No Clever Title.

So the curtain begins to close on yet another semester. It's incredibly nostalgic and strange to look back on the past two and a half years of my life and note all the changes. Since I have made the executive decision to only let nostalgia haunt me when I'm feeling rested and mentally capable, I will not discuss such things at length on this blog today. I am not rested--and the only thoughts running through my head are thoughts such as: "Remember to note the picardy third! Beethoven, why do you hate me? Macgamut, I will end you. Exogesis, not Eisogesis..." Really, quite insane. In short; it is finals week, and I am tad stressed. Moving on.


Life is a myriad of choices that
Capitalize on the essence of free will
And
Poor judgment. 
But those choices we will label 'poor'
Make the next choice
Wiser.
So we pose the question:
Is any choice really unwise if it makes us wiser?
Perhaps mistakes are defined by that we refuse to learn from
And not poor decisions.

But
Yesterday is like a cloud,
And I wake up in the body of one
I used to know not.

She's grown to be quite the
Lovely young lady
You know--
She can hit you in soft spots
Without needing to appologize
If you really deserve it.
But she still decides to
Lend an ear
To those who lavish love.
Sometimes.

She goes back to the bedroom
And it's like a fog of yellow
Until she realizes she's been dreaming
Of Band Names, Lilies, and speeches from friends
Who have known the story that ended.

She wakes up and resolves to write the novel
Still
For there is processing to be done.
And
She thinks she likes this scene better.

There can't be a mistake at hand
If the poor decision made you
Wiser
And caused you to freefall
Into green arms handing you yellow lilies for things
Like anniversaries.
I think I'd do it again. 

~Rachel~

Beat-Beat and Tick-Tock.

Hand to Hand
And
Heart to Heart
Creating these things--
That scare me.

Happiness and Heart-Soaring Hiccups in my Whole.
A
Word
After
A
Word
Is power
When it's accompanied with time
And a interlocked handhold.

Theology challenged
In the
Face of
what fits better than
A
Heartbeat that ticks.

Friend, you are my best
And
I will be your best
Because I decide
With a mind
that could challenge
Scholars.

And I'll challenge you--
My heartbeat, my joy.

Because that is what being a heart means.

It means a him and me
Because together we are
We--

Time.
That is the definition of proof.
Beat-Beat and Tick-Tock
Goes the clock of us.
Light this fire--
And hold my hand even
Tighter.

Because I choose to forfeit fear
And
Throw them to
The array of yellow lilies on my bed-stand.



~Rachel~

Certainty.

We walk through the land of the certain.

We cascade through days

Like it's

Nothing.

And oh, we are certain

Of what we feel

And positive of

Nothing

When certainty breaks

Like glass.

And I, the viper

And he, the snail

And I, the butterfly

And he, the bear.

We know of everything

Until the dawn

When proportion is

Nothing.

And feeling is

Everything

But feeling shifts like

the

Flicker of streetlights

In Amsterdam

And Country Gables.

So I, the child

And he, the adult

And I, machine

And he, the operator.

Dizzy up the lines

Like it's

Nothing

Oh, certainty is

Nothing.

~Rachel~

My Lion.

Often in life we are encouraged to face fears, to chase lions, to humble ourselves and be in the center of a scruple we wish to run from. Sometimes those are cages of our own making; the inescapable reality of humanity and the woes it has inflicted on you while you inflict it on others. Other times those lions are mere creatures that look more frightening than they ought.

This fear, this lion, was something I had to face. So I walked with confidence and reliance on my ability to enclose myself with brick. Oh, you know the travesties of one who has far too much emotion--but not I, the solid, the brick, the wall, the red flag woman. I feel only what I choose. I am in control.

If only such a thing were true. But no, I am the paux de doux with a smile like a china doll. I am joyful, but I am porcelain. I am solid, but I am glass. I am that wall as long as it is not that fear that makes my walls incinerate on contact. (That fear, that lion, was the thing I loved most in the world. That dance, that song, that structure, that comfort... that death of self, the death of it, the death of a love that was never meant to last.)

But Oh, I faced it, and I stared it down.

That lion and I shared smiles about how I could not tame it. I am no circus keeper you know. That lion is wild and free, and his mate, my fear, is lovely.

The lion belongs in Africa, in some exotic and beautiful land. Oh my fear is beautiful, and I love the thrill of the chase. But she, my fear, is graceful next to the lion of Africa--and they together are a pair of paradise.

So I stand knowing I faced and smiled at that lion like a porcelain doll, and my fear and I shook hands and danced in a crowd of familiar and strange faces. But I relent the chase. For the Lion is in the beautiful lands of the exotic and new, but I am just in California, and I wear the feather's of the birds he likes to eat.

So I relent; especially on the outside.

Roam, lion. Roam free.

~Rachel~

Disneyland and Stuff

It’s funny how things change in an instant. It’s amusing how one’s life can be transformed in seven days. Spontaneity has always called my name, but sometimes my head gets the better of me. It’s ironic how the plans we make, feeling rather adult, are possibly the most immature plans we can make. We cannot build a plan inside concrete because plans change, and breaking concrete presents difficult and messy matters.

So I sit here, wondering, bracing, enjoying, and taking in the essence of living in liberation. What a wonderful thing it is to have life just a little figured out, and what an even greater thing it is to have oneself sorted out a tad. I have lived my life in a series of pulling in and out of driveways in order to establish some semblance of belonging, or at least a base of such.

But I have grown so much, and there is not much that plagues the heart these days.

I have finally learned the art of letting go; the art of the emotional skydive. I am not certain where my life is headed, who I shall be, or who I shall be with. I am only certain of this: I love my God with my whole heart, and I am at His beck and call. I have never been so satisfied, and yet filled with such a holy discontent. I love the chase, the chase after my Savior. I love how safe His arms are, how beautiful His plans are. I love how He makes life seem so spontaneous.

He has blessed me with a week of growth, with smiles that outlast the days, and with a heart full of joy, peace, laughter, and a holy longing. There is nothing else I can ask for—He is holding my universe, and spinning it at a pace more exciting than a rollercoaster.

~Rachel~

Ideal:
1.a conception of something in its perfection.

2.a standard of perfection or excellence.

3.a person or thing conceived as embodying such a conception or conforming to such a standard, and taken as a model for imitation

I am not one who prizes herself to be a planner or organizer. I am no skeptic who thinks about the ramifications of tomorrow. I am not a perfectionist, rather, I take delight in the imperfections around me. I cannot keep a calendar in order, because I believe this hinders daily creativity that keeps me ticking. I am a sensationalist, often to a fault. I like to be light enough to blow where the wind takes me, and I try my hardest to capture myself in the lack of plans surrounding my day-to-day life. That way I cannot be disappointed when a plan is broken.

I am a piece of silk; transparent and apt to float the ground when pushed off the table. I do not hit the bottom as a pencil would, rather, I take my time gracefully making my way to the carpet. You can see through me, but you can't determine where my stitching begins and ends. You can wear me eloquently, but my fabric is not built for longevity if I'm thrown with other fabrics in the washer.

We are all ideals sometimes; we are assumed to be people of perfection and grace. Truly, we are not trophies or treasures at all. In actually, we are a mere pile of flesh and bones, and I am a soul longing for a kindred spirit to behold me in my transparency and desire to know the parts that are laced with flaw and shortcomings.

Ideals undo one's mortality by creating temporary fantasy out of flesh. It's a tragic truth for all parties involved. Those who have been assumed to be a pinnacle of perfection can never live up to their name, and those who create the beastly fantasy are never satisfied with a flawed reality...

If we could only love and see with open eyes and willing hearts.

~Rachel~

Circles.

July is the month of choice
Where things come and go,
And
The tides rise and fall
Just like the heat waves
Come and go.

Catch the Current
Or be tossed by the wind,
And
The tides rise and fall
Just like scattered beats
Of Heart-Strings.

I avoid the extremes of July 103's
That plague the air around
And
I avoid the extremes
Of the Ball-Game
And
The card-game
Where I find the King of Hearts
Only to possess the Two of Spades.

And
The tides rise and fall,
And
The emotions toss and turn,
And
The mind is in and out
And
Your spirit is in a chess match
Like July is in heat.

Everything is like a circle
And
Things are and are not what they seem.

~Rachel~