before & after

I lie in bed, struggling to fall asleep as usual... my mind making to-do lists, worrying over should-haves and shouldn't-haves, wistfully daydreaming about things to look forward to. I suddenly remember my sweater-knit throw blanket, and I can't help but feel giddy that the weather is changing and I can cozy up under it soon. It's just the right weight and color and texture, and it's everything I love about autumn, knit into a blanket. 

Where did I put it? 

My mind starts taking stock of closets and storage spaces, because I can't for the life of me remember where it might be...

And then I realize.

The blanket is just a figment of my imagination — at least in my present life anyway. All those fond, warm memories I have are actually from my previous life: snuggled on the couch in my unheated African home, grateful for the weight and warmth of my charcoal grey blanket considering there's snow on the ground outside. 

You know what that means, don't you?

I haven't seen this blanket in five years, a mere vestige of the life that vanished out from under me. And yet it accosted my memory out of nowhere, as if it were just yesterday that I last burrowed beneath it...

:: :: ::

This isn't new to me.

It happens quite often in fact. 

Countless times I've rummaged through my kitchen cabinets looking for that serving bowl or pancake griddle or muffin tin that only ever existed in my South African kitchen.

:: :: :: 

Clearly my mind plays tricks on me, betraying me with its blending of past and present...

And it happens with more than just my memories.

My homogenized life is made up of so many bits of before and after, then and now, that I often can't see the seams separating any of the parts. Scars and healing, hope and hopelessness, heartache and joy, gain and loss, new and no-more... It's all there, disjointed and fragmented, reminding me that whole looks a lot like stained glass. 

Nothing missing.

Nothing broken. 

The sum of all my many parts.

:: :: ::

So sometimes it means my fuzzy brain betrays me. But it also reminds me that I've lived a lifetime's worth of experiences worth jumbling together.  

I am not before then after. 

I am before and after. 

four years

Four years.

Four years since I’ve heard your contagious laugh, seen your face light up about football/family/Oreos, texted with you in the middle of the night (sleeplessness used to have its perks), been lovingly slapped around by your wisdom, and been impressed by your matchless potty mouth. 

Four years. 

So much has changed and yet so much is the same… The lists of things I wish I could talk to you about are too many to count. These years have held so much life, love, and loss, and it all feels a little less-real without you to tell it to. The sorrows feel more bitter and the joys less sweet, and my heart is heavy with the weight of all the things (both good and bad) that it wishes it could share with you.

Four years.

I’m thankful to have had in you in my life as long as I did. From the bombs you’d drop to the laughter that would ensue to the heart-talks late into the night to the tears we’d share, my life is richer, fuller, deeper, and a million times better because of you. And that is a gift I carry with me — no, you are the gift I carry with me — for always.

Four years. 

The missing isn’t worse today — because I miss you and your perspective and your championing and your steadfastness every single day — so it’s not that it’s worse on significant days like this one… It’s just that it moves to the top of the pile. (Somehow, I know you’d get what I mean…) 

Four years.

And you remain the bravest, strongest, most faith-filled and joyful person I've ever known. I want to be just like you when I grow up.

I'll start by swearing more...

And hopefully end by learning to choose joy in all things, love others well, and trust God wholeheartedly.

tiny adventure

My latest adventure is a tiny one.

That's not me downplaying or minimizing anything, I promise... It really is a tiny adventure. 

I partnered up with a friend who designed and built a Tiny House, and I'm now hosting it for short-term rentals in my backyard. 

See! It really IS tiny! :)

Isn't it 185-square-feet of adorable? 

I built a website for it if you're interested in seeing pics (and video) of the inside and reading more about it. Check out NashvilleTinyHouse.com for the whole scoop.

(It even has an Instagram account!)

Please feel free to share it online. There's a lot of interest in tiny houses right now (thank you, HGTV), so you may know some people who would love the opportunity to stay in one in Nashville for a few days. (And I would most certainly appreciate the referral!) 

So there it is.

My very random and very tiny latest adventure.

What's new in your world?
(Of any size or significance...)

that thing with feathers

“Hope is the thing with feathers.”

— Emily Dickinson

You see it
and then you don't,
and then you catch another glimpse
often in places unexpected.

It lands,
tentatively at times,
as if uneasy and looking for a way out...

You hold your breath and inch closer,
and just when you think you can gently take hold of it,
it's gone again—
leaving as swiftly and mysteriously as it arrived.

But you know it's still close,
perched somewhere nearby.

You hear its song,
catch glimpses of its shadow,
find traces of feathers blowing in the breeze...

Its song is subtle,
faint.
It is beautiful and haunting
and your heart finds it familiar, though it can't quite place it—
but without a doubt, you know you've heard it before
even though you can't sing along.

The thing about hope having feathers is this:
It can fly away—
and it will.

But it can also return,
and hope's song tells you:

It will.

Why I Write

Months ago I signed up for a creative nonfiction course that began this week. At the time (and I guess even still, though now laced with more anxiety), I thought it might help me find my long-lost muse, or my MIA mojo, or just some good ol' inspiration to start writing again. But walking in the door of that community education classroom Monday evening was absolutely terrifying. 

:: CUE THE NERVOUS SWEATS ::

It was then that I discovered that it's a very small class. You guys. You realize what that means, don't you? It means I can't hide in the corner, keep my mouth shut, and write to-do lists during "free write" time because I can't find any real words. 

Shit. 

It's weird. I miss my voice, and yet I think I'm terrified of actually finding it.

While I sit here procrastinating on homework and berating myself for not following a daily writing prompt, I figured I'd share a few words I did pen in class.

After reading a sampling of authors' "Why I Write" essays, we were asked to write our own. In typical me fashion, mine is definitely not long enough to constitute an essay, but it does sum up the core essence of why I write. 

“I write to give even just one other person the matchless gift of going second.

By being vulnerable with my own story, I hope to make others feel safe, courageous, and empowered to give voice to their own stories. All of us at times just need to hear someone else say the words we haven’t yet been able to find to capture our experiences, our heartaches, our most deep-seated fears. And hearing them draws from within us a “me too” as our hearts open the vault of letters and words and sentences that had been locked away inside.

I write to stir that kind of “me too”...

I use my words so that others more freely and bravely use theirs. ”

 

Will you tell me your reason? 
Why do you write?