A Secret Message From Hafiz

“I wish I could show you when you are lonely or in darkness the astonishing light of your own being.”

~Hafiz~

Living The Questions

"What are you afraid will happen?" A friend asks, and I name them. One by one I name the fears.

being wrong. teaching wrong. getting lost. being alone.

My list continues, one fear after the other.

I glance around the house and

whisper my hopes and dreams into the spaces.

"I think I'd like to hang a prayer flag." I tell him. He doesn't understand why but wants me to live the questions. On a visit to a friends house, he comments on flags strung up in a corner. They talk briefly about me.

About these questions.

A few days later I opened a box to find them. Tied neatly together.

A symbol. Encouragement to keep asking.

And so I hang them up. I watch them sway as I ascend the stairs.

They feel "wrong" at times but

I'm trying to close the rule book.

Slowly. Judgements are released with the wind and I embrace the questions.

Trying to Believe.

I'm trying to soak up nature. Rocks. Trees. Earth.

I'm trying to collect and savor each moment. Each event.

I'm trying to live passionately. Fully. Without apology.

I'm trying to wake up. Open my eyes. See.

I'm trying to accept and love my body. To put on confidence.

I'm trying to celebrate. Family. Friends. Gifts.

I'm trying to believe. Grow.

I'm trying to leave judgements behind. To embrace.

I'm trying to be brave.

To. Be. Here. Now.

Singed Truth and Piano Keys

Source: lionears.tumblr.com via Rambling on Pinterest

Hidden within me is an obsession for piano music.

I took seven years of lessons, way back when. Not many people know this about me (since I can't really play anymore). I think the addiction started here. Sitting on the wooden bench.

Mesmerized by the keys.

Black and white. Rhythmic. Patterned. I day-dream.

This love of mine--the love for soft melodic notes. Is there meaning here?

A deeper meaning?

Are they related to the beating of my heart as it skips in anticipation while pages are being turned and fingers fly?

Or is it all

black and white?

I've thrown the sheet music to the floor. Scattered. Is truth relative? Are the lyrics of my song different than yours? Does this make one right and one wrong?

Is your song sacred and mine an abomination?

Like a pile of wood about to be burned

my old truth gets singed.

I look. My hands messy and fingers stiff. I glance to the keys for they beckon.

Each note is different. Yes black and white but still..they stand alone. The fingers of a toddler pound out art. Messy. Loud. Some attempt to quiet them. To shut the lid.

And I ponder to myself, "maybe this chaotic piece is truth--to him."

I begin to wander. I ask questions:

Have we lived life shutting out instead of embracing?

Perhaps I'm afraid of failing~

of being wrong and teaching wrong.

Perhaps--

I'm afraid of my own song breaking glass.

It's dirty. It's imperfect, with lyrics still being written.

My Children: Sojourners

Source: toocutethings.blogspot.com via Rambling on Pinterest

Did you know: I have two blogs.

One is public. Family photos and homeschool ramblings. Its open for friends and family to sit with and scribble their sweet comments on.

It's cozy

and safe.

This one is hidden. Like pornography. Stuffed in boxes on the floor of a closet.

This one is

dirty laundry.

It should be kept in a basket in the laundry room. Closed off from the eyes of those who enter our home.

After all.. isn't it true that dirty items should be washed and dried before being introduced into the world.

"What if your children find it someday?"

I pondered his words. I knew he was asking as a concerned father.

I tossed the question around with my husband. The man who always reminds me that we need to be real. We want to be known. Relational. Dirty laundry and all.

Janae recently wrote about this topic. I wanted to share her words with you because they too have been sown into my own story:

My son is not raised in isolation. I believe he should know that I am growing right alongside of him. I've given myself permission to live, to be as I am, whether struggling or rejoicing. I will live what is true. I will not tuck myself away, I will allow for exposure and honesty. I will honor him and honor myself, which can only be done through openness, through relationship.

I do not pour myself out recklessly, drowning him, as it were, making him my life raft; rather, I live myself, my struggle, my truth next to his. I believe he will gain more security with a mom that isn't pretending.

I don't want to pretend. Not here.

Or Anywhere.

And so I scribble.

Ink filled journals

and fingerprinted keyboard.

Imperfect Prose without answers.

I continue to ask questions while I walk through dark forests. But this I know: I'm not alone. I'm walking beside other sojourners. Some of which are named my children.

Linking Up With:

January Mile Markers.

Source: flickr.com via Rambling on Pinterest

I've been taking baby steps towards this thing called bravery. Slowly. I've been carving warrioress on my arms. To some, these steps seem mundane but to me... THEY. REQUIRE. WORK.

~Public Self Portraits (I even posted one of my ass).

~Art journaling through dark areas.

~Talked to strangers and joined a new community.

~Became OK with the non-church going status.

~Stopped calling myself a christian.

~Admitted to my children that we don't have the answers.

~Embraced the "rebel" title.

~Put on a dress for no special occasion.

~Decided to have sex 365 times this year. (We hit 33 in January)

These are only the beginning.

What were some of the brave things that January held for you?

The Silence of A Page by Alene Snodgrass

I opened my new colorful bound journal and sat staring. All I could see were lined blank pages looking back at me. The pages beckoned me to write. The pages held so much promise. Yet, the pages were silent.

It was the first day of the New Year and my mind wondered, questioned, and imagined what the next 365 days would hold. What would be the words, stories, and frustrations that would be recorded to cease the silence the journal now held? Would I boldly scribble the fears and anxiety of trying to live life as positively myself? Would my page hold the truth? The truth of who I am, the journey I take, and the blessings I experience.

Not wanting the pages to remain void of a penned story, I vowed to write and capture precious glimpses of time that would engulf my year. And those monumental moments that would define my life. I wanted to leave a mark and a story upon those pages. I wanted my blank journal to matter, to have a voice.

But my pages, if left free of indelible ink, would hold no power, nor promise. My pages if left silent would hold no story, nor memory.

If I did not embrace my pages they would remain silent.

And so I write, scribble, and pen to express my creative, questioning, and searching soul so that the silence of the page does not overtake the story of my life.

Bio:

Struggling to know who she was, Alene Snodgrass became aware of the self-doubt and insecurities that were tearing her down. She now shares stories and experiences on her blog, Positively Alene, to encourage others who are seeking and searching. For more information visit her website at www.alenesnodgrass.com. You can also connect with her on Facebook or Twitter.