scientists and lovers

I am going to start researching the science behind love.
Why the hell not? I will write about it later.



We were all basically alone
And despite what all his studies had shown
That what's mistaken for closeness
Is just a case of mitosis
And why do some show no mercy
While others are painfully shy?
Tell me doctor, can you quantify?
He just wants to know the reason why...

she wept

She holds herself together on the short walk to the car. The dimly lit neighborhood street seems to stretch forever. Staring down at the silver heels, her rapid steps thud rhythmically on the weather-worn gravel. Choosing her steps carefully, daintily dodging the many potholes and heat cracks. Propelled forward. Left, right, left, right. The back of her throat prickles with the dull indescribable pain of a Thousand Tears suppressed. Grabbing her elbows, she folds her arms across her chest squeezing tightly to assuage the aching pulse of her heart.

Fishing the car keys out of her purse she doesn’t even look up from the shoes. The ground is blurry, liquid glass windows obstructing her view of the silvery sodden footwear. Fumbling with the keys, she unlocks the driver side door and collapses into the seat. Shoving the key into the ignition, she kicks the car to life, the engine sputtering. Music fills the car in an instant, those mournful lullabies of jilted lovers.

That was all it took, a few harmonious notes.

The sob catches in her throat. Followed by the Thousand Tears. One by one they spill over her lashes, dark mascara-stained rivulets streaming down her face, pooling at her chin and falling onto her lap. Tiny waterfalls.

She collapses her forehead into shaking hands, fingers tugging at her bangs, nails ripping the flesh of her scalp. She doesn’t even bother to wipe her cheeks. The salty rivers continue their silent journey, trickling down her forearms and soaking her sweater sleeves. Each river leaving behind unpredictable lines of grey on her porcelain skin. These tears hold meaning. Each one has a history, an exhausted acquiescence of failure. Her tears are cleansing, carrying away the blackness that shrouds her vision. Dirty symbols of human brokenness. Fear, anger, rejection, apathy, unworthiness, heartbreak, resentment, loneliness.

Each emotion of this sinful condition, concealed in it's own watery capsule, muddied by her vanity. Filthy with conceit.

"Heaven knows we need never be ashamed of our tears, for they are rain upon the blinding dust of earth, overlying our hard hearts." -Charles Dickens

afternoon repose

Dripping shards of yellow light
Streaming through these open blinds
Sounds drone hum of city round
Accede to sleep, refuse to fight
Dreaming dreams. The panicked sort
Of friendships lost and love alone
Behind closed eyes I see this sign
Painful looks and time cut short

holding my breath

My community has just recently delved into the idea of “holistic ministry” as an approach to our spiritual health and well-being. I love this concept, and I was really stoked when we made this shift. However, the more I think about my excitement I realize it stems from a place of fear and selfishness. I like the idea of addressing my relationships, gifts and talents, finances, emotions, and physical life because it requires me to make tangible step-by-step changes in my life. Devoid of any real interaction and communion with God. As I sat down and flipped through the pages of our Relent & Respond journals I realized I was approaching it with the same mechanical methodical mindset that I read self-help books. I ask, what is my problem and what can I do to fix it? See. Infer. Conclude. Solve. I have not entered God into the equation at all. Oh, how I dread the Spiritual Practices week.

Sometimes I question whether I am truly even a Christian. What does that even mean? I do not question the existence of God or the basic tenants of this faith. I can argue intellectually my belief in a higher power. However, I never do anything I about it. I don't even attempt. I exist here, festering in His Grace, making a complete mess of things in the process. I struggle so deeply with a desire to control my life, so I don’t pray because the answer might not be one I want to hear. I think it is amusing how I am in the middle of writing this blog about faith (or lack thereof) and I get a phone call from a stranger, offering her services to me in helping me find a teaching job. The catch: she does not work in Florida. Faith. Do I have any at all?
Perhaps I should pray about it...

“Joy comes from seeing the complete fulfillment of the specific purpose for which I was created and born again, not from successfully doing something of my own choosing...We each need to find a niche in life, and spiritually we find it when we receive a ministry from the Lord. To do this we must have close fellowship with Jesus and must know Him as more than our personal Savior”

Oh hey Oswald Chambers, thanks for the kick in the ass.

the awakening

When I read any significant literature I almost always have a pen in hand. I underline powerful lines, jot notes, and deliver compliments to the author (I am quite certain the Orlando public library appreciates this). As I scribble, I fester in my supreme jealousy over the powerful ease these authors have in painting glorious pictures of our (human beings) strongest emotions. Through their strategic placement of words they construct sentences that rekindle past emotions, flaring them up again like they parted. Hatred, love, lust, passion, despair, hopelessness... Anyone can describe a setting. It takes a deeply intelligent person to understand human emotions, and then a literary genius to convey them properly through written word. I envy this talent.

With that said, I just finished reading Kate Chopin's The Awakening. This novel is about an obedient wife and mother who through a series of events and relationships is "awakened" to the stifling reality of her life, both sexually and emotionally. Stuck in a loveless marriage, painfully bored at 29, she sheds the conventions of her time and begins a liberating quest for her own independence. It was released 1899 and received awful reviews at the time. While reviewers acknowledged Chopin’s masterful literary technique, they were absolutely shocked with the protagonist’s independence and sexual liberation. Women simply didn't talk like that. While exploring the pages, I found it compelling that the emotions she describes in her book, the romantic infatuations, unexpected moodiness, her boredom (bordering on depression)... these are emotions that I feel every day. Women have always been the same, whether oppressed by social conventions or fear of retribution has blocked their voice. True, we have variances in personality (just ask my friend Kate about Myers-Briggs) but literature is the most effective medium in guiding us to understand our common behaviors as humans. These words transcend.

“An indescribable oppression, which seemed to generate in some unfamiliar part of her consciousness, filled her whole being with a vague anguish. It was like a shadow, like a mist passing across her soul’s summer day. It was strange and unfamiliar: it was a mood.”

“She was still under the spell of her infatuation. She had tried to forget him, realizing the inutility of remembering. But the thought of him was like an obsession, ever pressing upon her. It was not that she dwelt upon details of their acquaintance, or recalled any special or particular way his personality; it was his being, his existence, which dominated her thought, fading sometimes as if it would melt into the mist of the forgotten, reviving again with an intensity that filled her with an incomprehensible longing."

“There were days when she was happy without knowing why. She was happy to be alive and breathing, when her whole body seemed to be one with the sunlight, the colors, the odors, the luxuriant warmth of some perfect Southern day. She liked then to wander alone into strange and unfamiliar places. She discovered many a sunny, sleepy corner, fashioned to dream in. And she found it good to dream and be alone and unmolested. There were days when she was unhappy, she did not know why, when it did not seem worth while to be glad or sorry, to be alive or dead; when life appeared to her like a grotesque pandemonium and humanity like worms struggling blindly towards inevitable annihilation. She could not work on such a day, nor weave fancies to stir her pulses and warm her blood.”

december's gravity

You got under my skin. You scratched and pulled and clawed your way through. And now I am stuck in your gravity, pinned to these thoughts and unanswered questions. My head tells me it is stupid, that there wasn't enough, that I knew better all along. My head assures me that it isn't reciprocated, it never was. My head says I grew up and forgot your name. My head says I took a deep breath and forgave you. My head is smart. My head knows better. And on the good days, my heart believes my head. So I laugh and crush and dance and flirt; spinning circles round my heart, moving too fast to notice the tug and pull. But then I hear that song, or I dream that dream, your laughter bounces off these walls, and your gravity stifles me again. You hold me without chains and nothing is taking me down. Except you, my love.

witching hour

The lilted bloom
of spring approach.
Dark batting lashes,
flirtatious smiles.
Once music enchanted
now platonic endures.
Whistle and lyric
and laughter bound.
Efficacious rhymes
echo dancing feet.
In witching hour--
midst swirling storms.
Toothy grins from
cheek to cheek.
I dance, I dance!
Across your face
Over you and under you,
I spin and tap
and clap in time.
Treading and twirling
These violent stilts,
Aloft our parting hearts.