wooden picture frame carved into flowers. The top is chipped in two places. Dragging my finger from the darkness into the light, I part the Red Sea, dust congregating along the sides of my finger’s path. A quick brush crossways creates an intersection. An almost perpendicular x. I stare at the dust on my finger, the soft grayness accumulated into a fine, faint ring outlining its very tip. The dust mimics the contours of my fingerprint, pressing into the delicate circles that swirl to converge in the middle. Today is Good Friday. Today is good. “All men are as dust.” I died a little today. Pages were torn from my binding, like the pages strewn about my desk. A moth came and ate away at my hardback cover. Dust accumulated on my dustcover. Sunlight bleached out the words on two of my pages, where I fell open a few days before. I feel like fragments of a story not quite formed. Today is Good Friday. Today is good. I will remember Your darkness, the unfinished-ness of Your story on the eve of Your death. As I stare at the dust, the green pot, the torn papers, and the fineness of my fingerprint, I love You more. For You, in Your completeness, also know what it’s like to feel unfinished.

Hold Me

2009-03-20T10:27:00.000-07:00

Had you told me everything
at the time you
promised honesty,
where would we be?

Now, our hands clasp tightly,
fiercely, with the awareness
of the preciousness of life,
as only a car accident survivor
or a soul stricken with cancer
understands.

The pinholes of sadness
prick through your eyes
as you look at the pinholes
now piercing mine.

The holes are widening.
I'm clasping tighter
as the chasm opens deeper.

Hold me, be whole for me,
your brokenness scares me,
please don't crumble through
my shaking fingers.

Pictures and Questions

2009-02-07T12:23:00.000-08:00

It's good to have heaviness push down through the inner middle of you. It's good to feel weight. I look at the pictures of when I was in Europe. I remember the heaviness, the liberation, the capture, the sadness and the nostalgia. Nostalgia for things I'd never seen nor experienced ever before, yet were somehow were strangely familiar, like a forgotten dream or a moment of deja vu. When I look at the pictures, I remember the questions. I remember the questions because they are still in the middle of me, like a pot of bubbling water slowly rolling to a boil on the stove. They still bubble inside. I don't know what to do with these questions except to keep asking them, because they keep moving me, stirring me inwardly.

The weight that I felt during that time in Europe was uncomfortable, edgy, disconcerting. It left me on the edge of myself. But as I look back at that time, I see the good of looking deeply at myself, even when it hurts more the deeper I go, even when it's more confusing the further I push in. I think the questions scared me because they were more real and less answerable the more I asked them. We all have our questions, our dark corners that beg to be looked at and known. What does that mean? Where does that leave all of us? The questions of pain in the world are harder to answer the more you ask them. Depravity is darker the harder you look. Evil is more evil when you look it full in the face. This is a scary thing to come to terms with. But if I, if we, cannot look as things as they are, are we looking at life as it truly is?

Jesus said that He came so that we might have life, and life to the fullest extent. Which means life to the "realest" extent. In order to live fully, I must look at life wholly, completely, in its entirety, including the heaviness and the questions. He doesn't just want just the mountain tops and high points, He wants the valleys and lowlands as well, because He is everywhere and in everything. In Him we live and move and have our being. He wants the valleys along with the mountains. He cannot redeem the things I refuse to give to Him, and in order to give something I must recognize and acknowledge that it is there and it is mine, and it is mine to surrender.

So, it's good to have heaviness push down through the inner middle of me. It makes me realize that not all is right, but it's a part of life here on this dark earth, and if I keep coming to Him with my questions I may not always get clear answers but I will be living with my eyes wide open and my hands outstretched to touch life as it comes my way, fully and heartbreakingly alive. It means I am living life to the fullest because I've welcomed Him to come in and share in every part, not just the parts I can make sense of on my own.

I still have the questions but I am a little more okay with them than I used to be. I am still here. I am still me. And You are still You, Jesus. I have changed and You have grown. In reality, You are still the same, but to me You've changed because You have grown to encompass all the new things You've revealed to me about Yourself. Rainer Marie Rilke said to keep asking questions and one day you will realize that you have slowly lived yourself into the answer. The point then is to keep living. Keep living.

I must keep living if I want to one day see what I've believed in faith, live what I've dreamed, hold what I've reached for, and receive an answer for what I've questioned. That's why I'm okay with today, because yesterday led me here and now I am living a part of life I did not know yesterday. And this is why I am okay with tomorrow and every tomorrow after that, because every day leads me closer to a mirror that is not dim, but a pure, true reflection.

Retrospective and Forward

2008-07-02T03:47:00.000-07:00

Time runs by with fleeting feet and I find myself swept up in its speed. I've begun to realize that life is life no mater where you live it. Life falls in to a routine and plays itself out in Scotland just like it would if I were in Atlanta. I sleep, I eat, I live life with my darling friends. I work hard, I explore local parks and mountains. I read books and drink chai. I peruse used book stores, I have entertaining conversations with my co-workers. I walk to work both in rainy and clear weather, accompanied by my ipod and my thoughts. I do what I would do if I were on the other side of the world and several degrees more to the South. Home is not a place. It is people. The reality of that is so incredibly liberating. I feel as though any place in the whole world could become dear to me, as long as it were filled with the people I hold dear.

I went hiking and camping in the Northern Highlands of Scotland with 3 of my flatmates last week. Armed with a rental car (the Brits drive on the other side of the road and all cars are stickshift, mind you!), several sleeping bags, a couple of books on CD, and a huge bag of snacks, we departed Edinburgh in search of everything and anything, and expecting absolutely nothing in particular. Our aim was to simply sink into the beauty of Northern Scotland and fall off the face of the cultured world for a few days. I can honestly say that the Highlands were the most beautiful place that I have ever seen in my life.

Every bend in the road revealed more and more of a world that I thought only existed on film after undergoing numerous technicolor treatments. It was unparalleled magic. Blue mist hovered over vastly stretching Loch Lomond. The Forest of Argyll welcomed us into its dark interior and lead our little car through its dense, winding, and swallowing wilderness. We woke up to the crashing of the North Sea one morning, and opened our tents (that we had set up in the dark) to find that we had slept in a bed of lavender and yellow tulips. We followed an obscure shoestring-thin path that diverted off the well-traveled road, and came upon deserted castle ruins on a cliff overlooking the ocean bay. We slept with sheep. We searched for puffins. We played with pygmy ponies. We hiked halfway up Ben Nevis, Britain's highest mountain. We were assailed by a flock of murderous seagulls in a little port town, who were out to steal our fish and chips. Those seagulls are actually the worst part of the entire trip. One managed to mess all over Kelsie while another tried to land in my food. Later that night while camping on the side of Lochness, I got really sick in every way imaginable. It could only have been from that damn seagull. I would have rather been creeped up on by Nessie than to have undergone that horrible ordeal. But who else can say that they lost it on the side of Lochness? Within 12 hours I was completely back to normal, which I was incredibly grateful for. Our trip ended with a detour to the little town of Dunkeld, where we explored the ruins of an old cathedral and stopped for tea in a little teahouse.

As we emerged from the Highlands and drove back to Edinburgh, I was assailed by a strange sensation of coming home. Streets and storefronts that had been wholly foreign only a month ago, now welcomed me back. The droll of Scottish brogue wafted by my ears as pedestrians walked by in conversation. Although Edinburgh is not home in the way that Atlanta is home, there are now fragments of familiarity and comfort in this city. Truly, we can grow roots anywhere, so long as we allow the time.

Since pictures often speak far better than words, here are a few from this past week...

What we woke up to on our first morning

The Seat

2008-06-05T07:40:00.000-07:00

Life here in Edinburgh is starting to settle in a little more now. My first week was absolutely slammed with appointments, getting a local cellphone, creating my CV (the UK version of a resume), applying for a National Insurance number (the UK version of Social Security), and for the majority of the time, walking around the city and looking for a job. They do things a bit different here in regards to employment: places of employment expect you to leave a CV before they even consider giving you an application. If they like your CV then they will call you and schedule a time for you to come in and fill out an application and meet with you for a few minutes. It surprisingly difficult to find work here. Pretty much everyone working an entry level or food service job receives minimum wage, which is 5.52 per hour. When considered in light of the US dollar, minimum wage works out to about 11.50 an hour, which really isn't that bad at all. The cost of living is also actually surprisingly manageable here. For example, I bought a loaf of fresh sunflower bread for 65 pence. A cappuccino is 1.20. A large chunk of Brie is 1.30. Six fresh kiwis are 75 pence. A gray v-neck sweater was just 7.99 at H&M. There is also no sales tax, which is wonderful. Even if these prices were doubled and considered in light of dollar, its still pretty darn affordable.
Ria, our contact at BUNAC, said that the hardest part about getting started life in Scotland is finding a job and finding a place to live. Kelsie, one of my wonderful roommates, was smart enough to look in to housing before we even got here. She found the most perfect flat: only about a 5 minute walk from Arthur's Seat (a beautifully gigantic inactive volcano that overwhelms the Scottish skyline) and less than a 2 mile walk to the heart of the city. We are also only about a 30 minute walk from the castle that the Queen stays in when she comes to visit Edinburgh. The flat is actually located in the graduate housing for the University of Edinburgh, so our complex is teeming with young families and ruffian children that are both insanely wild and adorable. (Just the other day they were jumping off the roofs of their parents' cars and tossing little bouquets of flowers through the mail slot in our door). There are six of us living here: Anna, Kelsie, Allison, Aliza, and Brian. If we didn't love each other so much it would probably be a disaster all living together. It's only been about ten days since I moved in (I was the last to arrive) and the only thing that I can complain about is the eternal state of unwashed dishes that scatter our kitchen and occasionally spew over into the living room. But what else can one expect from a flat of six people who love to eat? All in all, I love our flat. It also doesn't hurt that rent is only 220 US dollars per month. God definitely took care of us there.
With our living situation taken care of, I was able to really focus on jobhunting. After traipsing all over Edinburgh and scouting out every coffee shop, pub, retail store and cafe that I possibly could for four and a half days, I finally received a call back from Hula, a little fresh juice and coffee bar that also doubles as a local art gallery.
It was such a relief to hear from them. Even though I had only been looking for a job for about 4 days, the reality of having no secure employment was starting to hit me. My roommates, all who have been here longer than I, were all still looking for steady employment at the time as well. (We all have some sort of employment now, so that's a praise.) Ben, one of the owners of Hula, actually called me right as I reached the top of Arthur's Seat on Saturday. Kelsie, Anna, Aliza, and I just finished climbing up the steep side of the inactive volcano and were playing and spinning around on the flat, grassy fields on the very top when my phone rang. There's nothing quite like finding out that you've been hired while standing on top of a giant volcano. Between the clear blue skies, crisp warm weather, Arthur's Seat, and new job, Saturday was a glorious day.

Scontemplations

2008-06-01T18:02:00.000-07:00

Come tomorrow, I will have been here in Scotland for a week. Goodness, how times flies. It flies so quickly. I split off from my study abroad group at the Frankfurt airport last Monday. They flew to Atlanta while I made myself comfortable in Terminal B of one of the world’s largest airports. After an excruciating layover of almost 15 hours (comprised mainly of draining cat-naps, postcard writing, reading, countless trips to the bathroom and duty-free shopping stores, as well as at least 30 minutes of standing in front of the automated Deutschland Post Stamp machine trying to figure out postcard postage), I finally boarded a little British Midland Jet and was on my way to Edinburgh, Scotland. I thankfully had a window seat. Window seats are like box seats at an opening night gala at the Fox theatre, except for the fact that the view isn’t staged, it’s breathtakingly real. Why is first class always the first section of the plane? It would make more sense for first class to be the window seats. But I’m perfectly content with the current situation: I’ll keep paying coach fares for an incomparably first rate view.

We hit some hard turbulence as we lifted off the ground and entered into the thick interior of rolling flint-tinted clouds. The turbulence gave way to glassy smoothness as the jet broke out of the altostratus shell of clouds and glided towards the west. It’s an odd sensation to fly west as the sun sets: the east fell away from the sides of the plane and rolled down in layers of blue darkness while the western sun beckoned the us forward with the promise of light, a warm glimmer of light forever melting into the horizon of the sea, always just out of reach, but still visible as long as the plane continued to fly forward. Sun-chasing. Real and true. As we approached Scotland, the sky turned a vibrant hue of rose-fire pink. The pink illuminated a rolling ocean of slate colored clouds below. The clouds were so thick and wild that for a moment I thought it really was the ocean. The little British Midland jet dipped straight down into the slate ocean of clouds, which provoked a turbulence so jarring that I thought for a moment we had actually hit a body of water. If those clouds were the tumultuous upper waters of the ocean, then our little jet soon delved in to the still, deep, dark waters of another world. There was Scotland: a landscape of inky ebony sporadically sprinkled with pinholes of gold city lights. The city looked like a stunning jewelry setting laid against the soft black velvet of an endless display case. The plane smoothly glided in to the Edinburgh airport, slowed to a halt, and dispensed its handful of passengers on to the runway. Since the plane was so small, we had to walk along the runway to get to the airport gate. The crisp night wind caught my breath as I stepped out on to Scottish soil for the first time. Passengers who had been silent for the entirety of the trip seemed to suddenly awake and speak up in voices thick with Scottish brogue. My first moment in my new summer home. It instantly felt right, as though I was coming back to a place I had been to a long time ago. Kelsie was waiting for me on the other side of Immigration and Baggage Claim. Her sweet face was a piece of home. My words spilling over hers and hers over mine as we excitedly embraced and tried to catch up on the way back to our flat. When we got to the flat I was assailed by the beautiful faces of Aliza, Anna, and Allison. Our sixth roommate, Brian, soon appeared, making the summer family complete. I slept well that first night, snuggled between two of my closest friends, in a country I had yet to make my own.

It’s hard to believe it has already been a week since that first day. Countless things have happened both before and after last Monday. I haven’t even begun to delve into the prior two weeks in Germany, the Netherlands, and the Czech Republic. As soon as I get my camera cord and am able to upload pictures I will try to write more about study abroad. I honestly do not even know how to talk about the study abroad trip. Every time I try to pick up a pen and straighten out all of the emotions and thoughts twisting around in my head, I find myself putting the pen down and staring at the blank sheet of paper in front of me. My heart has been heavy ever since our study abroad group stepped foot into Bergen-Belsen, the first of three concentration camps visited during the course of our two week trip. I don’t know how to process through the things that I saw and the stories that I heard. My mind is numb. I’m overloaded with the reality of what we, living and breathing beings, humans created by God in His image, are capable of doing to each other. I think I’ve avoided writing simply because I feel like my words will never justifiably convey the windstorm of emotion whirling around within my insides. The overall purpose of the trip was education on the Holocaust, but is such an education possible? I suppose it’s possible receive an education on the Holocaust, to obtain more extensive knowledge on the facts of World War II, the Third Reich, the methodology of Hitler, and the Philosophy of Ethics in regards to German guilt. But this doesn’t help me understand Why or How these things could possibly happen. The more I learn about this heart-wrenching genocidal period in our history, the more I don’t understand. To me, the most terrifying part of the whole trip was the numbness that I began to feel towards the end. During the preparatory meetings that preceded the trip, I had encountered images and stories that left me sleepless for days. I remember watching Band of Brothers and Night and Fog
I feel as though I am somehow starting to understand Jesus’ grief in the hours before His death just a little more. He bore so much, and He was not able to share it with others. He knew that He had to bear all of our sins on His fragile human shoulders, but He was unable to articulate to His disciples the gravity of this reality. Even though my situation is far different, I now understand what it feels like to try to bear the sorrows of others on a larger scale. I cannot possibly process through the things I have encountered and experienced by myself. Even though my spirit craves to talk to God, it has honestly been difficult for me to open up and do so. This valley cannot last forever though. Morning breaks with new light, a new day. Scotland has already been a beautiful respite and time of contemplation. This is the most that I have written about all of this since the end of the study abroad trip. I share because I know that many of you who read this care about me, and for that I am truly thankful. If you read all the way to the end, I admire your endurance! I was not planning on writing this much, but I suppose this is what happens when an English major doesn’t write for a couple of weeks. I will post pictures soon. Promise.

Alles meine Liebe….Jessie

Ein schnell Berlin Minuten (A quick Berlin minute)

2008-05-20T11:43:00.000-07:00

Hallo Freundin! (Hello Friends!)

This is the first time I have had access to the internet since leaving America. I only have a few minutes, so this will be short. I will post pictures and write alot more once I get to Scotland next week. But for now...

The past six days have been a whirlwind of sights, experiences, beauty, and unexpected twists. Frankfurt was the first stop, followed by Amsterdam, Celle, and now Berlin. In a few days we will journey on to Prague, and then I will travel on my own to Scotland. I can not begin to express all that has happened. The best thing I can compare this week of fresh sights and experiences to is a Tapas Bar: just enough to whet your appetite but not nearly enough to fill you up. I am beginning to see how this could be a hunger that one never quit satisfies. I've been assailed with so many new things. Although this part of the world should be wholly foreign to me, it somehow doesn't seem so. I feel at home in the middle of the newness, the freshness, the differences. That is all for now.

Alles meine Liebe (All my love),
Jessie

Scottish Addy

2008-05-14T07:00:00.000-07:00

I leave this afternoon! I can hardly contain myself right now. It seems surreal, as though I'm in the midst of a really long dream. Please don't pinch me, I'll happily keep dreaming for the next 3 months. Here is the address to my flat in Edinburgh, Scotland. I should be there by May 26th. Please don't hesitate to write me. Handwritten letters are one of my favorite things in the world. I will love you if you write, and I will most certainly write you back. Auf Wiedersehen meine Freuden! Ich lieben sie!

Flat 7
12 Blacket Ave
Edinburgh, Scotland, Great Britain EH91RS

Die Erste

2008-05-11T23:11:00.000-07:00

In less than 3 days, I shall be setting foot on European soil for the very first time. Frankfurt am Main, to be exact. The very thought of leaving Atlanta, leaving Georgia, leaving America, leaving this side of the world, is wholly foreign and incredibly liberating. It's the edge of a precipice that begs to be leapt off of. I'm ready for Wednesday: the threshhold, the doorway leading me into a summer of sojourning, learning, and living. I hope to capture pieces of summer through my postings on here. I'll let this entry end in the doorframe, the precipice, the brink of a season of life in new places. "Open wide the door, My Lord. Do whatever makes me love you more..."