Confidence, Utah, and Regrets

I have a struggle. My struggle is called confidence. I'll admit, it's been a much easier struggle as of late, but everyday it's a choice. I love having confidence. It is like a virus, once you contract it you can spread it quickly. I took a trip to Utah this past Spring break and it really changed the way I look at myself. Nine days in the desert, living like gypsies, climbing desert towers... That's something I call paradise. However, at the time I didn't realize that and I kick myself everyday thinking of the grief I caused not only myself but others. I was struggling with a serious lack of confidence. I started the trip filled with dread and fear thinking that I was headed to my death. I thought myself a poor climber and terribly out of shape for trudging up and down large hills. This poor mindset caused me not to enjoy myself for a lot of the time. I was scared and angry at myself because of the fear. How could I have let it get so bad?? Here I was experiencing a once in a lifetime adventure, and I was letting myself be swayed by doubt. If there is anything I could take back in my lifetime, it would be those moments. My poor reflection of myself drove away the people I loved most, and I lost so much more than I could have ever imagined. I'm sitting here in Plato's Closet waiting for them to process my buys, and I feel like throwing up. People, listen to me... Confidence is SO important. Not only for your own sake and sanity, but for those around you, for those you love. A dear friend once told me it is hard to love someone who doesn't love themselves. Well I've learned that lesson the hard way, and I would never wish anyone to reach a point like I have.

Scars

       What is the capacity of human suffering? I look at my own life, and sometimes I wonder when "too much" really becomes too much. Sometimes my heart feels so broken that it's going to fall right down into my stomach. This happens in the mornings especially when I wake from that sweet, oblivious slumber. I have taken to sleeping on the couch these days... I spend as little amount of time in my room as possible. There are a lot of memories there, and these days I don't have enough weapons to combat them. Yes, sometimes I feel like there is no life after this, no reason for the dawning of a next day. Then I force myself to stop and open my eyes. My situation, my sorrows, pale in comparison to some of those around me. I think of the people who lost their lives in the Boston Marathon. Families lost loved ones- mothers, fathers, children... and what have I lost? Just parts of my heart. I also think of people around the world who are dying, like those who lose their lives everyday to the genocide in Sudan. These are the true atrocities. My life is only a tiny move on the great chess board, and the least I can do is somehow strive to leave my mark on other's lives. I know that I was created to help the hurting and the weak of the world, but sometimes it is just so hard to move past my own selfishness. Like right now. My tears have been blinding me to the real hurts of the world, ones so much bigger than a broken heart. And still these feelings of sorrow will not go away. I am not under any illusion that they will just dissipate- the heart is a much too complex thing for that- no, I know it will take time and the love and support of those around me until I am ready to completely move on and bear this new scar I have earned. Scars are not so bad after all. I have quite a few of them (owning horses and rock climbing tends to do that to you), and I am proud of them. They are like little neon signs saying, "Look! Look how strong I am, look what I have had to bear." They are God's reminders to me that He is in absolute control and that I really am a lot stronger than I give myself credit for. So while the storm around me rages on and feels like it will never cease, I know that someday this too shall pass. 

Freedom From Fear

         So today has been a struggle for me. There are a lot of things haunting my mind- the sort of things that don't allow me to eat without getting sick, don't allow me to sleep, don't allow me to dream... I feel so weary yet I can not find rest. So I write. Starting a blog is probably the best possible thing I could do at this time in my life. I need to write down my thoughts, organize them, collect them, and let other people read them. Letting people in is a struggle for me. It's probably from past hurts, but every time I allow myself to trust someone, to open my heart to them, I feel like I get hurt. And yet I don't want to become a stone again. I hardened my heart last year and didn't let anyone in... that was a very unhealthy time in my life, and I can not and will not allow myself to repeat that. I need a lot of prayer in that area.
        On a happier note, today I climbed with my dear friends Lynnea and Shelby. I successfully climbed my second 5.11 :) For those non-climbers, this is a pretty big deal for me. I am determined to reach a 5.12 by the time I graduate. Speaking of which... graduation!! I can not believe that school is about to be over forever. It feels like I just started kindergarten last week. I still remember walking into my first day of K. feeling so proud and so much older than the little, shrimpy pre-schoolers. ha. I had a complex back then. A "big kid" complex. At that time I also used to believe that smarts depended on how tall a person was. My friends Taylor and Jacob were really tall so I was convinced they were the smartest kids in class. I was such a little dweeb. Okay back to climbing... I can not begin to express how much I love it. I plan on using any graduation money I get to buy my own rope. The only problem is I don't really know any climbers in Yuba City... this is a problem. I want to climb Lover's Leap in Strawberry California- a sick multi-pitch granite outcropping. AND I need to practice lead climbing more. I back clip much too often for anyone's safety.
       I miss Utah. All. The. Time. If I had a chance to go back I would. I want to climb another desert tower, this time without all the fear and apprehension I had when we did Castleton. I don't know what it is about me and fear. When I am afraid of something I tend to distance myself from people. I over-think things because I am a woman and this includes imagining my own death when doing things like climbing. It's something I really struggle with. When I act like that it pushes people away and makes them feel like I am pitying myself. I have lost a lot because of things like that. Fear has no place in my life, neither does doubt. These things are the bane of my existence. God did not call us to fear, but to live without fear. It is in Him that I should always place my trust and hope. Okay enough of my ramblings... 6am workout tomorrow and I need to try to sleep. Gut Nacht.

The Intersection of Art and Faith

        

     Nine years ago, ardor was birthed within me. It came out of the most unexpected times, from the most unexpected of circumstances. I was twelve years old, a child just entering the realm of rebellion, with a nature as free as the four winds, and an absolute contempt for writing. My parents went to all lengths, just short of tying me to a chair, to get me to sit still long enough to write a book report or an essay. I would have much rather run out into the fields with the boys or climbed my favorite walnut tree, book in hand- for I was very fond of reading. Anne of Green Gables, Mrs. Frisbee and the Rats of Nihm, Bridge to Terabithia, the Chronicles of Narnia; such were the titles that graced my shelves.

     On one particular evening, it was late autumn, my mother caught wind of a poetry contest being offered to my seventh grade class. Of such things, I had little, if any care, and so I endeavored to ignore her “subtle” hints about how she desired me to formulate some work to be entered into the contest. But, seeing as how she was very determined, my mother ordered me to my room until I had produced a poem. Well, after that I did what any logical, twelve year old might do. I threw myself upon the floor and cried and wailed and bemoaned my cruel circumstance. How was I, a free spirit to express myself through anything as structured as poetry? I was completely aghast. After a good while, my cries ceased, and something like an epiphany sprouted itself in my brain and began to grow at alarming rates. I picked up the pen and paper from where they had been thrown, and began to write furiously.

     I remember only bits and pieces of the poem, and to this day I sorely wish I could find it again. It spoke of a woman in white treading the floors of some great wood at twilight, with a song on her lips. I also remember writing then about a man coming after her, a man with nail scars on his palms and feet, a man who would spark both peace and war, love and hate, life and death. In those moments it was as though I had emerged from Plato’s cave, and was experiencing the sun for the first time. I did not know what to do with this newfound skill. It thrilled me and incited me to hyperventilating and strange mutterings (well not exactly). It did breathe an excitement and passion into my life that I had never before known. After that day writing came as naturally as breathing. I could not stop writing in fact. At age thirteen, I decided to write my first book. It was late at night and I had wild ideas pouring through my mind, ideas that needed to be strapped down to a sheet of paper. At those times, my best friend was Amy Craig, a tiny, Baptist girl with a big brain and an even bigger heart. At recess we used to play “girl games” stories that I would come up with that we would then act out on the playground. These were not just any stories though. These were epics, tales to be rivaled only by Lord of the Rings or Beowulf- true adventures. The play structure oft transformed itself into a pirate’s ship, and the bark beneath it became a frothy, raging sea. There were often spies there too; and wolves, and glaciers. Such were the times of my childhood, suspended somewhere in the realm between fantasy and reality.

It is through my past that I now look brightly at the future, with this talent adorned in ardor. It is through that night nine years ago that I now know fulfillment, and can begin to theorize what I believe to be the intersection of art and faith. Art is passion. Passion is art. These two are inexplicably connected, never to exist without the other. Art is turning the ordinary into something extraordinary. It is taking a concept or an idea and formulating it into something tangible; something expressive that everyone can see and maybe understand or maybe not understand. Art is objective, which is why it has been a lasting monument in society. There is no such thing as “black and white” art. Art covers such a broad range of topics and reaches an even broader range of people. One person may look at a paint splattered canvas and see just that- paint splatters, while another person may see a stunning scape of emotion. I once described art as a sort of creature that people grasp by the shoulders and lift high into the air, devising it into a kind of banner that they endeavor to wave before the world. Others grasp art by the neck and toss it to the wayside, deeming it frugal and petty- not useful in their busy lives. Little do these people know that art has legs and wings and will follow them all the days of their lives until they either accept it as value or die.

Faith is belief in the unseen. More specifically, it is the belief in God and in His son Jesus. Beyond belief, faith is also a call- a call to action. It is a belief that demands you to live a life according to God-holy and blameless. But as sinners in a fallen world, how do we endeavor to live holy lives? The answer is that we cannot. But that does not mean we should give up on the concept and live vicariously and lavishly in sin. We should still strive for perfection, just as we strive each day to know a God that we cannot see. Faith is beauty because it is a blind devotion. It calls for vulnerability and steadfastness.

Faith and art are two banks flanking a river. The river, which flows swift between them is called life. Some people tread on one bank, looking over at the opposite, wondering what it might be like to feel the ground over there, but never daring to make the swim. It is, after all, a vulnerable thing to do- to attempt the river crossing. These people are called dreamers. Others, instead of looking out across the water and wondering, choose to ignore the other side. They build up their houses, and walls- very tall walls- the sort meant to keep things out, and they live everyday beside the river, never so much as wondering what might lie across. Still others, the doers, go off in search of a way to get across. They are fed up with the “maybes” or the “might be’s” and take it into their own hands. They know the crossing is treacherous, but they are willing to take the risk. Luckily for these doers, there is a bridge, one that everyone is able to cross, but strangely enough, seldom few ever do. This bridge has a name, and that is called love. Love is a sturdy crossing, a point at which the two banks can meet. When first the people from art make the journey across the river, they are enamored by faith. There is something within their souls, we shall call it “The Longing,” that resonates so strongly here, and flows more swiftly than even the river. It is here, in faith, that they realize where art has come from, where “The Longing,” has come from. They find love in faith, love in the one who created faith, and in doing so, created their art. Likewise, when those from faith cross over into art, they are filled with inspiration, with a desire to paint or write or make music. There is such joy here, joy that can only come from a deep love. And so it is that faith and art are intersected by this concept of love. Love is the thing that creates faith. It is love for a God who created every living thing, and who- as a part of that love- sent to the cruel, unfeeling world, His pride and joy, His son. It is the love that nailed Him to the cross and the love that removed the iniquities of the heart from every human being from then until forever. This is where we get faith. Faith in God, who did all of those things, and who continues to do new and great things each day. Art is the outlet for the divine. As Steiner theorized, words carry their meaning only because they are underwritten by the presence of God. So it is, that art is underwritten by the presence of God- of the divine- author of “The Longing.”

The most clear picture I have of the point of intersection between art and faith is found in the sunrise. It is a beautiful display of art, painted by God’s own hand, and it offers to us faith in the unseen, all because of love. Love from a God who gave up everything to be our everything. And so I have discovered that it is through love that I write. The books I have written, the poems, the songs, they are all art, yes, but they are also acts of faith, and this faith I possess is only matched by God’s excessive love for me. It is amazing, that until reading the writings of Zagajeski and Steiner, I never would have thought to define art and faith, and I fear I never would have reached the defining pinnacle of enlightenment towards their relation with one another. I have lived most of my life with both art and faith, and have never realized until now how inseparable they are. Love is so crucial, in every part of the human experience. It does not matter your race, skin color, or gender. It is simply a reflection of God’s amazing love for us, and something we must strive to mirror all the days of our lives.

“To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable.”

                                                                                                -C.S. Lewis 

Who I am is unknown.

       You could say this is a blog born out of self-discovery. I have lived these past 21 years lost and without a clue as towards who I am. There have been times when I was certain of who I am and where I was going in life, but during these past 7 months I have realized just how little it is I know. It took two weeks of confusion, heartache, and (at times) utter despair to finally realize that this is not all there is. I have had this mindset that there comes a point in your life when you suddenly become enlightened towards who you are- a period of time when everything makes sense. This could not be further from the truth. Every day is a new journey into my own mind, into my emotions, my feelings, into my soul. What I am trying to convey is that you will never fully know who you are; it is a continual growing process. 

         

       No human life is merely black and white. We are awash in color, just take a look at the world around you. I believe that no human condition, particularly human problems can be simplified, because human beings are not simple. We are so divinely complex. Decades of hurt and denial can suddenly make one, defining, grand appearance so abruptly that its arrival can disturb and confound, and ultimately destroy. I mentioned that I have been going through heartache and confusion these past few weeks. I have been so confused, so completely in the dark, that it was making me sick. Pair this with matters of the heart, and you have a recipe for despair. I could not see past the screen that had been placed over my eyes, the voice that whispered to me in the dark, words of poison. It told me I was not worthy of love, that I would never amount to the worth that other people deserved. It told me that things like marriage and children were burdens, ones that only those without dreams bore. It spoke in malice at the breakfast table, "No, you should not eat. You are too large. You must do without." And it manifested in the mirror and the window, and in any reflecting surface. Each day has been a battle, a battle between myself and the voice. But now, for the first time in six years I feel that I have a hold over it. I will be subject no longer to the tyranny of the voice, and the tyranny within myself. I know what I want in life, but I don't know all of it or even how I will obtain those things... and I am okay with that. I know that my story is only part of a much larger story, and one that shall never be completely written until my death. I am looking forward to each day as a new page in each chapter, and I am thrilled by the possibilities God has in store.