I Wish You Knew Me When I Was 7 I wish you knew me when I was 7 Trained to swordfight so I could beat the boys club I was sworn in Then decided I didn't want it Just wanted the point proven Check, done I wish you knew me when I was 7 Walked up to my crush told him point blank I was in love with him Got rejected Called a pig, that stung Got mad at him Not myself for not being enough Cause I knew it was so not my problem I wish you knew me when I was 7 Flew on an airplane all on my lonesome Saddened to the point 0 cranberry juice had But still I did it Read Ella Enchanted And flew I wish you knew me when I was 7 Busted my teeth in Unconcerned by the pain Requested a mirror Wasn't allowed to see 'em Man that made me pissed Question Could I still attend the circus? Would I be able to see the clowns? I wish you knew me when I was 7 Wrote a play called Girl Cries Wolf Also stared as "...
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More from the angsty teen, but I really like this one. I want to illustrate it, no I am going to illustrate it. :) I am contradictive, I am noticing, I am oblivious, I am muttered sarcastic comments wishing someone would hear, hoping that they don't, I am wildflowers on the highway, color on a long drive, I am a sky full of freckles, I am insecure, I am thankful, I am constantly humming, but not a musician, I am overthinking, I am an orangehead, I am someone who needs to be alone sometimes, I am dreams of flying, ziplining through the amazon, I am undeserving, I am loved, I am graphite smudges on my palm, oil paint seeping into my bloodstream, I am indesisive, I am desisive, I am a daydreamer, mind drifter, I am a scared tongue from words left unsaid, I am pretencious, I am missing my first best friend, I am lieing in bed wishing I could change things, I am lieing in the river, peeking out at my own glimpse of heaven, I am braindead ...
Lol. This was written by an angsty teen who knew very little about rhythm (still don't) . It also was never finished. But hey I kinda like it, and still agree with it's core idea though I may express it with a little less mm..cliques. I don't want to be your only dream I don't want to be your everything Can't carry that Can't carry that Set me free I wanna be your sense of home I don't wanna be your entire world I wanna be your confidant Not all your secrets Don't wanna be the highest power I wanna be the comrade not the ruler Imagine changing a child's life not only of me being your wife Dream of earth's salvation not just my hand in yours
In my fami lies’ minivan , outside a history museum, pain forced me to meditate on an uncomfortable truth and showed me more of my love for my sister. Several years ago my family hopped into our minivan and headed for , “Sweet Home Alabama” to visit some relatives. Along the way, we pulled into the parking lot of the National Voting Rights Museum. The whole family tumbled out of our van as my younger sister, Ruby, and I complained about having to stop for a history lesson. Inside the museum, the lights were dimmed down low to protect the artifacts lining the walls, all witnesses of the Selma to Montgomery March. While I was wandering through the exhibits looking at the atrocities these men, women, and children endured for the black vote, I realized my sister was not with the rest of us. I did not think much of it assuming she wanted some respite from the wall-to-wall images of men in pointy, white masks. I was right. After I looped around the exhibits a few mo...
In the act of prayer we follow Jesus into the hurt of someone else and in doing so we follow him into the light of true fellowship with God and others. The light isn't found in the absence of darkness, anguish and dirt it's found wherever Jesus chooses to be. And most often Jesus chooses to be crouched down in the middle of the darkness, anguish and dirt of his beloved children. It's from there that he invites us to follow him, because though it may be uncomfortable, though we may get mud all over our oh so clean selfs, though we may have to give up what we hold dear, it's there that connection lies. We get to be deeply connected to someone we know nothing about except their creator. We don't need to know what they look like, who their family is or what they do for a living to care about them because we are beloved by the same father. A father whose great care we can't fully comprehend but can get a glimpse of through prayer.
Few years back. There are some things you need to give up. I need to give up the idea that to live life to the fullest I have to go to another country, serve people, get lots of pats on the back, or maybe don't but get to feel super self-righteous cause I'm not getting pats on the back. As if the work I'm doing is better then someone else's, better than my sister; the stay at home Mom who cares for little life's and still manages to be there for the other people in her life, better than my cousin; the artist in a small college town who inspires her cousins even more than she knows, better than my father; the man who works himself to the bone at a dead-end job because he loves his family. Cause that idea is utterly absurd, embarrassingly arrogant, completely nieve. I can still be drawn to another country, I can still serve people there, as long as I don't go out of complete disrespect, but because that's where God plops me.
Come you sons of chaos and sin you broken broken men how did we get here? twisted perverted distorted prideful, arrogant, sons of bitches sons of bitches? really? stupid. a roll of the eyes won't solve it punching a wall can't fix it grace may come, may come, but for right now for right now there's only anger ...and terror...and wasted words ranting frustration. there's no hope in our crooked systems. our dirty minds all are equally screw-ed up our flaws may be different but do not doubt their existence. we value our perverted pleasure over another's well being leaving everyone sick and tired...and worn down by ragged ragged scars. is there no rest? not for the wicked nor for the poor and downtrodden Y'all! I ask again how did we get here? sitting in our own waste completely oblivious to our state we are children of a king yet prefer the company of pi gs? sa...
I grew up with Anne Frank, Corrie Tim Boon, the Lois Lowry character from Number the Stars in my head. They are real to me. I saw them. I knew them better than I know some of my friends. When I heard of Trump's hope to mark Muslims, Muslims became real to me. They weren't before. Not completely. it all became real to me. Sitting on the hardwood floor, leaning up against the doorframe, sobbing for our choice of leader.
God is like Leslie Knope :) You know that episode where Anne and Ben are frustrated 'cause Leslie has anniversaries for everything and always gets super thoughtful gifts for them. She knows she's better at it than them. God gives to us more than we could ever hope to give back. And he knows it. We're never going to give enough or be enough and he's ok with that. More than ok with it. He loves to give more than to receive. It's the ultimate unbalance. It unnerves us. We have the OCD urge to even out the scales just to end the tention. But God loves us in and through the tention. He calls us to rest in that tention. Our life is one giant conundrum.
I can't do it all. I cannot pour my time, energy and emotions into helping refugees, and fighting slavery, and poverty, and foster care, and homelessness, and equality for girls, and racial reconciliation, and fighting child pornography, and child soldiers, and the stigma that comes with mental disease. Those are all very broad, complex issues that play into each other and that have tons of smaller issues that play into them. I cannot fix any of it. But. I serve a God who can. It is his battles that add up to his war. "For I the Lord love justice." And I can build a web of support with people who are each fighting in their community for what injustice, what brokenness, God has called them to care for. That is activism at its best. That is common grace. That is the church.
Do I wish I looked different? Not really...I like the way my skin fits me...I like the way my curls frizzes when it's rainy and humid outside, I like that I have zebra stripes across my stomach, I like the way my nose ridges like a mountain line, I like that I have so many different peoples' stories woven into mine..I like that my hands have been allowed to hold 19 beautiful lives, I like that my eyes got to witness someone who cares deeply for others sit and listen so intent on their story, I like that you can see the veins in my feet where the blood is pumping through to bring life to my toes...I like life...I like that life is hard but my family is intact...I like that my mom leaves my dad notes to let him know how much she loves him, I like that I've heard Julien's laugh and I've watched the stars while holding a not quite asleep baby, I like that my feet have walked me past a buffalo, to hear the voice of my grandfather telling me to keep drawing.
It really pisses me off when a white person says nigga. They say "Oh don't worry, I'm not racist!" Um...yeah you are. So am I. I know we hate to talk about it and believe me, I get it. My little sister's black. I don't want to admit that sometimes I act racist. Sometimes I shy away when I see a black dude wearing his pants a little low walking past me on the sidewalk. Granted I shy away from any person walking by me on the sidewalk because I am well, shy. I'm sick to my stomach afterwards, I beat myself up for it, but it still happened. There is always going to be some part of all of us no matter how small that deals with racial issues. Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying that's ok. There's no part of it that's ok. Every single one of us has immense value no matter our culture, skin color or background. Which is why our tendency towards racism is something we have to keep on actively fighting against, that we have to be con...
So as cliche as this sounds I never really got the phrase, "Trust the process" 'till I started Drawing II and now Oil Painting. Working with chalk pastels was a struggle. Working on art on a large scale with any medium is a struggle because you have got to have confidence in what you're doing, you have got to commit. You have to go all the way with those darkest darks. While also leaving those lightest lights untouched. There was a critique (all the students+professor gives feedback) where I said something along the lines of I was having trouble committing with the chalk pastels until I got the colors exactly right. One of the other students told me to trust myself, that she sat at the easel next to mine and she could never get my process. It looked like I had no idea what I was doing, but it always ended up looking fantastic. There's one thing she didn't know, when I looked like I had no idea what I was doing, well I really had no idea what I was doing. ...
Rambles from last year, it's nice to look at the end and see that their has in fact been growth. Not as much as I might wish, but some. When I think of myself as less than capable or just, I don't know as someone who will get through the next day and that's all that can really be expected of her than I fall into apathy. I have to maintain my education, I have to maintain my relationships, I have to maintain my rest. I have so many things that need active maintaince. I cannot afford to be passive. I am not the savior, but I am called to follow him. His calling will never lead to passivity. Never. I did not vote, because I did not feel educated enough. I felt incapable. I didn't even know who we were voting for (I still don't) but I have resources available to me, too many at times. Immobilization is not what God wants from me. The second I think I cannot do something I walk another step backwards. I often find myself relating to Moses when he s...
I've been thinking a lot lately about how to have good conversations with people I don't know well. As an extreme introvert who also loves people it can be hard to have conversations. I want to care about the person and the conversation, but also caring takes energy. Especially in a crowded public space. I can turn communication into a performance. In aforementioned public space I am very aware of the people who may be overhearing my conversation making it is hard for me to actually listen to the person who is talking instead of wondering what the person overhearing our conversation thinks of what we're (or I'm) saying. That's embarrassing, but true. A lot of that comes from insecurity....
Written several years ago, yet still not done *shrug* Everpresent. Seeping through the floorboards Flooding my eardrums At the same time like a siren light flashing fail-ure fail-ure fail-ure fingers curling and uncurling to the beat The noose tightens round my neck not because I'm suicidal don't misunderstand me that's just how it feels Like red marks left on my throat after a seemingly slight conversation Apathy emgulfs me safe in it's suffocation Cobra's lullaby so maybe not so safe but familiar Inevitable makes it easier to hide so twisted up in who I am is this uncertainty like my hair in the morning all tangled up in my identity Do you see it? Do you see it? Do you see it? question pounding against the walls of my mind FAILURE written across my forehead in bold sharpie lines That proclamation making it's way over and over and over my stoma...