a bruise in the shape of a ski on my bum.

it was supposed to be a fun day with the beau.  a two hour drive to the hills of Indiana.  sunshine, and actually above freezing.  a day outdoors after spending what has seemed like my entire time in Indianapolis holed-up inside avoiding the sub-arctic temps.

i tried not to notice it as the drive got long and winding.  i tried to ignore its presence like a misspoken word, in hopes he wouldn't notice and it wouldn't build and i could just go about the day being active and learning how to ski and tearing up the slopes.  but it stuck with me unnoticed, like dirtied, discarded gum on the bottom of my rain boots.

covered head-to-toe in heat-wielding accessories, with skis tightly secured to my rented boots, i hit the slopes.  I still had it.  I had been skiing only once before, at this very place, only falling once and thorougly enjoying myself.  certainly this would be the day i would graduate to the tougher runs and learn to cut in and out across the hills with the agility of a seasoned skiier.

and as i set forth down the first slope, panic overwhelmed my body. my chest felt hollow, as if no amount of breathing in would ever fill it with the oxygen needed to sustain life.  fearfilled my veins, and tears filled my eyes.  i wasn't close to falling, i wasn't unsteady on my feet.  my hands were shaking and i burst into tears before I could even come to a stop with my pizza-shaped ski position.

Ryan encouraged me from behind as i slowed to a stop on the other side of the path.  i couldn't go near him, i couldn't speak, i could hardly breathe.  the thought that i had to complete the course before i could even make it back up again ignited absolute terror throughout my body.  through the grace of God, I made it down (what to me was) the hill with the straight, deep, decline, and to the bottom by the ski lift. shaking and wiping away tears, i confessed what he already knew, that I had had a panic attack upon starting, and my body was overwhelmed right now.  i couldn't control the tears or the terror and felt awful for something like this ruining our day while we were just getting started.  he said he was more concerned with me being okay than him having fun, and I know he was sincere, but the thought of ruining his time just made me feel that much worse.

and every time i got to the top of the slope, no matter how many times i mastered it with ease, the cavity in my chest again became hollow, my hands never ceased to shake, and the terror never relented tormenting my mind.  and after a nasty spill the only time i tried a new run, one that left me with a ski up my bum (and the bruise to prove it happened) and no comfortable way to sit, each run was a battle to not give up, to do it afraid.  i was presented with the choice to make each time, to A) give into anxiety, and give up, just not even trying any more; or B) push past the anxiety, and do it in fear the whole time, stripping it of any fun that it could or should be?

it's this dilemma that drives me crazy.  in either option, i have zero control over my anxiety, and it wins.  as irrational as it can be, that is how it wins, every time.  it just has to show up.

so today, i start a new journey with my anxiety, and i ask that you would pray for me as each step is a little scary and asks me to be a little more vulnerable.  today i went to the doctor, and they prescribed an anti-depressant to help combat everything that has made me feel so unlike myself.  we will see how this goes.  right now, it's just for the next 6-9 months and we will reassess from there.  so much of my pride wants to not talk about this; wants to pretend all is fine and dandy all the time, and that i don't need to rely on anything outside of myself to help control the panic.  but that part of pride is a liar.  that part of pride wants to save face, rather than be real.  and although i can't control the anxiety, i can control my pride.

this post by jamie the very worst missionary spoke so much to me a year ago in this journey of discovering what i've been dealing with.  it also reflects a lot of honest thoughts i have had about trying to defeat this with a jesus-only prescription.

the bruise and welts and cut on my bum remind me that its a hard journey, and it will be filled with accidents and pain and days that are just no-good.  but, it also serves as a reminder that i did it.  afraid, yes.  but i still did it.  i start out these new steps with the same thoughts, and one day i'll look back and be grateful that I did it.

first things first.

about 2 years ago, i read a daily devotional that talked about Mary and Martha, and how they interacted with Jesus when they hosted Him for dinner one night.  Mary ran about the house, tidying things up, making sure the casseroles were baked and the laundry neatly folded.  Martha sat at His feet, and listened.  They each had very different ideas of hosting.

i like to think i've got a little bit of both personality in me.  when it begins, i'm totally Mary.  I plan and prep and cook away to make everything perfect, but when it's all said and done, i know that it's not the party that makes the people, it's the people that make the party.

i had planned to spend my day up at the school, getting things planned and prepped for thre upcoming week.  but instead, got wrapped into 3 hours of conversation about love and life and faith with Ryan's roommates.  as each minute ticked away, i thought of how i really should be headed out by now, but the resounding sensation in my heart and soul was that i was putting first things first.

these conversations are what awaken us to insight and enlightenment and joy and learning.  these conversations allow us to express our unique identity as human beings that we are simply able to express ideas and feelings and thoughts and beauty and love.  on top of that, these are the things that are good for our soul, contribute to our joy and sanity, and remind us that there is more to life than a clean desk or copies made.

so today, i vow to put first things first.  to put people ahead of projects.  to put feeding my soul ahead of checking off an item from my to-do list.  to sow into growing community and bonds and creativity, through conversations and insta-meets (yes, I'll be headed to an insta-meet this afternoon.  don't judge.).  relationships. discussion and dialogue. painting. writing. photography. dancing.  more of these things.

we work all week, and often into the evenings on work.  when do we work on self? on relationships?  on the parts of us we starve and sacrifice in order to meet the needs of our careers and callings?  there is much to be said about diligence and work ethic and professionalism.  but do those things fulfill us in the way that people and relationships and creativity can invoke joy and satisfaction and pure contentment?  i know it's a fine line, and most days, we must succumb to sacrifice and diligence because it's the responsible thing to do.  but some days, i don't buy that neglecting our humanity is responsible.  neglecting growing and building and sowing is what makes us machines, not humans.

put first things first.  the things that make you breathe and grow and love and give and live. those things.  those are first things.  everything else will survive if you nurture those things.  i'm sure of it.

because, it's not always summer. part II.

i sat there, in the yard, praying.  reflecting.  silently mouthing the words to "Your Love is Strong," and realizing that God probably honors our open-eyed prayers even more than our bowed-heads one, because we're able to recognize and confess gratitude for the beauty before us.

i smiled as i remembered back to a very similar, yet strikingly different experience.  i was in nashville, on the porch of my adorable sylvan park cottage, when a rainstorm struck out of nowhere.  grabbing a towel and ditching my jeans and overshirt, i sat in the yard, beneath the early summer rain, and i sang praises.  i giggled, and felt like a child.  unafraid of the elements, no-- rather, in harmony with them.

this time, i sat there, my arms hanging around my bent knees, remembering those moments in the rain.  those moments on the porch.  those moments in summer. those moments of peace and joy and freedom.

this time, i was bundled in tights and snow pants, in shirts and vests and ski jackets and scarves.  but, i sat and watched as the snow fell violently all around me, all over me, and i didn't feel the cold.  while rolling the snow into a head for our giant snowman, the beauty around me overwhelmed me, and for a moment, i forgot about the freezing temperatures and my rear-end sitting in a foot of snow.

the wind picked up with the crescendo of the chorus, and i felt like it was the Lord whispering His promises to me once again:

"... So why do I worry? Why do I freak out? God knows what I need. You know what I need ... Two things You told me: You are strong, and You love me. Yes, You love me..."

i sit in a very different spot than in that summer place in my yard in Tennessee beneath the rain. but that's the beauty of the Lord.  He's with us always, and He loves us indefinitely, regardless of the season of life we are in.  because, it's not always summer. and just like those open-eyed prayers, i can't help but think that he rejoices with us more in our winter season revelations.

because, it's not always summer. part I.

i'd love to say winter lulls me to sleep, like the hibernating bear that can't be bothered by the lack or want or cold, but that would be an outright lie.  winter causes panic, anxiety, tears, and fears to arise like no other season can.  seasonal depression is a real thing, and for some reason, the quasi-nostalgia-inducing weather turns my head and my heart into something i truly know that i am not.

i fight it. with heat, and baking, and warm socks.  i wear leg warmers and paint my nails and even do my makeup in an effort to pretend i'm warm and entice myself to girly and frilly in order to falsify external beauty when the insides feel cold and dull.

but some days, it's hard to fight. some days, the tears well for no other reason than it's cold and my body is vitamin d deficient and my hormones are wacky. for no logical reason, to fight means to cry. because crying is my body's natural reaction when facing fear. yet, it signifies i am doing just that: facing it.

fear is real, every day, for me. i don't know when i started being so afraid, i just know that a lot of days i wake up or go to bed just feeling that way.  afraid of loss, of failure, of not being enough. afraid of losing love, or not feeling it, or not giving it. afraid that i'll face anxiety and fear and sadness for much longer than i can handle. that it will ruin me, or steal my joy, or ruin my relationship because it steals my joy.  i'm afraid of being a burden, of being a downer, of having to hide behind a happy i don't always feel. i'm afraid to be honest about it sometimes, because everyone always thinks there must be a reason you're sad or that happy is what you make of it.  then, i'm sad and afraid, and furthermore sad because i'm afraid.

standing up to these fears may look like wallowing.  but tears often times signify courage. that even though i'm fearful, i'm choosing to fight. by confessing my fears. by asking for help. by discussing my anxiety.  those things are scary enough, and walking through those things my body undergoes physical stress that causes the tears to rush and exhausts my body once it's over. 

truthfully, i fight back tears in composing this.  there's fear in releasing honest thoughts that leave you vulnerable as you confess the very fears that keep you feeling weak.  but sometimes crying doesn't show weakness. sometimes it means i'm doing it afraid.  afraid, yes. but i am doing it anyway. because, it's not always summer. sometimes its winter, and its cold, and you just have to go about life honestly while you wait for the sun.

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?