The Mountain

The trees whisper to one another. Their voices are masked by the wind, each drawing laughter and lilt, love and sorrow from a summer breeze. Together they tell the stories of the mountain.

Around me is desolation. Memories linger everywhere, and names are mentioned often, breathing longer life into the memories. The trees remember. They recall the days of slow rebirth, aching pain and ash. The mountain is their guardian, but a fierce one, demanding much and giving slowly. Flowers crawl their way up the dried embankments, desperate to live, desperate to love, desperate to bloom wild, winsome and free. The lakes, like puddles, huddle at the foot of the mountain. They glisten blue and purple in the sunlight, happy offspring of the past destruction.

Memory. It's everywhere and nowhere all at once. Everywhere we remember without really remembering.

I look at the flowers. I look at the lakes. I look at the trees.

I try not to look at the mountain. This is odd; after all, it is what I came here to see. But the mountain is ominous, reminding me of the suddenness of tragedy. While the birds sing and the trees whisper, a deeper voice is heard. Through the beauty of this day, the shadow of another rises up, reminding me, reminding all of what once was.

The mountain is speaking.

Its voice is low, its message short.

I listen well, and remember.

Poetry

1.

But walked she through the forest fair,

Amid the leaves and boughs.

And when the maid that gathered there 

Did chance upon the rose,

She fell into its sweetest blush 

And held it to her nose. 

6/25/14

"Hailey." 

"Hailey, I need you to wake up now." 

I didn't want to wake up. I'd been gone for a long time, after all, at least as far as I was concerned. The voice probing me to open my eyes didn't sound like a familiar one. It sounded cold--metallic. White. Behind the voice was a gentler and more pathetic noise: the sounds of someone crying. The scene playing out was all too cliche. It didn't seem real. Things like this only happened in ABC dramas and bad soap operas, not to me. My name sounded foreign to me as it echoed through the dark halls and empty passageways inside my barely-breathing mind. Everything took effort. Every thought, every motion. Every second I spent alive was killing me. 

Sleep. 

The hundreds of Saturday mornings I had spent getting up early to go running along cold pavement seemed suddenly wasted. Why do such a thing? If only I had rested then, maybe I wouldn't be so tired now. 

"Hailey. Wake up, Hailey." More crying. Somewhere my soul watched and waited as the sounds grew dimmer. I faded. Then, the terror set in. 

What if this was real? I started to feel the pain then, that and the pain of memories as I saw every bad act trickle slowly before my eyes. What was hell really like? 

"God, please forgive me." It was my voice this time, crying out in a terrible scream. The hopelessness made me feel sorry for myself. But almost as fast as they had come, the worries faded, and I felt only a sweet sense of safety billow around me like a fog. 

"Hailey." The call sounded deeper this time, and sweet and sad and very joyful all at once, as if God Himself was murmuring my name. "Wake up, dear heart." He said. 

"Must I?" I heard myself reply. 

The words were spoken in a language I didn't know, yet somehow I understood them perfectly. I began to feel warm, and a strange honey-like taste filled my mouth. 

"Yes." 

"For how long?" 

"It will feel like a long time. But it won't be." He answered me, sounding so lovely. Tears wet my face, but in an instant they were dry again. 

"Goodbye," I said sadly. 

"This isn't goodbye," The deep voice melted away into silence. 

I opened my eyes. The room before me was quiet and warm, and sunlight poured over my face. In front of me a young man I'd never seen before sat staring at me, open mouthed. I felt the warmth of his kiss still fresh on my lips, and frowned. 

"Hailey?" He shook his head and smiled widely. "I can't believe it," he said. I squinted hard, trying to place him, and feeling panic rise when I couldn't. It must have shown on my face because he laughed, "Don't worry, you don't have amnesia."

Thank goodness. That really would be too cliche. 

"Who are you?" I whispered weakly. 

"It was me who saved your life. And then you saved mine," he answered softly. 

6/23/14

I am starting to be gripped by all the frightening reality.

It occurred to me today that a huge meltdown is probably coming. But for tonight I'm going to pretend that it's not and just...rest. I'll rest in knowing that it's all going to be okay somehow. There are some days when I just don't have the energy to care anymore. It startles me, because I used to care about everything. I could not ever not have an opinion about something. Now it just seems so much easier to sit back and choose not to feel happy or sad or angry or anything at all. I like it.

It's strange, but I like it. I love not feeling the burdening weight of emotion. It is delightful to bask in apathy for a few months before I have to leap back into life and figure out just who in this world I'm actually going to be.

So even though I know it's coming, tonight I'm free from worry. Just me being content in the fact that I'm never going to be perfect, and neither is anybody else.

★

Darling don't let your heart be blue
Just wait and see
It's you and me
And all the world is waiting too
Just wait and watch us fall in love
No stopping this
No stopping us
Come on
We're running
Come on no hiding
Come on it's time
It's everything exciting
Darling don't turn back now
We'll be fine
We'll run this world with the way of light
We'll make it all okay somehow
So just come on come on
Take my hand

6/21/14

"Hi," he said.

"Hi," I said.

"I'm glad you came." The words were spoken awkwardly, as if he hadn't really decided yet, whether they were true.

"Of course I came," I replied with equal awkwardness, but double the sincerity. I missed him.

"How've you been?" The question blatantly ignored my earnestness and dove straight into cordiality, making my inner senses want to scream at him. It was the same old story: all in or fold, there was no in between.

"Fine," I answered. Two can play at the small talk game. I'd make him suffer.

"Cool."

"Yep."

The silence was almost unbearable. Every nerve in my body was riveted in determination, focusing all my strength on keeping my tongue behind my teeth. I would not be the first to speak.

"How have you really been?" He whispered then, sounding like himself for the first time.

Inwardly, I sighed a breath of relief.

"I've been okay," I murmured truthfully. "But not really. You know?"

"Yeah," he said. Sucking in a deep gust of air, he screwed up his nerve and our eyes met. "I wanted to say I was sorry," he rasped lowly, sounding breathless in spite of all that air. "I just didn't know how. I didn't know what you'd say if I called you, and I didn't think I'd make it if you said no. So I just said nothing at all. Now looking back, I don't think anything could have been worse than that, so I'm sorry for that too."

For a long moment I sat listening to him, feeling strangely like a heroine in a really lame, sappy, teenage romance novel and also like a new, unfamiliar version of myself. It felt like a burst of rain falling from the clouds and an eerie contentment all at once. I smiled without knowing why.

"I forgive you," I said.

12/19/14

The most extraordinary thing about her was not the shine of her hair or even the outlandish style in which she chose to dress. Almost from the first, I could tell that what made her extraordinary came from her heart, a place where love and hope lingered, shadowed by the loneliness of a life lived in retrospection. Not every word she spoke was clouded by a desire to do good, but her voice was tinged with spirit, and though she did not often smile with her eyes, I could see in her face the work of the LORD, perfect and pure. She reminded me of something once good that had been lost too long to be quite the same, but which had somehow learned the secret of growth: becoming anew after it had been found.

I was enchanted, not by her, but by the hope she inspired within me.

6/18/14

Everyday you fill my heart 

But I can't feel you

Every moment I sense your call

But I can't hear you

I want to hear

I want to feel 

I want to feel something 

I want to remember what is means to fall in love with something 

It's been a while, but tonight, I no longer feel alone. 

Spirit lead me. Sing hallelujah. Stand with me. Stand for Me. Say the words. Say you love Me. Say "I do." Say, "I will follow." Say, "I will not look back at what was, but close my eyes to what is, and trust that which is to come."

Once.

Once upon a time

I decided never to give up.

The end.

I'm Back :)

Life is funny, isn't it?

Just a few hours ago, I was doing one hundred and fifty crunches, ranting about the perfect abs I'm going to have, and then ten minutes after that I was devouring an entire pie with a spoon. Sometimes I think I'll never get anything done, what with my constant seesawing between left and right.

Like writing. Oh how my soul has longed to write this week; but every time I sat down in front of my computer, an incredible laziness gripped me in this icy death-clench, and I always ended up leaving without even a single word on the page.

Even now, I am spouting nonsense. Why is it that I only think of profound and fascinating things to write about when I'm standing in a McDonald's bathroom with my hands under that stupid, germ-blowing, louder-than-a-broken-vacuum, hand dryer, and never when I actually have a pencil in my hand and paper available?

Even worse than that is the muse that is music. Music inspires me. It makes me want to write something that will inspire the same feelings in my reader as whatever song I'm listening to. But when I listen to music while I write, whatever I write, it always ends up sounding basically like the song. Then I end up feeling as if I've wasted a lot of time and creative energy on something that wasn't really original at all, but rather a bad rewrite of a good song.

Gah. This bothers me.

A lot of things bother me. Right now (and probably for the rest of my life) the most persistently bothersome quandary is that of whether or not I will succeed as a "real, actual writer." It recently occurred to me, perhaps after I realized that my tuition will cost thirty-five THOUSAND freakin' dollars every year, that I'm eventually going to have to get a job doing some actual thing. Not learning about the thing. Doing the thing. It is a truly terrifying thought, when you get right down to it.

I mean, my whole life I've been pretty great at learning about stuff. It's not that hard if you put your mind to it. Literally. That's all it takes: a brain, and a few ounces of dedication.

But this new venture is a different thing entirely. I'm actually going to need to have skills, persistence, commitment and courage in order to pursue what I love doing. If I fail, well then I'll have to settle for my fallback, and marry some really rich man who likes the beach and doesn't mind burned grilled cheese sandwiches.

Because other than writing, there's just really not much out there that I like. Writing is what I love (and hate and then love again.) If I can't be a writer, then I'll have to find some new identity, which at this point would feel like having my heart broken.

I'm lucky in many ways, but especially in that I've never had my heart broken, Not really. Not yet. Not by a person. It's been bruised and blistered, burnt and scarred perhaps, but never really broken.

The world is full of words.

They're everywhere you look. They hurt. They burn. They bruise and blister and scar and even break us. But words...they're hope.

In them life itself is written out. In them we are given a map to the truth. In them we find healing.
Through words, all broken hearts can find themselves repaired.

And that's what I want. I want to share that. I want to tell the world about Jesus, in a way that's beautiful and new, and different and astonishing. I want to deliver one of the oldest and most important messages and still be original. I want to do the impossible.

It feels impossible. And maybe it is. But maybe it isn't. Anyway, I'm going to try it. I may fail, but it would be worth it, I think, to fail knowing I had tried. Somehow that would be better than to give up before I even begin.

Walls

The walls were higher than I had expected.

Behind them was the tree, its soft pink blossoms falling wistfully about the garden. I smiled.

"Do you like it?" He asked me.

"Yes," I murmured. "It's beautiful here."

He took my hand and we strolled together through the garden.

"I've been waiting for you a long time," he said. "I wasn't sure you would remember."

I looked up at him, starry-eyed. "I could never forget you. Not a day went by that I didn't remember and smile because of all our memories."

"You cried often, too," he said. "I'm sorry for that."

As if by magic, a last gentle tear slipped down my cheek and he brushed it away. "Now that you're here, you won't ever cry again. Tears weren't born of this place."

"I believe you," I said.

"Good," he whispered softly. Then he pulled me into the stars, and we said goodnight for eternity. The world fell away beneath me, and I saw the sky growing closer. God's voice called out to us, and our hands parted for the last time. The end had come and gone, and the last beginning was over.

5/12/14

From  a world such as this 

what good can come?

 When the thoughts of mere men stretch out to reach the darkness, what hope is there to be found? 

Only hope is pure. 

And in the darkness, it seems now lost. 

In my own soul, I feel the creeping shadow

In my heart, I begin to find the footprints of weakness

Everywhere 

everywhere there is nothingness

But when we remember Truth

Hope is not lost

And day is coming

Somewhere beyond the mountains and seas

The sun will rise 

And the darkness will die

If only one remains to see it, still it will come none the less

Death shall never take those whom You love

and nothing will defeat Light

When its loveliness is unleashed

The pale morning will become a radiant dawn

Until the stars are drowned out

By the purity of Your Presence 

and nothingness will cease

Only freedom

can endure the coming storm

Death and prison will be forgotten 

And the shining waters will stretch out for all to see, calling out their glorious song

Praising You

Forever 

Me

Once, a long time ago, I was an idealist.
Since, I have become a realist.
I lost my ID, my identity.

The Ghost of Northamber Avenue

   The apartment was small, grubby, and smelled slightly like last week’s leftover pizza, but it had a view, and wasn’t too pricy. And as it turned out, it came with an adventure.

   It was summer. I was twenty-two. The world was a big, scary, expensive place. Graduation toasts had faded completely from memory, and I couldn’t even remember the days when my bills had all been forwarded to my father without the slightest qualm of conscience. In what seemed like a few short weeks, I had gone from a freewheeling college kid, livin’ the dream, to a very poor, very ambitious, very desperate adult, clambering clumsily around the real world with a completely pointless teaching degree, and no survival manual.

   However, I connected the dots soon enough and figured that the most important thing to do was to find myself a job. Once some family connections had been exploited and a place at the high school secured, the next thing to do was to find a roof, preferably one that came with air-conditioning. Enter 3B at 55 Northamber Avenue. The best AC it could offer took the shape of three gigantic fans, but it was well suited for a young history teacher looking to have an enjoyable summer. The former tenant was looking for a sublet, and as I wasn’t too picky about holes in the wall or carpeting left over from the seventies, he thought I would do.

   “Hope you won’t mind the stairs. Third floor and all. You look like they won’t be too much trouble for you.”

   “I’m sure I’ll be fine,” I had naively remarked as I made the first of many hikes up the creaking flight that was to be my enemy over the next few months.

   Barry Hamlet, (who was in no way reminiscent of his Shakespearian namesake) a balding, stout man of about forty-five, smiled. He had a deep smile, which made me wonder what his dreams had been before the world had done to him what it had to make him into what he was. Perhaps the smile was one of sly humor at my staircase-innocence. I can never know for sure.

“Well, here we are.” He puffed, arriving at the top. I was proud of myself for not being winded. “Welcome aboard.” Barry opened the door to reveal 3B in all its glory.

  “It looks nice.” I said, generously. Nice was stretching it. Bearable maybe, but not nice.

It had grandmotherish wallpaper of a faded plumb color, comfortable looking saggy furniture and a smallish TV, equipped only with an old VCR. The windows were foggy with dust, but there were a few hundred books encased in a funny, old set of cherry-wood shelves.

   “The bedroom’s back there. And the couch is a pullout, in case you have company. The kitchen comes with a microwave and a refrigerator.” He said this as if it was a big bonus.

   “Wow.” I said, feeling that it was really the only thing to say.                                                        

   “So what do you think?” Barry picked at his index finger. Apparently he was nervous that I would be as critical as the countless others who had turned up their noses at this domestic bounty.

   “It looks fine to me. When will you be back?” I shrugged good-naturedly.

   “Oh, not until October, at least. You can stay until then, if you want. But you probably start school before then. I heard you were a teaching student.”

   “Not anymore. I graduated a few weeks ago.”

   “Got a job lined up?”

    I could see dollar signs lingering anxiously behind his eyes.

   “Sure do.” I said confidently. The thought of my job gave me both a tremendous sense of security, and an uncontrollable stomach spasm at the same time. It was like having a man-eating shark for an anchor: big enough to keep the ship from drifting away to stormy seas, but then, it might end up eating you.

   “Good,” Barry exclaimed, looking relieved. “So will you take the apartment?”

   “I will,” I said, and we shook on it. From what I could see the little place looked alright. And there was no hope of finding anything better in my price range, of that I was sure.

   “Good,” He said again, glowing. “You can move in straightaway as soon as we get the sublease signed. Oh, there’s the question of the mail to be answered though.”

   “Mail?”

   “Yes.” He said nonchalantly. “Your box is number fourteen, but you won’t mind picking up the mail for number fifteen and dropping it outside the door will you? It’s right across the hall.”

   “Sure, I don’t see why not.” I said, readily agreeable.

   “Thanks. I’ve been doing it for years and I think they’ve gotten used to it.”

   “They don’t like getting their mail?”

   “I don’t know. I’ve never seen them.”

   “Who lives there?

   “Don’t know that either. The name on the mail is always A. Miles. Whoever he is, he’s shy.”

   

   Maybe you’re not familiar with the breed of people who become teachers. Generally they are idealistic, ambitious and have good imaginations. They envision themselves changing the world, nay, the future even, through their students. They are affecting the grand scheme, and it thrills them to their core, at least at first.

   But a good imagination is a dangerous treasure.

   

   And if you will but use your own imagination, you can understand that by this point the apartment was starting to look worse and worse. The rent was basically the only good thing about it. I was a flexible human being. I mean, I’d survived four years of college, mostly spent in a clammy dorm room. I could have easily contended with holes in the wall, no air-conditioning and the leftover smells of Barry Hamlet’s raucous, book-worm life-style.

   But ghostly neighbors were a different thing entirely. I had heard this story before, and it didn’t end well for me, in any version, ever. If this had been a movie, I, as the unsuspecting victim, would have discarded the creepy feeling in my stomach as nothing but foolish jitters and gone on with life, only to be haunted to death later. But this wasn’t a movie, and I didn’t have the satisfaction of even one peaceful night in 3B. From that very moment, I began counting down the days to October.