Stories and Starlight

i retraced my steps today, walked circles around my younger self. here is the place where i first hugged my best friend; the place where i now stand, five years later. here is the me of fourteen years,  as i look into the mirror and see her superimposed over me. she's still there, peeking out from behind my eyes and over the rim of my glasses. a face from before: all dark eyes and frizzed curls, anxiety, naivete. now, a face that betrays my mind a million times over; angled jaw and red lipstick. here is the memory; the inside-out deja vu; as i lose my sense of direction, and turn to find it again. originally written on july 3, 2022. photo by me.

i. the guardian your wings are warm and wide they circle the nest, cover it, envelop it Security.  you tell us someday, the wings will be gone,  nothing to separate us from the sky and air and the fall Alone. Free.  Terrifying. but words exist and evaporate (promises, promises…) while walls of wings remain. ii. the fledgling my wings have just come in.  they are imperfect, there are still feathers left to grow peering over the edge, I can see so far. Possibility.   I tell you someday I’ll be out and gone,  nothing to tether me back from  the sky and the air and the fall Alone. Terrified.  Free.  but the passage of time is too slow and not fast enough. I’m running out. I wonder how far I have to fall before I float (soon, one day soon…)  and if the pain of the                               ...

In January, roads and journeys began and came to an end. Namely, I turned eighteen (the end of "childhood") and began Prospective Internship. I also saw some new opportunities for my acting journey. I met a professional actor, we connected, questions and advice were exchanged, and the chance of more acting training in the future was brought up. ( I feel such hope for the future I just know I've got to be on the right path, I thought.) In February, my heart was broken. For someone with no real experience in romantic relationships, I'd been struggling with my feelings for a while. That month, I wrestled with the growing realization that my romantic feelings and my real-life goals and convictions didn't align. That month, reality also slapped me in the face, and it stung. ( I hate this. But at least I know it'll serve as fuel for my poetry,  I sighed.) In March, my to-do list was filled to the seams. I had the unique experience of getting to teach a class about ...

hello . it's been awkward. six hours and thousands of miles but not a word was said to  bridge the gap, only a sprinkling of laughter: crumbly plastery filling,  forced lightness, because we can't seem to accept the darkness:  that cramped pretense we put up instead, a poor protection for what should be spoken, but hangs out to dry on the fine line of silence,  waiting, perhaps, for when we turn and (actually) say  hello. it's been tiring. three years and thousands of conversations but hardly a word was said to  bridge the gap, only a sprinkling of outings: flimsy sugary filling, like melting ice cream, because we can't seem to have a full meal, that duty called "quality time" by convention ,  hiding the longing for something substantial but giving in to habit just one more time, waiting, perhaps, for when we try to (really) say hello. it's been difficult. one childhood and thousands of memories but not a word I've said to bridge the gap, only a scrapb...

Belated stream-of-consciousness birthday post! It's a mix of what I wrote in my journal, what I posted on Instagram that day, and some other thoughts to pull it all together. Italicized lines are from the song " Crossing a Bridge " from the Anastasia  Broadway musical. I've messed around with this writing style before, although I don't think I've ever published anything like it. It was very enjoyable -- that is, once I figured out where I was going with it.

Let me laugh for the sheer joy of laughing; laugh for the feeling of freedom that follows after a smile that can no longer contain itself. Let me cry over things both beautiful and heartbreaking; cry unashamed to shed the tears that bind us in our brokenness. Let me sing, let me shout, let me rise to great heights, unafraid of the name or the fame. With words and a pen, my voice and each choice, making this message heard, trying  to the very end. Let me see things strange in the mundane, see what You saw in a girl with great flaws, yet You called me by name. Let me cast off the fear that has shackled me, cast off the weight of the worries I carry. Let me marvel at the every wonder, at every star, at every tree, at every breath, every step, every beat of this unsteady heart. Laughing, crying, singing, sighing, trying - there's nowhere to go if I'm on my own, but with You, I will find  my identity. ______ Written: April 21, 2020

i wouldn't have known if i was alone,  i wouldn't have known  what it is  to step up  to stand up to speak up to grow up. if i was alone,  i wouldn't have known  how it feels to reach for a dream  to fail to fall into a sea of words holding me up, saying "it's not the end," "get up,"  and "try again," "fall, but fall forward." your words guide me onward. you've offered me an hand and pulled me up and now, i can't say it enough: thank God i'm not alone, because then i wouldn't have known what it means to love. _________________________ dedicated to each and every person who has been a light to me during my years in ICC (plus my mom). i think you all know who you are <3 poem: September 25, 2019 photo: January 16, 2020 at ICC's IGNITE Winter Advance, Cedine Ministries Camp, Spring City, Tennessee

_________________________________________________________________________________ "Do something fun." FUN? What's fun? Lately the things I once did simply because I loved them have become almost like work. Simply tasks, little boxes to be checked off. And not that there's anything wrong with checking off the boxes (I love the feeling) but still... Where's the heart? Where's the fire? Where's the passion? Goals and ambitions can only take you so far. You know how the saying goes, all writers have writers' block, all artists have periods of no inspiration. And I know for every burst of inspiration there will be twice as much the need for determination, but all the same... Where's the heart? Where's the fire? Where's the passion? Discipline can only take you so far. I've lived so long in this endless round of to-do lists and deadlines and assignments that it has become my life. That kind of life means you wil...

When I was younger, I wrote stories all the time. I don’t know exactly why I stopped, but for a long time, I didn’t write much. My fears definitely had something to do with it, because one of those fears was that I didn’t have anything worth writing about. Anything worth telling. Earlier this year, I remembered a certain poem I’d heard before. It was about overcoming fear, and had hit me so powerfully that it almost felt like it had been written just for me. So I decided to memorize it, as inspiration. But eventually, the poem I had only planned on memorizing for fun became a speech, and the speech became a message that I shared over and over again.  And after presenting this poem, I started writing again. The poem became a part of my story. And every time I shared my story, I touched someone else’s. I hadn’t expected this. Did this happen because the story I told was mine? There is this expectation that in order to be extraordinary, you have to make yourself different f...