i feel delicate in the best way possible these days. everything in life feels tender and beautiful and like too much, all at once. i've cried every single day the past week for a variety of reasons...after hearing beautiful sad and happy songs...after reading beautiful words on beautiful blogs...after seeing pictures of mountains and worn maps and cups of coffee and romantic-looking clocks...
i am especially teary when it comes to Jesus. Heaven is for Real did that to me. it made Jesus feel even more personal in my every day moments, and these days, i just sit there and think of Him, and i want to bawl like a baby.
it is all so good. and i really like this version of myself. the version that sees so much life and beauty in everything that there is hardly room for the bad.
part of it, i think, is the fact that Ethan is almost home. i can feel myself slowly putting away the armor i've been donning for the past 6 months. pulling off my helmet and shaking out the curls i've kept hidden underneath. i can see home right up the hill now. i am almost there. almost safe. it is so good.
but i am also sure that it is Jesus, too. our spring is colder than i'd like it to be. our January was warmer than this. but around this time, around spring, every year, Jesus beckons forth new blossoms in me. my roots are shaking off the icy ground, and coming to the surface for warmth and beauty. that's how i feel now.
it never lasts, but i always pray it does. i'll never stop praying for that.
i read the most beautiful blog yesterday...full of posts that stopped me in my tracks, left me breathless, made me cry. and it made me want to never stop writing.
i struggle with this space a lot. i struggle because everyone blogs these days. i struggle because writing is something that always made me happy, and now i feel like i'm supposed to use it to make other people happy. i struggle because writing is my way of making things make sense, of telling a story. and i am always afraid that, somehow, this is a waste of time. that maybe this story doesn't matter. i struggle because other people share gorgeous pictures and host giveaways, while i just write about menial details. but the truth is, every detail i write about is important to me. what i wore yesterday, what i ate, what movie i watched...i write those things, not for anyone else, but for myself. because each of those things represent a certain part in my story. of how i felt in a particular moment. they help me not to forget who i am, and where i've been.
people have asked me if i ever consider being an author and the truth is, "write a book" used to be on my bucket list, but i took that off a couple years ago. i don't want to be an author anymore because that's too much pressure. too much to worry about. i just want to write without caring about relevance, meaning, popularity, whatever. i want to write because i love writing.
truthfully i have always wanted my thing. you know, the THING. the one of my brothers has his guitar, the other has his drums, and my sister is takes gorgeous pictures, and can draw amazingly.
for a long time, i was always searching for MY thing. and a couple months ago, i realized i had them all along: singing and writing. and while i do well at both of those things, that is not why i do them. i do them because they take me to that out-of-body place, where nothing else matters, and where everything magically makes sense. i do them because they bring me peace. i do them because they make me feel the most like myself. but most of all, i do them because they make me feel WHOLE.
i always thought your THING had to be something you shared with the world. but i realize now that it doesn't have to be like that. in my case, my things are the things that i want to hold the closest to me. in my early college years, a lot of people i knew got sheet music or music-related things tattooed on them. i always felt like i was "supposed" to do that to show how much music meant to me. but i never could, because i felt like getting a tattoo like that would actually lessen it. that it would cheapen something that is so near and dear to my heart. i imagine it being something like an artist who paints pictures, and then hangs them up on their own walls, or even stores them up in their attic, instead of putting them out there for sale. the purpose of their painting is for no one else but themselves.
that is how i feel about singing. it's also how i feel about writing. so, even though this blog is public, i want to keep writing as if i'm that painter: all alone in my house, creating for no other reason other than it makes me feel happy, alive, and best of all, the most like myself.
"i am very pleased that you find joy with the piano. This and carpentry are, in my opinion for your age, the best pursuits, better even than school. Because those are things which fit a young person such as you very well. Mainly play the things on the piano which please you, even if the teacher does not assign those. That is the way to learn the most,
that when you are doing something with such enjoyment that you don't notice that the time passes."