the loveliness of sows

Much as I enjoy using words myself, I am more often than not blown away at the ways in which other people put thoughts together. To me, the putting together of words into sentences that I couldn't have thought up in a million years borders on magical. I think it is why I have always loved to read; because other people's thoughts, their joys and their pains, look much like my own. That I can feel something, acutely, and another person can describe it perfectly, eloquently, better than I ever could have - is just so freaking awesome. Even if (situationally speaking) our lives look strikingly different, on paper, we connect, intersect, relate to one another. While in real life reading another person can be not only scary but horrifically difficult, reading another person allows you more insight into their thoughts, their feelings, who they are. And as I get older, I find that more and more, I get to be in relationships with people who are honest enough, comfortable enough, to let me into those places (the "me too" places, if you will) that reading becomes less of a necessity to feel connected.

But I don't love it less. Because I firmly believe that words make art, and although art is not perhaps necessary to our basic survival, we don't thrive quite as much without it. At least I don't.

All that to say, I really, really, really love poetry.
And I really, really, really love this poem, Saint Francis and the Sow, by Galway Kinnell.

The bud
stands for all things,
even for those things that don't flower,
for everything flowers, from within, of self-blessing;
though sometimes it is necessary to reteach a thing its loveliness,
to put a hand on the brow 
of the flower
and retell it in words and in touch
it is lovely
until it flowers again from within, of self-blessing;
as Saint Francis
put his hand on the creased forehead 
of the sow, and told her in words and in touch
blessings of earth on the sow, and the sow
began remembering all down her thick length,
from the earthen snout all the way
through the fodder and flops to the spiritual curl of the tail,
from the hard spininess spiked out from the spine
down through the great broken heart
to the sheer blue milken dreaminess spurting and shuddering
from the fourteen teats into the fourteen mouths sucking and blowing beneath them,
the long, perfect loveliness of the sow.

So. For those of you I have not lost into a fit of giggles because now the word "teat" is now forever immortalized on my blog, do you not love that? When I read that line - "though sometimes it is necessary to reteach a thing its loveliness," I had to stop and catch my breath. And as I kept reading, I imagined St. Francis stooping to the earth to remind a sow that it was lovely. St. Francis. A Saint for goodness' sake. And a sow. The very picture of filth. The very last thing I think of as lovely. Are you starting to see what I'm seeing?

I've given a lot of thought recently about forgetting who you are. I wrote a few months ago: "I wonder how often we become something we're not simply because we've forgotten who we are." And to take it one step further now, I wonder if we haven't forgotten who we are simply because we've forgotten who God is.

I want, sort of desperately, to be retaught my loveliness. And I want to reteach others their loveliness too.  Would that every interaction we had with one another - every touch, every word - pointed to just that: loveliness. That we could flower, and in so doing could be fully alive. That we could remember. And in so remembering, would remember too that our loveliness, our worth, comes from the God that created us that way. In his image.

Remember?

the kind of day where doubt is difficult

you do your work the best that you can

you put one foot in front of the other

life comes in waves and makes it's demands

you hold on as well as you're able

you've been here for a long, long time...

This morning, someone I care about got good news. There was some scary stuff laced in there as well, but the long and short of it is that this woman - who has been dealing with health/medical issues for a long time - might be looking at relief. Finally. There is hope where before there has been very little. And without going into all of it - the story, the whole chain of events, is just really unbelievable. It's so much an answered prayer for her, I can't even begin to tell you. When she was telling us this morning, she barely had words to describe how she was feeling.

I can't be sure, but if I were a betting woman, I'd say that's probably what hope looks like. Real, genuine, expectant, faithful hope. It was delightful. And insanely beautiful.

I left the hospital and as I got in my car to go about the rest of my day, I thought to myself,
"I'm going to have the kind of day where doubt is really difficult."


dear this kind of day, 
you are welcome to return anytime it suits you. 
in fact, maybe be a frequent visitor, if you like. 
I wouldn't hate it.
kindest & most sincere regards, 
Megan 


hope has a way of turning it's face to you
just when you least expect it
you walk in a room, you look out a window
and something there leaves you breathless
you say to yourself:
"it's been a while since I felt this; but it feels like it might be hope"


[sara groves] (click to listen to the song. which, by the way, I love.)

why I [might maybe possibly kind of sort of a little bit] believe in unicorns.

Having a blog has its perks. Sure, I like to write, so that's a big one. And I've mentioned I like to be heard, so there's that too. 2 for 2. But then there is the story part. It's like I am writing a continuous novel about myself. I write my life, that is true - but I am fully in control of what about my life I write. It is a great great thing that I can be real, and authentic, and write truth - to the extent that I see fit on a given day. The truth is the truth, yes - but I can spin it how I like. I get to choose. In this life that I write, I am the author, creator, editor, and mastermind. I can write something completely untrue if I want (I don't do that, for the record). I can write something and delete it if I don't like what I see. I'm in charge. I have control. And for your information, yes, the weather is lovely in delusionland.

Anyway, in the life that I write, I try very hard not to write about the L-word. Love.

I don't mean love as in a "love your neighbor" or "I like my new Sketchers, but I LOVE my Prada backpack" kind of way. I mean love... like, LOVE LOVE. Romance love. The subject of every movie geared towards my demographic love. DOYOULIKEME check-yes-or-no love. It's not a subject I feel super comfortable positing my opinions on. On the one hand, to be a 25 year-old single girl writing about love feels stereotypical to me, and predictable is never something I want my writing to be described as. And on the other, I secretly fear becoming 'that' girl. You know her... the one who talks about nothing else. It is possible, however, that my refusal to accept this topic has caused me to err on the side of never acknowledging it, which is a kind of predictability in itself. (If it was offered, I would trade self-awareness for blissful ignorance in a heartbeat. Just saying.) So here we are.

Against my will, the "yucky love stuff" (My Best Friend's Wedding anyone?) has been stalking me lately. Believe me, I fought it... but in the past 5 months, I was invited to 8 weddings. 8 save the dates, 8 invitations, 8 RSVP cards (typically late, because, I'm me), 2 pretty great bridesmaid's dresses, 1 maid of honor speech, many bachelorette parties, rehearsal dinners, plane tickets, road trips, and blisters (from excessive dancing in heels) later, its September, and way more of my friends' last names have changed on Facebook than I am comfortable with. (Seriously. I hardly know who anyone is anymore. Very stressful.) It's unavoidable at this stage of life, I think... but still. I'm surrounded. And at some point, one must put on one's big girl pants and DEAL.

Which brings me to the topic at hand: Unicorns.

Yes. Unicorns. Those mythically wondrous sparkly horse-like creatures with horns growing triumphantly from their majestic brows. Sunlight beaming from every inch of their lithe, irridescent bodies. Unicorns. Unicorns are wonderful (don't argue, I won't listen) and magical and at the end of the day, we don't think they really exist. Which is why one day, when speaking of a friend's fiance, another friend and I dubbed this particular man a Unicorn. He was so wonderful that we weren't sure he was real. Another time the term came up when a friend was being pursued really well by a guy. Again, we thought, "is this real?!" Months have passed since we first coined this phrase, and one by one, Unicorns have continued to strut into the picture of my friends' lives. Fascinating.

I can no longer pretend that Unicorns (the man kind, anyway) do not exist. I can't. The evidence is there. Having been present at the aforementioned six trillion weddings in my lifetime, I can ignore their existence no longer. I'm going to resist the urge to go all Nicholas Sparks on you - I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I did - but last weekend I stood with another wonderful [more-like-family-than-] friend as she got married. In the midst of all the wedded bliss I was privy to during the summer of oh-ten, I have been learning too that these things rarely look like we think they will. That the timing we have in our heads is never accurate. That there is the potential for a lot of heartbreak on the way there. And while I don't believe in "but even after all that they found each other and they lived happily ever after and nothing bad ever happened ever again because they were both beautiful and in LOVE" Disney fairytale crap-ola, I do believe in Unicorns. Which, if you know me, is a big deal for me to admit.

Since we (the females) first gazed longingly into the eyes of Jonathan Taylor Thomas in the shiny pages of Teen Beat and discovered what True Love really felt like at the tender age of 11, we have hoped (some of us more quietly than others) that Unicorns were real. I just want you to know, girls, that I'm starting to think it might be possible. You need no longer settle for horses that will kick you right in the teeth if you let yourself get close enough. (To be fair, I've always been a little a lot afraid of horses, so my opinion of them may be slightly hyperbolic. But it's all in the name of the metaphor. Hang in there.) Hold out for a Unicorn.

And boys - I'm not insulting you, so before you get your boxer briefs in a bunch, listen up. You, too, can (and probably will) be someone's Unicorn. Let me rephrase - you get to be someone's Unicorn. Yes. I've seen it happen too many times not to believe it's possible. We're waiting for you. I think I may already know some of you (Unicorns, that is), which is equally encouraging. Thank you for being so swell and Unicorny already. Thank you for being a Unicorn to me even though you aren't necessarily my Unicorn. Congratulations. You are the rarest of rare.

why we are pansies

I've noticed some patterns. I find patterns both comforting - in that there is consistency - and frustrating - in that we don't learn our lesson very easily. Psalmists were writing and confused about stuff that modern day songwriters are still writing and confused about. I'm pretty sure if you look closely, we're still making the same mistakes that Adam & Eve did. There are books written long ago that speak so true to the confusion of the present that it makes me feel like the authors somehow achieved time travel. (Seriously. I had that thought once. I underlined like a fool and drew impressively symmetrical stars in the margins and flipped back to the copyright date about 300 times to make sure I wasn't confused.) Things have changed, that is for sure, but there are some things that are just true about us.

A friend of mine told me that one of the reasons she believed that God was real, on a very basic level, was that she had never met a person who was fully content in this world. Jonah Werner says "that everything created cries out for something more." I think they're both right. Bottom line: we were created with these great, big, powerful desires. And here is where things get tricky. We consistently spend, spend, spend [money, energy, time, ourselves] on things that are not what they claim to be. (Isaiah 55: "why spend your money on what is not bread?") The pattern is that since the beginning, we have sort of been pansies. We freak out and create more manageable desires [idols, perhaps?] because the real stuff seems (and maybe even is) scary & unpredictable & like it might hurt us if we let it (and it might, actually).

Once again, I think of a C.S. Lewis quote (the one that I reference constantly as though Lewis' people are paying me royalties or something. What can I say? I love all things metaphorical.) "We are half-hearted creatures, fooling about with drink & sex & ambition when infinite joy is offered us, like an ignorant child who wants to go on making mud pies in a slum because he cannot imagine what is meant by the offer of a holiday at the sea." The mud is gross, but it's what I know. The slum is terrible, but it is predictable. I think that sometimes we are in the slum for so long that we, too, can't imagine how beautiful the sea could be. How beautiful freedom could be. How beautiful it would be to stop drinking, using, controlling, worrying, looking, eating, working, sneaking, hiding, lying, manipulating, shaming, being afraid, making mud pies, sitting in slums.

Henri Nouwen explains this beautifully when he writes about the old country v. the new country (the slum v. the sea, if you will, and you should): "You are very much at home, although not really at peace, in the old country. You know the ways of the old country... Even though you know you have not found there what your heart most desires, you remain quite attached to it. It has become part of your very bones.”

I think at some point or another we were hungry or bored or disappointed or hurt or confused or let down or empty or lonely - and [insert your mud pie(s) of choice] seemed like a good way to cope. And maybe it made us happy for 5 minutes, brought comfort for an hour, made us feel in control for a couple of years. For even a brief moment, what we chose as our substitution worked. But see, before we knew it, we were in chains of our own making. We became quite convinced that the mud pie was the best we could do. We stopped dreaming of the Sea because, quite simply, we forgot about it. Or maybe I remember, one day. I might even (in a weak moment) ask someone for directions. Maybe someone reminds me, even offers to take my hand and bring me along with them.

But I have been in the slum for so long.
My face is dirty & my shame is great.
I couldn't possibly be deserving of the sea.

I spent a lot of time thinking that if I could just work hard enough, I could break free from the old country, from the slum. But then I had this thought: What if I'm already free? What if I just stood up? What if instead of pleading for freedom, I accepted the freedom I already possess? What if I looked down and the chains that have bound me for so long had already been broken? What if I turned to see that the cell door was standing wide open? What if I’ve got it backwards – what if instead of having to do something to get free - because I am free, I can do something? It stands to reason that if I can understand that God is more powerful than I am, then Jesus is probably not waiting around for me to perform the magical combination of actions to unlock my chains. Again with the misunderstanding.

Regardless, the mud pie isn't enough anymore. It stopped working, because a lie is still a lie no matter how many times I exchange it for the truth. The slum is not the sea no matter how many times I am told that it is. There will be days when I still wake up there, probably. Sometimes we will sit there, sulking, broken, the chains will feel too heavy to move. There will be days I need so many reminders of the sea that it will make the people who love me feel crazy.

I am comforted by Nouwen’s words about baby steps:
"The new country is where you are called to go, and the only way to go there is naked and vulnerable. For a while you experience real joy in the new country. But then you feel afraid and start longing again for all you left behind, so you go back. To your dismay, you discover the old country has lost its charm. Risk a few more steps into the new country, trusting that each time you enter it, you will feel more comfortable and be able to stay longer."

Don't be afraid.
Risk a few more steps.
We're not slaves anymore. We can stop trying to free ourselves. We've been set free.

We can go home.

looking in all the wrong places

I do not like being asked hard questions.

I had to answer one recently about where I have been trying to find hope. Good golly miss Molly. I look for hope everywhere. I think a main source of discouragement in past months is that I have been in what looks to be a major hope drought. And as well as my seminary degree and years of Sunday school have taught me how to answer questions like that one, I realized - rather abruptly - that Jesus was not a part of my honest answer.

It's hard to admit that. It's hard to admit that after years of calling myself Christian I can still get so far off base. It's hard to admit that I convince myself all the time that people/things that aren't Jesus are going to contain the hope I want. I look for hope in humans, a lot - in friends & family & counselors & pastors. I look in books and sermons and blogs and songs and recovery groups. I put all my eggs in their baskets, begging for a line, a word, a lyric, a hug, a breakthrough, a blog post, anything that will give me the hope I want. I want hope for recovery. I want hope for a future that is better than this. I want hope for help and support and better days and less tears. I want to have hope. But people cannot love or validate me into recovery. Books and sermons and blogs don't contain magic hope formulas. No matter how many times I listen to a beautiful song, it will not change my heart. Which is why time after time I strike out. Time and again I think - maybe - maybe this time... yes I think I've found -- nope. Fakeout. A-swing-and-a-miss. Hope is hard.

Shortly after I answered the hope question and had a tiny panic attack, I read this in 1 Thessalonians:

"[the] gospel came to you not simply with words, but also with power."

Hot diggity. I forgot about power.

I felt so silly. I was too caught up in my attempted hope harvest that I didn't even notice it was missing. Power. In the gospel there is power. Not just words. It's not all talk. In Jesus there is power. God is powerful. I, on the other hand, am not. My powerlessness is easy for me to wrap my brain around, because it makes itself apparent in every minute of my little life. But a power that is great enough to be bigger than everything that overpowers me kind of makes my head spin. In the good way - but still, I'm dizzy. From the spinning.

As unbelievably lame as this is, I looked up the definition of hope. And actually, I'm glad I did.

a feeling of expectation or desire. 
a person or thing that may help or save someone. 
grounds for believing something good may happen. 
a feeling of trust.

I can't remember the last time I felt those things securely. I think sometimes we spend so much time looking for hope in places where hope doesn't live that we forget how to expect. How to desire. What it might be like to be truly helped or saved. What it might be like to actually believe something good may happen. How to trust. To find true, authentic rest not in words, but in power. I looked in words, and I looked hard - and although I caught a glimmer here and there, I always came up short.

because words are not power.
hope is not found in humans or in books or in songs.
hope is more than a word.

hope is found in power. 
power that is not mine...
... and it is not yours.

it is Jesus. Jesus is where hope lives. 
and I imagine that hope is as powerful as I think it is. and then some.  

and THIS is why I love Facebook.

 

[storypeople]

this is a world filled with love & other things that have the sense not to waste time talking about everything under the sun & see how it glows with no help from us whatsoever? 

what love looks like

quality time, ice cream for dinner, & cards from Texas

shared tears, copious hand-holding, "me toos," & gifts of going second

emails, rainbow brite pencil sets, a UPS notification, & affirmation

cool whip & graham crackers & silly tv shows

hugs, a clean car, admitting, protection, so much grace, & laughter

I'm sorry & that's hard & it's okay

hearing hard truths, recognizing lies, & personal days

I was wrong, I screwed up, & please forgive me

acceptance, permission, honesty, coffee, a replaced straightener, & sarcasm

hope, help, & reminding me who I am when I forget

checking in, offers of street justice, lullabies, mix cd's, & validation

"she's my best babysitter, but you're my best Meggie" & "I want to sit in yours lap"

weakness, strength, hearing & being heard

consistency, forgiveness, & the sharing of intense irrationality

distraction, focus, talking, not talking, & sitting

feeling safe, not afraid, secure, & sure

When we were little, we had a boy babysitter, Jason. I thought he was so great. I remember lying in bed one night and Jason poked his head in my door from the hallway. He saw me, awake, and nervously said, "oh, hey, just checking to make sure you were still breathing" and then made a swift exit. I remember thinking that that was really weird, because why would I not be breathing? Now, of course, I know that he was checking on me (however awkwardly). And even though I didn't know why the heck he would be concerned about my breathing, I know that I felt safe. His care just looked different than, say, Holly's. (Holly was our other babysitter. Who was also great. Until one day the police came when she was over and told her there was a report of someone being on our roof and I'm pretty sure traumatized her so badly I'm not sure she ever babysat again ever. But that's another story for another time.)

It's a silly example, but my point is, just like Jason's weird way of checking on me made me feel safe, love, too, takes different forms. The delivery is inconsequential so long as the message gets across. Sometimes it's hard to come out and say, "I'll keep you safe." But even as a little girl, on some level, I knew that's what Jason meant. It may make things tricky sometimes, but I think I like that love looks so many different ways. I think I like that graham crackers & cool whip can leave me just as assured that I am loved as "I love you" can. I know I like that there are people in my life who know when we need ice cream for dinner or that sometimes I just need to hear that I'm somebody's best Meggie. I like that Jesus makes himself known in street justice just as much as in safety. I like that there are so many ways to give and receive love.

I like that I'm given it. Abundantly. Even when I suck or I'm crazy or I'm broken down.

I am thankful for love that was delivered to me in so many different ways today
& for the miraculous absence of emptiness at the end of a day I felt sure would end emptily

when things stay awesome

There are some things that, no matter how old you get, are always awesome.

When you're a kid, quite often things happen that are absolutely pee-your-pants awesome (for those of you with incontinence issues in your childhood (or currently, for that matter), I do not mean any disrespect to you and your formerly wet pants. Please don't take my language personally). And you think, "won't it be sad when one day I don't get pee-your-pants excited about awesome things anymore?" And then you're an adult and something awesome happens - and much to your surprise and joy - YOU WET YOURSELF! No, I'm kidding, that would be gross. But your heart starts beating faster and you are still excited as though you are 6 years old and you just walked downstairs on Christmas morning and, thank goodness, Santa Claus came AGAIN even though you were a little brat for 360/365 days of the year. It is a wonderful feeling to realize that all of the childlike glee is not forever missing from your now grownup and boring life. Here are some of the things I have discovered recently that are this kind of wonderful.

getting a new bike.
  
This is basically the end-all-be-all experience of being a kid - when on that aforementioned Christmas morning you get your first bike. Mine was pink (at least the one I remember was) and it had streamers and a basket for carrying dandelions in. (I'm pretty sure none of that is true, but who's to say? In my imagination its true and that's what counts here.) A bike is a rite of passage. A true sign that you have arrived. Walk to the playground? No freakin way. I'll take my new bike. No big deal. I recently was gifted a new bike (new to me) and it is just as exciting. Riding your bike in Denver gives you instant street cred. Second best is driving a Subaru Outback. I can't stop riding my bike places. (Ok, mostly I can't stop talking about how I'm riding my bike places. Street cred is important to me.) Especially the park. Few things make me feel cooler than rolling up to an ultimate frisbee game on my new little bike. I. have. arrived. Both literally and figuratively.
 
queen anne's lace.
 
There is queen anne's lace growing on the side of my house. I love it so much.
Yes, I know its a weed. No, that does not make me love it less.
 
making a new friend.
 
Sometimes when I get a new friend, I have to resist the urge to immediately grab their hands and jump up and down, invite them over for a sleepover at my house, and ask them if they can come to my birthday party (which is 11 months away at the moment, but that's not important). It all happens so fast! This is another thing that really doesn't get less exciting. There is nothing greater than meeting a person and realizing that you really like them. Like them so much, in fact, that you're going to have to exhibit immense amounts of self control in order to maintain your cool and not freak them out within the first 6 minutes of meeting them. Eventually, if you're lucky, you'll get to have the FDTR - the friend 'defining the relationship' convo - and you'll discover that the jump-up-and-down feeling is mutual. Then (and only then) you may jump up and down. Holding hands if you prefer.
  
lemonade stands.
 
I do not get less excited about lemonade stands at 25 than I did when I was 7. Of course, I'm not having them these days, but I tell you what - I stop every time I see one, and I love it every time. There are 2 boys (Max & Jake) who have a lemonade stand about a block over from City Park every Sunday during Jazz in the Park. This is brilliant. They have lemonade, dog treats, and homemade baked goods that are legitimately delicious. We've been there a few times (we are regulars, they know us) and they ARE SO CUTE. Last week they told us that all of the proceeds were matched by their mom and put in their college fund. The other half they get to keep. Which is adorable in writing and even more adorable coming out of their little mouths as they try to sell us another brownie "to take to our friends." Great little businessmen.
 
invitations.

I'm pretty sure I've mentions 6 trillion times how much I love invitations. I love being invited places. If it were a love language, it would surely be mine. And now, yes, we've moved to a less exciting e-vite, facebook-vite style, which is sort of boring. I only like them slightly less than pink sparkly princesses telling me that YOU - ME? - YES. ME. (deep breaths) - have been invited to whatshername's pink sparkly princess party. Glory be.
 
the opposite sex.
 
9 year old girls talk about boys. 13 year old girls don't talk about anything other than boys. 15 year old girls maybe date some boys, but mostly just talk about them. (This continues into your 20's.) Somehow, it is still just as exciting as that time in 5th grade when Bradford called to ask me if I liked Steven, hung up, called Steven, called me back (Bradford, not Steven), to ask me if I'd like to "go out" with Steven (be still my heart!). Which clearly means maybe sit together at lunch once (but probably not), talk on the phone sometimes (through Bradford, more than likely), and essentially never talk again (to each other - you talk about each other with everyone, of course, because duh, you're going out). I moved to Kansas in the middle of 5th grade. Steven and I couldn't break up, because that would require a conversation. (We're still together. Technically.)
  
juice boxes & popsicles.
 
This is really a pretty random comment which I am making only because in the past week these two magical treats have significantly raised my quality of life. Juice boxes are always a mood-booster. Never not a good choice. I don't buy them often (because I'm a grownup) but when I do, it brings me such joy and delight to reach into the fridge and grab one. And since it's approximately 1 billion degrees outside each day, popsicles are a must-have. Having that cold treat when it is 96 degrees (in my bedroom) keeps me from hurling myself into oncoming traffic.
 
This is what I have on my list for now. What's on yours?

to live clandestinely (1 part remix, 1 part book report)

This is a little thing I like to call a REMIX. The original post was titled "love is a battlefield," a truth which I believe still stands. Love IS a battlefield. Thank you, Pat Benetar, for handing us said truth in such a catchy phrase and in such a great great song. I appreciate that about you.

  

In the aforementioned post (which has been coming up in conversation quite often, of late), I came to the general conclusion that I should give relationships the go-ahead, because as C.S. Lewis said, if you choose NOT to risk the vulnerability of love, "[your heart] will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable." This does not seem like a great situation. In referring to this option as "the casket of your selfishness" Sir Lewis has made a fairly clear statement about which option he personally votes for. Not much ambiguity there.

  

Regardless, this whole concept is getting kind of hard. When I wrote that post, I meant what I wrote - I did (and do) think it is a worthwhile cause to love and be vulnerable, because obvi, caskets of selfishness are not the kinds of places I enjoy spending my time. But lately I am feeling less kindred with Lew and a ever so slightly more with Jenny Lynn (the song I posted last week) --

  

wounded - you let your guard down & feel stupid

you wish you never would have trusted

your heart in someone else's hands

  

Yes. At the current moment, this is far more accurate. I (among others) am tired of being vulnerable and getting kicked in the face for it. We want to be seen and heard and accepted and loved, but to let another person into those places opens you up to a whole horrific cocktail of hurt and pain. And because we are sinny, broken humans, we are, by extension, a race of heartbreakers. So the question was posed to me yesterday: what was I going to do about this state of affairs? Retreat to my casket of selfishness? Hide in my bedroom until the end of time? Was I going to quit? I thought, yes. Quitting is an attractive option.

  

Last night I finished a great book (and for the record, I did not always think it was great). It is a story of a highly intelligent, self-proclaimed "clandestine" woman in her mid-fifties. She is alone. She strikes up an unlikely friendship (my favorite kind) with a pre-teen who intends to take her own life because she has given up entirely on the worthwhileness (is that even a word?) of living. Seriously, for over half the book, I was incredibly bored. I thought the characters were fairly dull and their lives mundane and I wasn't terribly interested. But then - they meet one another and begin to interact and describe each other instead of just themselves and the whole story takes a huge turn. It becomes interesting. The voice, the tone, changed. The characters became deep and vibrant and beautiful - people I barely recognized - in the others' eyes and words. In relationship, in community, the characters came alive. I don't think I've ever read anything quite like it. 

  

Without giving away any crucial plot points, the whole novel points to a person's willingness to be vulnerable with another person. Which is funny. I have this long, tearful conversation yesterday morning about the possibility of quitting on relationships. Then in the evening I pick up this boring book (I hate to not finish books, so I had to press on) and this, unexpectedly, is it's entire message. Although this case is a little hyperbolic in comparison to myself (as I am sometimes a hider but am far too extroverted to cross over into full hermitude (also not a word)), the fact remains: to live clandestinely was miserable (not to mention boring). To watch as these characters - hiders, both of them - come out of hiding, and completely transform because of it? HOW CAN I NOT KEEP TRYING?! Ugh. I hate when the hard thing is the right thing. Hate it.

  

but it's all okay - I think you may have made the best mistake
I think we're made to give ourselves away
'cause there's no other way to live

I can almost hear the hearts of the clandestines, silently pleading: 

jenny lynn, I wish that I had your thin skin

I wish that I could let the love right in
maybe I'd rather feel the pain

'cause freedom is a naked heart that always dares to give

I guess if the alternative is to live clandestinely - a lonely hider sequestered to a casket of her selfishness - 

I will (reluctantly, today) choose nakedness. The metaphorical kind. 

 And, by extension - fingers crossed - freedom. 

i think you may have made the best mistake

I can't get over how much I love this song. Beauty. (listen to it here)

jenny lynn, by katie herzig

all at once, your city crumbles like Babylon
even the gardens you've been hanging on
disappear before your eyes
take your time, let the words sink in before you say your mind
heaven knows we all get lost sometimes
and you will find your way back

wounded; you let your guard down and feel stupid
you wish you never would have trusted
your heart in someone else's hands
but it's all okay - I think you may have made the best mistake
I think we're made to give ourselves away
'cause there's no other way to live

jenny lynn, I wish that I had your thin skin
I wish that I could let the love right in
maybe I'd rather feel the pain
cause freedom is a naked heart that always dares to give
a willingness to let the tenderness be taken as it may

drowning in love

I think its possible that my friends have ruined me for all other people.
(disclaimer: this post is pretty simply just a love letter to my friends because I had such a wonderful weekend that I want it to be memorialized on this blog until the end of time. read on if you want to be jealous.)

I just got back from my bestie, Lori Ingersoll (now Zabor!)'s wedding in Kilgore, TX. It was one of those things that I was looking forward to for so long I didn't hardly know what to do with myself when the day actually came that I boarded the jet plane to that hellishly humid state. I arrived in Texas, immediately started sweating, and tiny Alix and I made our (long, long, long) journey to East TX. 

The entire weekend was perfect. I don't think I could have been more filled with glee unless it was my own wedding. And I got sappier than I have gotten in a very long time, which is something in itself. I thought my heart was literally going to explode when my beautiful best friend, absolutely emanating happiness, walked down the aisle to meet sweet Bobby - who I can't help but love for how well he loves tiny Lori. As I watched their sweet ceremony (Lori's dad married them, bring on the waterworks) it occurred to me how proud and honored I was to be right there with her, fixing her train and standing beside her, nervously hoping not to drop the ring and trying desperately not to lock my knees and pass out during the prayer. (Maids of Honor have approximately one million jobs, which I was not aware of until this weekend, fyi. Worth it, for sure, but you really have to bring your a-game!) The whole thing was just too good. It was the kind of weekend that makes you want to just cry all day every day the following week because its over. Quite literally, my entire body hurts from all the fun I had. Which I think is kind of great.

Best of all, I spent some really legit quality time with a significant portion of my inner circle, which is just so good for my soul. Friends are special for different reasons. High school friends were with me through the awkward years, through fights with parents and not making sports teams and celebrating leading roles in 8th grade plays (not to brag). My now-friends have the advantage of knowing me, well, now. They are current and constant and that is beautiful. They're the people with whom I've learned to be honest and genuine and I love that. 

But my college friends were there while I grew up. They lived with me, laughed with me, cried with me, held my hair back when I was young and fairly stupid, participants in the wildest and best and worst nights I can remember. These women know my heart. I LOVE THAT. These are the people I could spend hours with on a hotel floor and it would be the greatest thing ever. My weird idiosyncrasies are met with theirs; I know when they are sad and faking that they aren't; they know exactly what to do when I'm a freaking mess (a gift few people possess). I don't really even know how all of this happened, its just how it is. Our reciprocal loves for one another looks many ways: it looks like 5 hour long hypothetical conversations about wormholes & ice sculptures; it looks like cry-laughing in a stairwell (or bathroom, as the case may be); like constant, hyperbolic affirmation; the cupid shuffle; acceptance over breakfast tacos; the sharing of our intense irrationalities; copious amounts of street justice, when necessitated; like a perfectly timed g-chat conversation or greeting card. So much love.

And, to my dear bestie Lori, constantly the one loving us well and building us up and being the truest friend ever, I think I speak for all of us when I say that it was truly an honor and a great great blessing to get to be at your beck & call for once. You - my bestie, my best blog commenter, my great support, you have patiently put up with my crazy for nearly 7 years now - you made a stunning, flawless bride - and I've not a doubt that you will make a wonderful wife. You bring out the best in all of us. I am forever grateful for the ghetto IHOP in which we met.

The moral of the story is that somehow, pretty much from the beginning, the best people have found their way into my life. You are ruining me for all other people. I hope you're happy. 

[I am]

stories with no endings (yet)

I used to think you couldn't tell a story until it was over.

Until "the end" was written, until the happy ending came, it wasn't even really a story. Basically what I'm telling you is that I used to think real life was supposed to be just like a Disney movie. No one wants to see the bad guy battle scene without assurance that the prince (or whoever our gallant hero is) eventually wins. I can't imagine how traumatized I would have been as a wee one if I thought Ursula kept Ariel's voice forever, or if Prince Charming never found Cinderella and put the glass slipper on her tiny Barbie-like feet. But sometimes I felt like the way things went for me, Snow White would be asleep forever. The Tramp would tell Lady to get over herself and they would never eat spaghetti until their little noses touched for a magical moonlight dog-kiss. (I could go on for 12 years with this and love every second of it. Don't worry. I won't.) No one wants to hear the messy middle parts without the happy ending. I certainly didn't. You may have noticed, however, that the past 3 years of my life could basically be summed up by the phrase, "Megan, you're wrong." My Disney logic is no exception.

I like hanging out with messy people (and of course since we are all sort of messy, I mean the people who are honest about their messiness). I like sitting in a recovery group with a bunch of complete messes (myself included); sitting in Cafe Europa or at the Irish Rover or on the little red couch that I got for free, and hearing and telling stories without endings. I like not feeling alone, I like loving people even when they say ugly things, and I especially like being loved when I have ugly things to say. I don't like addiction. I don't like brokenness, I don't like pain or hardship or struggle or loss, and I don't like that our lives are all pretty much some cocktail of all of that junk. Of course not. But the fact of the matter is that they are, and I love love love finding those rarest of places where it is ok to be authentic about it. Because it's there - in basements or on couches or patios, in the light - that healing, wholeness, and recovery become (sometimes for the very first time) a genuine possibility.

And if getting to the low point, if feeling desperate and depressed and addicted and screwy is what has to happen to bring us to said rare places, then I might even be thankful for my messy-no-end-yet story. Which I can legitimately tell you I never ever thought I would say.
I thought there had to be a "the end" or a "happily ever after."
I thought messy stories were no good.

"Megan. You're wrong."

re: previous post title

another gem from Mr. Jonah Werner:

Unbeknownst to you and me, beyond the place of tyranny, there lies a love that holds us in sure and constant watch.
How past the place of future crashing and far beyond the tongues and lashing 
there lies a blaze that’s burning, never to be drenched.
When people live and love beyond themselves, hearts betray this bitter world, there’s bound to be a breaking.
But I can’t sweat for better yet when all I have is manifest in who I am, who I was, and what I’m not mistaking:
that this is freedom, living and loving hard when guarantees are lewd and shard –
I can’t rest on human souls, cause they’re impractical and bruising. 
There has got to be more, there’s got to be something deeper out there and I hope that you look and you find.
Because people are being restored where vines and branches sever more – never have I been so crazy,
kick the doors to free me to say that I’m alive and I’m thriving still, I’ve lost my feet but I won’t lose my will.
You can hurt, but you cannot kill the raging fires of a man who’s been caught by human lies time after time,
who’s been soaked and choked and wrung by compromise, who was once dead, but is now alive.

there's bound to be a breaking. hooray.

never have I been so crazy

It's June, which means summer, and summertime is so great. Although, may I take a moment to complain about the fact that for the first time in my life the arrival of summer literally changes nothing about my life? This is the first time ever I haven't been on a semester schedule, which means with summer comes change of some kind (no school & work instead, or new classes, or a new schedule, something) and this summer NOTHING IS CHANGING. I still go to the hedge fund. I still go to the J.Crew. I still do everything I did all spring. Being an adult is LAME.

I'm excited about summer though. There are lots of fun things ahead, fun weddings and consequent reunions, fun road trips and plane trips and concerts and shows and bike rides to bars and Sundays in the park. All of this is stellar. But I think I need an attitude switch & a fresh start. Because I've been kind of a brat, of late. And granted, some situations have possibly warranted a little brattiness. Or at least emotions, if not the full-on-bratitude. On a scale of possibility, it is possible to very possible that I am beginning to toe this line.

I'm a brat in large part I think because I still believe a lot of crap that isn't true - which I have written about enough times that writing it now would be redundant. Talking about it on my blog helps in that brain = dark & blog = light and bringing things into the light = fab, but the "publish" button does not have a direct link to my soul (because I googled it and I guess they haven't figured that out yet. I think there might be an iPhone app but since I don't have a job I can't afford one of those.) and making a list on my blog is only a teensy piece of the healing equation. It's a start. But I write these things - I beg for relief  - and over and over again all I feel is grief that they do not yet seem real. Bottom line? My faith is kind of wimpy.

but hip-hip-hooray, faith of epic proportions is not a requirement:

The apostles said to the Lord, "Increase our faith!"

Jesus replied: "If you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mulberry tree, 'Be uprooted and planted in the sea,' and it will obey you." 

I suppose what I'm getting at, in the end, is that maybe thats all I can do today. A baby step or two. 
Isn't that kind of awesome? Even just the mustard seed is enough.

Which is super fortunate, because it appears to be all I've got.