For me, future me, and my mama.

Archive for April, 2012|Monthly archive page

To The Handprint On My Heart.

In Thoughts. on April 28, 2012 at 6:57 am

Dear Daddy,

Today I lost it and cried in a coffee shop while listening to “For Good” over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over again.  There’s just been too much going on.  I can’t handle it anymore.  I need to talk with you.  I want to hear your thoughts.  I so direly long to hear your voice.

I miss you.  I miss you.  I miss you.  

Dear DADDY who art in heaven,

I need you for everything.  I trust you with everything.  May will be done here on earth as it is in heaven.  Amen.

Wednesday.

In Thoughts. on April 26, 2012 at 2:44 am

I begin the day in a room not my own.  My friend must think I’m crazy.  I’m not.  Just exhausted.  This season is running me into the ground.  This city is making it hard to get up.  700 Am.  I creep out of her apartment, clumsily undoing the triple-locked door.  Five flights of steps down.  Around and around and around I descend.  My mind immediately spins from the staircase.  It’s been spinning non-stop from my current schedule and situation.  I head to my sanctuary.  Nature.  This morning, it’s Central Park.  Cotton candy clouds protect me from the  730 sun.  Runners running.  Runners running.  Senior citizen in black leather gloves walking.  Counter-clockwise they flow.  Left to right.  Around the bend and they’re gone.  Glances they throw my way as I sit in my leather jacket and boots.  Eating my bagel.  Drinking my coffee.  Judgment.  Jealousy.  I’m obviously not here to run.  The cotton candy clouds quickly disappear.   Now just one big one spans the sky.   Cold front in.   This girl out.  Time to walk.  Need to clear my head.  90th to 34th Street.  There’s a lot going on this head.  What a beautiful day in the neighborhood.  I’ve got time. Whoops.  I don’t have time.  Off to work!  Not ready to begin my shift.  No one cares.  Folding.  Sizing.  Folding.  Sizing.  Bad traffic today.  Don’t have to talk about the same thing over and over and over again–“Where are you from / how’s this weather / what are you doing today?”  No need to make conversation with customers not here, I’m not complaining.  No customers would then mean, though, more folding, more sizing.  Now, I’m complaining.  Dear friend and co-worker’s shift begins.  Excited to catch up. We speak of recent and upcoming adventures in front of the illuminated watch case.  We get in trouble.  Expected.  We catch up discreetly in the enclave of backpacks.  “Want to go home early?” my manager asks.  YES.  Oh my gosh, yes.  Grab my stuff.  Head to church.  Sing until I just about lose my voice.  Forced then to talk to more people–strangers, I might add.  “Malia.  Ma-li-a.  Like Maria but with an ‘L’ ”  Followed up with more where are you from / how’s this weather / what did you do today?  Now I wish I would’ve actually lost my voice.  I know, I know.  Sinner.  Whatever.  And then JESUS.  Boom. Learn about Him.  Fall more in love with Him.  Have my life radically reworked by Him.  Give Him all my stuff.  Head back to the train.  It’s the R.  Have to wait for the train…It’s the R.  Conk out.  Get home.  1100 PM.  Get ready for bed.  Time to read.  Getting sleepy.  Time to write.  Getting stuck.  Time to call.  Damn you, timezones.  Time to sleep.  Body, mind, and soul–EXHAUSTED.

I can’t keep this up for long.

New York.  Oh, New York.  My incredibly happy but hard place.

A Raw and Unedited Response to “Dying To Be Back In My Element.”

In Thoughts. on April 23, 2012 at 2:03 pm

Dear wonderful people whom I love,

I thought I’d retire my cryptic and encoded entries for the night and simply give you a what’s-up-with-Malia moment.  The fact that a couple of you have expressed concern over the fish story, may or may not also be a factor.  Hah.  You all are the best, and I love you.

Anyway, it’s been quite the week…year?…two years?…and everything came to a head in the last couple of days.  So much so, that after an intensely frustrating shift at the cafe, I chopped off my hair (to shoulder length) on a whim.  WHOOPS.  Then after an intensely frustrating couple of shifts at the store the next day, I wrote the admittedly morbid fish story, which in retrospect…a bit dramatic?  Perhaps.  I get that now.  Still, there’s only so many T-shirts one can fold and racks one can size before he or she snaps and writes a terribly melodramatic short story.  Obviously, for me, that number has been exceeded.

Now apart from some other nuances that I don’t care to get into right now, one of the main themes in that story is that I’ve been feeling it in my body and in my soul, the adverse effects of not dancing.  After all, that is what I came to New York to do, but I’m not doing it. The dance community, furthermore, that happens to be all around me is one of the most (if not the most) vibrant in all of the world, and I’m not a part of it–yet.  What a tease.

I’m trying to do my best, though, to soak up the seasons.  I won’t be working at the store and cafe forever, which is encouraging to think about and helps me complete each day with urgency.  Lately, it’s been waning.  I’ve been tired, so tired, and I don’t just mean physically.  Still, I recognize and am trying to appreciate all that I am gleaning from these  seemingly unavailing jobs.  It’s been a bit much for this introverted gal, but then again, growing experiences wouldn’t be complete without growing pains.

This season has not and will not pass by in vain.

Now at the end of the week as I sit in my PJs and begin my Sabbath, I reflect back on the untold extremes the last couple of seasons have brought.  I remember the good with the bad, the laughter with the pain, and I am reminded that the safe story is never the interesting, exciting, or worthwhile one.  To that end, it is my prayer that God would write me a story that’s out of this world!  Please and thank you and amen.

Sincerely,

Malia.

Humility: The Flower Which Will Adorn Any Garden.

In Thoughts. on April 23, 2012 at 12:06 pm
Too flabby, too fat,
Too frizzy, too flat,
Too tall, too short,
Not enough.
 
We all have our things we wish wouldn’t be;
So we trade in our true beauty for a false humility.
 
Oh, she’s so gorgeous, woe is me.
I could never carry myself as confidently. 
Oh, she’s so sociable, woe is me.  
I could never make friends as easily.   
Oh, she’s so talented, woe is me.  
I could never be everything that she could be.  
—————————————————————

STOP IT.  Be quiet.
I have heard enough.
Now it’s my turn to speak.
 
I am the one who designed you.
It’s me you are doubting.
I am the one who created you.
It is me you are insulting.
I am the one who tasked and equipped you for such a time as this.
It’s me you are rejecting.
 
It’s me, my dear–my darling and daughter
Whose heart you continually break.
 
Why won’t you just believe me when I call you MINE?
 

“We do God more honor by believing what He has said about Himself [and ourselves] and having the courage to come boldly to the throne of grace than by hiding in self-conscious humility among the tress of the garden.”  -AW Tozer, The Knowledge of the Holy, p. 155

Dying To Be Back In My Element.

In Thoughts. on April 20, 2012 at 2:48 am
In a town and time not too far away, there was a fish in water that all of a sudden,
 
WASN’T.
 
Its body convulsed violently as it left its sanctuary of water–Water from the aquarium, all the meanwhile, continued to spill–And though spilling everywhere about, it wasn’t enough to sustain the fish–For the fish was not meant to live in this world nor made to breathe this air.
 
Dying, it began to quiver–Quivering, coherency faded out–Outward it stared as its eyes glazed and body stilled–Still on the inside, its soul continued to cry,
 
WATER
WATER
WATER
 
And so the fish finally suffocated with a final gulp of air that was not its own while laying in a puddle of water that just wasn’t enough.
 
 

Neither Storm Cloud Nor Rainbow Lasts Forever.

In Thoughts. on April 17, 2012 at 6:25 am

There once was a little girl who was born and raised in sunshine and 70-something degrees.  Her life was pretty perfect, and the place she called home, paradise.  There was about as much reason to complain as there was need to check the daily weather forecast.

Now every day was lovely, just like the last, the sunny-70-something-degrees Sunday right on through to the sunny-70-something-degrees Saturday.  It was, however, in this world of never-ending nice days that the little girl often found herself saying, “I’ll do _________ tomorrow,” for she knew that tomorrow would be beautiful as well.  Eventually, some matters did get done, while others were put on lengthier to-do lists or just taken off of or forgotten from lists completely as the tomorrows came and went–the subsequent weeks, months, and years to follow in a similar fashion.

Then one day the not-so-little-anymore girl traveled to a land far far away where every day was different and every season extreme.  It was here where she was struck by a peculiar sense of urgency she had never witnessed before.

In this new place, when the sun was at its most extreme, the people made it a point to watch concerts in the park and take long walks by the water.

When the leaves changed colors, the people made it a point to bask in the vibrancy of Central Park and drink apple cider.

When the little white droplets fell from the sky, the people made it a point to admire window displays and go ice skating.

When the blossoms unraveled their delicate petals, the people made it a point to roll up their ankle cuffs and read their books on grassy lawns.

And when this girl finally experienced seasons for herself, she realized not only the immense beauty of what she had come from but also became excited for the imminent beauty that lay ahead.  For slowly but surely, she was beginning to understand and appreciate the import of seasons regardless of rain, shine, or allergy attacks.  And with that, she made it a point to sit down and write; for writing was what [one of the things] her current season had called her to do and with a sense of urgency was how her current city caused had her to live.

Thank you for the ones that have been.  Help me make the most of the one right now.  I entrust to you the ones still to come.  Amen.

Short, Sweet, and Sincere.

In Thoughts. on April 10, 2012 at 1:51 am

Since being catapulted into this grown up world, I’ve been bearing this unremitting sort of gratefulness from the realization and reality of what won-de-rful mentors I’ve had in my life.  Never could I repay them, nor with words fully elucidate how much they mean to me.  Still, to

Wendy Gilbert, the one who taught me to dance,

Victoria Finlayson, the one who encouraged me to keep dancing,

Julianne Stoker, the one who taught me to write,

Carolyn Weber, the one who inspired me to keep writing,

Greg Spencer, the one who helped me to heal, and

Joanna Baniaga, the one who made me want this Christian life–

Thank you. 

With all of my heart, thank you.

You will never know on this side of eternity just how much you mean to me.

Ready, Set, DANCE [S.Nachmanovitch]

In Excerpts. on April 6, 2012 at 11:19 am

Knowledge of the creative process cannot substitute for creativity, but it can save us from giving up on creativity when the challenges seem too intimidating and free play seems blocked.  If we know that our inevitable setbacks and frustrations are phases of the natural cycle of creative processes, if we know that our obstacles can become our ornaments, we can persevere and bring our desires to fruition.  Such perseverance can be a real test, but there are ways through, there are guideposts.  And the struggle, which is guaranteed to take a lifetime, is worth it.  It is a struggle that generates incredible pleasure and joy.  Every attempt we make is imperfect; yet each one of those imperfect attempts is an occasion for a delight unlike anything else on earth. -Stephen Nachmanovitch [Free Play, 22-23]

Oh, the creative life!  I love it.  I hate it.  I’m doing it, nonetheless; for though dreams are nice, dreams coupled with action and powered by perseverance are far better.  With that said, here is my avowal once again to do that one thing I came here to do.  Come hell or high water or Spaghetti-O’s every night, I will be dancing in September.

Note: I’m fairly certain it’s not going to be on Broadway, with the Rockettes, or with So You Think You Can Dance, so you all don’t everrr have to ask me that again.  Great.  Glad we got that cleared up.

Photo credit:  Amber Schoniwitz