Repetition

Maybe it's an impetuous and immature part of youth, seeking to break the reoccurring patterns or deviate from the norm and introduce novelties at any opportunity. I think that what is simple is often what is most deeply profound - and honestly, it is what we need most and don't look to with respect. To arise each morning with breath still moving in and out of our chest cavity, to find the sun has arisen with us, to heal from the daylight in sleep after the ever consistent onset of night, to see the moon rise and keep guard over us when the dark does come. We expect this, we wouldn't wish it broken. I want to be an old soul on the porch of life here, one whose heart is contented by the staccato of what must always reoccur:

Psalm One hundred and thirty-six.

This is the fabric under our feet, the morality that rocks us in its back-and-forth like a mama and her wicker-back chair.

Simplicity

Covet not.

I'm sorry,

I know it's below zero out there, but I LOVE the snow. It is wickedly beautiful.
Would you like to know what else is beautiful? Vocabulary. Saturation, faithfulness, and essential are all words that gave me a stomach ache today from experiencing them freshly and yet still knowing their presence like familiar friends.

This morning

I wish I had a camera so I could have shown it to you.

...Just imagine an understated sunrise, snow dusting the trees on the horizon line, thin green and pink streaking low along a very powdery blue beyond.

Instead of growing and letting myself be shaped to love others increasingly better, I find I shape myself to be better loved. I do need to desire love to be healthy, but how do I get big enough to keep that away from my motivation? How can I love because He loved me first? It is the first day of spring classes, a beautiful day - and I am reminded that even if I forgot, even if I walked out my door with books over my shoulder, eager and rearing to do well and learn much, He would sustain me. I don't have to recognize it for God to be great, He is One - eternal; above, before, and after me. But how much better for me to hold tight onto the rope and bucket that will let down into my well of deep, dark peace.

For we do not know what to pray for as we ought, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groanings too deep for words. And he who searches hearts knows what is the mind of the Spirit, because the Spirit intercedes for the saints according to the will of God.

Romans 8.26-27

It is almost ten o’clock, I can see the snow falling from my window by the street lamps and I feel better in spirit. It is good to be home here with my friends. Kaethe and I watched a half hour of His Girl Friday, and we will finish it later on. I have homework to get done. My newly accquired, two-dollar copy of Anna Karenina sits on my bookshelf, a crumpled tissue with spots of blood from my running nose sits ontop of it. I am imagining that it is too cold outside for people to be walking around, but there are still some trails of footprints on the powdered sidewalk. The orangey yellow lights in the parkinglot illuminate huge piles of ploughed snow, and a couple standing at their car, sometimes kissing, sometimes kicking the snow at their feet.

Megan turned out her light, my head is so congested and I have felt like going to sleep since we had lunch today so I will finish my work in the morning. Class begins at 11.30, Work and Vocation with Doctor Carmer, then Life Drawing immediately after with Professor Seitz. I am excited, my body is not feeling well at the moment, but I feel a membrane-like layer of hope. It’s thin and kind of see-through, but it’s resilient; sticks together and holds its form even when it gets a little stretched or pulled on.

But I do have a new home,

So its alright. Maybe its reflective of my tendency to pull away, or of my current feelings about returning to the cold East, but look, there are stairs. Come up and stay with me, yes?

Farewell is mostly a sad song.

Tonight is my last night to call California home. Tonight is also the first time that the realization has made me feel like crying. I’m not ready for the snow yet, not quite. I like feeling the hot sun of the past two days weave in with the fibers of my muscles, making me stronger – I cannot even tell you how much I love the feeling of the deep icy Pacific crash against my body when I get in its way, I love the goosebumps that prick up on my skin while it goes numb, purple and white at once. I love the knots that the salt and sand and wind tie into my hair and I love to lay on my back and really see with my eyes how huge and great the sky is. I love to watch the moon rise in bright white even with the sun still in the sky. I love to track the birds and think about why they fly. I like to dig holes into the cold, damp sand with Amanda and then carve out a tunnel under the surface until we can feel each other’s fingers meet in the middle, with Alli digging her own little hole to the side of us. Pushing sand, hunting for sticks of bleached wood, stones and rocks, finding a bone and a seed pod.
I love how the sunlight looks on all the grey and charcoal and dirty white asphalt, sidewalks, industrial buildings, warehouses. I love how it dries everything to a hot, simmering surface. This place has rugged bones that are softened by a covering of green and dry, sandy-orange umber. Looking at the mountains from above, their ridges and peaks are worn, smoothened, and their sides fall away, trenches just like the ones that appear in a mound of beach sand that sea water has been poured over. The land always looks so alive to me, almost saying, ‘come settle into me, I am rich and there is much to give.’

A morning excursion tomorrow, for Amanda and I, to the sand....

Somewhere else (than here) I am...

I’m still seeing mountains, frosted and buried trees. A rabbit in his fist; but up here I don’t mind. Up here there is a taste for it in my mouth and we are grateful to God and the rabbit’s life. My clothes don’t matter here, it’s okay that my hair is long and has nothing but soap and melted ice to keep it. I don’t have to bother about pressed linen or a solid red lipstick line in order to read and cook and look out windows. We can listen to records but the snow’s paradoxical sound, the creak of the floor as a bare foot steps across it; the sounds of the house outside and the fire are enough. Maybe neither of us even talk much, we love one another because we can be alone together. Sometimes a word might start to rise up in my neck, but then to let it dissolve in with our quiet is just as rich a contribution to our discussion as speaking would have been. There is enough speech around us to lie still for centuries and listen.

Hearing his voice saying words is far more sacred than if we were in the city. Before nighfall he would sit on a rock in the white, a David with his lyre, cold smoke streaming from his mouth and nose while the rare and careful sounds came. We’ve listened to try and learn from the foxes, the crystal ice snap, the stars in small puncture wounds to the velvet-thick heaven. The pouring forth – he won’t touch it because here is a place redemption hadn’t needed to come until we did. We know we are being sanctified, but the pouring forth is an ancient holiness and to join our water with the voices, our voices must first know a harmony or create in reference to its rhythm. If he ever sings, I lie down and touch the scars on each bare twig that will swell into buds.

Its this kind of morning in my thoughts. I keep trying to get away from where I am even though I am preoccupied with missing what I'll be leaving behind when we go. Ah well.

Evening

The back of my hands smell like Stetson.

Feel like I want to read a Dickens novel.

Also feel like digging my shoulder blades into a hillock of sand, where the ocean's push is heard but unseen from my spot

- and where I could read Dickens.

The scent on my hands makes me think of rushing rivers, the silhouette of a man standing staunch in the water’s flow and casting his line in twilight glint. I could read in the mountains too; maybe my hillock of sand could be replaced by a pine fire and the fly-fisherman.