But the shape we meant to make is gone.

There's an Iron & Wine album that I go to when I want familiarity and comfort. I've been pulling it out recently. It's funny because it started out as what I call my, "paper writing music." Originally, I bought the album, because I wanted something that would foster creativity, but wouldn't distract me. I wanted something that would sound good in my ears, but I couldn't sing along to. It started as background noise to fill unwanted silence and to drown out the chaos around me. It did accomplish those things. I met the goal that I set out to achieve with these songs, but they have done so much more than fill space. They have done so much more than drown out the intensity of the noises around me.

I have listened to these songs in my favorite coffee houses, in the many rooms of the many homes that I have known over the past fews years. I've listened to these songs on the lawn of the Court of Carolina and on rainy days in the common area of the 1911 building. I've listened to these songs in cars and in headphone on planes. I've listened to these songs as I've filled the empty pages of books with the pieces of my little heart all out of order.

I've listened to these songs while writing, but what I've come to notice about these songs that started out as just songs, is that I've also listened to them while doing so many other life things. They started as songs to listen to while writing for school, but I've listened to them while reading the words of others, while cooking dinner, while thinking and praying and hoping for more out of all of this nothingness.

What began as nothing has become my comfort, my safety. What began as an ends to a means has become the means itself. I now know every word to every one of the songs on this album. I know these songs like they are a part of me. I know them in the way that a bird knows how to fly. They make sense in my world like the back of my hand makes sense.

But I had no intention of all that when I set out to find a few songs to listen to while I did homework. I've known that this paper writing music affects the way I write my papers. What I haven't always known is the way these songs have bled over into my heart. I want them around so often when I'm writing, but I also just want them around so often because I have found in them beauty and hope, glimpses of forever and encouragement to stand up and get my hands dirty.

You know, so often I think of the things that I do as a way to accomplish other things. I drive my car to arrive at a specific destination. I sing in church on Sunday to give glory to a God that loves me. I ask a sister, "what is wrong?" to get to the bottom of the issue. I cry to feel the pain of waiting. I laugh to share in the joy we have been given. And these are all good things.

But these songs remind me that there is purpose and value and meaning behind the way we do the thing that accomplish the other things. It matters how I go about writing my papers, driving my car, singing my songs. It all matters, because these things are not just a means to an end. These things are shaping me and they are shaping us. These things are shaping the way that I interact with the world around me and they are shaping the way that I interact with my Father. These things that I do matter and the way that I do these things that I do matter too.

Sometimes that is beautiful. Sometimes that is scary.

I am grateful for these songs full of beauty and truth. I am thankful for the empty space they create each time I turn them on. Space to exist honestly and without expectation, space to do nothing, space to do everything that matters.

Maybe you have a space like this too. My hope is that you do. Maybe it looks like an album. Maybe it doesn't. Maybe I'm nuts.

More recently when I listen to these old and familiar songs I have been reminded of the beauty that so often exists in the mundane. If we would just take a moment to look we might just see Jesus. We might see him in the paper writing or phone call making or grocery store shopping. We might just get a glimpse of eternity if we would begin to live like a people who really believe that we spend all of our days with endlessly valuable, eternal souls surrounding us.

I'm not sure that I can put words to the comfort I've found in these paper writing, heart beating, life giving songs that I listen to every now and then. They have convinced me that very little, if anything at all, is neutral. I am learning every day that there is nothing we do that only fills space. Things can feed us or take from us, point us to truth or point us away from truth. Things we do and the way we do the things we do all matter if not for any reason other than the fact that they are all changing us in one way or another.

Give me eyes, ears, hands and feet that care deeply about how I get from point A to point B and how I help others do the same. Let me love the gray. Quiet my soul and give me your peace.

Give me understanding that I may live.

Anyone who wonders if they're welcome back at home.

I am always longing for a place that feels like home, for a place that is a home. I've wanted people and places to feel like home that never could, but I've also known spaces that have felt overwhelmingly comfortable, like I belonged there. I want to feel like I matter somewhere. I want to feel safe. I want a place where I can rest and be fueled in order to go out every day and do. Because I want to do things that matter.

Honestly, I moved to Greensboro (the second time), because I wanted to feel at home. And I do. But if you could flashback to the first time I moved to Greensboro, you would find a girl in the midst of something that has no resemblance to a homecoming. This place has been so many different things to me.

This city has been my enemy. There have been days and months and years when I have wanted out. I have wanted freedom from this place. I have wanted a choice, a chance to leave the prison that I created for myself here. I have been angry at the people that put me here and forced me to stay. I have fought hard against new people and places knowing me here. I have wanted to hold onto my past, because there was a time in my life when giving Greensboro a place in my heart felt like letting go of the beauty and comfort of my foundation. I never want to forget where I have come from and how I got here. There is so much to remember and be thankful for before I ever even stepped foot in this city.

This place had been my best friend. I have cried and complained about having to leave her for a time. I have loved the comfort of these places that fill my days. I have loved the people of this city and the diversity that my community has to offer. I have found hope and transformation and love and redemption all in this place. I have known the joys of newness and the wonders of old things that still feel brand new here. I have loved big here. And the second time around it was very much like a homecoming.

Here, I've known both heartbreak and the joys of a full heart. I've done tears here, lots of tears. But I've also done smiles and laughter and talks full of meaning and hope and possibility. I've hated it here, and I've wanted to be anywhere else, but I've also loved it; I've found myself angry and sad and confused in the times that I've had to leave. But, then again, I've also found myself missing the comforts of somewhere else.

It feels so unstable when I look back over the journey that has been my experience with this city. I've loved other places too, but here has been different. Here I have found healing that feels like the breaking of chains that have held me captive for so long. No place has met so many of my longings all at one time while simultaneously leaving me feeling afraid and alone and looking for more.

This is my home. These streets are my home and these people are my home. I like my neighborhood and my backyard and the restaurants and stores that fill this place. I also like my neighbors and the people that fill my days.

But home is not always easy and I've struggled to accept and come to terms with that fact. Pain and confusion and disillusion fill my pretty little home. Death and suffering, you have no place in my home, and yet here you are, filling the time and space that make up this place. Who knew that a place full of redemption and wonder and awe could so quickly turn to a place full of sadness and anxiety? Can all of those things exist in the same space? Yes, redemption is here, but so is humanity and the inevitable cracks that attempt to compromise the fullness of our hope. Sometimes it's all just too much.

I can hold a mean grudge; I know I can and I usually know when I'm doing it. It's not one of my more favorable qualities. I have a tendency to get stuck dwelling on things that I think ought not to have happened. It's particularly deadly when I can find a specific person to aim all of the grudging energy towards (whoops). I'm trying to work on it.

More recently, I have found myself frustrated with my home, with the city and people that make up this place. Home should feel safe and it hasn't. Home should be a place of rest and I've forgotten what rest even looks like. Home should be a lot of things that have been stripped from us recently, and I am angry about it. Can you hold a grudge against the people and places that you call home? I think I am doing that right now.

"Regardless of what you feel or what I feel, I hope, pray and believe that there is something after this."

A sweet friend and woman of wisdom recently spoke those words to me. How I wish that I could learn to speak them to myself. So often, when I write I feel like I end up saying that same thing over and over again. Apparently, I need repetition. Her reminder saved my heart from the trap and allure of a grudge that I was never meant to hold.

Is the bitterness still there? Well, yeah. But I can see clearly now the damage it has done in the past. This isn't the first time I have held a grudge against the people and places of this city. This isn't the first time darkness has penetrated my safe place. But this is the first time I have been able to look back and see all of the beauty my Father created out of that darkness. It doesn't make the darkness any more light and it doesn't make the ugliness any more enjoyable, but I have been able, for the first time, to remember that there is something after this and that I believe with all of my heart that he will do it again. He will bring light out of darkness and create beauty from ashes.

I believe those things. And my prayer is that I wold learn to move forward in expectation of them, leaving the grudges behind.

It's not really about this place. I love Greensboro and I love North Carolina. From the bottom of my heart, I love this place. Sometimes I expect too much out of my home. I've come to realize that home is here and home is there and home is everywhere in between. I'm glad. I really never thought that home would feel like anywhere other than right here, but home is where you are. Home is where you are living, home is where you dwell. The journey has been both painful and rewarding. It has been full of ups and downs. The journey home is not yet done.

That's the kicker. That's the part that knocks me off my feet every time I have to relearn the lesson. I love my home, but I am also searching and longing for more. I am also restless. I need more out of my home than this place can give. One day I will know what it is to feel at home and to feel content at the same time. It's hard wanting something that I know I can't have. But I hope to continue longing for that day all the while knowing that home is here and home is now.

Thank you for a home that I can lean into.

How painful it must be, to bruise so easily.

I have been apologizing a lot lately. To my friends, to my clients, to the woman that sold me Q Tips at Target the other night. I've apologized to Finley, my dog. I've apologized to my mom and to Walker. I even apologized to my washing machine the other day. Pretty much if I haven't apologized to you, I probably have felt like I should have. 

It was small at first, this feeling. It started off as a small seed of anxiety, a little feeling of having a small plate with a lot on it. It started because I was feeling overwhelmed. It started because I was feeling stressed. Stress, for me, doesn't typically look like one might think it should. I usually sleep fine. I usually don't talk about the things that I am stressed about, not a lot at least. I usually carry them quietly at the very center of my body so that no one, especially the people that might be looking, can see them. I carry them in the inner most part of me, my core, where the light cannot get to them. There they stay hidden and secret. There they are free to carry on, but only for as long as they remain covered by darkness.  

For whatever reason that did not seem to be an option this time around. Maybe it was because things felt heavier than they have in the past. Maybe because there were more things than there usually are. Maybe because the things were different than the typical things. Maybe there is a different reason that I can't see. Maybe I am just changing. Regardless of the reason, my usual way of handling and interacting with stress and anxiety and pain didn't come through. Something was up and it showed. And that was hard for me. That is hard for me. That feels scary and out of control and risky. It also feels like I'm whining when I don't want or mean to be. It also feels like I'm needy when I don't want or mean to be. But it also feels good. Like the kind of light that is blinding and too much for your eyes to handle, but once they adjust you can see better than you've ever seen before.

And even with all that light, I know there is still so much I cannot see. 

Thank you for seeing. Thank you for keeping me where the light is. Thank you for that push and shove and kick I needed to stay out of the cave, out of the pit, out of the darkness that I have known so well for so long. 

I turned into a kind of zombie. Not the kind that eats people, but the kind that walks through life in a daze with perpetual sleepy eyes. It felt like I had too much. It feels like I have too much. I felt tired. Not sleep deprived, but exhausted in every sense except for physically. I felt like I couldn't do it all and so I allowed my heart to go into hibernation. It didn't shut down, but it did slow down. It didn't refuse to take on new things, but it was hesitant and overly sensitive and protective and defensive. 

If I'm honest, it's still doing those things some days. I am still a little overly sensitive and hesitant. And to be honest, I'm alright with that, with how my heart is acting. I don't want to be like this forever. I don't want my heart to stay always in hibernation, but I do need for it to keep beating and while a hesitant heart is not the most open, it does allows for life to remain. 

Roughly one year ago, I was told that I ought to allow myself to create imperfectly. If I had to make a list of the top five things I have learned over the past year that would definitely be at the top of the list; It has been huge for me. It was discussed in the context of an artist making something. Whether it be a writer and a novel or a musician and a song or a painter and a painting. 

"Fears about art making fall into two families: one, fear about yourself, and two, fear about your reception by others. In a general way, fear about yourself prevents you from doing your best work, while fear about your reception by others prevents you from doing your own work. " Art & Fear

Whatever the craft, we must allow ourselves to create imperfectly, otherwise will will never create. Otherwise, we will never share with the world or even with one other person the things that we have made. Otherwise, we risk becoming obsessed with making our work perfect; we will never create or we will create less, we will miss out on things we could be making or doing while we over analyze every little detail of our work. Have pride in your work. Do your best. Blah. Blah. Blah. But realize and understand that no one is perfect and no one can continually create perfection. Allow yourself to be what you are: imperfect. And allow your work to be the same.

It was liberating for me. As a writer, I feel connected and exposed by the things that I write. I feel more vulnerable allowing someone to read something that I have written than I would sitting down and having a conversation with the very same person about the very same thing. So the thought of writing something that I am not 150% happy with and then sharing it with someone else that I do not 150% trust can be debilitating. For a long, long time I didn't share those things with anyone. For a long, long time it was debilitating. And honestly, it's still scary, but I've found that it's a risk I want to take. It's a risk I like to take. And it's a risk I believe I was created to take. Maybe one day it won't feel much like a risk anymore. I'm not there yet, but I am closer than I once was. I think that's something. 

The lesson has continued to surprise me and shape me and I continue to be terribly thankful for it. "Allow yourself to create imperfectly," has transformed into, "allow yourself to be imperfect." I would never have used the word, "perfectionist," to describe myself. Most people that know anything at all about me would not use that word to describe this girl. I was never a perfectionist in school; I never lost sleep over making As on tests or papers. I've never worried too much about others having a high view of what I am capable of. Yeah, it's annoying when someone doesn't believe in me. I don't like that feeling, but me, by myself knowing that I am capable is usually enough. I'm pretty comfortable answering a question with a simple, "I don't know." So often I don't know. I'm usually content without knowing. 

It gets sticky when we start to talk about how I manage and deal with things that are not easy to manage or deal with, hard things. I want one of two things. One, I want you to have no idea how I manage or deal with those things or two, I want you to think that I manage and deal with those things perfectly. In this area I want to at least appear as if I am a perfectionist. I know that I am not perfect at these things, but I don't want anyone else to know that. Coming to this realization was like meeting a part of myself I had never met before. We are still getting to know each other. We like each other, at least I like her. I don't always know how she feels about me. It's funny finding a part of myself that is so different from the other parts that I more often identify with. I am trying to teach her that it's ok to not be perfect and more than that it's ok for other people to see that you're not perfect. And she is trying to teach me something too. But I haven't quite figured out exactly what that is yet. 

My heart is not perfect, of this I am sure. I do want an open heart. I promise, that is something that I desire. But something else I desire is that I might find a way to allow my heart to be exactly where it is. Right now, part of the imperfection in me, looks like a heart that is having a hard time remaining open like a lake. I want to allow for that imperfection to exist, because it's honest, all the while hoping for something more, hoping for change to come into my heart. I want two opposite things at the same time. I feel two opposite ways at the same time (lesson number two for the year, but that's a different story).

I'm not done apologizing, because I do things every day that merit regret, but I am done (or at least I want to be done) hiding. The response to my imperfection was surprising. No one told me to quit whining. No one told me to stuff those things back into the place where no light can get to them. No one told me I was being needy. I was the only one that said those words. You told me it was ok. You told me that I wasn't alone. You told me that you wanted to know. You told me that you were with me. Beautifully terrible.

The first surprise I can say that I am truly, truly thankful for.  

I don't know why our words are so proud

Yet their promise so thin

And our lives blow about 

Like flags in the wind

You who mourn will be comforted

You who hunger will hunger no more

All the last shall be first 

Of this I am sure

You who weep now will laugh again

All you lonely, be lonely no more

Yes, the last will be first

Of this I am sure

I don't know why the innocents fall 

While the monsters still stand 

I don't know why the little ones thirst 

But I know the last shall be first 

BF