#2 - 100 words (Reasons)

He heard there are several reasons that people begin using drugs, loads of extraneous circumstances that cause people to spiral into the depths of substance abuse.

People make it apparent that there are far too many reasons for him to choose from; her and them and all the pressures to perform closing in on him, threatening to throw off his delicate balance.

Just as the reality of his motives begin to sink in so does the plunger of the syringe in his arm, sending him swiftly into his own personal oblivion.

And, he thinks, at this point who needs reasons. 

#1 - 100 words

Nicole has never been one for small talk, which suits her quite nicely as she sits in a small corner booth of the local coffee shop.

At first glance she appears to be working on her MacBook, occasionally sipping the brew of the day, sans cream or sugar.

However, if you looked a little closer you would notice tired eyes behind the bangs she sweeps carelessly to the side as she works to meet her deadlines.

You don’t have to be a genius to see what she’s feeling, the designs and doodles she conjures up tell her story well enough.

Initially inspired by http://www.1hundred-words.com/

On Vulnerability

Can I tell you how it feels to be vulnerable?

Utterly and completely.

To be split down the middle,

With all my love and fears,

Slipping simultaneously, uncontrollably out of my insides.

You

Do you see all of me,

Feel what I’m feeling, see where I’m coming from?

Do you notice the quickening pace,

Of my heartbeats cadence,

Underneath the rise and fall of my chest,

As my breaths become shorter, more shallow.

Will it ever feel safe,

Will I ever experience freedom in this state?

Or will this glass house crack and crumble under your persuasion?

Will we succumb to joy or pain,

Or are both inevitable outcomes?

To be sure, we will have to continue,

Sojourning through this life together.

I’ll try to fight the urges to reinforce my fortress, if you’ll be gentle.

I’ll sit with my skin as flushed as the flowers on the table,

Again and again, for you, my Achilles heel. 

Anniversaire Toi

I was learning French when we started this, three years ago, the summer before my senior year of college.  I was stringing together most likely incorrect phrases like “Tu et le garçon qui je (You are the man whom I)…. Want, love, value, desire, hoped for.

I ardently believed all those things as I walked up to the alter to recite the vows like so many have done.  I vowed to love, honor and cherish in sickness and health, plenty and want, the traditional, time-honored words that centuries before have spoken.  The things, which at the time seemed most important.

However if I got to re-write them with the sage-ness acquired in a short three years, I would be certain to add a few.

I Katie, take you Nathaniel, to be my wedded husband. To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, in plenty, and in want, in sickness or in health, in sin and shame, in hurt feelings and botched apologies, in trust and in doubt, in triumph and in utter and complete failure, in beauty and in tears, in moments of great passion and times of apathy, with grace instead of judgment, to love, to cherish and to respect, with the smiles, breath, tears of all my life, 'till death do us part and the clock itself wears thin its time.

Those are the things I’ve gleaned in three years of learning to fight well and love even better. I’m immeasurably thankful for the gift that is being your wife.  Happy Anniversary my husband, Mon amour.

  

Unwielded Words

If I used my words well, like my dear friend urges;

Then our conversation would have looked different.

If I had been obedient,

To the gentle tugging

On my twisted insides,

Maybe we both could have grown in understanding.

But instead,

I spoke swiftly with a stammer,

Figited too much,

Rushed through my answers,

Avoiding your eye contact.

The consequences are real.

Sitting here, wishing I’d been bolder;

That my normally brazen nature;

Filled with unfiltered ideas hadn’t fallen short.

Surely I’ll make excuses

Because I can’t stand the guilt,

Or swallow the truth for that matter.

For now the pendulum swings

Between disappointment and hope

Knowing it doesn’t rely on my ability to perform

Wishing it was easier to tell the truth;

The truth about You.

Artist's Theology - Let them talk.

My pastor posted this excerpt from one of Vincent Van Gogh's letters to his brother Theo in October of 1884. I found it so illuminating that I could not resist re-posting it for whomever may stumble upon this blog.

“I tell you, if one wants to be active, one must not be afraid of going wrong, one must not be afraid of making mistakes now and then. Many people think that they will become good just by doing no harm - but that’s a lie, and you yourself used to call it that. That way lies stagnation, mediocrity.

Just slap anything on when you see a blank canvas staring you in the face like some imbecile. You don’t know how paralyzing that is, that stare of a blank canvas is, which says to the painter, You can’t do a thing. The canvas has an idiotic stare and mesmerises some painters so much that they turn into idiots themselves. Many painters are afraid in front of the blank canvas, but the blank canvas is afraid of the real, passionate painter who dares and who has broken the spell of `you can’t’ once and for all.

Life itself, too, is forever turning an infinitely vacant, dispiriting blank side towards man on which nothing appears, any more than it does on a blank canvas. But no matter how vacant and vain, how dead life may appear to be, the man of faith, of energy, of warmth, who knows something, will not be put off so easily. He wades in and does something and stays with it, in short, he violates, “defiles” - they say. Let them talk, those cold theologians.”  - Vincent Van Gogh

Action to avoid passivity and assimilation.

Love to overcome hollow theology.

Promises in Pencil

I’ve never been a fan of using pencil. In fact, I pride myself as a fancy pen person. I love the feel of my Pilot G2 05 as the smooth gel ink glides effortlessly across the paper. In college I arrogantly took my Calculus and Physics exams in pen. I couldn’t stand the idea of the faint ghosting of frantic erasing all over my exams.  Sometimes now, I even bust out my quill pen and ink well to write in calligraphy. That act, dipping the iron tip and placing each stroke feels incredibly intentional; almost concrete, each word full of meaning. No room for error and no eraser for mistakes.

However, when I write in pencil it feels hesitant, uncommitted. Like when people I loved used to promise me things and I knew they didn’t mean it. I grew weary of their empty words; tired of their lies. I became adamantly opposed to saying I promise; calloused and bitter towards people who carelessly threw them around like a cheap imitation of sincerity.

Yet, I’ve been drawing promises in pencil for quite some time now. I pencil in my best guess and promptly smear it with the hopes that when I miss the mark, it is nearly illegible. I leave it in the sunlight knowing that the rays will bleach the graphite. I bargain and barter and make false claims signing my allegiance in pencil hoping that when it’s revisited, He will have forgotten and my faded signature will be unrecognizable.

I imagine that the One who sees infinitely more that I can grows just as weary of my penciled promises and hollow words as I once did. He knows when I beg and barter to do better if He would only______ that I’m just searching for a means to an end, trying to gain the upper hand. I can only claim ignorance for so long. Imitation will no longer do, for You, I cannot deceive. 

Birdcage Religion