The Greater Good

My roommate told me a couple days ago that her and her boyfriend read my latest blog post and that it really inspired them to start talking about what their definitions of love are, separately and together. Some really great conversations have been sparked among us all as a result. I adore her take-aways that she has spelled out so beautifully on her blog called “We are Pioneers.” I encourage you to read her thoughtful rendition of what it means to love and love well, here: “The Patchwork.”

I’ve had the privilege of living with this young lady for the past year and believe me, she’s sharp as a tack. Even after all the chaos that has characterized my life lately, it’s incredibly humbling to watch God use broken circumstances to inspire others. This is honestly my favorite thing about the Lord… the way he turns broken things into something beautiful and redeemed.

Catch & Release

If you would have asked me a few months back what being in a relationship had taught me, you would have probably gotten a response that went something like this: relationships are hard, love is a choice, and it’s all a hell of a lot of work. Totally worth it, but hard.

And yet, as I’ve continued to press on in the journey of learning and loving and learning to love, it seems I may have failed to consider a rather significant aspect of love prior to jumping in. And now, as I sit here reflecting among the ashes I can see how critical it is to know what exactly it is you believe about love on its own terms, outside the context of another person. When you care about someone it’s really easy to conform your ideas of love to fit another so that it might be more accommodating or convenient. Invested emotions pave the way for compromise: modify a little here, bend a little there, and before you know it you wake up one day realizing you’re in the middle of something you never really signed up for. All love is not equal, and it’s not unlikely that the other party may very well uphold a fundamentally different perspective on the matter. This is not necessarily a bad thing, just important to understand. It seems significant to be able to answer objectively what love is and what it is not for yourself before you can fight for it with another person.

What can it look like?

What should it look like?

What is your longing for the way it will take shape in your life and in the lives of those around you?

And at the end of the day, what are your non-negotiables?

Relationships are full of compromise and meeting half way, this is all well and good… but know what you’re willing to bend on, and what you are not. If I could do anything differently, this would be it. To have this concept nailed down and certain in my own heart beforehand.

I can’t tell you on how many occasions I have watched others’ floundering relationships and thought to myself, You’re just doing it wrong. If you only served more, practiced more grace, was more affirming, prayed harder for him, focused more on your own role and shortcomings rather than being so quick to displace blame, then surely it would all work out… But I was naively overlooking one fundamentally critical component to this argument: the other person. You can bend over backward six ways to Sunday, and give and give and give, but you cannot for the life of you control the response of the other person. You cannot make someone love you back.

I’ve never believed love was easy. I’ve never been disillusioned by romantic comedies and fairy-tale endings. Hollywood loves to make us feel inadequate, and while it can look alluring, I had two real parents. I had a front-row seat to dysfunctional. I knew the difference between reality and fantasy, and I simply knew better. And yet, dysfunction aside, I also had a front row seat to dedicated. And so when the going gets tough (and it’s bound to in the merging of two lives) I’ve always held to the conviction that it’s all well worth it in the end. Love will ultimately prevail. But is this really true? From where I sit now, not having anticipated just how challenging it can actually be, I find myself questioning some of the most basic elements I’ve always believed about it. It’s a rude awakening to realize that sometimes love, in-and-of-itself, no matter how devoted or strong, isn’t always enough. And furthermore, just because love takes work doesn’t intrinsically require that it’s always hard. At some point you have to be able to distinguish between the two and identify what it is that you’re actually fighting for, and then mutually agree that it is in fact something desirable and worth the fighting for. And then, if you are unable to reach this conclusion, sometimes the kindest thing you can do is let go.

But I’ve never been someone who just throws in the towel, so it’s exceptionally difficult to look into the face of a relationship  you’ve poured so much of your heart into and accept defeat. It’s even more difficult when you look into the face of that other person, the person who seems to have held your heart in such a flippant manner, albeit unwittingly so, and still acknowledge that hate is not even in your vocabulary. That in fact love is still all your heart knows for him. Even bitterness can’t grow there. To know that even as you walk away, you are walking away from a good man, one whom you deeply respect and have invested so much into because it is the most loving thing to do.

And so we cut our losses. And we unravel all that has been woven, detangling, releasing. Because we must. Because it’s the most loving in the most painful way.

They say that love finds you when you least expect it. When you’re not looking or trying. It will sneak up behind you and blind-side you and you will be powerless to stop it. And so it did, and so I was.

In more cliché terms, it is also said that if you love something, you’ve got to let it go. And so I shall.

People say you should live life without regrets. I don’t know that I really agree with this statement, it sounds more to me like a license to live without intentionality or thoughtfulness. I know I can’t personally reflect over the entirety of my life and honestly say that I regret nothing. There are certainly memories and moments I look back on with a pang of regret. But I will say this, choosing to love has never been among them. Not then and not now.

Discipline vs. Desire

There is a big difference.

I haven’t been writing… actually, that is only a partial truth. I have written all sorts of starts. Some really great beginnings I haven’t made the time to finish and other charlatan leads that ultimately lead me nowhere but down a rabbit trail that feels more like a wild-goose chase. Thoughts go unfinished and sentences trail off with no conclusion. My “drafts” portion of my Dashboard is as long as my arm…

And so because I can’t seem to finish anything, I often find myself starting nothing new. And before you know it, I begin to simply write less and less. And when this transpires, there is built-up angst, and when there is built-up angst, it’s difficult to write, because where do I begin when there is no ending to launch from?

Begin anywhere, this is what they say. I know I should. But it’s harder still sometimes than others. And emotional tensions as of late in my life have made it even more difficult. Overcome by emotion I find myself dissolving into tears rather than pouring that same powerful energy into words. I sit, paralyzed, floundering amidst the raging storm of words and emotion that plague my mind so heavily my stomach can feel their weight. Rather than leaning into them, pinning them down, naming them, granting them a voice, a platform, a life… and ultimately establishing order from the chaos that rules my mind, which for me, is so strangely healing, I just wallow. It feels masochistic just saying it.

And it’s really easy to beat myself up with all the harsh language of self-criticism. Why don’t I just do it? Or buck up and buckle down… get some self-discipline for God’s sake. Writing is a job right? Or at least it ought to be if you ever want to take it anywhere. This is what they keep telling me. But I already have a day-job… and Prolific Writer is hardly my title.

But I keep coming back to this thought: it’s far less a matter of discipline than it is one of desire.

I always desire, in the broad sense, to write. Or perhaps it’s more appropriate to say, I desire to have the desire to write. But sometimes, it just feels like another thing on the daunting, ever-growing “what you haven’t accomplished and probably never will” list [in reference to my to-do lists... because that is what they feel like most of the time].

But discipline does breed desire. And so it’s an ebb and flow, a symbiotic relationship of sorts. You give one, you get more of the other, and it follows that the latter in turn spurs on the former, and so on. But the longer you neglect both, the more difficult it becomes to muster either.

And yet, begin anywhere. When there are a million loose and frayed ends, on paper and in my heart, and certainly twice as many topics I could write more passionately about, sometimes when the emotions are just too strong or too overwhelming or scattered… you just have to start SOMEwhere to get the juices flowing.

So here goes nothing… or, perhaps, if I’m lucky, SOMEthing…

when words don’t work

For someone who values words so much, I really hate it when they don’t work

when they fall short, flat and empty

when words do work, they have this profound ability to bring so much life and healing

except when they don’t, and they can’t

there is a language that exists that is not contained in letters and syllables

it is neither tethered nor encumbered by words

it goes unspoken and unheard

it is only felt

there are times in life when the ache runs so deep that there simply is no mélange of letters in existence that are at all worth uttering

and still there are moments when it’s difficult to know whether those same words that fall short, flat and empty are worth attempting nonetheless

i’m so sorry…

my heart hurts so much for you…

if ever there is anything at all I can do…

but when it all sounds so trite, is silence really golden?

if words don’t work, from whence does comfort come?

how is mourning shared if words can’t capture the petitions of the heart?

i know it can be done, i know it’s possible

because i have been on the receiving end

i have born witness to the impact of what it means to have someone sit in the ashes with me and just be

when words won’t work, even empathy is shortcoming

my pain does not negate nor even attenuate your own

i wish it could, i wish it did

i would gladly bear the burden on your behalf

but i know better

and when nothing can make the hurt stop

there is something about not sitting in the ashes [or sand, or wherever devestation finds you] alone that ever-so-subtly assuages the anguish

even when there is no comfort to be had and none to be found

…

i don’t know how to help you

and it’s a harrowing feeling

but i’m here

and i hurt with you

along side of you

and when words leave us wanting, when nothing can be done

you can go to the bank on the fact that you are blanketed in prayers

i pray to God you feel them and find some comfort there

cake and other absurdities

It’s strikingly consistent, every year around this time, I start to feel a deep sense of melancholy settle like a dark storm cloud over my heart. It’s not generally something I can tangibly pin-point or explain. Trying to get people to understand why you hate your birthday is like trying to explain why you hate puppies. The conclusion always feels like a non-sequitur, and most people just end up looking at you with pitty… which is not helpful by the way.

This feeling of apprehension started on my twentieth birthday when I was a sophomore in college. For some reason this was the first time in my life I felt the distinct weight of adulthood settle on me along with its deluge of expectations and timelines and possibilities with a full measure of unpredictability, all of which felt suffocating like an impediment on my youth. Gone were my teenage years [not that I'm complaining, let's get real]. But this was the first time I really understood that I was getting older, and there is in fact no turning back the clock. And ever since this realization I have hated my birthday. I’m talking genuine dread and loathing as the day approaches. I feel it creep up on me as soon as February bids its adieu and March, staying true to its name, asserts itself by marching me ever onward toward what feels like a death sentence.

For whatever reason, this year has been particularly overwhelming in comparison to years past, and as the day quickly approaches, in a ditch effort to try and get my sh*t together so I can put on a happy face for all the cake-eating, candle-lighting, happy birthday-singing enthusiasts that are just waiting to smother this curmudgeon with resplendent cheer, I am doing everything in my power to identify what exactly it is that so faithfully cultivates in me this annual proclivity toward gloom.

For me birthdays are simply a reminder that time is lost. All the things I imagined I’d be or have accomplished by the time I was 26 look far different on this side of reality. And for better or for worse, life simply is what it is at this point. But this life, my life, is for the better… I know that. I am so incredibly blessed to be right where I am at this exact point in time. It’s ludicrous how much pressure I feel to have things figured out. But the truth of the matter is, we never really arrive, and that is both aggrevating and liberating at the same time, depending on the perspective.

As I was thinking about all of this this past week, this quote came to mind. It’s one of my favorites and a reality I need reminding of, apparently at least once a year…

I guess I could be pretty pissed off about what happened to me, but it’s hard to stay mad when there’s so much beauty in the world. Sometimes I feel like I’m seeing it all at once, and it’s too much. My heart fills up like a balloon that’s about to burst. And then I remember to relax, and stop trying to hold on to it, and then it flows through me like rain, and I can’t feel anything but gratitude for every single moment of my stupid little life. You have no idea what I’m talking about, I’m sure. But don’t worry. You will someday.
-Kevin Spacey / American Beauty

Who knew Kevin Spacey could be so wise?

But seriously, I do this. I hold on so tight and get wrapped up in all the what-if’s and the might-have-beens and the should haves, could haves, and on and on… and I miss the opportunity to appreciate all the beauty that is surrounding me. Why is it so difficult to just let go, breathe, and let all the fragile beauty of life flow through me like rain? I love that imagery.

Tomorrow is my birthday. And today, even though I’m digging my heels in a little, I’m choosing to let go. For once, I’m going to cut myself some slack. I’m 26 [almost], and I’m incredibly grateful for the opportunities and experiences that the last 25 years have brought me. And I’m genuinely excited for all those that lie before me yet [God willing]. So pop the cork and light the candles, this year I’m going to have my cake and eat it too, because it’s my party damn it, and I do what I want! [disclaimer, this may include tears, don't panic, apparently they're normal these days].

I leave you with something my lovely coworker sent me today. Usually I find memes annoying, but this one made me chuckle [an improvement as of late], and it felt appropriate in light of this glass-half-empty post… :)

My Personal Life Philosophy
Judge me if you must

Cheers!

Painted skies

Photo credit: Tyler Weaver

early mornings, sacred moments

Before the sun makes its daily debut over the pristine Portland skyline, I make my way out from under the covers into the brisk Spring air and through the double-doors of one of my favorite coffee shops in the Pearl to meet a new friend for a good old fashioned cup of joe. If you know me, you probably know that I love mornings, most of the time. And then there are the other times when I have to set 5 alarms three minutes apart just to drag myself out of bed. But I do it, because once my feet hit the ground and the showerhead spits out those reviving waters, I wonder what all the fuss was about in the first place. And then, especially once that warm mug is firmly in my grip wafting the fine aroma of an even more reviving kind of liquid, you can bet I’m wondering why I don’t do this every morning. Sadly, I still don’t have a good answer to that question, I’ll have to get back to you on that…

Portland Sunrises…

Sundays are taking on a new shape for me as of late. I’ve always been especially fond of Sundays because for me the day is imprinted with images of early mornings, community, Scripture and sound teachings that re-center me and renew my perspectives for yet another week [God willing]. Emphasis on the early mornings portion…

I’ve always been a morning person, so it comes as little surprise that I have long since preferred the early services at church. Personally, it’s the time I feel most awake and aware and able to retain what I hear, and most able to then reflect on what I’ve heard, chew on it for awhile and then perhaps even do something about it. But since I’ve moved to Portland, I’ve found myself embracing a rhythm characterized around lazy Sunday mornings spent sleeping in succeeded by post-sunset services. This is in part due to the fact that evenings are the only time the downtown services meet. Furthermore, it’s the service everyone from our house church attends, and well, it just works. And I’ll admit I’ve grown to appreciate the routine here more than I’ve ever been able to before, but there is still something about the early a.m. hours that I feel like I’m missing out on. So I signed up for the Theology class that Solid Rock is offering downtown on Sunday mornings and I’m discovering a deep sense of gratitude welling up in me as a result. It reminds me how much I love being a student. How much I miss being steeped in deep, critical thought while the air is still crisp, the coffee is still hot and the skyline still hazzy with fog. And for all the petitions and arguments that attempt to keep me tucked firmly away beneath the covers come Sunday morning, I have learned that the getting up and the going are ultimately always worth it notwithstanding. And so I do. And it is. And I’m so thankful. The day is filled with so much promise when you don’t sleep through it.

Friday morning rituals

Recently I had the pleasure of sharing my fondness for early mornings and Portland coffee and heart-to-hearts with a lovely girl who just keeps popping up in my life in the most random, unexpected and delightful ways. Take for example the time a friend and I were co-hosting [hostessing?] a little gathering of friends over wine and cheese and small treats. We had both invited friends of ours, some of which we knew mutually, and others we did not. When Abby walked through my door, my jaw dropped. I had no idea she would be there nor did she know that when she accepted the invite from my co-hostess, that invite would bring her across the threshold into my apartment. It was… perfect. Moments like these are precious to me because they make a really big, often cold and calloused world seem just a little bit smaller, warmer and brighter. So we took it as a sign and decidedly made our run-ins more deliberate and purposeful… bringing us to this particular morning.

It’s amazing how quickly two hours can fly by. The time spent in the company of this sweet girl made me wish I really did do this every day. There is just something about the hours surrounding sunrise that always feel more honest, more pure, and certainly more fruitful. And even though her own feelings toward this time of day are quite the antitheses of my own, she still met me there, resisted the urge to hit snooze and made her way into the chair across from me trusting the caffeine to come through and carry her the rest of the way. And I’m so thankful she did, because moments like these are sacred. While the rest of the city sleeps, these moments are gathered up like gemstones. More often than not they go entirely unnoticed and overlooked, slipping through our fingers before they’ve ever had the chance to be discovered, unearthed, and appreciated.

See exhibit A:

We found this gem tucked surreptitiously away in a drawer at our table.

Now I understand that mornings are not for everyone. I’m a rarity in that I happen to be predispositioned with an ability that enables me to rise quickly, sprightly and cheerfully… most of the time. Some of my most cherished memories have been illuminated by dawns first light. And yet the very moments that feel most sacred to me resemble something more like being ripped through a knot-hole backwards for others. I get that. For me though, it seems that with each passing year as time becomes less abundant and simultaneously all the more precious, my appreciation for these hours grows exponentially with it. There is an insatiable craving in me to partake in the compounded potential that seems to reside in the suspended hours surrounding day break. Granted, it’s not always the easiest choice or practice, but I’ll be damned if it isn’t worth it every.single.time.

Anyone else out there have any thoughts on this topic? I’d love to hear them, no matter which side of sunrise you find yourself waking up on… :)

Grace & Peace