Raining Silence

A Secret Message From Hafiz

2012-02-21T16:27:00.004-05:00

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

~Hafiz~

Living The Questions

2012-02-17T07:54:00.002-05:00

"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.

2012-02-13T08:04:00.003-05:00

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

2012-02-08T09:02:00.006-05:00

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

2012-02-07T09:49:00.004-05:00

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.

2012-02-04T19:33:00.005-05:00

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

2012-02-02T06:00:00.000-05:00

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.

Freedom To Dance

2012-01-31T08:36:00.004-05:00

Source: Pinterest

I grew up thinking about other people.

Ingrained deep inside are instructions about love: Love your neighbor as you love yourself.

I've been thinking about this lately, what about those who have problems loving themselves?

Learning To Love Yourself

I must have been marked absent that day

because I draw a blank.

I stand in front of a mirror and dissect. Tearing down not others, but myself. Looking for change... Always... Longing for change.

From the corner of the room I stand with friends. We talk about motorcycles and men.

We sway to the music.

I glance at the dance floor. I watch. Everyone else begins to edge their way to the floor while I simply stare in envy. Oh to embrace the dance floor. I debate it briefly but my legs turn to lead and my feet stay grounded.

Stuck.

Oh to be free to dance like nobody is watching.

I sigh at the lack of confidence within.

This year will be different. I'm determined to learn this lesson. Not only will I simply love others but I will transform and learn to embrace and love myself.

Look out world, I'm going to dance.

Nearer

2012-01-23T11:59:00.007-05:00

Image Source: Unknown

I pulled my hair back

a grey elastic band imprisoning all

except the unruly bangs,

untamed.

It's got me.

Captivated since childhood and unable to look away.

It the epitome of strength.

I'm scraping these thoughts while surrounded by a room full of keys.

My vehicle broken, unwilling to travel.

I wonder if there is more to this event.

Have I halted, become stuck, with faulty keys that refuse to open.

Locksmith knights work their magic while I attempt

to dig out mine.

All things are connected and all are spiritual he tells me.

So I searched for the meanings

in the pause.

I vowed to travel deep.

I looked into the yellow eyes, placed my hands on his face and I asked questions.

It wasn't like me to ask

but to run

as if being chased by the enemy.

"There is meaning here."

I hear him roar and so I breathed deep

and moved in closer

Nearer to the untamed

Nearer to the beast

Nearer to the keys

and I see...

meaning and movement.

(Linking up with Imperfect Prose)

plastic swords

2012-01-22T19:23:00.005-05:00

I'm unsure when it started.

Not certain who encouraged it within me.

I don't know why I crave it.

These Secret Messages.

Some say there is more to life than meets the eyes. I never understood the statement until I opened them.

My eyes.

Not literal. No. A deeper opening.

An opening that looks in the shadows.

Those dark alleyways that lure the mind to run away in nightmarish thoughts.

I began to ask questions.

To seek

answers.

To sit with fear over hot beverages, and interview her.

I scribble the messages in a book.

I paste them between sticky pages full of acrylic smudges and splattered ink. I circle words that call my name.

I scribble.

I cry.

I sing.

I dance.

I have a tribe.

Oh it sounds so primal. I love it. My tribe. People that send me plastic swords, CD's, and inspiring words.

People like YOU.

You, who comment and encourage me with your chosen words.

Words of wisdom

and love.

Do you know how much I appreciate your secret messages? This page is for you. My community. My tribe.

My Face in the Mirror

2012-01-17T06:55:00.004-05:00

Image Source: Audrey Kawasaki

It's still dark outside my windows. A darkness that allows just a little bit of blue to mingle with the black and grey. My mind lingers on the skeleton trees that stare back at me, and the photo that a friend took of such.

Why is it that we fear darkness?

Why is it words like skeleton and bare- send shivers up the spine?

There is a poem that haunts me, much like these trees and those words. This poem won't let me go. I'm not sure what it is that has me captivated.

So I lean in. Close. I wait for answers.

This poem,

Its the kind that snarls at you with wolverine teeth
when you're even the tiniest bit less than everything.
The kind that rips and screams and tears things down that have
no business being there-
tears them down with fingernails and sweat
and the decimating force of the hatred of all that is untrue

This poem, to me is about the real. The raw. The self expression that isn't candy coated. It's a poem about masks and them falling, breaking into a million pieces.

Today. My masks lay all around my legs. The ones that I put on for different people and different environments. She tells me, that fear has "to be faced {named} if we are to overcome it …" and so I think about her words, I think about the skeleton trees and the masks.

I give my fears a name. Approval.

I watch as the masks break into pieces. And I bravely stare at MY FACE in the mirror.

Brave on the Rocks

2012-01-14T09:01:00.002-05:00

The title. Simply captivates. I sit and stare at the words. "Spilling Open." I exhale. Nervous about turning the first page, but I want to embrace this "art of becoming yourself." I stick a letter inside from an artist sister to mark my spot. Marking the start of a new journey.

I see words scribbled in one corner, a secret message that I feel I'm meant to read. To see. Words that help invite me, to turn another page:

"Brave on the Rocks"

Yes. I want to order that. I want to drink it up, no matter how biting and bitter the taste, or how much it burns going down my throat.

I sat pondering the four words when something caught my attention. You see.. I've always had a love for brick. Brick pathways, brick walls that grace the inside of homes and buildings. There I sat, looking and admiring the brick that surrounded me in this place.

So beautiful. So messy. So imperfect.

I began to wonder if this journey of becoming brave and embracing warrior(ess) is like this wall. Currently, the ugly and imperfections stand out when some look upon the journey, but one day:

one day an obvious beauty will be revealed.

Everything will be pieced together and called art. The fear over turning the pages will become less and ordering "brave on the rocks," the usual.

Have you read Spilling Open? If so, did it change you and in what ways?

I'm Unpacking

2012-01-08T15:57:00.007-05:00

if there is a secret something, if there is a shadow something, if there is a forbidden something, it needs to be looked into. Those who would develop consciousness pursue all that stands behind the readily observable: the unseen chirping, the mucked window, the lamenting door, the lip of light beneath a sill.

They pursue these mysteries until the substance of the matter is laid open to them.

~Clarissa Pinkola Estes~

Image Source: Two Ton Manta Ray

The questions are a gift. I didn't search for them. I didn't will them to being. Bit by bit they showed up in my life. Little mysteries. At first, I ran away. To ask, to open those doors frightened me.

I wasn't supposed to ask these types of questions.

where was god

why did he cause this to happen

what about those that hear him while walking through the woods yet can't say an exact time and place that he met them

are they lost?

I often felt that it was wrong for me to ask. To search and study. Permission was handed to me by a friend to lean into these questions. Try to unpack them. So here I am. Staring off into space, learning to breathe and appreciate the questions.

Do you have questions that make you or others around you uncomfortable? How are you unpacking them?

(Joining Emily for Imperfect Prose)

Warrior(ess) Wandering

2012-01-07T09:22:00.008-05:00

~Image Source: M la Maudite~

I had a sweet sister tell me recently that the path I'm walking is going to leave me lonely. I pondered her words, chewed on them.

All week long.

I tried to write but felt as though the words were standing with sword in hand, fighting me the entire way. When I lose my words there's often a meaning hidden within that I'm just not getting yet.

So I pondered lonely.

I thought about my past. I thought about leaving church. I thought about the meaning of friends. I pondered concerns from family about the god who died.

I thought about this new wandering, my accepting His invitation for adventure.

I remembered the sojourners that I've met along the way. Brave warrioress' that offer me rest and a place in front of their fire because they too have journeyed long and hard before me. I sit with them as they give me nourishment, even if only for a bit.

Stargardener reminds me that Time is Fleeting and Erika encourages me to celebrate life. So I ponder the wishes. I ponder the word. I realize that I need this journey in order to celebrate.

Janae reminds me of this quote by Joseph Campbell::

"The familiar life horizon has been outgrown; the old concepts, ideals, and emotional patterns no longer fit; the time for the passing of a threshold is at hand."

I need time for the passing of a threshold. Time to wander with other wanderers.

And so I continue to think about lonely and I realize, that this sweet friend, her definition may be different than mine. She is surrounded by women from church. Leaving church, for her, would mean entering the lonely.

I'm surrounded by women from life. For the first time in a long time, I don't feel lonely.

I'm not lost.

Sweet sister,

I'm a warrior(ess) wandering.

Remember, "Not all who wander are lost."

I'm Not A Sequin Kind of Girl

2012-01-02T14:32:00.007-05:00

We pulled into the parking lot and I felt like asking him to turn around. To go back to the safety of our own home and hibernate through the winter.

I had never been to a New Years party and here I was, sitting with my husband in the driveway, about to enter a house that I knew would be full of people

that were strangers.

The host is like a little brother to my husband. But we've not gotten along too well in the past. Perceptions. Irritations. Oh you know how it is. I decided to go to the party because I love my man. And he loves people. He:: the man that knows no stranger.

I remembered her words, a girl that has tried to get to know me yet for some reason I keep pulling away. She said to me,

"Heather, it's New Years, spend it with friends, don't just go out on a date."

I knew that she would be there. She. The girl that I keep saying no to. Perhaps it's time to start saying Yes. To push the nerves out of the way.

You see, I have a problem with bravery.

I had never been to a party like this before. My jeans and nose ring walked into a house full of beautiful sparkling sequin dresses.

I wanted to curl up and hide. (I actually did as you can see in the above photo. I'm the bangs and eyes peeking out from the back of the girls.)

I clung closely to my husband and pointed out how different I looked. He smiled because he knows I'm not a sequin kind of girl. He reminded me that I'm embracing authenticity and fighting against the urge to hide. I've put down my Wallflower title and picked up warrior(ess). He reminded me of that and that now is the time for bravery. Right now.

Be who you are because all the rest are taken.

I am:: The girl obsessed with jeans. I'm succeeding in removing the mask.

And so, I loosened my grip on his arm and began to mingle.

Rachel reminds me that brave isn't a feeling it's being. And so here I was. Just being. Me.

(Written for Imperfect Prose)

From Wallflower to Warrior(ess)

2011-12-30T17:17:00.007-05:00

I've been thinking about fear.

About it's birthplace, and the place that it grew up, the caves that it still lingers in within my soul.

Tonight. I lay on my bed, pink cotton sheets, staring at my best friend. I tell him my secrets. The "dark" thoughts that make my heart beat quicker than seems healthy. All because a fear of being shunned like the women in the Amish books that I read as a teenager.

He smiles at me. He knows because he feels it with me.

The unknown mystery of family vs. sacred.

I wonder whether my questions are good or evil. Fear shows up.

Fear of places that this journey or that might take me.

I have lived on the outer rims.

I have avoided the sacred God-mother

I'm tired. Ready for a change. Ready to accept that my spirituality may look pornographic to some.

2012 is a new year.

I knew that I wanted to mark it in a special way. I wanted to choose a word. One word to remind me that there are other things more important than fear as the Ambrose Redmond quote says.

At first, I thought my word was going to be bravery. I talked about it. Wrote about it and even began living it a little.

Yes. I want to be brave. But then a friend sent me the image above. She made it because she knew I craved bravery. Within the many words, ONE stood out to me. It wasn't brave, it was

Warrior(ess)

This is me.

Unravelling the old and embracing the new. This is the year

the Wallflower becomes a Warrior(ess).

I Named her Jade

2011-12-27T11:17:00.002-05:00

I named her Jade.

The green-eyed girl that often hid in the woods. Same spot. Same tree. She traced the bark with her her fingertips. Hoping that someone heard her prayers.

She begged to be changed. Born a boy, instead of girl. Less curves. More "normal" and an end to her disorder.

Others stared at her eyes. Commenting. Are they yellow? Hazel? Green?

A changeling.

Red-faced Jade learned to hide.

Deeper and deeper into the shadows. Hands with lines, skin dry.

Different.

Doctors used the words European skin disorder, but she heard "broken."

She hated being different.
She craved normal.
She dreamed of the beauty her sister held.

I look at her now, I watch as she counted to distract from crying. Because only babies cry.

So much I want to tell her. First, I'd say:

Cry little girl, scream from the top of your trees.

Come out of your hiding place.

For All of You: My Treasured Readers:

2011-12-23T13:02:00.000-05:00

This Gift

2011-12-23T06:00:00.000-05:00

After writing this post, a sweet friend emailed me this gift. This video. It brought tears to my eyes. I wanted to share it with you all.

a new God

2011-12-20T17:40:00.009-05:00

Reaching for my Chapstick, I was touched by an angel today.

Some scoff. They call it evil.

I don't know why I felt compelled so long ago. It wasn't like me.

To steal.

It was there, stuck in a plant, but not the one that had my name on it. I moved it. I took it out of the dirt of one and into the dirt of mine. There was just something about that figurine.

This was before the god that I served had died.

I remembered my grandfather. His funeral. We were so alike. Imaginative. The "odd" ones.

Always drawn to this man of whose heritage was mine. I was drawn to his secrets. His demons.

As a little girl I prayed, I begged for god to, "save him from his sins". I talked to him of hell and tried to scare and convince him to just say those magic words.

He died four years ago. It was then, at his funeral, as I watched my grandmother stand strong for hours while others gave their condolences, that I stole a plastic angel.

It lives in a pocket within my purse. Always with me. Why? Why do I keep it close? Why transfer it with each switch of a bag? I'm not sure.

One person said, "Heather that is a superstition and it's evil."

I just nodded. They want an answer.

Maybe it's because someone knew that there would be days when everything would feel chapped:

My Faith

My Relationships

My Hope

My Heart

And when I reach for salve, instead, an angel is grasped between my fingers.

I'm reminded of a new God

who so desperately wants me to move from what I thought I knew that day as I watched a body get lowered into the ground--to move from rules--and to steal an angel.

I wonder.. is that when it started?

(Written as Imperfect Prose and God Bumps).

RSVP

2011-12-20T07:45:00.004-05:00

This week, some light has been shed on this journey. Light that brings truth to the surface, illuminating the things I've tried to stuff under the bed, hidden from any who walk through the house. I sit in my pajama's, coffee in my hand and I read.

I read from a book full of secret messages these words:

"Follow Me," Jesus said.
Consider this your invitation to life.

These words. They mean something. To me. I am reminded that

it's not about doctrine

it's not about a magical prayer

it's not about rules

it's not about the name that I've chosen to leave behind.

It's about a RSVP for adventure.

it's about love

it's about bravery/courage

undaunted, unafraid, vulnerable, rebel.

It's about rest.

(Linking up my messy words with Tuesdays Unwrapped.)

Journey from stone-thrower to grace-giver

2011-12-16T06:00:00.001-05:00

My sweet friend Christine has so willing agreed to share her heart with you all today. Her heart on grace. Grab your cup of coffee and commune with her:

Journey from stone-thrower to grace-giver:

I was never a big fan of grace.

Oh, I talked a good talk, I knew all of the lingo, but when it came down to living it, I was an utter failure. I loved rules, and measuring people, and criticizing. I expected absolute perfection of myself and those around me. I thought the way I believed and acted was the right way, and that God cared about the "right" way above all else.

All of this, of course, was deep inside me. The knee jerk reactions of a soul far from the place Jesus expected me to live in. I was inching farther from Him while I pursued my "perfect Christian living" in a cold and lonely country called "Judgement". I could quote you scripture, loved the Old Testament and the Paul of the New Testament-because they showed me what to do and how to behave. I still love them.

But now I see them through the lens of Jesus

Jesus, the true and humble and merciful Grace-Giver, changes everything.

"There is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus. The law of the Spirit of Life has set you free in Christ Jesus from the law of sin and death."
Romans 8:1-2

How can we judge another when we see through His eyes?

Who are we to throw the first stone and keep on throwing?

I can feel the smoothness of the stones in my hand even now, my thumb rubbing its way around the perimeter feeling for the best places to grip. I remember well the pride of knowing I was right to be the thrower, that the target was in need of reprimand, of correction. Arrogance masked the truth, unsoftened by love, is a weapon wielded all too well and too frequently by those such as myself who want more than anything to be right.

"Words kill, words give life;

they're either poison or fruit,

you choose."

Proverbs 18

I choose the words that give life. I may not always have made that choice, but Jesus has freed me as well. Freed me to learn day by day to love as He loves, to bless instead of curse, to shed my shabby cloak of rules for His robe of righteousness-true righteousness that is not earned but given freely as gift.

Journey from stone-thrower to grace-giver

I encourage you to study Him. To see Him with new eyes, to read the gospels as if you were living in them. What you see of Jesus will amaze and humble you, as it did me.

Trade the stones in your hand for the open air of grace. It is a trade of infinite and divine significance. And you will never look back.

Don't forget to stop by Christine's blog Fruit in Season for more of her wisdom.

The Quiet

2011-12-14T10:06:00.003-05:00

"Another world is not only possible, she is on her way.

On a quiet day, I can hear her breathing."

~Arundhati Roy~

"I'm just weird." I tell him.

When others need a bunch of friends around. I need the quiet.

It's how I re-charge.

It's not that I don't enjoy sitting across from a dear soul over coffee. I do. Those conversations are often what spurs me on in my creative pursuits.

It's not that I don't enjoy having children run around with their giggles and questions. It's precious, and encourages play within my soul.

But. Sometimes.

It's in the quiet moment. Without feet rushing about. Without questions asked. It's in that moment that I can hear myself breathe that I am reminded

I'm alive.

I get to sit. Watch flames flicker. Meditate. Listen to the thoughts that come. I can question. I can cry out. Just me and Him.

Today. I am embracing the quiet.

Much To Learn

2011-12-13T06:00:00.011-05:00

I walked into a store with my daughters. A "girl store" as my son puts it. One full of pretty packages, glass trinkets containing magical fragrances and other bottles, ones full of colorful nail polishes.

I became distracted by something in particular. Something my middle girl was drawn to. A specific fragrance. I sniffed her wrist as she accepted the invitation of "tester."

It was the word that stood out to me most.

Not the scent. A word. One word:

Grace.

Amazing Grace, Eternal Grace, Pure Grace

The words kept waving to me on every corner. Pretty bottles with secret messages. I felt that I needed to be here. I felt that He wanted me here.

You see... I had a problem with grace.

This good girl would run off hiding because it's so different. It still feels wrong to see myself as He does. It still feels wrong to forgive what I thought was unforgivable. It still feels wrong to love certain people. It still feels wrong to be sincere.

I'm still learning that it's OK to show my scars
like the cracks in my wood table.

I'm still learning that I'm loved. I'm still learning how to love others. I'm still learning how to accept His grace.

Someone said this to me recently:

"I see that you don't have a religious view on your profile. (Facebook) Why is that? Christians: A follower in Christ. A believer in Christ "Jesus" would want non believers to know Him. To be a witness... Just asking."

I really had to ponder this. This idea that not putting a religion would offend. This word Christian was what she hoped I would add. I pondered it. What is my religion? How would I identify myself? I didn't know. I'm in process.

I do know this.. My goal is to Love God and Love People so that's what I put.

Love is my religion.

I still have much to learn about grace. I still have much to learn about love.

Linking up my messy words with Tuesdays Unwrapped and God Bumps.

Chasing Silhouettes

2011-12-12T07:41:00.003-05:00

Today my pen bleeds here as I walk out from the shadows.

Chasing Silhouettes: Purging Reality