find your snow.

It is no surprise that I practically abhor the winter season.  I grew up with “White Christmas” defined by the color of the sand on the gulf shores and the caps to the waves.  I have about a 15 degree threshold for temperature variance. Somewhere between 75 and 90.  I’m a staunch believer that Christmas does not begin until after Thanksgiving is over.  I live in the same two pair of black riding pants from November through March. I slept in my boot socks.  I cried at the first snowfall (and subsequent iced-over-windshield-scraping) of the season.  I don’t take my coat off when entering a building.  I don’t handle cold mornings with much grace. 

But then, something magical happens.  This white, semi-solid, uniquely and individually designed particles start falling from the sky.  But that’s not even the magical part; what’s most miraculous is how it immediately causes my heart to react.  It’s as if, suddenly, I’ve forgotten my limbs have lost sensation, and I begin to lose all reason.  Maybe snow in general is still enough of a spontaneous rarity that I’ve not yet become familiarly acquainted with its negative properties.

I stand. I stare. I gawk. I watch, as the flurries float effortlessly towards the ground, often detouring and giving shape to the unseen gusts blowing them every-which-way and back again. And as the flakes seem momentarily suspended, it’s the closest I’ve ever felt to time standing still.

Winter itself, and perhaps it’s the holiday season specifically, conjures up feelings of nostalgia for something that never was.  There’s a romantic notion about white skies and bare trees. It’s a paradox of sorts.  Snow is the culmination of every frigid little thing I detest about winter, yet, it’s the one saving grace for the season.

Whatever season you’re in in life: transition. waiting. grief. rebuilding. winter.  Find your snow.  Find the one thing that brings out the beauty amidst the barren.  Seek the solace that causes you to forget how cold it is.  And rejoice that the Lord has provided grace for even the most difficult of seasons.

***

Tuesday Typing Tunes: “Hazy” - Rosi Golan | “It Is Well With My Soul” - Daniel Martin Moore | “Such Great Heights” (cover) – Iron and Wine | “Deep In Your Eyes” – Jon Foreman | “Brand New Day” – Joshua Radin | “Jesus Paid it All” – Fernando Ortega | “Photographs and Memories” – Jason Reeves | “Still” – Matt Nathanson | “Down” – Jason Walker | “Trees and Flowers” – Enter the Worship Circle

a bulemic at a buffet

just about any of us post-collegiate's can relate.  you're at a social gathering, a meeting with colleagues, volunteering in your community or at your child's school.  next to introducing yourself, the most commonly asked and answered question is, "so, what do you do?" 

our identity is so stooped in our vocation, that next to our name, we are known as or even referred to by our job title.  i'm a teacher.  i'm a student.  i'm a doctor.  i'm a musician.  to an extent, it's much easier to answer the question with "i teach kindergarten," simply because I spend between 50 and 60 hours a week devoting my life to just that.

if afforded the opportunity to expound, and granted the interest in the answer is beyond surface level asking-to-be-nice, i might share what my day looks like, the things i enjoy about it, or the challenges it presents, daily.  and chances are, i will offer the courteous follow-up, "and what about you?"

to a certain point, simply stating our vocation depicts a fairly accurate description of our identity and character, but it's also strangely limiting.  i am much more than a teacher.  and during many parts of my day, i dream about those parts of me that are starving for the same attention i devote to teaching.  granted, it might come off fairly odd to respond to that question with "i'm a dreamer. a writer. a traveler. a do-er. a child of God. an extrovert stuck in the season of introverted-ness. a server."  i'm sure that would elicit a few sets of rolled eyes and potentially the end of the conversation.

i went to school for teaching. teaching is what pays the bills. education is a passion of mine, and on most days, i feel like it's where i am supposed to be.

but regardless of what our calendars or wardrobe may suggest, we can not be reduced simply to what we do as a career.

so why then, do we spend so much time and effort into developing that part of our identity, and so little to the other parts; the other parts that often make us feel more alive and like "ourselves" than our job?

we starve our passions, and we call ourselves committed to excellence in our job.  we don't nourish the parts of us that refresh us, and we wonder why we are exhausted at the end of our work day.  we flex our corporate muscles when what lies under the suit and tie is suffering from atrophy. we give all of ourselves to a career that leaves us feeling worn, unhappy, under appreciated, or insignificant. we get home from work, only to continue to send emails, work on projects, lesson plan, or think about nothing more than work.

exercising more than one part of the body brings your body into balance.  focusing on just the arms will leave you top-heavy.  focusing on just the legs would leave you weak.  at risk of sounding nameste-esque, we need to bring our lives into the zen we were created to have.

you have been given unique talents and abilities and gifts and passions.  maybe you're not even good at them, but you love doing them when no one is looking.  dear one, exercise those things!  allow yourself time (longevity) to grow into them.  but first, allot yourself time (schedule-wise) to spend on them.

yesterday morning, i had a moment of peace in my busy day in which i felt joy from teaching.  to be incredibly transparent, i don't feel that often each week.  and at the same time when i felt a love for teaching, i simultaneously wanted to quit my job and be a starving artist or writer, holed up in a corner coffee shop, scribbling notes and ideas that allow my creative side to flourish. 

I realized since the start of the school year, I have only fed and poured into the part of my identity labeled teacher.  my other identities were starved for attention, and i felt the hunger pangs that were drawing me into feeding my creative side.  i could hardly wait to get these words out of my mind and onto a page.  not that they are ground breaking or new, but for the simple sake of writing.  for the act of artistically and systematically stringing together sentences of alliterations. of expressing feelings that aren't neccessarily coupled with linguistic expression until the words trickle onto the page at the mercy of my finger tips.

American writer and essayist, Flannery O'Connor once said, "I write because I don't know what I think until I read what I say."  Selfishly, I write to make sense of the mess that is going on inside my heart and mind.  Writing brings unity to the chaos.  Words on the page are the universal language to the multitude of dialetcs being spoken and (mis)interpreted in the silent space between my ears.

Secondarily, I write in hopes that it brings sense to those that read it as well.  for those yes! moments in which we feel as if someone relates. in hopes that my experiences will help reveal the mystery of the metaphors life often speaks to us.

i've never run a marathon, but i volunteered at the finish line once (and that pretty much counts). i imagine that crossing that line is like hitting "publish" on a post.  it may not have been pretty.  it may have taken a lot longer than you anticipated.  and you may have done it just for you.  but the feeling when you get when you're finished, the satisfaction of having done it, knowing that you had it in you all along: these things make the investment worth it.

so, feed yourself. and well. not the junky, fast-food version that does nothing more than make you not-hungry. indulge, even if it means making extra time to add the extra ingredients to make it extra savory.  it's good for you. it makes you healthier.  a healthier you is a happier you.  whether that you is a dreamer, a dancer, a doctor, or a do-er.  feast on, friend!  i'll be right behind ya in line at the buffet!

to callings beyond careers,
xo

new-ances.

you and i both know it, so there's little reason to spend a ton of time discussing my absence here.  i could lie and say i've been busy, but that's not really the case. i could say that i haven't felt much like talking, or that i wouldn't know what to say; but those two would be fallacies.

living in Indianapolis has not been Nashville.  this fall has not been last fall, and this year has not been last year.  this move was not like my move to Tennessee a short six-and-a-half years ago. this coffee shop i'm sitting in is more Taking Back Sunday than Sufjan; this Mexican Hot Chocolate is definitely not a Mayan Mocha from The Well (which definitely is not in Indy, either).

so, i'm adjusting.  i've been slow to write, because i've been slow to acclimate.  embarrassingly slow.  like, an i-thought-i'd-be-good-at-this-by-now, but-i-was-wrong sort of pace.

and that's okay.  Indy was not meant to be Nashville.  and this year was not meant to resemble the one prior, or any others for that matter.  nothing here is meant to replace that which came before it.  nothing here can take away that which already exists.

there's a deep tension in life of what we have and what we are missing.  contentment happens when we focus on what we have.  resentment happens when we focus on what we are missing. 

when I first moved, it was difficult to see past all the life I have just given up to transplant myself in a new city.  all the changes at once: new city, new job (and the initial lack of one), new district with new curriculum and a new demographic and new administration, a new church, a new house; and all of the things missing: friendships that have surpassed a decade, or even longer than 10 minutes, being roommateless for the first time ever, those local spots that felt like second homes (second reference of The Well, in case you missed it), my yoga class from 4 blocks away, faith friendships that i could call on with a moment's notice, even just knowing where to get the best taco (the perma-parked truck on Charlotte) or good felafel (Farmer's Market). I felt the tangible absence of each and everyone of these things.

And, even in the presence of the goodness of why I moved (my own personal McDreamy), it was hard not to feel the withdrawal pains of all I chose to leave behind.  it was much less of a battle against resentment than it was a fight for contentment.

i expected carbon-copies of friendships and churches and coffeehouses. and the reality is, not only is that unrealistic, it is also limiting and mildly insulting that those things could ever be replaced.

i'm finding a rhythm to life.  the cadence to this new song is different than that i've danced to before.  but different is not bad.  how often are you afforded the chance to start anew?  to build a life from scratch, and share in that new life with the one you love?  to fall face-first into new experiences and treasure them as unique and valuable and shaping?

in the same way i expected to replicate life from Nashville in Indianapolis, i've expected my walk with the Lord to be duplicitous to how I've experienced Him in prior seasons of change.

I'm learning that the ways I've experienced the Lord, or looked to Him, or grown to know Him in the past, are not the ways I'm experiencing Him, looking to Him, or growing with Him here, in the present. At first, I thought that meant I was doing it all wrong. But after the tides have settled from the drastic ebbs and flows of change, I've been able to see that in this new season, I need Him in new ways. and a good friend reminded me during a quick meet-up in Nashville that is the way it is supposed to be.

He says I am, because, He is. all things. any thing. every thing. exactly what I need. even when I don't see it, don't notice it. 

in this new season, I need a fresh facet of His face.  where i've latched on in faith before, I may need His hands to hold me in my doubts.  where i've walked in confidence, I've forgotten my identity in Him, and desire Him to patch up the places of my life that have been riddled with the holes of insecurity.  the aspects of His character that I've gotten to know intimately have suddenly felt foreign.  and for a time, it left me feeling that i was holding onto the tattered rags of what once was, but is no longer.  it was a scary place to be.

but i can't help but think of the tabernacle from the Old Testament. it had to be torn down, and reconstructed to a set of standards each time it moved on to a new place among the people.  God has been hard at work rebuilding my tabernacle, and although it's a life-long journey, I think this phase of the project has just met completion.

as scary as that can be, it has been beautiful.  although we're in the throws of fall, my heart seems to be on the verge of spring.  and what's prettier than Paris in the spring?