the box

I am the duty fulfiller, you say?
How dare you typecast me in such a way.
You wait patiently. Predatorily watching.
For me to cease my kicking and squirming
Just long enough. A moment. A mere breath.
Pushing and prodding for my very soul's death.
Till at last, the final violent shove.
The reverberating collapse from above.
Enclosing me eternally, in this tight space
Trapping me in the proverbial case,
Built of rules and restrictions and roles.
Only to suffocate here, with my unrequited goals.
Gasping for both freedom and air.
No! I refuse to meet your expectations.
Myopic and limited as they are.
Claustrophobia was never my dream.
I am far greater than your vision of me.
I am unsuppressable fierceness,
Hidden behind this gentle reserve.
I am unbendable and steely strength,
Masked in an unpretentious humility.
I am impetuous and fiery passion
Without a worthwhile direction, just yet.
I was formed in the Image Of My God.
Elohim. Moshia. Yeshuah.
I was created for such greatness.
And you can never confine me.

zackary

Zackary is his name. He has all the familiar symptoms of an awkward and fumbling 6th grader, lost in a new school, scrambling to find his niche in the sea of faces or perhaps to disappear in the walls altogether. His greasy unwashed hair hangs in his eyes, beautiful blue eyes, rarely seen, constantly shifting or glued to his scuffed hand-me-down Nikes. Zackary is precocious, to say the very least. A brilliant and talented child. Yet, he is plagued by this sense of inferiority. He is self-punishing and self-deprecating. You can reprimand him for the smallest thing, and he will completely lose all emotional control, burst into tears, and accept this manifested failure with the most distressing heartbreak. It is as if he believes, to his very core, that he is such a monumental disappointment to others that he should quit trying altogether. He has loving hippie-parents, who never punish him, so this self-belittling attitude is such an inexplicable mystery to me. And yet, Zackary reminds me so much of myself. How often do I come to God with something, and I am struck by such a sense of hopeless unworthiness that I would like no better than to climb under a desk, and wallow in a pool of my own wretched, pathetic tears? Such is the great enigmatic mystery of grace.

the letter

My biological aunt sent me a letter today, a most unexpected suprise. I have not seen Linda since I was a child, since I last saw my father over 12 years ago. In her letter she said this...

"We can always ask - is it Nature or Nurture? But I think it is the combination of both. Yes, you have the physical looks of a Snow. But you have the emotional well-being of your family. You are a lucky woman to be surrounded by all this love."

Indeed.

core

“Now I know what loneliness is, I think. Momentary loneliness, anyway. It comes from a vague core of the self-- like a disease of the blood dispersed throughout the body so that one cannot locate the matrix, the spot of contagion.” -Sylvia Plath

apathy

It is Saturday morning, and I have about a million things that need to complete today. I have friends to visit, community to build, conversations to have. And yet, it all seems so exhausting. I would rather spend the morning on my porch, the living and breathing recluse. I didn't sleep well last night. In fact, I haven't slept well in weeks.

I haven't talked to God much lately either. I'm not angry, or doubting, or bitter, I'm just bored. I am weary of the same circular spiritual conversations. I sick of reading spiritual books. I have this faith, and it appears almost unshakable, and yet with all my faith why do I have no desire to speak to Him. Really, the only time prayer crosses my mind anymore is when I need something, or I'm depressed, or stressed. And in these moments I usually stop myself midsentence, when I realize how utterly selfish I am being. I am like the friend who only calls you when she has nothing better to do, and just needs someone to listen to all their woes and issues.

I hate that person, and yet I am that person.

whispers

I find myself on my porch soaking in the glories of the day. I am not usually an outdoor person. That is, I am not the type of girl who needs to spend time outside on a regular basis. I have been known to spend entire days in my apartment without ever setting foot outside. However, this porch has become my safe haven of late. Perhaps it is the aged wooden planks beneath my feet, which speak of years gone past and many walks of life trodden. Or maybe it is the canopy of trees that partially obscure the suns glaring rays, allowing just enough light for it to play across the floorboards and stream in through the leaves. The squirrels are an added bonus, scampering through the trees, fighting and bickering all the while. Little snippets of the life outside my own.

Normally I come out here for the silence. Not the deadening silence of my room, that often becomes a tomb reverberating my obsessive thoughts and depressing ruminations. When I escape out here it is usually with a mug of steaming coffee, and some distracting fiction book. Today is different. I came out here with the intentions of eating my tuna sandwich and stale chips and to read Nick Hornby’s How to Be Good. However, after only a few turns of the page I found myself repulsed by the bitter and anguished humor of its pages. Moreover I was sickened by how easily I related. God, when the fuck did I become so terribly cynical? I set the book down. The silence out here is different today. Living and breathing. Alive and whispering...

fierce

Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned.
Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.
-William Congreve