To Tasha: Read. Edit. Comment. Love, Amber

What Some of Them Said

Three days not four I stood inbetween the door
The path
Strethching out so far before me.
Dark shadows leaning waiting for the sun to rise.

A death of liminality; I stand—
Entombed—
Walls of space lining the womb
I cannot escape from moving forward;
So I retreat
Missing the feat of life in death.

Stiff, I turn away, long before the ascent,
Silently marking my own descent.
Moving, marking the rite of passage
Between in
And
Out.

These deaths become a show
Popcorn littering the ground below.
A finger pointing out what you could have done
Had you actually shown up from day one.
Not day four.

Four days not three
The second in the three times three
Or perhaps the first,
But still a show.
And you, one day late, moving in slow,
Calm, methodical in your questions
Methodical in your words,
And I wonder—
What did you know?

The door, still there,
The path lined with air, which seeps
Into my lungs as I gasp and grasp
To form the question,
“What could be done?”
My voice tremors an accusation, trembles with emotional accommodation…

Ripples form waves spanning the ocean,
A single butterfly flap breaks into chaotic motion
And you waited one day more.

(---I am going to add something here)
I heard only the crunch of
Popcorned heels as I walked out
Scoffing at the --- that
Turned him from gone to more gone still.

If only I had waited one day more
The three makes four,
And seen the parfait of literal lines
Which make up this door.
If only the turning wasn’t accomplished on day 2.3.
If only lady lazarus had stuck around to see…
You crossing the threshold on day four, not three.

Yesterday

Yesterday a guy and his friend followed me out to my car and started shouting at me. I grew confused. Laura ordered me to open the door and find out what they wanted. I complied because I was still confused. I opened the door. The guy said, "I'm sorry, you were just too beautiful to let pass by, can I give you my number?" I turned and looked at Laura for direction. She said "No." I said "No." Poor boy. But I totally got hit on. And someone totally called me beautiful. I will go ahead and let that make my day like the sometimes high school girl I am...

Painted Desert Faces

As I rounded the curve leading me into Tucson, I realized something was not the same. Some thing, or many things, were very, very different. Starting, with the mountains. Here, the mountains look like faces. Personal profiles lining the night, looking up at the stars as I pass by and look at them. Here, the sky is painted regularly with reds, yellows, pinks, and oranges from what must be a very large bucket, and a very streaky brush. Here, the morning and night are marked by the magic hour, which here happens for two, and then fades into the sparkles of the sky. Here too, I am unknown. Unknown by the coyotes, crying like children into the night, or like bandits shouting out orders as they steal another dog. Here, I am completely unknown by the lady at the coffee shop I went to for the first time, jerking my car to the side when I saw it’s sign; and even more unknown by the room full of people that I won't recognize no matter how long I stare at the backs of their heads. Here, I am unknown to even the mountains, which insist on staring at the sky and not looking at me. Here, the dirt mixes with dust and rocks, and the green is a gray, and the green is pointed and prickly.
But, strangely enough, the new landscape, the new dust, the people and places that don’t recognize my name, are comforting. None of them know who I was three months ago, a year ago, even two weeks ago. They know nothing of my past, and all eagerly listen for a future, which I excitedly create with my words. Memories that I want to hold on to remain framed and written, and those I want to forget disappear like the frost in the morning. The painted desert is my untainted place, my blank canvas, and I started to paint again, adding new streaks day by day.

Thanks and Givings...

I am thankful for…
The pursuing love of Christ.
The freedom to love.
A large family.
With a large dog.
My friends.
Especially the trifecta of joy.
Colorado sunsets.
And the hope of sunrises.
Words.
Coffee.
Especially when it is made by the hands of Starbucks employees.
Travel.
Books. And bookshelves filled with books. And especially when those bookshelves are in my house. Not for decoration purposes. Not for balance. But because books are one of the things that make me feel alive.
Purposeful endings.
And fresh beginnings.
Music, which sometimes feels like it was written by a soulmate.
And soulmates who don’t laugh when I quote musicians…musicians like John Mayer.
Grace. Which, according to Anne Lamott, and which I have so often experienced, acts like water wings when you are sinking.
People who dispense grace.
Families that aren’t mine, but feel like mine. Like the Tuckers, the Swains, the Adams, the Warkentins, the Underwoods…
Crackling fires.
The soothing affect of red wine. No, I am not a wino, and take off your judgement caps, you know exactly what I’m talking about.
Brilliant autumn colors.
And mutued winter hues.
Laughter, deep, belly laughter.
Food.
All the people who have come into my life and made me exactly who I am today…down to the color of my hair (tips to Laura and Wendy) and the way I walk (darling physical therapist, this one’s for you), and the way I think (oh, there are just too many of you to list...but I love you all).
I am thankful. Sometimes I don’t feel thankful, but the truth is, that doesn't change the actual state of my thankful soul. I am one who is thankful.

Let the Breaking Begin!

I broke today. A thousand little pieces scattered like the snow that for ten minutes fell outside the window. I broke, and I shook, and I curled into a ball under my blanket and asked God to make the world stop spinning. And I asked God why it was so easy for them to walk away. Why the little ripples in their life were such big waves in mine. And I asked him to make me disappear for just a little bit. For long enough to find one of the little pieces lost in the wind.
My stomach hurts from crying the kinds of sobs that tear through you. My eyes are swollen. And I can’t quite think straight. I only know that what makes moments like this hard, is the single fact that the person who is tearing you up and throwing you into the wind is the only person who can recollect you. At least for right now.
And I know it is just a “for right now.” I know that this will be placed on the list of acceptable losses. I know that in just three months, or two, or who knows, maybe even one, the pain will be dull instead of sharp. The memories will be faded instead of clear. In a year, I will wish him every happiness with some other girl. But, right now, the most human part of me just wants him to ache like I ache. I just want to know that he too felt some tear within his soul. That he too, isn’t just thankful that I shared a year of my world with him, but aches over the fact that he won’t get any more. I want to know that in the middle of the night he has woken up wanting to tell me something and that during the day he sometimes forgets that he will never again get to kiss me. Or talk to me. Or hear my thoughts. Or hear me laugh at myself. Or watch me fiddle as I think. I want to know that something inside of him has broken too…
But, again, in the future, I will only want his happiness and will look forward to heaven, when not one iota of this will matter.
Cheers to the ripping on day five, not twenty-five. I only ask that this means my recovery will be speedy as well, since the Novocain wore off so fast…

The Strangeness of Breaking

It is completely unnatural, this breaking up we do. Someone was in your life. A steady, firm, foundational part of your life. They became the voice. They became the shoulder. They became the face and the hands that you hold. And then, quite suddenly they are gone. Completely, and utterly gone.
They did not move. They did not die. They did not recieve a call from God to pursue revivals in a different part of the city. They are just, simply, gone from your life.
Two days ago Jordan and I broke up. We spent a lovely two weeks in cities across Europe. We laughed and talked and felt frustrated and confused. And then, suddenly, we broke up.
I sat yesterday in a car off the side of the road watching the sun drop below the Colorado mountains, staining the sky with yellows and purples and reds and I wondered at that phrase. We. Broke. Up.
Something does break when things end, doesn't it? Something small, or big, whatever the case may be, breaks inside of us.
I sat in the car and I felt the first waves of those little, broken pieces moving inside of me. I felt the first wave when it feels like your soul may burst through your stomach and leave you in little pieces. I felt the first steps of the knees weakening, which when followed through leaves you facing your hands which are clasping the ground as if trying to remember which is the floor and which is the ceiling because the room doesn't stop spinning.
But, I didn't break this time, Tash. And when the little quake passed, when the little wave settled, I was okay.
And maybe this is the part that confuses me most...I. am. okay. He was in my life for a year and a half. He became my closest friend in Southern California. He made me laugh. I believed in him. He was good. And yet, I am okay.
But, on day two, the novacaine stil hasn't worn off. I will let you know if the pieces are still held together on day 25.

Dearest Tasha,

I can't tell you how excited I am to begin journeying with you again!!! Let the new technological version of the purple journal begin! Thank you, once again, for sharing your home with me for those few, glorious days. For reminding me what it means to dream, to be free, and to hope that life contains more than what we see around us. I love you.
Now, let the blog begin.

Dear Amber

I'll miss you friend! It's been a delight welcoming you into my weekend and catching up on the last two years of life. I smile thinking of you as a house pet to some hospitable family in Orange County, the girlfriend of some phenomenal guy Will Maizeland has a man-crush on, and travelling the world stand-by. Thank you for being wonderful. Now write a book. Love Tasha