you can hold on

Sometimes you hang on a rope swing. And when you look like a little boy, you don't mind so much.

Because at least you're hanging onto something.

And the fact that the rope is burning and your legs are shaking from the effort is just more evidence.

Of the fact that you're alive.

That you're a fighter.

And that you're scrappy.

Even when you don't quite feel like you are.

Even when you face opposition.
Who seems to think that they are bigger and badder than they really are.

Who would benefit greatly from a bath, a tender touch, and maybe a massage.

A massage? you wonder.

Yes, a massage. Because you think you've heard it all but then your hair stylist mentions that he knows a dog masseuse who makes $80 an hour and has at least three clients a day and doesn't that just beat all?

It beats most, at least.

And always, always there's a door up ahead.

It might be red because that's your favorite color or it might be less obvious than that but the point is that it's there.

It's a door that leads to better things and even though you have to eventually let go of that rope swing because nobody can live their life suspended in the air, you can hold onto hope.

And you will.

on the road to blonde

I woke up today with one clear thought.

And lately I've been inundated with many many questions, so this divergence was a relief.

The thought?

Gonna go blonde.

And so I called up a nearby Aveda salon and asked when they could take me. One o'clock came quickly and I walked in with my dark hair.

You really wanna go blonde? the salon owner asked, With those eyes?

Yep, I said with determination, I need a change.

And more of a change than the five pounds I've lost in the last week.

Well I can't guarantee that you will walk out of here platinum blonde today, he told me, But we can start.

And I appreciate a straight shooter.

Four and a half hours and a few varying shades of red later, this is how I walked out.
And I like it.
But it's a two-part process. I am going back on Tuesday and we're gonna make this hair blonde, darn it.
But for now it's a change, and I'll take it.

The owner also told me that he was wrong about my eyes; apparently they work with lighter hair also, is what he indicated.

Yep, I see just fine no matter what color my hair is.

oh, dear

Yesterday I went on a walk and saw some deer. I kept getting closer and closer to them and unbelievably, they stayed put. But then my camera died before I could take a good close-up, so there you go. They had antlers and everything. I guess in this case everything entails legs, torsos, heads, necks, hooves, and tails.

I also saw this.
I was in the shadows. I am in the shadows, but somewhere the sun is shining. Sometimes that gives me hope and sometimes that just makes me feel worse. But that path...it leads to where the sun is shining. You can see that.

I can't see that.

But you can.

I also saw this. Unfortunately.
My sister-in-law couldn't find a matching pair of shoes for the walk and was forced to go as is. I can't help laughing when I see this. And the funniest part is that the shoes somehow make her jeans look terrible. Like mom jeans of the worst kind (no offense, moms). Like if you could see, there'd surely be pleats at the waist line. Maybe even an elasticized waist, if we're lucky.

But then I looked down and saw this.
And realized I didn't really have much room to talk.

So we laugh at each other and find some joy in this.

sweet

I was at my parents' house the other day, feeling sad. Just laying in my old bedroom, wondering where the good had gone. And suddenly, well, some good came in and jumped right into bed with me.

A pure, slobbery, tongue-lolling faithful friend.

Not usually allowed in beds, he was pleased as punch to be in one with me.

And we lay there.

His great big furry bulk pressed up against my body. His whiskers tickling my cheeks. The steady rise and fall of his rib cage just calm and consistent, blessedly consistent right now. And I didn't feel better, but I felt alive. I felt like his fur was real, and that was nice. I could press my palms against his spine and know that I was real too. And when his tail wagged it was good. Pure, even. I didn't see a lot of reasons for it necessarily, but maybe his reason for wagging his tail was me.

And maybe that's enough.

And maybe I actually got him to wear a hat and stay still long enough to pose for a picture too.

finally weightless

Peace.

But what about the experiences that would teach any sane person to be anxious?Sometimes it's hard to know what to do with it, and it feels crazy to not feel anxious. But then there's God and he messes up the equation and the sense life makes, I suppose. He talks about peace and it doesn't depend on everything being controllable or even appeasing to us; but rather it's dependent on Him. Existing. In the midst of everything. It doesn't make any sense, it really doesn't.

But anxiety.

It just wells up so big, drowning out every other feeling until all I want is to escape. But it's inside me so deep that I'd just as easily escape from my left lung or my brain; in short: it's seemingly and intricately woven into me. So what do I do? Other than try to fix the problem, which usually just results in a bigger mess because what human can be fixed by her own clumsy self? So I give it to God and in his mercy I forget about it for a little bit. I get lost in a song I am writing. Or a conversation with a friend. Or the show I am doing. Or the way my hip hurts when I lay on my left side. Or the pain of someone else I love. Or the innocence of the morning, how nothing has changed the day yet; nothing has let on to the fact that the sky which looks so friendly now could turn in a second and suddenly you find yourself dripping, drenched in a rain you never prepared for.

And then maybe the next time I think about it, the pain is not so fresh. Or maybe it is and then I try to give it to Him once again, all the while not quite even sure how you even know if it has truly been given to God. It's not exactly tangible. It's not exactly measurable. It's not like I have three eggs in my basket and I can hold each of them in my hand, feeling the weight and the shape, and then hand them off to Him three times over, happily looking down in my basket after the last transaction and seeing they are gone.

That my basket is empty, that I am finally weightless.

humor is as silver of a lining as any

He tears me down on every side till I am gone;
he uproots my hope like a tree.

Job said it.

And he said it well.

And I draw comfort from those sad words, from a text that lets me know that deep sadness has been a part of our story since the first words were spoken; but it's not the end of Job's story.

And so maybe that means it's not the end of this story either.

And thank God for humor along the way. For the ridiculousness and utter comedy that is undeniable, that rises up and makes you laugh despite yourself.

Like what my pop said to me tonight. After staring at me quizzically for a few moments, of course. And when that happens, you never know quite what he is going to say. It might be the notion that we simply ask a friend of ours if we could borrow his wheelchair since my sister just got surgery on her knee and is not able to rip around on her own quite yet.

Um, pop? we all suggested. He might just need that wheelchair since he is, you know, paralyzed and all.

Or it could always just be a question.

Is this, he said, pointing to my hair, a mullet?

Laughing, my brother jumped to my defense right away and assured him that no, it is not in fact a mullet.

Though it's a little disturbing that he even had to ask at all.

I don't want to forget

It's weird, I sort of already forgot about this. I mean, I know I haven't really. And I know it happened and all that, but I've barely given it any thought at all. Not until I looked at this picture, actually. And how strange it is to not be going back to some city sometime soon, for a soundcheck at four and the hope of a Whole Foods that is within a walkable distance.

In a book I recently read, A Million Miles in a Thousand Years, Don Miller talks about a guy he knows who keeps a notebook with him and writes down everything that he can remember. All the time. He wants to record his memories because otherwise he'd forget, he says, and I get that. Because although it might not be so bad to forget that time you waited at the DMV for an hour with nothing to do but listen to the sounds of the security guards urging you to please stay in line! and then next! to the person who is unfortunately 50 paces in front of you, it could be sad to forget that time you first met your little niece exactly eleven years ago. And when you walked outside from the birth center to the car that night it looked like the stars had been polished and buffed to the point where God could see his face in them, the newness of that little girl in your life was so radiant.

And I guess that's why pictures are nice too.

They are memories in colors and stills.

Like, I hardly ever think about Japan. I mean, I do occasionally use the emoji app on my iphone, but that's about as much mental energy as I give to anything Japanese lately. Call me present minded, I guess.

But I look at this picture and suddenly I cannot deny that I've been there.
Walking in a bamboo forrest that dwarfed me.

I remember the way the light was barely lasting, the sun was setting and couldn't quite reach around the bend in the road anymore.

And no matter what it feels like sometimes, it's good to remember that there are some things that are true. It's good to write them down, to take pictures of the love you've shared and the places you've walked.

I've been to Japan.

I've swam with manatees.

But more than anything else, I love and I am loved and I have so many memories that can be given as conclusive evidence to support this theory.

But I'll still keep writing it down, because I don't want to forget.