12:25

12:24

Blessed Redeemer, precious Redeemer 
Seems now I see Him on Calvary’s tree 
Wounded and bleeding, for sinners pleading 
Blind and unheeding, dying for me 

6:57

digg:

Did you think your life would be changed forever today?

8:53

blinded, i am blindsided

8:52

ashliwood:

I always write about the love I’ve built with my husband. Or I talk about darker things only to pull them down later. Old relationships, shitty friendships. I don’t know how to unconcern myself with what other people will turn them into. is there a less complicated version of sometimes resolving the darkest parts of yourself but also making references to weird early 2000’s sitcoms a lot and writing about love everywhere. I don’t know. fuck it. I want to talk about all of that. I want to talk about it a lot until I get it all right. I feel good about them even when I don’t. I feel bad about being a work in progress in front of people. I skirt around it. I get repetitive and feel embarrassed, stumbling on display. There’s something really disengaging here and I used to think it was other people, always some outlier source. This was easier once. When I could be reckless about everything because maybe some uncertainties are greater than others. I think it’s me. I think I’m the problem. How do I fix it if it’s me?

I don’t come from a small town. But if you asked a specific group of friends of mine back from high school they’d say differently. People have a funny way of forgetting about who a person was before. I used to hate that shit, I couldn’t get it. The truth is I think they saw me in the ways that they needed, and I understand that better now. I’m glad I could be that for them.

The second truth is that I come from a bigger city. Thick and rustling with suffering and love.Your heart’s clobbered by it. I mean that. I want to tell it comfortably but I also want to tell it true. Home deserves that, doesn’t it? When I think of it I sometimes think of children shouting from overpouring oak trees on tiny side streets named after fruits. Sometimes it’s young homeless musicians lined up against ancient storefronts, how we handed them all cigarettes once back when I was more broke and less guarded. Mostly I think of that cobblestone alley pressed against one of the oldest cathedrals in the country. God, I love that cathedral. It is peopled with just as much reverence as it is with kind decay. isn’t that a little like how prayers work, anyway? I love it with a velvet mix of awe and confusion I like to think my mother might have felt seeing it when she was still just a girl. slight and freckled. still braver than me. I feel my blood marbling as I think about it.

I have to believe the rule of that first truth isn’t only just for people but sometimes places too. I come from that city but I write about the small town more because it’s where I finally outran a lot of my own shit. and everyone knows that you make mansions out of places when you realize they’re just a shell for the feelings you won’t quit haunting. Are the locations even important, are they only incidental? I think I’m still trying to figure it out. I used to write about that kind of thing, call it all ghosts, wax romantic. maybe it was unremarkable in that dreamy and introspective way that so much of being young really is. I’m not that young anymore but I like how connected I am, pulsed by it still. Even the versions of myself I didn’t like I hope to never feel too far from. I needed them once.

I keep thinking about my mother outside the cathedral. How jealous I am when I think of how much stronger she’s always been than me. I know that if you asked her she would tell you something like how she was worn in places where I would be born gilded. And I’d rather write about the way I would fight it, repeat my mantra that I would always exchange being gentle if it just meant I could be unbreakable. I don’t want to tell you that there’s nothing more comforting than believing her. That the first important home I ever forged has always been in the halogen light of love.

I don’t always know the right way to tell these stories anymore but I’m afraid of what it means if I don’t try. Sometimes they feel halfhearted, like apostrophes on the avalanches I’m trying to spell out. It’s easier if I take my time connecting each gulf to the next. I once thought it was all leading up to some collection of space and time and that it would matter uncomplicatedly. but if space and time are like repelling magnets then how do you keep the things that get caught in their chasm? Now I’m standing in doorways trying to gather everything at once: how seeing my fathers beard has gray in it is the proof of every low pitched miracle he’s ever exercised, and I am left struck by all of his golden; the sparse light falling through in beautiful slats into my living room while I think about how happiness is always work, even here, now, like this; the way I wish I could tell things as concisely as I used to but I lost the art. This feels good, doesn’t it? Leaning over the edge and remembering what the ground can do to you.

I’m not seventeen and pining for secrets that could uproot me anymore but sometimes it’s so ingrained in my story telling. This is about wrestling the versions of who I am. How the right arm slung over me in his sleep still has the way of making me a softer, better person than I once was with out it. but the game is still loaded and I’m still selfish. I’m still hurrying to keep all of it forever someway like they deserve. Because what do I do with all of it? Where will it get left?

I think the third truth is that this is just a different way of doing the same thing and hoping that I can get it right this time. it’s about what everything is always about. paralyzing fear, greater love. Sometimes I used language selectively to keep some of it inaccessible, the parts I didn’t know how to quantify yet and I didn’t want to show my hand. like how even when all of the right things are easy there will always be some great quarries between you and the people you love—and you will have to keep assembling the courage it takes to reach them. And this is what matters, that you keep choosing them anyway. I have to write about that, I have to show it, I have to flex that fucking muscle because I made it. It’s about how making peace is a balancing act and I’m still learning how to claw my way into grace. How I’m still hoping maybe some part of me can outlive my self inside of the right parts if I choose wisely. And I’m terrified to communicate the hope, because does it mean anything? Will I always end up ambushed by my own smallness? Probably. But if I can let you in on a secret, I think the decay needs me more than I need it. Here I am laughing squarely in the face of uncertainty, now laugh with me. Don’t stop. You can’t stop. Don’t you get it yet? This is how we make the darkness tremble.

1329 listens

10:04

still wrestling with God for answers. some progress today. i like myself a little more these days. 

9:15
❝ Lewis said to me one day: “Tollers, there is too little of what we really like in stories. I am afraid we shall have to write some ourselves.”

J.R.R. Tolkien, recounting a conversation he had with C.S. Lewis 

(Cited in Humphrey Carpenter’s The Inklings, p. 71)

(Source: a-both-and-man)

9:12

adapto:

Body comparative #48 (1,2)

9:12

The one that got away: Jeanette Winterson ↘

from georgia

8:50

It’s our job - I’ve been covering conflicts since Iraq in 2008. I am drawn to the drama of the conflict and trying to expose the untold stories but I am drawn to the human rights side.

i was hoping that the video was a fake. R.I.P. Mr. James Foley, you are a very brave man and the world has lost a wonderful soul.

photos from freejamesfoley.org

3:25

ripping-roses:

THIS EPISODE WAS LIKE THE HIGHLIGHT OF MY CHILDHOOD

(Source: tiptons)

11:58

12:15

❝ We die to each other daily.
What we know of other people
Is only our memory of the moments
During which we knew them. And they have changed since then.
To pretend that they and we are the same
Is a useful and convenient social convention
Which must sometimes broken. We must also remember
That at every meeting we are meeting a stranger.

— T.S. Eliot, The Cocktail Party (via bookmania)

12:14

8:05

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