shellywhite:
I’ve had three-too-many chipped porcelain mugs-full of milky Valerian tea lattes; and that, along with the last of the contents of my now-empty bottle of Melatonin, are beginning to enter my bloodstream. Sleep used to come so much more easily.
My thoughts are waning, fading, and coming alive: refusing to be put to rest; in the same way that the tiny specks of dust danced in the beams of beautiful morning light that seeped through the cracks of my broken windowpane, thirteen short hours earlier. Sleep used to come so much more easily.
I’m writing letters that I’ll never send: smudging them with stardust and ink-stained fingertips, sealing them in crumpled cream-coloured envelopes, and burying them beneath my mattress. Sleep used to come so much more easily.
shellywhite:
My darling girl, the word beautiful doesn’t even begin to describe how lovely you are.
There are constellations behind the silvery sparkle in your eyes, silently screaming a story that is uniquely your own. A paradoxically beguiling story of pain. Joy. Heartbreak. Love. Loss. Gain. A story of redemption. They say that if one is really looking, the soul can be glimpsed through these tiny, shimmering windows. Along the way, as you adventure through this glorious journey of life, circumstances may attempt to steal the glimmer from your eyes. Do not let the light fade.
Your tender, yet tenaciously strong mass of muscle behind your carbon ribs pumps stardust through your violet veins: a liquid form of the very atoms that were breathed into your being upon Creation; bringing life to you, as well as the Universe: all that you have seen, and have yet to see. Your heart has the capacity to fall in love with the world, explode with bliss, and to inevitably be broken. Your deepest longings are buried in this patched-up bundle of scar tissue. Do not let these scars define who you are. They mean nothing, yet they mean everything.
Share these longings with only those that are extraordinarily worthy enough to recieve them. To protect them. To hold them as their own. Do not settle for the first promise of cheap heat, for one will soon come along that will fight to fall in love with your honour. He’ll be imperfect, and you will learn of his beautifully broken humanity, so similar to that of your own.
The electromagnetic pulses in your mind are not merely explained by science. They carry thoughts that are inexplicably distinct and intricately placed; holding perplexing questions and enchanting dayreams. Do not apologize for them, or second-guess their validity. These thoughts, if put into action, have the power to inspire. To heal. To create change. Your mind is a mystery; one that continues to unfold, layer upon layer.
You have been wrapped in a specific shade of skin that cannot be re-created, and dusted with the fingerprints of an ultimate Artist. You are sealed with an irreplaceable purpose. You are infinite.
My darling girl, you were created to be free. To run barefoot through fields of grass, beneath the endless stars of our snowglobe sky. To dream, and to follow those dreams with every fiber of your being. To share your brokenness, which is now counted as beauty.
You were created to love and be loved. To know, and to let it be known.
shellywhite:
Truth has always been beautifully offensive.
Truth has never made sense in the eyes of the world.
Truth relentlessly illicits a response, both positive and negative.
But it’s real.
It’s know this because of how Truth has made me feel, where Truth has taken me, and the breathtaking redemption I’ve personally witnessed in the name of Truth.
I believe in Grace; a Grace that is too scandalous for words. I believe in second chances. I believe in third chances. I believe in fourth chances. I believe in sixteenth chances.
I believe in sunrises, dancing on rooftops, and having words of Truth and doubtful questions of life spill off of honest, once-unclean lips.
I believe that some of the most raw, convicting words of Hope are sometimes penned on tear-stained sheets of paper by cigarette-scented fingertips.
I believe hands were meant to be held, life was created to be shared, and that eye-contact and a smile shared between strangers can sometimes change everything.
I believe that the Kingdom of God is not found in a church building. It is not found in a false, hypocritical, lily-white portrayal of perfection.
I believe that the Kindgom of God is within us. Among us. On the streets.
I believe in falling in love with humanity.
Let it be.
shellywhite:
I love coming across old things that I’ve written, but have yet to post. Here’s a little. : ]
I’m currently sitting on the roof of my South Carolina home, watching the mid-January sun creep slowly over the leafless Maple trees; illuminating their spiny branches and drowing everything in a peachy, iredescent light.
I was long overdue to watch — no, experience — a sunrise. There’s always been something I’ve loved about them, something that even the magic of a sunset cannot compare to. I adore the fact that everything is fresh, and given an opportunity for a new beginning. The night has been forgotten, as each evening and morning star shimmers, sparks, and fades into the curved expanse of sky.
I may not be where my heart is beating for; in Thailand, Cambodia, or India — or observing the magic of this scene unfold on a New Zealand mountaintop: but I’m here. Fully present, warmed by a steaming mug of Chai and little fireflies dancing in the pit of my stomach. And it is beautiful.
I’m learning so much these days. I’m becoming undone. Who knew that the process of getting older would simply be a demolition of everything I thought I once knew? I’m rediscovering the beautifully heavy Heart of God, for the millionth time. And it’s worth it: each painful, stunning, and less-than-comfortable part of the process.
I’m learning that contentment is found in the paradox of a Holy discontent. It’s not a wish to remain stagnant; either in a physical location or emotional state, but rather — a steady, unshakeable trust that you will be brought out of it, and placed somewhere better. Somewhere deeper. Somewhere free.
In the meantime, I’m learning the importance of making the most of each moment that I’m placed in; delving into every scenario or location with unihibited zealousness: breathing in the expanse of air with the fascination of a first breath, and the preciousness of a last.
shellywhite:
Only You can stir my soul in this way,
but You can’t make me move.
My feet grip the ground beneath me,
carrying the carbon embodiment of my being —
everywhere, but the place You want me to be.
My mind swirls with bittersweet thoughts:
the paradoxical coupling of a desire for You;
and the false, barren practicality
of a life spent without You.
Lies; sticky as honey and heavy as lead,
float through my ears and drip off my tongue.
But I can’t believe them.
I won’t believe them.
Not like this.
Not this way.
My hands stubbornly extend —
grasping for, and refusing to release
every false promise of fufillment
that is placed before my eyes.
My fingertips are singed by cheap heat
and left with scars —
scars that You only desired to be Your own.
But I won’t stop.
I can’t stop.
Not like this.
Not on my own.
“You’re never alone.”
The words You whisper aren’t foreign —
they’re shocking;
because I haven’t really listened,
in far too long.
Your words, both startling and comforting,
echo through the emptiness of my soul;
a place I willingly carved out,
sweeping You from the place that You loved to fill.
But I hate this.
I can’t stay like this.
Not on my own.
Not this way.
Yet, through my brokenness,
my doubt of being able to truly live without You
overrides my doubt of You.
I need You.
Just like this.
In every way.
I’m convinced that my very desire for You
is proof enough that You exist —
confirming Your respondant desire for me.
Only You can ignite my longing for Your heart;
and I wouldn’t desire to seek
if nothing were to be found.
“Burn the maps,” You whisper.
“For belief is not a destination;
rather, an unnamed journey.
Let Me move.”
And You’re doing that.
You always have been.
You forever will.
I inhale.
Dust fills my lungs,
as I step into a different dimension;
illuminated by the fuzziest clarity I’ve ever known.
I breathe You in,
as You call my name.
You are a part of me —
Your breath is in my lungs.
I exhale, releasing Your grace into this world.
But I never truly do.
And I always want to.
Constrained by my humanity,
I remain.
Frozen; crippled by my false sense
of who You are to me,
and how I reflect You to them.
I’m everything You’re not,
and You’re everything that I want to be.
Let me exhale this grace,
You’ve so unfairly given to me;
extending it to others,
but firstly — myself.
In my deepest state of stillness,
may the most rapid movement occur.
Only You can stir my soul in this way,
but You can’t make me move.
I need to move.
shellywhite:
The thing is, when I have this many thoughts, I sometimes forget what to even do with them. It’s like I forget how to write, which is unusual, since anything having to do with words is typically second-nature to me. But sometimes, I’m afraid to write — fearful that the thoughts tattooed across my mind will not hold the same weight, or convey the same meaning as I intend them to, after they leave my fingertips. Then of course, I try to avoid (at all costs) splattering buckets of word-vomit across the screen. (I’ve alway hated that expression. But hey, it’s 5 a.m. and I haven’t slept yet, so anything goes). Because that’s never pretty, and we wouldn’t want that. But it’s real, right?
I sometimes (often, really) get sick of editing. And re-writing. And over-analyzing. The Journalist-mind, which was engrained in me during my venture through college (which doesn’t seem to matter anymore, anyway) becomes obsessed with finding the perfect word, constructing the perfect sentence structure, or inserting perfect punctuation (oh hey, alliteration) into my seemingly perfect paragraphs. But I hate it. It’s too plastic-y. Too polished. Too — something. I’m not sure where I was going with this, other than to say that I’m thinking. And typing. Quickly. In the dark. On my bed. With (really) messy hair. At 5:42 a.m. With one song playing on repeat. And these words will be raw. And uncut.
All of these thoughts are bringing me really, really close to the edge of pulling some sort of Chris McCandless move. (Currently, I’m reading Into the Wild, and it’s not at all coincidental how similar my thought patterns are to his own.) I’d be okay with disappearing for a while. Now, the question is of when, not if.
These thoughts are what have been keeping me awake the past few nights, lingering in my mind until I fall asleep, dancing through my dreams, and faithfully waking me up 7 (or 10) hours later. These thoughts make me wonder why I have these crazy, atypical reveries bubbling out of my heart, flowing through my veins, pounding in my head, and effecting everything I do, say, think, speak and believe. And they’re making me wonder why (almost) everyone around me seems to not understand these ridiculously unconventional dreams, and are encouraging me to just live rationally and “be-safe-and-get-a-real-job-and-live-conventionally-in-Suburbia;” which, if you know anything about me, you’ll know that I’ll never settle for that.
I can’t, while staying true to anything and everything within me, ever settle for a 9-5 desk job — working paycheck to paycheck — simply for the hollow security of career advancement, comfortability, a routine, the money to purchase excessive possessions, and the proverbial “American Dream.” Because really, all of that is completely overrated. Success, by the world’s definition, is the last thing that I want. It’s far too fleeting. It’s draining and tiring, rather than rejuvenating and fulfilling. It’s crazy to me how skewed the majority of people’s priorities are. It breaks my heart to know that there are millions of people across the globe living on less than $1 a day, while we are living in guileless comfortability. It doesn’t make sense, and it’s definitely not okay. It’s insanity to believe that investing in something trivial is actually meaningful; when in reality, it’s void and transient.
On the one hand, I’m blessed to have been raised in the home that I grew up in, with a (relatively) stable family environment. I’m blessed to have parents that paid for me to attend a private university and obtain a college education. I definitely don’t want to discount that. But that’s not what life is about. Far from it, really.
Because the truth of it, is that I want to meet those people who will never have opportunities like I’ve had. I want to document what they’re going through and have gone through, to bring a reality-check and new perspective to those who will never understand what it’s like to live without even basic necessities. Really, all I want is to be to make a lasting impact on the things that really matter. The things that will last. Like people. I want to meet people all over the world, and love them. It might have to be without words at times, because I might not be able to speak their language, but it will always be in action and in truth. Because that’s what love is really about, right?
I want to write their stories. I want to see the wrinkles on their face, and listen to the laughter that created them. I want to hear of their pain, and speak life, hope, and renewal into it. I want to cry with them. For them. I want to see life from their perspective, through their eyes; rather than just through my own. I’m really not afraid of going into the dirtiest, most dangerous, and highly impoverished places. Safe? Of course, it isn’t the safest thing I could do. I’ve rejected that word from my vocabulary, anyway.
All I really want is adventure, beautiful memories, and to experience moments that stories will be written about. I want to love, and fall in love. And with that love, I want to love even more people; bringing them freedom and a desire to experience life, rather than watch it pass them by. I want to meet anyone with air in their lungs, blood in their veins, and a story on their lips to tell. Because everyone has one, whether they realize it or not. And all stories are important. I want to inspire others, and dramatically shake up their outlook on life. You know, the things that will actually last forever. I want to live simply and minimally, creating a lifestyle of spontaneity and freedom, carried out with passionate transparency.
When all is said and done, I want to look at the wrinkles on my hands in my old age, as I’m holding the hand of whomever I’ve fallen in love with, and reminisce on the adventures we’ve taken, both separately and together. I want to sip tea as we discuss the beautiful people that we’ve met across the globe — people that both remain in our life, and people that were only there for passing moments. I want to have photographs and old maps pinned up all over the walls, so we can constantly be reminded of where we’ve been, who we’ve impacted, and what our next adventure will be. And the majority of what I’ll have done up to this point will be anything but safe. Yet, safe and spectacular have never been synonymous, and I want to live a life worth dying for.
As the piercingly white, January sun began to peer lucidly through the cracks in my windowpane this morning — seeping through my eyelids and rousing me from a gentle, unencumbered sleep just before 8 a.m.; my heart began to beat a bit faster, surging oxygen-rich liquid through my throbbing veins. I felt its pulsating rhythm quicken within me, causing my chest to rise and fall more rapidly, but with less consistency — reminding of my humanity, and the humbling fact that I am still alive to greet a new day, through no grace of my own.
My head buzzed from last night’s Merlot. That, mingling with the warmth of the seemingly 27 blankets I was tangled in, discouraged me from emerging from my cocoon of comfort. The scent of smoke and Patchouli incense still lingered in the air, igniting my senses and propelling me to emerge from my dreamlike state, into consciousness. My mind, like a vintage film-reel on repeat, turned my thoughts to consider the events of the past few days, weeks, and months, really. Everything blurred together.
2011, you taught me quite a lot. I learned that graduating college really isn’t as big of a deal as everyone tells you it will be. I learned that packing your tiny 1997 Nissan Sentra full of everything you own, leaving a life you’ve been accustomed to for the last 4 years, and driving up the coast with a perfect mixtape is never without tears of nostalgia. I learned that moving back into your parents’ home at 22 years old is uncomfortable and humbling, all at the same time. I learned that it is perfectly acceptable to be imperfect, and that the beauty of life is found on the journey of encountering each day with lovely, messy people by your side. I learned that when you really care about another human being, risking vulnerability and putting your heart on the line should never be regretted. I learned that it’s okay to doubt, question, and wonder; and that all of my “I-just-don’t-know”’s would bring me to the place of true, genuine understanding.
This new year, however, welcomed me with a harsh, fraught reality: the awareness that all of my feeble plans were not my own, but His; and that the actual adventure I would embark upon would be to completely be stripped of my own agenda. I’ve always spoken of contentment in taking the road less traversed, and feeling at home on the path unknown, and I still do. And I always will. If that means being without a car, job, or an understanding of a potential direction to embark on at the moment, let it be. Do I know what will happen within this next week, let alone where I’ll be in the next 32 days? Of course not. And that’s the bittersweet excitement of the actuality of it all.
The thing is, if it were my choice at this exact moment in time, I’d be anywhere but here.
I’d much rather be digging my toes into foreign soil, splashing in the Indian Ocean at sunrise, listening to tribal drums in a far-off land over firelight, cradling a Cambodian orphan in my arms, or immersing myself into the culture of an Icelandic village that I’ve never heard of. I’d much rather be sleeping on the floor of an Amazonian jungle, underneath a canopy of stars; living out of a single backpack, without mention of the existence of time, money, or other trivial things. I’d much rather be back in Ecuador, South America, speaking to the natives in my broken Spanish dialect; reminding them of an inexhaustible truth: they are, and always will be, loved; regardless of the darkness that they feel seemingly swallowed by. I’d assure them that there is hope.
There is always hope. And I need to be reminded of that fact, as well.
Truthfully, how would it be feasible for me to remind others of a transcendent hope, if I’m neglecting to let that same reality manifest in my own life? If I’m really being real, I’d say that the past few months have been unexpectedly challenging, especially in terms of my faith. I’ve doubted. The top of my leatherbound Bible has collected dust. I’ve neglected prayer. Not because I no longer believe in God, but mainly because I no longer believe in the way in which faith has been tainted, skewed, and falsely represented in our culture.
And I wanted nothing to do with it. I still don’t. Not like that.
Because the Kingdom isn’t found in methodically attending church on Sunday, listening to a playlist of Jesus Culture on repeat, or praying at 9 p.m. every evening. It’s not about how large your church is, how many salvations are recorded during a given service, or if Truth is represented in an entertaining, socially relevant way. It’s so much more than that.
And I wanted more. I still want more.
I’ve felt His presence more strongly in the most unconventional places, than I’ve ever found within the walls of an institutional church. Through spontaneous midnight conversations with the homeless on the streets of Lakeland, baffled that I’d take the time to get to know them, and actually pray for them, then and there, instead of just promising that I would. Through gazing understandingly into the eyes of a three-year-old child, trapped inside a government-run daycare; clinging to my leg for comfort in their confusion as to why their parents have just left. Through the laugh of an orphan, feeling a glimmer of hope for the first time in years, as they reached out to take my hand.
The true Kingdom, the One I want to be a part of, is found on the streets and in the under-belly of cities; manifested through selfless acts of loving the unlovely, and reaching out to touch the untouchable.
In my vigor and exuberance to escape, move West, vagabond, travel abroad, and leave a permanent footprint on this earth; I do not want to discount this time of quietness, which is essential before embarking on any adventure. I’ll prepare. I’ll learn the languages of the countries my heart is burdened for. My bags will perpetually be packed, ready for the moment that I’m given the chance to embark. I’m slowly, but surely, swallowing my doubt, and giving my dreams back to God; trusting that He, who first whispered them to my heart, will soon bring them to pass.
In the meantime, I will simply live, to the fullest; never settling to merely exist.
And now, cue the cliche, yet obligatory, New Year’s blog post — albeit, three days late. But, who’s counting? The existence of time, through the recording of days, hours, and minutes — seems so trivial, as of late. The kaleidoscopic colours of the rainbow have fallen in my mind and across my eyes, tainting and illuminating my stream of vision. Permanently tattooed and imprinted beneath my eyelids, it leaves behind a film of pulsating, aurora-like light. Submerged in yellows, greens, and blues; I’m discovering that the greatest clarity comes from the cloudiest state of confusion; and the greatest inspirations are ignited by abstract thoughts that refuse to settle and sink into the trappings of conformity; but rather float, soar, and disappear into the perfect chandelier of stars in the Western sky, rejecting to be tied down by the subtle graces of gravity.
It begins in moments like this, when sleep is craved, yet unattainable. The desire becomes unsuccessfully medicated with too many glasses of red wine, several capsules of Melatonin, and haunting melodies vibrating in my ears; resulting in a relentless cycle of thoughts centered around adventure and future aspirations, yet inevitably drowning into the blackness of reality at present. It’s one of those all-too-common evenings; when nothing but the word escape is on my mind, flowing through my veins, pulsating in my heart, and sliding off the tip of my tongue. Adventure is like oxygen; all around us. Invisible, yet essential to all existence. It cannot only be tangibly grasped, to be fully understood; it must be inhaled into every fiber of one’s existence, changing every outlook on life. And that, in its simplest description, is what I’m resolving that TwentyTwelve shall hold.
But hey, I tend to fall down the rabbit-hole far too easily, losing my own train of thought in the disarray of my self-inflicted mental tangents.It is my assured belief that this year will be unlike any other. I trust that it will be. I’m ready to take risks. To dive into travel and the nomadic, unconventional lifestyle that I’m so drawn to, in a more intentional way than I have in the past. I’ll live without time, sleep under the stars, seek shelter from trees, and explore mysterious, hidden mountain terrains. I’ll escape the confines of society’s obsession with material possessions and the 9 to 5 work-week, and seek beauty and meaning in the moments that actually will last forever. I’m ready to love in a way I’ve guarded myself against in the past — to not only fall in love, with whomever it may be, but to be the tangible embodiment of love to each soul I come into contact with, selflessly and without agenda. I want my heart to beat in sync with the joy others experience, and become burdened as they endure pain. I want cry, smile, ache, and laugh along with them — to feel, not just observe, the depth of their humanity, which binds us together, regardless of culture. I want to connect with people in a more meaningful way than I have before, throwing off all self-protecting inhibitions. I want to exhale hope into a hurting world, changing the existence of those around me, bringing colour to what was once black and white. I want to leave a permanent footprint on this earth, without any mention given to my name.
New adventures are bound to ensue, old adventures shall come full circle, and the unexpected will be inevitable. Cheers, TwentyTwelve. Que sera sera. : ]
