Around Five on a Saturday.

Singularly and deliberately, the tear slid,

Curving to the sound of her voice,

Down my bare temple to wet the

Wisps of feathery hair that

Curl beside my ear.

Like the anxious, adrenaline-filled

Moments before battle, the

Tears behind my face build in

Force and Number until

Breaking with a sob.

Sometimes noises ease.

Sometimes fist-fulls of hair are

Clenched and twisted in an

Attempt at curbing the advancing masses.

Waging war against my senses.

Revolutionizing my heart, because - you know

- Revolution is an act of violence.

And my face, reddening with the blood

Spilled of revolutions past, squeezes in

Unashamed submission to humanity's

God-given gift; to

Pure, head-aching emotion.

No longer is the first tear

Distinguishable from the others, but

All pool together, unified in design,

Unsure of what they are fighting for.

Tomorrow.

My mood is embodied by the french press sitting on my window sill beside Angela's cactus. It contains used coffee grounds that must be at least a week old. It is easy to lose a french press filled with old coffee grounds among other dishes, sunshine and copious amounts of reading regarding the origins of the Soviet Union. The presence of the dirtied giver of caffeine is, however, oppressive and it nags me from across the room. But, I am feeling uninspired. So instead of taking it downstairs to be emptied and washed, I will mope. Then I will scold myself for moping and stare unproductively at my To-do list. Instead of folding the clothes on my bed, I will loathe them and curse them for the wrinkles they will have accumulated by the time I wear them. Today, instead of forcing optimism, I will allow myself to be utterly frustrated.

But just for today.

Tomorrow, I will rise as determined as a Maya Angelou poem (only without the rich personal and cultural history of her conviction).

Tomorrow I will be she who:

sets about her work vigorously;

her arms are strong for her tasks.

...

opens her arms to the poor

and extends her hands to the needy.

...

is clothed with strength and dignity;

she can laugh at the days to come.

speaks with wisdom,

and faithful instruction is on her tongue.

...

(knows) Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting;

but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised.

What can I say that is true?

Where can I go from thoughts of you?

Tackling time won't resolve..

Tsvetaeva ran and lost and ran and lost:

Her story wrapped in revolutionary theory failed.

Thankful for eighty years and a few thousand miles,

I resent that other thousand, thumbs, and remembrances:

Could Dido help with the sand in my shoes?

In January I wrote, "Outside a window above my head

Are unfamiliar trees.

I am unsure of which approach to take."

Baffled still, I write instead.

There are lists covering my life,

but only two occupy me.

HE will not forsake me.

HE will not forsake me.

HE is ripping through me like lightning from stomach to brain,

My heart is paralyzed in shock.

Teach me to thirst like David:

Stimulate this beating organ.

I have returned to this prayer's catalyst-

What can I say that is true?

Where can I go from thoughts of you?

Roots feeling in the soil.

“If I could, honey I’d give you my world.” Fleetwood Mac is the soundtrack to this moment.

I am wearing one of my favorite tops: a “101 Dalmatians” children’s sweatshirt. It has been awhile since I’ve worn it, but whenever I do, I feel a bit more inclined to my silly side. I giggle more when I wear this sweater.

Having just returned from Linfield’s Saturday morning brunch, I am sipping on orange juice (Mama’s cure-all for sickness) and working toward starting my homework. I haven’t yet looked at what might be due on Monday and Tuesday, but I am scared to do so. For the moment, ignorance is bliss. Kelsey is coming to visit me tonight. Oh goodness!

Wisdom reposes in the heart of the discerning and even among fools she lets herself be known.

-Proverbs 14:33

^Inspires:

My wisdom naps during hours

Ashamed; surprise blinds discernment.

Root feeling in the soil

Is timeliness un-checked.

Searching.

Where shall I hide from clocks,

Ticking, tocking,

Mocking mortification, molding

Clay into a heart? Brave heart,

Have a heart!

Envious of socially capable

Got-it-together folk:

Thin, unthinking, trading

Soil for dirt, any day.

Anytime.

-SE

"..and that you may love the Lord your God, listen to his voice and hold fast to him." Dt. 30:20

Listening is a lost art form. We of this decade, or rather, of this century, are visual creatures: seemingly freed by the photograph and the television, though perhaps instead limited. We have forgotten, in our literacy, the pleasures of poetry, prose, play and story heard. We cannot fully grasp the power of a sonnet or understand the metrical foot because it no longer occurs to us that listening will reveal new territory, a deeper connection with the creation. Instead we read and listen with our minds, silently speaking to ourselves- vulnerable to our own bias and misdirected interpretation.

I just listened to a reading of Franz Kafka's The Bucket Rider. There is something in the language (even interpreted) and the flow of the story that I know I would have missed had I been simply reading. Being forced to close my eyes and visualize the story as the words entered my ears made for a more vivid experience. My stomach hurt when the Coal Dealer's wife pretended not to see the desperate speaker or hear his woeful cries. She chose not to hear the requests of one in need. She chose not to listen.

Sometimes I choose not to listen. Sometimes, God puts a person directly in front of me with giant arrows and a flashing light to direct my attentions. This person cries out to me. And there are times when I choose not to see or hear them. I am not alone in this, but I will not justify or rationalize based on the breadth of this sin. There are times when I choose not to hear when the Lord is calling. And somehow Franz Kafka, a depressed, abstract, Jewish, Czech-born writer who lived at the turn of the twentieth century, revealed this to me.

It is nearly one and I haven't finished my reading.

Dry Skin.

Tonight I must be breathing nostalgia instead of oxygen. I feel it in my skin. It’s a night for old letters, strong music and a good cup of tea. Earl Grey will do and I think Cy Coleman has a map to my heart:

“I’m sentimental so I walk in the rain. /I’ve got some habits even I can’t explain. /Could start for the corner- turn up in Spain. /Why try to change me now?”

I still need to pack for school. My room upstairs is a mess. Emily and I went to dinner then did a little shopping earlier, and now I don’t have any energy to walk up the stairs and put my life in a duffel bag. I know it is necessary, but it feels like turning off the heat: without my jewelry scattered across the room it will be cold. I guess I will put on slippers.

Today I went on a run and realized, about two thirds of the way through, that I don’t know what pain is. I was tired, sure, but I could keep going. Endurance is a choice. I was moving (slowly) towards a hill that before my eyes became the rest of my life. I knew at the end there would be reward, but I also knew that I shouldn’t ignore the journey and all the pain and satisfaction that accompany it. Life itself is a choice. Is that theologically correct?

Oh goodness, I want to write songs that make me feel the way I am feeling right now. I want to write poetry that glorifies God. 10,000 hours of writing? That is the key, isn’t it? If you want to be good at something the way that Bill Gates is good at computers, the answer is 10,000 hours. Tipping Point is the name of the book that tells this story, I think.

Oh gracious, what is it that my heart is missing? I think I will go take a dip in the Psalms. All the nostalgia is making my skin dry.

I am sitting on a cold bench.

To be home, to be home! It doesn’t feel the same as it has before. My trip up and down the West coast was delightful. Bits of my notes and writing might best communicate my heart over the last nine days:

Day 1: January 25, 2010: Train to Seattle

The sun is rising to reveal the machines of factories and fog that mystifies the trees. In the distance, blue sky peaks through the clouds, but it has seen my heart and turns it’s face away.

But now the sun has hit my eyes and lights up my dancing fingers. I am sitting on a train and contemplating the obviousness of life. There are times when the water reflects car number nine but before my face appears, it is gone. Life is fleeting, I guess.

My hair is dark again: we colored it natural. I don’t really know where I am going with this. Except for that man will be where he desires to be. There are more songs about trains then about other things. Also, I don’t know if you’ve noticed but the sky goes on forever.

Outside the window, the river is gone and trash makes up the view. Piles beside a concrete edifice, blowing smoke into the air. The sun remains and shoots off the window of a car, it blinds the man who sits beside me.

Directly in front of me, a man asks his companion for his Bible. I noticed that he seemed a sweeter man. People converse across the car and I remember a favorite song. But to “Stop This Train” would mean missing out on what is coming, Oh goodness, how cliché. Manicured to overgrown, this city keeps surprise in its pocket, a favorite badge.

I have a family of 250 people. It makes me cry to think about Love. Sometimes I consider giving it all away. But I am looking at a rainbow on the far side of a swamp and I realize that God has promised to be faithful. As I wrote that line, it disappeared: I think it was meant especially for me.

Faces on trains are reflected back in a window, while the sky fades blue to shades of grey. Beneath the land is desolate, which contrasts nicely and reminds me of the modern photo shoot. I wish I could find a theme to this writing.

My heart is breaking for the person I am not. I haven’t met her, but she makes up most of my acquaintance. When I think of her it makes me cry and wonder what makes me different.

I should use “Tunnel” as a verb.

More Day 1: January 25, 2010: Brittany Time.

5: Gwinn for dinner

After: Tea Cup :] back by 7:45!!

8: Bible talk on “pizza building.”

Amelie—watch :]

Scrabble

Friendship Island!

Day 2: January 26, 2010: Admissions appointment.

This is lame. I think this guy is literally twice my size.

“As a transfer student, what kind of classes can I expect to transfer over?”

“Tell my about your communications department. Newspaper, radio?”

Media internship.

“Study abroad.”

Uuuuugggggghhh.

Day 3: January 27, 2010: Bellingham.

…I never thought to be concerned for the salvation of John Mayer…

Day 4: January 28, 2010: Bellingham.

My fingers hurt.

“I want to be like Paul or John the Baptist or whomever else – accepting of the plans you have for them – NO MATTER what they were.”

Day 5: January 29, 2009: Airport Day.

“P.S. Just straddle and squeeze all the air out.” Packing strategies.

Band Names Are Hard To Come Up With (But Easy To Find)

-Corporate Salsa

-Aquatic Hitchhikers.

There is a woman across the aisle staring at us. Her child is adorable. Ah well, I am being a bit loud.

Day 8: February 1, 2010: Everyone Is In Class: Biola University.

Sarah, you feel good here. Biola has community that you haven’t experienced anywhere else. People seem to really love Jesus – they seem serious. My fear (one of) in coming here is that I will forget to stoke my own heart for the Lord and become too focused on the support and fellowship of other people. It is so, so important that my heart and mind are focused on God’s plan for me…

Scholarships, scholarships!

(See FEB.1 post for more.)

Home: February 3, 2010: 12:15 pm

I am sitting on a cold bench underneath the bright, grey Oregon sky. Having been three hours ago just outside LA, the two-hour nap I took on the plane felt like a portal into another world.

Received: 11:19:07 am Today

Guitar guy from yesterday played in chapel today. Soo good!

Received: 12:21:27 pm Today

I wish you were here.. Hannah is sad, Ari is mad at me for failing to tell her that you were leaving.. she wanted to say bye!

Received: 3:33:20 pm Today

Are you home yet?

Received: 3:56:51 pm Today

I’m good :] how were your schools?! Did you decide?!

It was a good trip.

College or Wide Ruled: Paper is Paper.

New pens are one of the more pleasing things in life. New pens, good spelling, and a big, blank piece of paper. The expanse of white and possibility is a subtle sort of joy. Sometimes life feels like this paper. Some days I can’t imagine life on earth ending or ever reaching a day when I look back and realize that the bulk of life is behind me. Other days the future seems short and fleeting. I find myself frustrated with how I have lived so far and desperate to accomplish more. I am simultaneously eager and anxious to begin to write on the paper before I realize that I have already been writing for 19 years.

Metaphors can get tricky.

I am currently seated in Biola University’s campus coffee shop in Southern California. SoCal in January isn’t all that bad: the sun is out but there is a light breeze. My table is near the door and outside it is bright and busy. The leafy tips of palm trees are peaking into view and I am deciding that they are their own brand of beauty. Yes, I have begun the slow emergence from my snobby Northwestern definition of natural beauty. It is a bit shocking.

I want a new cardigan = Buffalo trip.