consolation of

It feels trivial to be writing about writing, but

here I am.

I am twenty-one. It is February. Neither of these facts feel true.

“Are you going to do something with your writing?” A friend asked me. I stared blankly. Surely, I already was. Surely, writing itself is an act and sharing it another. “Are you going to publish any of it?” My mind sputtered. “I don’t know. Maybe, but not yet.”

themes of childhood & womanhood, loss of innocence, pureness of vision,

seeking, pilgrimage, moments of religious significance

dreamlike. psychological insight. elegance of diction. both strength & weakness.

“You are so brave.” Several people have said this, eyes wide, when I explain that I want an adventure for a life, that I cannot stay here, that I will cross an ocean. I do not feel brave, have never felt particularly brave.

There is no sun.

It is the longest cloudy spell Chicago has seen in over twenty-two years. I feel its weight.

My world is white and grey, bifurcated by dark skeletons of trees.

I’m reading Bluets. It felt so strange last night. I watched the Dutch Blitz cards flash and glasses clink, and I kept expecting someone to launch into a monologue on Boethius or Sharon Olds or St. Catherine of Siena. I kept waiting for wisdom. I have always abhorred small talk, but now I feel that I am ruined forever. Especially after Boston. I sat; I ate my gluten-free cookies.

I wonder what my color would be.

“My consuming desire is… to be a part of a scene, anonymous, listening, recording—all this is spoiled by the fact that I am a girl, a female always supposedly in danger of assault and battery. I want to talk to everybody as deeply as I can. I want to be able to sleep in an open field, to travel west, to walk freely at night.” Sylvia Plath understands. She understands many things.

A prayer I barely remember writing:

Spark kindred joy in me and gift me a gaze that sees the good in all things. Provide me with an inner elevation of the mundane. Give me the courage it takes to consume my daily bread, to rise once again, to creep through the opaque winter dawn and put on my woolen socks. Beg me to join the dance and make me come alight. Fill in the gaps, O God, and meet me in my unbelief.

 

December 1, 2019: all that I can give

The first day of Advent —

and I look down at my hands,

sparkling with pine tree sap

from ornaments bedecked high,

and begin to know what it means

to need darkness to appreciate light.

 

The airport’s hallways are endless,

like purgatory, I think to myself,

circular, as Dante intended —

never-ending and buzzing with the noise

of a thousand mumbled epiphanies.

A man jogs by. I wonder what he is running from, where and who he is running to. We are both liminal and infinite. Liminally infinite. We are sleeplessly awake. The bleary masses, hurrying across the finish line, limping, with the wannest and weariest of smiles.

Dizzying screens flash, staccato. Cameras clash. And we are all publicly private, together.

I think of Christ entering into the chaos too,

born near the dungheap, beneath eons of stars long dead. Dwelling in our midst, in our misery, in our everyday grey, in the twist of a night’s extended flight delay. He is here.

The hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight.

60 books, 365 days: 2019

2019. 60 books. About 12,927 pages read.

The champions? The works of literature that live on in my mind? Here they lie.

  • A Severe Mercy
  • Mary Oliver’s poetry
  • The Bell Jar (again)
  • The Cross and the Lynching Tree
  • Mrs. Dalloway
  • She Who Is
  • T.S. Eliot’s poetry
  • The Glass Menagerie
  • Six of Crows & Crooked Kingdom
  • Franny and Zooey
  • Purple Hibiscus
  • Rilke’s poetry
  • The Wildwood Trilogy
  • The Testaments

For a complete list, check my Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/user/year_in_books/2019/8615040

2020, cheers to you! May you bring even more stories and magic and beauty.

Ramblings on Manna, Milk, & Honey

Only God. Things are coming together in a way that can only be defined by the divine.

I opened the Bible today and started reading, listless and tired. The end of Leviticus was before me and, soon, Numbers. “We seemed like grasshoppers in our own eyes, and we looked the same to them.” I jumped. This was the same verse mentioned in church on Sunday. One of the worship leaders had quoted this verse, explaining: “This idea of ‘being seen as a grasshopper’ was entirely in their head. They had come into the land as spies, and they were not caught. They hadn’t really been seen at all. Often the Enemy attempts to make us feel less than, to trap us in feelings of fear and inadequacy, until we become convinced that we are only a grasshopper and everyone else knows it too.” [paraphrased]

A mere paragraph before this, Numbers 13:27 reads: “We went into the land to which you sent us, and it does flow with milk and honey!” Well, it’s pretty strange that my mentor and I literally decided today that we are meeting for a farewell lunch tomorrow at a restaurant called Milk and Honey?! It was the only restaurant in the vicinity I could find with a menu suited to my dietary restrictions, so, in a way, it is a promised land for me.

“The Lord bless you and keep you; the Lord make his face shine on you and be gracious to you; the Lord turn his face toward you and give you peace.” My mom brought up this prayer from Numbers 6 recently, and we were trying to remember the exact wording… and I suddenly stumbled upon it in the text today. We also had a conversation over dinner a few days ago where I brought up the motif of the Lord hiding His face in the Old Testament when the Israelites disobey vs. the radiance His face brings. When the Lord hides his face, His people are abandoned and in darkness and cry out, as in the Psalms. In contrast, “My servant Moses… with him I speak face to face, clearly and not in riddles; he sees the form of the Lord.” However, intimacy and closeness with the Lord, like that of Moses, leads to abundant, undeniable light.

On Sunday morning, I did not want to leave my bed. I unlocked my phone, peering through bleary eyes, and opened Twitter, only to be instantly devastated by the news of the two latest shootings: 250 in the 215 days of 2019. I felt sick, stupefied, and unmoored. Now, as I write this, there have been 255 total recorded shootings in the United States. I wanted to cave inward and pull up my grey blanket to shut out the light. “I don’t want to go church.” I thought stubbornly. Even churches aren’t safe anymore. So many lives were just lost, have been lost, will be lost. How could prayers ever be enough? I just wanted to grieve, alone. “What better place to go now than to Church?” The Holy Spirit gently prodded. I rolled out of bed.

Toni Morrison died today, and I feel an ache deep in my soul. I feel an ache for so many things that are lost — the lives taken every day by gun violence, the innocence of the children sleeping on concrete floors in cages at the border, the humanity of our nation. In church, the sermon halted to let worship take over. How could it not? We were all searching, all wanting to find, all needing to be filled beyond our own strength in order to cope, to act, to be light in these times. People filled the aisles, getting down on their knees. Women wept. Men stood, arms outstretched to the sky in surrender. How could they not? I read an article recently about how the planet’s current condition is what it was not supposed to be until 2070. We are outliving our stay here, desecrating the gift we were tasked to steward. I don’t know if I want children anymore. How could I?

On Sunday, the pastor mentioned the Lord’s promise to heal the land, once His people turned in repentance and pledged themselves to Him. Leviticus 26:42 reinforces this, “I will remember my covenant… and I will remember the land.” Lord, we are believing this.  We can do nothing but believe this; in our turbulent present, please hold us fast to Your promises. Let our amen to Your will be deafening. Help us to collectively draw so near to You that we are blinding in these dark days. Empower us to create a new resonance — to pray and worship and abide as we call our senators, as we boldly stand up to corruption. The pursuit of holiness and the pursuit of justice are ever-intertwined.

I realized today for the first time that manna could have been anything. Why did God choose to send down manna, of all things, from heaven? It could have been any culinary wonder of His own creation. A new kind of fruit, perhaps.

Why manna? Simple sustenance. Daily bread. Communion fare.

I had something else that I was supposed to write, but these words were louder.

Rue for You

“I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly / As the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands… / I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted / To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty. / How free it is, you have no idea how free——”

Fragments of Sylvia Plath’s “Tulips” came to me today as I laid, supine, in the dim office, full of waiting. My body was humming. I became an itch. It was hard to breathe.
There was a vial in my left hand, and the other arm, outstretched, was draped like Ophelia’s. There must have been something to its geometry for I stopped, agog, heart quickening, when I noticed the likeness — transported back to the Tate Britain.
It was her portrait I lingered at the longest in the gallery dedicated to the Pre-Raphaelites, and I perched nearby with my eyes scarcely departing from her frame. I attempted to sketch her but could not do her justice. She was so vivid. It was a Millais.
I had written a paper on her suicide — well, on how it wasn’t really a suicide at all yet was, subconsciously — and Hamlet was fresh in my mind. I could still remember the symbolism behind all of the flowers and herbs in her garland. Daises, rue, rosemary, violets, fennel.

“It is what the dead close on, finally; I imagine them / Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet… / The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me. / Their redness talks to my wound, it corresponds.”

Ophelia did not know death was coming and yet, deep down, she sensed it all along. I am sure all of Shakespeare’s characters are haunted by that sense of perpetual morality, aware somehow that he could, in an instant, scratch their name from the script, blot their character out.
I didn’t know death was coming either and yet I did. I felt it deeply, primitively, fearfully.
I think that I always, to an extent, feel it, fear it. La même chose. And here it appears, garish, in the most unexpected of forms. Now I mourn the loss of the things
I did not cherish in their proper time, and the tears are bitter — full of Gatsby’s longing.
I think that his life will end tonight, but I pray that he does not leave this hollow world alone. I hope an inward part of him is soothed, guided, surrounded, comforted. Once of one stubborn mind, united in motion and quickness of being, in freedom and play, I mourn the death of an extension of myself. I hope he is able to greet the midnight hour when he quietly bids farewell.
Until then, the night is pregnant with untrodden paths and unspoken words, and,
alack, I drown, singing — desperate to fill the years of silence.

Summer 2019 Goals

As June quickly approaches, I have had these goals in mind for optimizing the rest of my summer. I am posting them for accountability purposes and because it was exceedingly beneficial as a first step to organize them here and articulate them in writing.

  • Write poetry daily.
  • Limit my social media time (collectively, on all apps) to an hour or less each day.
  • Prioritize reading books for fun in spare moments. (More books, less Netflix.)
  • Stay hydrated! Drink more water (and still lots of tea, of course).
  • Spend more intentional time with God.
  • Exercise consistently (gym 2x per week, skating 1x per week, and yoga/stretching/at-home exercises daily).
  • Attend NAET appointments 1-2x per week to (hopefully) knock out food allergies.
  • Maintain an A in all of my summer classes.
  • Research travel details for an exciting August trip.
  • Complete my internship work on the upcoming OSGEMEOS and Turner exhibitions.

Do you have any specific goals for this summer? Any books you’re dying to read or places you’re yearning to travel? Please feel free to comment below. I’d love to see!

Everyday Anthems

a woman sat atop the glossy bench,

and I averted my eyes like a wild thing,

glimpsed myself in a shopwindow

without a spark of recognition

until it all came rushing in,

there and back again

from that widening gyre where

synapses crackle and fly like fireworks

— oh, this is me, now.

ragged and composed, yes.

now, this is me. oh —

shining like some newly-minted anthem,

                                                                 (we fought for this)

                                                    fizzing like the sea of the flapper’s fluted glass

                                                                                                                              (we drink to this).

 

lapwing cacophony, a twiggy nest

in the branches initially beyond my reach.

sandwiches as sacraments; prayers like butterknives.

 

the crooked man with a limp

         rushes ahead to open the door wide,

                                          and i, fumbling, sashay inside.

                 the biography of a kindred spirit

                                                                                               is lonely, on clearance — $2.51.

 

coins jingle then nestle in my palm:

a shoddy imitation of the solar system.

the universe abounds in a teacup

but constrained, maimed.

Holy Week: Curious Communion

The wind skimmed over the lake and tousled our hair, tugging at our billowy clothes and uniting us all in a delicious shiver. There would have been the linger of a characteristic Chicago chill if there had been no sun, but, praise God, the sun made a triumphant appearance for the first time in ages, and we were eager sunbathers, spread out upon the soft picnic blanket like languid tortoises. Everything was adazzle — the concave landscape, the bottle of sparkling cider, the slim, mature glasses we borrowed and tried so very hard not to break, us. We were incandescently alive in the fullest springtime sense: doubled over with laugher and squinting amiably with uplifted hands to block the sun’s rays or wave at passing dogs tethered to their owners as we talked about the future in between fistfuls of ripe blueberries. We had all brought what we could, each person with something unique to offer; it was not much to behold, but it was a merry little feast, steeped in gratitude. It has been ever on my mind since — the preparation, the retrieval, the unfurling, the reveal. I had wrapped the delicate glasses tenderly in white cloth to prevent their clinking and rolling and the blueberries from leaking violet. As I carefully unwrapped these picnic treasures and set aside the unsullied white linens, I couldn’t help but think of Easter and the empty tomb and the risen Christ, of a broken body and broken bread. How fitting that it was a blissful Sunday afternoon when we so unwittingly partook of our curious communion. I recently read (and deeply enjoyed) Andre Dubus’ Meditations from a Movable Chair, in which he writes, “The Communion is with us and it is ordinary. To me, that is the essential beauty: we receive it with wandering minds, and distracted flesh, in the same way we receive the sun and sky… The Communion with God is simple so we will not be dazzled; so we can eat and drink His love and still go about our lives; so our souls will burn slowly rather than blaze.”

March 18: Israel

And so we return as Cyrus decreed,

creeping forth on bended knee,

seeking a once-home robbed of all hospitality

and ground devoid of fertile recompense.

 

We are the lost and aimless ones,

displaced, sent on mission of grace,

chosen, cast away, chosen again,

thrice-whipped and humbled.

 

We speak not

but carry sanctuary stones

on our aching backs.

March 5: Eve

“Now the serpent was more crafty than any of the wild animals the Lord God had made. He said to the woman, ‘Did God really say, ‘You must not eat from any tree in the garden’?’ The woman said to the serpent, ‘We may eat fruit from the trees in the garden, but God did say, ‘You must not eat fruit from the tree that is in the middle of the garden, and you must not touch it, or you will die.’’ ‘You will not certainly die,’ the serpent said to the woman. ‘For God knows that when you eat from it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil.’ When the woman saw that the fruit of the tree was good for food and pleasing to the eye, and also desirable for gaining wisdom, she took some and ate it.”        -Genesis 3:1-6 (NIV)

You were so lithe, so small.

We shared an elegance, you and I —

an acuity I did not find in Adam.

So I viewed us, vowed us, fastened as friends

for nothing ever seemed amiss in the garden —

all was emerald, juniper, moonstone awake,

a shining under the sun that dazzled without blinding.

 

For God was like that

when He walked among us,

so tender-softly you could not hear the

blades of grass bend beneath His feet.

You were just as quiet, but not soft.

You came with your violent geometry,

all diamonds and angles and sin,

and from A to B

 

                                                           we fell.