when thoughts become words

today is sunday, the first sunday in august, and the first time i've had a moment to myself in months. i cozied up with that moment, wrapped myself in its floppy arms all awkward like a prom picture, and set about to putting away the laundry i'd done the day before.


to set the scene for the thoughts you're about to read, i should tell you i'm conflicted. not the Ohmygod I'm just so sad and my life is desolate because I'm not where I want to be and it's painful and I know where I should be but I can't get there and that's the worst part! kind of conflicted, but more of the What do I freaking DO with myself now that I'm exactly where I want to be, which is where God wants me to be? I've never felt so aligned and perfectly placed in my life and I almost feel like stepping out of bounds just to mess something up and feel human again! kind of conflicted.


you know, the conflict that comes from making peace in war, from finding purpose in pain, from knowing that there's nothing good in me but there's everything good in a God who orchestrates it all.


i've been traveling around a bit lately. i've been working at my part-time internship with this great organization called DC SCORES tuesdays through thursdays, but on the weekends i've been bookin' it. went to the Outerbanks with my mom and brothers and aunt and uncle (ok well i cheated and missed work for that); to Newport Folk Festival and Boston with friends, made a pit stop in Jersey along the way; headed to NYC just 2 nights ago to see the honorable Jon Foreman put on a show, contemplated life on the Brooklyn Bridge and drove back to DC through the night; awoke and went to West Virginia yesterday morning to meet up with friends from back home.


which leads me to today, this moment, on the 8th floor, on the carpet of the Rudeshack. thinking. 
i have a question for you. when traveling, do you ever find yourself thinking Oh yes, I could see myself living here! or Holy crap, WHY would I ever subject myself to living here?! 


well i think about these things all the time, so my recent travels have been no exception. here's what i've come up with:

• i've decided i want to live in New York sometime-- soon, preferably. every time i'm in that city it calls out to me and gives me a new reason for blessing it with my presence
• i definitely never want to live in the Outerbanks; i can think of many a beach on a better coast (cough the West Coast cough) that offer a much better vibe and raw beauty 
• West Virginia is great because life is simple and slow and open, but living there would leave me unstimulated and sad
• and as great as Newport and Boston are, Newport is just a bunch of Sperry-wearing sailors and Boston gets NASTO weather in the wintertime

and then there's DC.
and this apartment, the Rudeshack.
the Rudeshack and i are going on our 3rd year together, and it's feeling like home. DC is feeling like home. DC has felt like home. but each of those places i've just mentioned, albeit some of them places i'd NEVER want to inhabit, communicate some variation of that this is home feeling to me when i'm in them.


which leads me to ponder that perhaps home isn't a place; perhaps it's something more.


perhaps Jon Foreman has it right when he sings This is Home. maybe home isn't a place on a map, and maybe it's more a place within. a place of peace and aspiration, a place of purpose and action and dreams and reckoning.
a dwelling place, in which dwells a God more personal and real and loving than i know what to do with.
come to think of it, maybe Jon Foreman said it even MORE right when he sings House of God Forever. or maybe, just maybe, i should stop stalking Jon Foreman in both the literary and the literal sense, and point out that David said it right AND said it first, when he wrote Psalm 27.

One thing I ask from the Lord, this only do I seek: that I may dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life, to gaze on the beauty of the Lord and to seek Him in His temple. For in the day of trouble He will keep me safe in His dwelling; He will hide me in the shelter of His sacred tent and set me high upon a rock. (new int'l version, verses 4-5)

maybe home isn't a place, not yet at least, that i can find. maybe home is wherever God takes me in life, because He's with me and in me as He takes me. maybe home is wherever He is. which is a pretty beautiful thought.


i'll leave you with one final thing i created. (see below.)
i wrote it just a few minutes ago, when i couldn't stand the hum of the three air conditioning units any longer. as grateful as i am for air conditioning in this DC heat, i sure did damn those things under my breath. or maybe it was aloud; i'm not really certain, as i am home alone and i can say anything i want because no one is here to hear me!


ps.
just kidding, air conditioners. you're great! and appreciated! and loved!!!1!1


anyways. here you go. enjoy.










title: a poem, a cry


i've forgotten what silence sounds like.


HELP! CAN'T ANYONE HEAR ME!
don't leave me alone with my thoughts


but worst of all,
don't leave me alone with the souuundds


ah! why are they so amplified!


why could i never before hear the jangling of my bracelets?
why is the air conditioning unit SCREAMING at me?


I WANT TO SCREAM BACK.
i want to make a sound, ensure this isn't a dream, that i'm real, that i matter.


GET AWAY YOU DAMN THING. STOP CHASING ME INTO MYSELF.


the water faucet makes a sound?
who knew a spicket could sing.
sounds more like the screeching of a crow than a chorus of angels...
maybe i should start some music.
it will slow things down, reduce the jitters, ease the tension, provide an escape


an escape
from the sound of silence
that attacks me randomly, repeatedly, acutely
sharp and short like a blood sugar test
heavy and raw like an undercooked steak hitting an empty stomach: unchewed, hard to swallow, impossible to digest.


silence quick and relentless like an infantry on battlefield, led by cavalry and weapons and flags,
each one waving and poking and pushing at me as he passes.


I HEAR YOU GOD
I AM LISTENING


You haven't given me much of a choice have You?
okay, well.
what do You want to do? ...can You say something please? because all i hear is this pen against the paper and the creaking of the walls and the traffic down below and the wind as it rushes up against the panes, and all the while the stupid air conditioner marks time with its steady hum, making me wish i knew what key ihwe89128795#$!@5l2gye21 was in, because that's what it sounds like. making me wish i had an ear for telling what key things were in at all.


is this what You had planned?
for me to be alone,
plagued by the sound of silence and the constant Simon and Garfunkel references that phrase brings to my mind?


maybe it is.
maybe You're saying:
I AM HERE
CAN'T YOU HEAR ME?
can't you feel Me poking and prodding you to get off your sorry ass, kneel down before me, and worship me simply because 
I WAS
I AM
and I WILL ALWAYS BE?


okay, God.
ok ok ok.
i get it.
no more going through the motions, no more being surprised when you "show up."
i get it. you're shown up. you're here.
in the mundane.
full of glory and mercy, power and humility, the sweet and the savory, finality and temporality.
painfully tangible yet soothingly ubiquitous.
you're here.
i get it.
count me in.