Monthly Archives: March 2012


brilliant, love this.

A Journal Entry: The Vow of Silence


For the past three days, my voice has been becoming more weak and more hoarse, my breathing made labored, and the amount of times I’ve coughed and had to clear my throat have increased at parallel rates. I did some quick self-diagnosing and found that I was most likely developing laryngitis. Further confirming this diagnosis, I woke up just before midnight today, and found that I could no longer speak at all. My thoughts frantically searched for a way to communicate with the friend whose house I had woken up at. There was no paper, no pens, my phone was dead and I do not know sign language beyond the alphabet.

I came to a rest in a chair by the bedroom window. Hours passed as I sat and watched in a calm stillness as the rays of the early morning sun began slowly filling the room. I thought to myself of the deaf and the mute, romanticizing the idea of never being able to speak again. I began to think of the series we’re currently covering at Sunday School; It’s on the value and the impact of words. For months, I have become more and more agitated by the sheer vanity of the things that proceed from my heart to my mouth, so this series is timely and fitting for me. It seemed like a natural conclusion to come to that I would take a vow of silence in this time, and perhaps it is a cheap sacrifice with my current condition aiding the choice, but it is a matter I feel strongly about pursuing nonetheless.

I noted that if I was serious, I needed to think about what it was that I wanted to gain out of this. It came pretty quickly to me that I wanted to reinstate an awareness of my words and the impact they have on others; I often offend people without intending to, due to a lack of premeditation, and frankly, out of carelessness. I also have a tendency to speak out of anger, sadness, or jealousy and in the same breath, wishing I could take back all the damaging words I’ve said. Even more frustrating is that I’ve found a way to cause harm to others when acting out of joy, too, by speaking faith and encouragement into areas of their lives where I didn’t have any business poking my ruddy fingers into. Obviously, I need to learn to take more time thinking about my responses, before releasing them out into the world. Ultimately, I want the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart to be pleasing to the Lord.

Thirdly and lastly, another desired outcome I conjured up out of my subconscious was that I wanted to hear G-d in stillness. I have heard Him in noise, in the voices of others, and in music. I have seen Him in the Word, in a sunset or a circumstance, but very rarely, if ever, have I heard Him or known Him by and/or in silence. I often sing that song, “In the secret, in the quiet place, in the stillness, You are there,” and have felt His presence in the song, but not genuinely related to the words. I am excited to see the ways G-d will move in my silence. I am excited to be reminded that He knows my heart and therefore hears the prayers of my heart, even when I choose not to place them into words – a simple truth that I so often forget.

My progress and any unexpected outcomes will surely be noted, as I will probably be documenting any change or progress through this blog, manipulating it as a journal of sorts… for the time being, anyways.

Scriptural References: Psalm 91:1, Psalm 37:7, Luke 6:45, Matthew 12:34, Psalm 19:14, Psalm 44:21, Proverbs 15:1, so on, so forth.

Directed Prose: Martyrs, Jeans, and Wine


What is left in this world beyond beauty? What, without charm, is worth living for anymore? What doesn’t pass away with the morning tides, but memory? What does my heart spill that a love has not inspired? The answer to all my questions is always nothing.

The madness of structure and of obligation ceases to matter when I answer your calling, and we slip into a world detested by most; Detested because they have no way of knowing, no common ground to understand the necessity of oblivion and of disguises. They see our utopia as our mask, but they would be appalled to find that the only mask we wear is the only face they’ve ever known us in. Our love and our imaginations fill the space between us and we become one mind, likened unto the same goal, like Christian martyrs, scraping the flesh that condemns us, poetically dying for a cause that yields no results here, but in an unknown future.

We slave in the seen for what it produces in the unseen because we know that the treasure we have laid down for ourselves in our hearts is more valuable and enduring than what short lust we could produce through all manner of touch. And we love all of our unloveliness. While I know how I’ve accepted yours, I am indebted and befuddled by how you’ve so easily loved mine. You are my downfall, dear blue, for you symbolize my weaknesses. You are the human manifestation and the figurative embodiment of all that I outwardly despise and inwardly worship in myself. Simply put, you are the sex and the drugs and the complications.

There’s no need for any more words, love. We’ve used them all before in ferorciousness, with reckless abandonment, but without regret. Our love is like an old pair of jeans, tattered and torn, filled with holes and showing signs of distress. It is the character of our lives, it is the product of living a full life in the shortest amount of time. We are an old wine placed in new wineskins, remembering the days of when we were yet just young little grapes, walking the vine, until one day we found each other… and rather than move aside so the other might pass, we decided to, together, be crushed and made into the sweetest juices and placed in the finest of glasses on the set and made dinner table of G-d.

You are my favorite pair of jeans; You are my favorite brand of wine.
Without you, I am trendy trash.
Without you, I am a dull wine to burnt tastebuds.

Poetry: Returning a Dirty Windshield


You put me in a box because I stuck you in the drawer,
Your only sure fate left is the one walking out the door,
You laughed at my pleads, the ones I made to God,
You roared with the sound of assurance,
at my faulty faith in your facade.

There never was a hope, nor a light,
Not a single sign to foretell of a joy,
That might exist between you and me.
Still, I look for the invisible door,
Of which I don’t even have the key.

They all say I’ve changed them, and mostly for the better,
And I always wonder, where is my souvenir?
Where is my memento from the pain I endured?
Where is my crown, the one that is endeared?

Well I’m not going to stand for it anymore,
I’m not a punching bag; that’s not what this was for.
You were given a handout in self-betterment,
and I was handed to the devils for an unfair judgment.

The clarity of purpose should come with clear vision,
All of your excuses demand a subtext description,
But maybe I’m missing something, a better reason for our division,
Is there a scratch on my lens? Should I get a new prescription?

Do I need to sum this up, or give a good conclusion?
You know, even the best of you, only deserves confusion.

And after deciding against castration,
Thought to repay you for my frustration,
What can I give that’s not too subtle,
But not inducing any grand rebuttals?

So rather than present a gift,
Your possessions, I return to you,
Giving back your dirty, old windshield,
the recycling of an unclear view.

Poetry: The Longing for Lashes


To give love and receive pain,
Is a love most won’t understand.
To feel pain and to perceive love,
Is a concept even more strange.

But we who suffer in loving and love in suffering,
Do not listen to the babbles and mutterings.
We do so to a satisfy a deep hunger,
Today’s pain getting us by, a little longer.

We flinch to an invisible whip,
And we cringe at its absence,
The longing for the sub space
Is at the core of our madness.

The void euphoria of pain first filled,
Becomes our cup that always spills,
To live without its constant filling,
Is to live without a master, willing;

Masters willing to sell us gold,
Once impoverished in a spirit, cold.
To take away our new found riches
Is modern existence, thrown in ditches.

We are your teachers, cashiers, and lawyers,
We are your businessmen and plain employers.

You see us every day,
Paying for our lifestyles with your dollars,
Complimenting, but never questioning,
The odd presence of our collars.

Poetry: A Heart Poorly Fashioned


And with every open door,
I’m the fool that runs right through,
Never listening for Your voice,
Never waiting for my cue.

I come sobbing every time,
with the tears that burn my eyes,
And I’ve no more, no less to say,
than what I did the other day.

In matters of the heart,
You knew right from the start,
I’d be a fighting, stubborn child,
Still, You look on me and smile.

I am not skilled to understand,
Why it is You lived and died for man.
The beauty that exists in the power of Your fists,
Could never cease to save me,
from the world that drives me crazy.

From the time You formed Your plan,
You knew the deficits of my heart,
You knew I’d always seek a man,
Yet You’ve loved me, every part.

I live in the future, but I dwell in the past,
I am the wine, but you are much more vast.
You are the vineyard, the bottle and the glass.
You have my heart for however long it lasts.

***Note: If it sounds weird, it’s because I wrote this to the tune of “A Sweater Poorly Knit” by mewithoutYou playing in my head. Hence, the title.***

You may now return to your regularly scheduled brain-washing. (: Have a blessed day.

Poetry: My Hero and My Father


This is a silly little poem I wrote for my father in five minutes for his birthday today. Yes, I’m a horrible daughter with no money, just debt in my name so I didn’t get him anything fancy. I wrote it out on paper first. I recognize that it’s not as verbose as I usually am, but I wanted to use simple language because I didn’t want the message lost in translation as it usually is.

When I was seven, my hero was the strongest man in the world,
He’d lift me up high in the air, with both arms, and twirl.

My hero always protected me,
He always kept me safe,
From all the monsters, spiders,
And bloody knee scrapes.

As I got older and stronger, my hero changed.
My hero was now a fierce hunter,
the boys that liked me were his shooting range.
I no longer looked to him to kiss my wounds and scars,
but instead looked to him to buy me music, food and cars.

Some things about my hero changed, but some things never will,
He’s a strong, loving man who never breaks, but always builds.
His heart and his hugs are always open for business,
And if there’s one thing he’s good at, it’s the power of forgiveness.

So whether something was stolen or my heart was broken,
There’s always a hero I trust I can bother.
Always has and always will be,
My hero is my father.