Contrast

As I stumbled home from work, I rolled out onto my front lawn. Still stiff from winter’s shock, I imprinted my elbows, back and bum into the faded yellow grass. Days like these are entirely overwhelming, to the point where I feel weak within my bones. 

These are days when it seems that the past haunts me—trailing every step, lingering like a dense fog. These demons from my youth lurk behind every corner: appearing within films that I watch, men’s deodorant, naïve humor. They are disguised within conversation, or arise within a sudden reaction. These recollections trigger intense emotions, attempting to lure me into an encompassing depth of the mind and body.

It is hard thing to have a vivid mind and memory, past circumstances rarely leave me. I often take intentional interruptions within my day, to live within the present—dismissing any thoughts or anxieties from the past. When I feel as though the sun is bursting within my soul, this is when the demons attempt to overtake me and make my bones feel hollow. I know that this is not a coincidence—but strategic. For they have witnessed my recovery, perspective switch and current fulfillment.

I refuse to let their whispers within the wind decompose the growth that has been cultivated. I close my eyes and feel the sun radiate through my skin. I was once overtaken by the depths, smothered and sick but now I push onward, and persevere within the present. My past only defines me today—as a conquerer. An incredible strength only acquired though my Creator.

I look onto the grey-blue sky, and sip in a deep breath. The inhale catches all active contemplations and swirling fragments of thought, and releases them through my exhale. I sit still with a cleansed mind and recount the new ideas that squeeze towards the forefront. Taking a mental inventory, I align my understandings with His promises; I am able to recognize the amount of incredible growth experienced within the prior years. My former struggles become more faint and faded with each passing day. 

So now, I trade these triggers for triumph. My past to present holds such great contrast, incredible growth and gratitude. I stand firm on the truth that is ingrained within me and push forward towards the exponentially flourished future.

Update No. 1

Morning Air, Morning Light: Update No. 1

I have begun writing the first chapter of my poetry book—Morning Air, Morning Light. Although this book will contain a few pieces that remain accessible through this site, I have begun delving deep into dark times I’ve experienced in the past to compose this initial chapter. 

As I’ve been writing these lengthy poems to depict the earlier stages of my life, I notice that they spill onto the paper without reservation. The words bring me back towards memories that I’ve blocked out and play like a dark, painful parody within my mind. 

I revisit the recollections that have been quarantined. Each word penned tears away an unyielding nail from the boards which hide away an abandoned door that I rarely acknowledge. 

These experiences are raw and honest, evoking emotions that I haven’t endured in years. Although it’s almost unfathomable that this was at once the present time, I would have never expected my current state to be so vastly different. Embedded in my life now—a wonderful husband and family, supportive friends and a God that is ultimate—was a foreign thought in my previous condition. 

Through these poems, I am able to uncover the beauty of progress and healing. I am able to write through these distressing flashbacks without being overcome with anxiety. This is because I know that there is a God with overruling grace who provides comfort through any situation. 

Regardless of the grief and despair that’s exposed to me while writing these memories, with a solemn heart I will share them with you. They may be soothing words to your wounds—the areas within your mind that you rarely visit due to bitterness, anguish or anxiety. I am reminded that my words may be another’s healing, and that is more than enough encouragement to press forward. 

Morning Air, Morning Light will be available in Winter of 2017. Until then, I will maintain my letters and notes (as well as some status progression updates) through this site. If you feel drawn to catch these posts, I’d encourage you to enter in your email through the “Subscribe” block towards the bottom of this page. As always, reader, thank you for letting me share my heart with you.

Array of Ambitions

We are entrusted with talents—a pocket-sized gift hidden away within us. Unwrapped, it is a brilliant display of dynamic creativity and is within each of us. 

I recognized my art through an old sketchpad and pen. The notebook had no lined paper, and was already filled with my older brother’s illustrations; they were detailed, perfectly shaded and he always made them seem effortless. I decided I would etch a few notes or scratches and shuffled around in my bag to fish for a writing instrument. The pen I found was stolen from a waitress at a Chinese restaurant and was spotty in between strokes. I feverishly started to compose a letter, after scribbling out a few indistinguishable drawing attempts.

The letter itself was to my mother, a poetry-heavy depiction of my new life since moving cross-country. I was enamored with the potential the future possessed, but was fasted to the past. I was eighteen at the time. With each tiny word inscribed, came revival. I was able to comprehend my current state, dissolving each detail to paper. I snatched out the letter and spoke the words written to my sister, and shared the unfetter my mind felt when I wrote. I started habitually visiting a café where I would write every weekend, and revisit this same feeling. 

Six months later, I dropped my pen for about a year. Suffocating the seed inside that wanted to sprout, I was distancing myself due to self-doubt. I wasn't satisfied with the poems I was producing. Rather than practicing and being patient with myself, I quickly filled my time hollow diversions. Without writing, my mind was cloudy and unable to organize itself, a constant conveyer belt of thoughts and ideas that piled up against a wall. I felt restricted, bound, and apathetic. I thank God that I received support and encouragement from my husband and my sister to start scribing again. 

Over the past few years, the dedication and persistence has grown exceedingly. In the beginning, it was a therapeutic release—but has now madly matured into a passion. If I were to be commended on my poems back then, I would have thrown a shy smile and dropped my head. But this gift has been planted with purpose; it will someday be the orange tree that flowers fruit and blooms.  

These endowments are not always brought to our mind automatically or smooth at the start. Although it begins concealed, once uncovered, it is as if the habit can never be replaced. Writing and painting are sweet endeavors that pull my creativity and solidify my ideas. It embraces the moment, and channels it to a visual translation.

The trades you hold are exquisite and unique to you. Your background, experiences, perceptions, creativity, nor vision that you encompass has been planted identically within another. For we all possess these gifts—this array of ambitions—which have been entrusted to us to propagate and grow. 

Water-Streaked Window

A break within my afternoon, in the midst of the a foggy drizzle, I am given an opportunity to pause and reflect. Even though it seems as though my body has turned blank, contemplatively calm, this is when my thoughts are able to erupt and outpour. Buried beneath the depths of my mind, I’m lost within this whirlpool of thought. 

Routinely, I go about my days and take notice of circumstances that remind me of others, memories that slip out through various forms. There are the ideas that peek within my thoughts, but are silenced due to prior commitments of the day. Flashes of distress triggered through words, or healing that is tangibly recognized. There are thoughts reminded by the subconscious realization linking to a slumbered image experienced within my youth. Creativity, shapes and colors coat the insides of my mind. Even within the nighttime doze, every minute is crowded with hallucination. 

During this intermission is when I am able to digest and decompose this introspection. Today, this interlude transpires in the form of a coffeehouse I nest within this afternoon. For although my pen is low in ink, here I write—liberating the commotion of my mind. 

This is when I can provide these thoughts with identity and deduct their derivative. For I’ll nurture the words written, for they bring growth. They develop restoration, release contentment, and stimulate encouragement into my life. I analyze my thoughts through the devotion of words imprinted to paper—but also through the reading interpretation of the depiction itself. The thoughts, poetry and development are all intertwined—running together like this water-streaked window.

These thoughts and practice may be overwhelming at times, but the creation of poetry and sharing experiences through words is a gift I have been given. Transferring thoughts into tangible form glides smoothly, almost fluid. 

And now I share these pieces with you, reader. These letters and notes are the thoughts that have stained my mind, spouted onto the pages and bred discovery. As you browse these letters, I pray that they resonate with you; that these realizations that have altered my life will prove pleasurable to yours too.

When We Begin

The favorable conditions become tasteless, as the repetition of these conditions persist. Progressing through the day-to-day, the minor flaws become overwhelming and all-consuming. Devoured by the dismay of the minor deficiency, we become delicate and fragile. We shatter from the smallest imperfection. Calloused to appreciation and disregarding the positive, we become absorbed in this exaggeration of slight discomfort.

But then tragedy awakens.

Stunned and taken completely off guard, we feel as if we are raising our foot as the soggy ground grasps at the ankle. We remember our previous problems and admire them; we wish they could be so trivial once again. Amidst the trials, when we are at the most vulnerable state the self portrays the truth of ourselves. We begin to despise our former selves, wishing we had noticed how the sun shined upon our face. We wish that we would have basked in it’s rays rather than shading ourselves. To go back and to become thankful for everything we possessed—whether it was the company who entered our home, or the time we had to spend. We begin to realize that the tragedy we are currently facing is another’s individual’s dream—that to them, these woes seem miniscule. We begin to notice the positive. Every small feat becomes miraculous.

This is when we begin. This is when we take hold of our situations and view it through a positive light, admiring anything admirable—appreciating the very breath which is exhaled, and the precious oxygen we inhale. This is when we decide to live in the present—expecting nothing, but when provision is granted to us, it has been unthinkable and is remarkable. This is when regardless of our current standings, we value everything. This is when the negative becomes unnoticed and now we stand overwhelmed with favor. We pass through snow, and grind through grass and every provision becomes monument.