Friday, June 28, 2013

We are Turning Flowers into Crowns

A young girl, sun shining through the clouds behind her as she sits on a hill, blanketed by the thickest and greenest of grass. The wind blows through her hair, smelling sweet of lilac, as she carefully, delicately, creates a wreath of flowers which she places on her head.


This. This is a picture that I have had stowed away in the recesses of my memory since I was a child, undoubtedly placed there by Anne of Green Gables and episodes of Little House on the Prairie. Try as I may, I was never able to make such a wreath. Flowers are delicate and too much manipulating and soon those flowers are just a pile of stem and petal in my hands, stained yellow from the pollen.

You have to be careful with flowers.


I don't sit on a hill and crochet flowers into crowns. My hills are asphalt and my time is short. But words, I will craft my words and find within them wreaths, necklaces, anything I choose or can conjure up. I will sew, oh so carefully, these letters together and make a garland. And this garland, this small piece of beauty in a world so often dark and cold may be offered up to you. I will offer them to you, with trembling hands, for you to hold in yours.

You have to be careful with words.

I want to sit with you, and share. I want to trust you enough I can pass my words to you and know that you will watch over them, that you will keep your hands open, being careful not to crush them. 

I want you to see the beauty in them. I want you to ask me about them. You don't have to agree with them....really, you don't. And here's what's so scary. You might not like them at all. Not one bit.

That's okay.

But don't throw them away. Don't toss them away. Remember that someone put time into them. Someone dared to peel back the layers and share some of the deepest parts of themselves. Or maybe it was just a reflection on the day, full of light and glimpses of dimpled cheeks and blonde ringlets. It really doesn't matter. They still deserve care.

For I will take care of your words. I will read them. Think about them. I will look at them, in all of their beauty. I might share them. I might hold them up to my little corner of the world and say, "Look at these words, drink them in. Let them settle into the corners of your soul." Because that is how you handle words. Or I might not like them at all. Not one bit.

That's okay.

I will still appreciate these words, but more so, I will appreciate you, the artist that wove them together. I will be grateful that you esteemed me enough to share them with me. And for that I say thank you.


I'm 38 years old. I don't have time to live in a Utopian world. 

I'm 38 years old. I will make my world what I want it to be.


Resistance has been pressing hard around me. I've been frozen, fearful of writing out my words. Unable to create my garland. Today. Today I pushed through. I don't need approval. These are my words to speak. My flowers to weave.

We all want to be seen. To be heard. To have the respect of our peers. I know. I know.

This isn't that.

This is finding those people that believe in you. Who hear the beauty in your words. I'm finding my people. 


Come to the hill. Be it soft grass or concrete and asphalt. Come. Share your stories. Shout it out. I'm here to hold your words, the garland that they are.

We are here, turning our flowers into crowns.

Tuesday, June 18, 2013

When the Clouds Roll In

We are three weeks into summer vacation, and already I find myself using the word more than normal. When togetherness can be too much, and there is no alone time, little hearts, little minds, little egos get bruised and battered. And I hold her in my arms, brushing her curly blonde hair with my hand and I whisper, "Grace, baby. Grace."

And When I realize that I haven't written since they have been out of school, and I miss placing words together, I whisper, "Grace, momma. Grace."

It's a little word to write out, not many letters, but we know its meaning is deep and wide and full of all that brings life to us.


I hesitate sharing that verse. I know enough from my education to understand the verse was not intended to be reduced to a self-help mantra. I get that. But when I pray for her I think of it, and I wonder if it settled on my heart and mind because I am meant to share it. But I am quieted by the noise of wise admonitions that we should be so careful because that's not what it meant and it is wrong to misinterpret and maybe something about foolishness and Pharisees. I don't know....I just know I find myself silent.


I let my insecurities get the better of me. It's burning deep down, aching to come out. I need to write it out. But wait, now is the time we are all to let the experts guide the discussion, we are only to learn. And so I find myself, still silent.


Three weeks of silence. Each day busy, full of new activities, new rhythms, new.....everything. And I've let this silence settle in deep, just as the clouds have rolled in and covered the summer's sun. So I'm gonna stretch. I'm gonna speak. I'm gonna sing.

I'm gonna sing. And I hope you sing too.


Thank you for your patience during this quiet time. I've missed writing. I've missed connecting. I have some exciting things coming up.....I hope you stick around.

And be sure to check this out; I'm really proud to be a part of this! Wild Goslings