Poem : Life, Written.

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I wish to write my life in essay form,
answers to all your questions carefully crafted,

for when I am asked off the cuff for favorite films,
I fumble and stutter like I’ve been caught, asked,
why did I lie about getting my homework done in fifth grade, 
when instead I spent the afternoon reading Judy Blume?
I say nothing that I meant to;
I land on comedy of all things,
I forget about the dramatic scenes that bring tears to my eyes,
the running reel
of what I really meant to mention.

And don’t ask me why it made more sense to purchase drive-thru
Starbucks this morning,
rather than wait five minutes for the french press at home.
I’m a walking contradiction, I know,

So let me write it all down for you.

Rather than a hand across my stupid mouth,
my hand that flies across the page tells its truth,
the heart of me,
the heart I wish I wore on my sleeve, but that never really seems to say,
say what I mean.

And rather than you keeping record of all my wrongs,
I’d like to write that story myself,
the way I do so now.
All is poetry,
All is true,
But I’d rather you not tell it.

Inspired By.

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“There’s something sacred about reading a blog post on someone else’s site. It’s like visiting a friend’s house for a quick meal ’round the breakfast table. It’s personal — you’re in their space, and the environment is uniquely suited for idea exchange and uninterrupted conversation. In many ways, we should be treating our blogs like our breakfast tables. Be welcoming & gracious when you host, and kind & respectful when visiting.” – Trent Walton, via Swiss Miss.

I’ve been incredibly blessed over the last three years since starting this blog. I am being completely honest when I tell you that never once, no matter what I’ve posted, has anyone written a terrible comment here. I’ve deleted a few spammy ones here and there, but no one has ever left an anonymous insult or criticized me harshly. I’ve shared a lot about my life here – about losing my job, about being in therapy, about being a newlywed, about being under-employed, about losing my mom. I’ve written about my iTunes account getting hacked and losing $800, I’ve whined endlessly about my lot in life as a writer and I’ve revealed a lot insecurity. Sometimes I get crickets, but most times I just get encouragement.
This week I shared an article on Prodigal, and it was one of the hardest things I’ve ever written. It reveals a lot of what I’m struggling with in-the-moment, and I cried through every word I wrote. I shared a lot about my faith and my lack of it. And the response was overwhelmingly positive.
Thank you.
When so many things in life – my jobs, my relationships, my family, my self – have felt broken, this space has given me peace, assurance, a place to dwell in the positive, to enjoy the good things. It’s because of you, dear readers. I’m happy to have you to chat with around my “breakfast table” of a blog.
Here are a few delightful pieces I found from other positive spaces around the web this week. Enjoy.

A tactful guide on commenting etiquette.

5 Reasons I Didn’t Retweet You.

“Patience is bitter, but its fruits are sweet.” – Jean Jacques Rousseau. A Writer’s Most Important Virtue.

Want to do meaningful work? Keep reading. (Some seriously scary stats on the decline of literacy in adulthood.)

What a Life! Happy birthday, Maya Angelou.

Voices of our loved ones.

“I believe in building relationships. All kinds, any kind, if only because it instills a bit of purpose, however small, into the everyday.” On being a dedicated, brings-all-her-friends kind of patron.

And because it’s just really funny and completely accurate : Kate weighs in on the leggings-as-pants controversy.

[Photo.]

Mom’s Mug.

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In a cupboard full of mugs, she always pulled out this one. Each early morning before work and school she would pour a steaming kettle of water into it with swiss miss mix, and a smell like hot chocolate would waft over to me as I ate my cereal. She would stand in the bathroom, curling her hair, applying her makeup, listening to the radio, sipping her swiss miss from this mug.
When I was older we would share it, and when I had gone away to college, each visit home was a visit with this mug, which she would let me use to satisfy my own nostalgia.
Now it sits in my own cupboard full of mugs. Each morning it follows me from room to room as I do my hair, put on makeup, get dressed for work. Or on Saturdays, as I wipe down counters, fold laundry, read a book.
There are just some things that keep her with me, even if she’s gone.
And like I know so many of you might want to, here’s a link to buy your own vintage Taylor & Ng mugson their site or on Etsy, including Le Chat.[Photo.]

Poem : In Perpetual Spring.

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Stumbled across this on PoetryFoundation.org (such a good place to wander, no?) Her last line just gets me.

In Perpetual Spring
BY AMY GERSTLER

Gardens are also good places
to sulk. You pass beds of
spiky voodoo lilies
and trip over the roots
of a sweet gum tree,
in search of medieval
plants whose leaves,
when they drop off
turn into birds
if they fall on land,
and colored carp if they
plop into water.

Suddenly the archetypal
human desire for peace
with every other species
wells up in you. The lion   
and the lamb cuddling up.
The snake and the snail, kissing.
Even the prick of the thistle,
queen of the weeds, revives
your secret belief
in perpetual spring,
your faith that for every hurt
there is a leaf to cure it.

[Photo.]

Prodigal : “On Crying in Church Bathrooms.”

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Today on Prodigal Mag, I share about faith, grief, and whether or not going to church is worth it. It’s the  first post in our two-week series, “Why Church?”
This article was harder to write than most, so I appreciate your support and it would mean the world to me if you would share your thoughts on church, and why you do or don’t attend. Here’s a snippet from my article :

“A throng of people are making their way to the alter, but I’m running to the bathroom. Once I’m safe in the stall I let my tears flow freely. I hear a toilet flush and the sink run, the crank of the paper towel dispenser. I hold my breath as heels click across tile. The door bangs against the jam and then silence. I’m relieved; I just want to be left alone. In the silence I beg God quietly, Why?”  – Read more here.

Plus : my Prodigal archives.