Warmth + Gratitude

n o v e m b e r 1 7

A candle flickers in my peripherals, with its fragrance filling the air. Lavender. The same scent steams from my—laced with peppermint leaves. The warmth swirls within my mouth as I relax in to my chair. My eyes are met with a polaroid photo that I pinned to the wall. It’s of my mother and I at my brother’s summer wedding. Even the polaroid photo catches the radiance in her smile. 

I’ve always wanted to emulate my mother, and at a young age defined success as being a mother with many children. But I’ve grown to recognize that it’s her bright spirit I long to mirror, how she illuminates every scene. 

I step into deeper, digressing thought. My features are a fifty-fifty blend of her’s and my father’s. I love that. So perplexing how genes can mix and fuse and swap and join together. God never misses a moment to showcase His artistry.

I see my mother’s strength, and recognize that it’s fortified. It originates in her intimate encounters with The Creator. She’s an incredible showcase of her strength, for it’s in her nature. Her strength is her speaking openly, sharing words, hurt, her testimony–all to help and relate to others–meeting them where they are at, only to bring them to a higher place, bringing heaven down for us to dwell within. I’m so thankful for her golden heart.

During the trip for my brother’s wedding, we visited the California sand dunes. I stole this time to be still within the present, hiding away in the divots between the dunes. Here, I wrote this poem. 

My Mother

Eyes lining each petal, 
the soft and vulnerable centers, 
taking notice of every bundle of hydrangeas, 
black eyed susans and hummingbird sage. 

Your mind sketches them in charcoal, 
paints them with acrylics, 
writes them into a book, 
with a matching movie,
while treasuring this time. 

Your eyes
brighten by the ocean, 
by the mountains, 
by the coming-of-age of the brother of mine. 

Your heart is always heavy for others, 
but forever increases in capacity, 
unbroken by burdens, 
free like the swallows skimming over sand. 

My face is beginning to resemble yours 
with the passing years–
cheekbones prominent,
my almond-shaped eyes.

I pray that my spirit’s maturation, 
does the same.

• • •

n o v e m b e r 2 2

I retreated from the warmth beneath the bedtime covers and was greeted by the morning. Its light gently descended out across our home—spilling across the carpet and cabinets. My body was bathed in peppermint as the cool air brought a refreshing bite to my skin.

It’s Thanksgiving morning. Ricky is in the bathroom—water-on, water-off—brushing his teeth in preparation for his work day.

I read a while, and take Rollie (our little min-pin mix) outside. The frost has melted away, but the air is still pure. I think that’s my favorite trait of the end of year months, that morning’s renewal bleeds into later within the day. It’s free from the scorching, harsh heat, not weighed heavy from humidity. 

I brew some tea and refill the vase that holds goldenrods and peach roses. They were waiting for me in cellophane wrapping when I arrived home from work earlier this week and have since expanded out their petals to full-bloom. 

I fold laundry, the little load of white shirts, towels, socks. I dwell on the day’s purpose–the day of giving thanks. I name all things I’m thankful for, regardless of size: 

The overflow and outpour of Love, and how it spills and splashes about. 
The husband who kisses me before leaving our home for the day. 
My family who generously shares in conversation, despite our coast-to-coast distance. 
These quiet mornings, gifted with the intent for my mind to rest. 
These warm and freshly folded linens.

My heart is full, soul soothed, and my mind is in a posture of gratitude. 

• • •

n o v e m b e r 2 4

The moment I began writing affirmations, the sun debuted for the day. My skin, my shirt soaked up its warmth. After a few seconds, it withdraws, idling back behind the clouds. This cool, autumn afternoon, is to be spent sipping on a muggy coffee drink. 

I move onto the second string of affirmations, and the sun peeks out again. It’s an honest moment, and my hand and pen become a dancing shadow on these bright white, lined sheets.

This simple gesture has shed light on the significance that saunters about. Fullness.

Calming the Current

n o v e m b e r 1 2

These past few months, I’ve waded into still waters; slowly slipping into a silent shadow. Being less visible and more intentional: cutting out television, fasting social media, reading more books.

Capacities have fallen from the sky, pooled together. They’ve collected, causing a great current. I’ve been fighting this flood. Drained from the time poured into my creative ventures, work, responsibilities, steady schedules shaken up by bi-weekly travel. Worry-water drips from my eyes. My muscles are sore from straining against. Body weak. Weary. 

This cyclical circumstance reins familiar, and I pause to take a breath. I can be calm, continuously penning alongside the current’s capacity. I hold quiet dreams in my heart, learning to be okay with the plethora of journal entries that hide between the bindings of my notebook. I separate my worth from my works, my words. 

I’m seeking strength within this silence, finding boldness in grace. My everyday endeavor is to avoid the restlessness, and search for softer moments–to simply be in silence and let it soak into my skin.

There’s growth in this, too. 

I’m leveling into a less loud presence, allowing undivided attention to others. I’ve been repeating the same scriptures, rather than rapidly reading though. Praying throughout the day, reading the little written whispers listed within the margins of paper. I’m taking gentle action from simplicity. Learning to let go of all worry and to hold tightly to truth.

I’m learning to serve others well. To be soft with myself. 

To rest. 

San Francisco in July

Towards the ending weeks of last month, I went out to San Francisco for a work trip; after work hours I wandered on-foot into local bookstores, hiked upon hills, came across community gardens, and watched out onto the city. I was fully entertained, though requesting dinner reservations for one.  

I remember how I use to pull away from solitude, how it was a space to abuse my body and cycle the cognition my mind would stammer about my existence. I didn’t know then what I know now, as time and age often matures into a sweeter standing.

Present day dwellings, solitude is an opportunity to take an unfiltered open-eyed look at my intentions and actions, the habits that my mind instantly acts upon. This is the act in which has enabled me to grow comfortable with being alone, for this practice is one that I try to often pulse. I find enjoyment in analyzing how and why I react to circumstances, and its realignment. 

Since I was away for a little over a week, this ensued as a fluid flow throughout the trip's duration. Several traits that I didn’t know that I had surfaced to eye-level—both the beautiful and the brutal. 

I discovered that I love on others more than I think that I do, and that I always aim to stay in a state of stillness. I also found that I had subconsciously linked the contrast of my life from yesterday to today as a currency to salvation; a fraudulent thought that had been utilized to chip away at forgiveness for myself for the past few months. 

I’m sitting next to myself, a mirror—black kerchief folded and knotted around my neck, brown hair slighting spilling over my shoulders.

My heart is pooling in grace and mercy, forgiveness and favor. I will always be in a state of gratitude, giving thanks for conviction, and the stillness that softly speaks truth. 

• • •

j u l y   2 3

Misson & 18th

I sit among the street vendors
selling soggy dried books and soiled t-shirts, 
we engage in conversation. 

I look out and watch; 
each passerby
engaging in this air, 
traveling towards their next destination. 

The younger man with
baggy jeans, and black sunglasses
tugging at the collar of his shirt. 

The older woman crossing the street,
pushing her daughter in her stroller, 
dodging the street’s cracks and holes. 

The ‘clean fuel bus’ slides across the skyward strings, 
holding several hundred hearts a day, 
their heads jounce in unison
to the awry asphalt. 

The stranger wandering, 
not familiar to a smile, 
though we smile anyways.  

Melted posters paper-mâché 
the sides of the telephone poles, 
and wooden walls are covered
in metal diamond patterns,

akin to all, 
foreign to none.

• • •

j u l y   2 5

Atop a red rocked hill, 
overlooking San Francisco in July, 
where cities and sky intertwine; 
pastel houses stacked, 
buildings climb high. 

The wind is heavy here, 
eager to even take this pen and paper away, 
to have me only captivated by its whirl, 
for it has a jealous mind. 

City shaded, 
fog rolling in, 
dust becomes unsettled. 

Neither weak are the mountains
nor my bones; 
the red rocks
and my blue blood.

• • •

j u l y   2 7

This week has been
gold purified by fire; 
tried and tested— 
results revealing, 
conviction gentle, 
grace abounding.

Nothing on this earth
can touch
or take away
your obedience.

We will always be guided to light, 
as long as we open our eyes.
 

Vulnerable

a p r i l   28

My mouth lays mute due to my marinating mind. I make myself a muggy glass of Yellow Pau d’Arco tea with a dollop of Tupelo honey. I flip through my journal as my lavender and basil plant begin to soak in the morning’s maturation, and translate the past month’s journal entries to the digital screen. 

They illustrate the transition and unsteadiness that has taken grasp. Transition through a new job title, though a promotion, has been stretching me in aspects of time and mental capacity. Unsteadiness through members of my family being scattered across the states, and the fear of loss of connection that rises within me. With Ricky’s family, we’ve been trying to alternate months to see his mother, who recently fell ill at the start of this year, and visit to support his father—who is now her primary caretaker. 

I know that I’m not alone. Every soul is facing some degree of adversary at this point, at every point. But I like to admit mine after I’ve pulled the gold from the circumstance, once the tough feelings are eased by a calmer current standing. Writing the heaviness off my chest fills me with a certain type of discomfort—staring filled pages, full of words depicting the frustration and turbulence that has carried into my home, my heart. 

But I’m learning that it’s necessary. 

This endeavor allows a written timeline of growth; for miracles are only miracles when the outcome is contrasted with what was once current. I’m finding that there’s a special vulnerability that’s held in the broken sentences, the words that don’t link up quite right. So below holds my current standing through the month’s journal entries: raw, brittle, honest. 

• • •

a p r i l   14

I picked up an old book today, 
and saw pen scratches in the margins. 

I recognized them;
that sloppy script was mine. 
They were poems penned by the book’s inspiration. 

Upon reading the interjections, 
I became jealous. 

I was so reckless with my writing,
writing for an audience of one—
and recently I’ve encountered some turbulence, 
causing an emptied-ink pen.

Write with vulnerability,
whispers the husband with the pure-gold heart, 
what if I can’t,
I say softly with tear stained cheeks.
 

• • •

a p r i l  22

Purple Pansies

Outside, 
across the incandescent sky, 
the boreal chickadee bird dips and ascends, 
a fluttering pattern with acute acceleration. 

Inside, 
a heartbroken husband, 
speaks softly to his wife; 
combing her hair behind her ear, 
gently kissing the top of her head, 
as the natural light shines, 
gently comforts, 
warming her skin. 

The mother who can see but not speak, 
feel but not move; 
but oh, 
how her son sings for her—
strumming until blisters burst. 

And her sister, 
places purple pansies in eyeshot, 
and plants a shephard’s hook outside the window—
dangling a glass cylinder;  
it’s filled with seeds for the round-bellied robins, 
the yellow-breasted chat, 
and the cuckoo with it’s black-bill. 

And though her head lays heavy, 
I hope her heart is heaping full—
for beauty is unfolding everywhere, 
even when things feel broken.

• • •

a p r i l   27

I’m not too sure of what I’m afraid of—
letting ink flow through flooding frustration. 

Maybe, I’m afraid that the words won’t come. 
Maybe, I’m afraid that the words will come but that they won’t hold weight. 
Maybe, I’m afraid that the weighty words will come, 
but that they become a burden rather than an encourager.