Capture

Posted on May 7, 2013 by Lindsey under regular

I posted a lot of photos to Instagram on May 4, 2013. It was a big day, after all–maybe the biggest day of my life, besides the one I was born or the one when I found out how much Jesus loves me or the one when I first tasted coffee. Those were all big, good days. But this one was different, because I graduated college.

I posted a lot of photos to Instagram because I was proud. I was proud because I’m a first generation student, the first one in my family to graduate college. And I was proud because college is a hard thing, a thing that demands that you get out of bed so many times when all you really want to do is sleep (in this way, I feel that going to college is akin to having a baby. Seems like a solid theory, right?)

So I posted a lot of photos, photos popping with smiles, each one shouting, “I”M HAPPY!” And I was happy–so, so happy. But later I scrolled back through my Instagram feed, and I realized that some of the other emotions got lost in the happy, that the filters on those photos blurred the truth that they represented. HAPPY is a terrific element of photos, but I needed to remember that they showed off more, that they weren’t just snapshots of a happy moment, but of a life that has its happy and its joyful and its honestly hard and its toast-hits-the-floor-jelly-side-down moments. It’s hard to believe everyone else has those toast moments when no one Instagrams them, am I right? That’s where the words come in.

I posted a lot of photos, like this one:

I like this photo. I like it quite a bit. I like it because, for one thing, we look super happy, which we were. The joy that seems so evident is real–you can’t make that up. But we were also exhausted, which perhaps you cannot see, but I can. The day had been unimaginably long already at this point, and we’d all just done this great big thing, but we didn’t feel any different, only tired and a little bit hungry and amped up on adrenaline. We’re all sort of bumbling around, unsure of how to feel or what to do, and we find each other and hold on, looking into the cameras again and again until our cheeks burn.

We find each other because it’s what we do–we find each other because we’ve learned to do that, but the picture doesn’t tell about the process, about how we’ve fought for the relationships that look so sunshiney here. We’ve spent four years loving each other, and I can tell you those four years saw snappy comebacks and broken hearts and grumpy mornings. I can tell you that I’ve looked each of these people in the eyes and said, “I’m sorry,” and also, “I forgive you.” I can tell you that they have taught me what it’s like to have a friend and to be a friend, that when I have felt certain there was no reason for them to give me another chance, they always did. I can tell you that when they call me, I answer, and when they need me, I go, and when I see one of them coming toward me, I get excited because things are better when they’re around. It’s a photo of six tired, happy kids, holding onto one another, unsure of most things but that. It sure did get a lot of likes on Instagram (they like us, kiddos.)

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In an unromantic twist, I headed straight to the bathroom as soon as I filed out of the Coliseum. Once I finished (I set my diploma on the floor and decided to Lysol it later), I came out just in time to see my mom disappear around a corner, and my heart began to race, because it was my mom. I shouted, “Mom!” and at least 17 middle-aged women turned to see if I was theirs, but not my mom. I wondered, as I chased after her, if their daughters had ever asked if they could call them, “Mom,” or if the title ever sounded strange when it hit theirs ears. I wondered if those same daughters relished the word like it was dark chocolate, sweet and rich and the real deal. I said it again to her, but she still didn’t hear me, so instead, I touched her shoulder, and when she turned and saw me–when they all did–they came around me in the way a family does. They told me how proud they were and I believed them. We took this picture.

Later, I wondered if the chap who snapped it had any idea that we weren’t a normal family, but rather, one who had shifted and swelled and meshed with one another. I wondered if he’d noticed that I had different eyes than they did, that I had a different story, if any of that showed up on the screen. I wondered if the picture shows that the night before, we’d argued over what appetizers to order for dinner or that my mom had woken up before the sun with me or that there was a time when I believed they couldn’t ever possibly feel like my real family. I wondered if the picture said, “But they do. They are.”

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I guess, relatively speaking, that I didn’t post that many photos–maybe four or five. But it was enough for the instagram likes to drain my cell phone battery, and those made me smile–you shared in my joy, my pride, my affinity for photos that make it seem that I graduated college in 1983. And the day–the long, beautiful, perfect, exhausting day–was one to be celebrated, so I was happy to celebrate with all those people who follow my life in photos.

But I needed words. I needed to place paragraphs under these moments, paragraphs to say it’s what you think, and it’s not what you think. I needed to let sentences explain that it’s everything you see, it’s all the sunshine, and it’s more, and it’s less, because it’s shadows, too. I needed to show you these photos and ask you to celebrate them–like them, please–but also, give me a chance to explain. I needed to admit that it was a long, long day, that I came home and stared at the wall in a stupor for a good half hour because I wasn’t sure how to start wrangling my emotions. I needed to show you a picture of me with my favorite people in front of my favorite place and put into letters that I’m scared to leave them, scared because they’re the best thing. I needed to say, also, that I’m excited, excited because I will always believe the best is yet to come, in some way or another. I needed to say all of this, and I needed to show you, too, that we were happy.

It was a big day, after all. Maybe one of the biggest days of my life. Thanks for celebrating with me.

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spring is like a perhaps hand

Posted on January 3, 2013 by Lindsey under regular

Spring is like a perhaps hand
(which comes carefully
out of Nowhere)arranging
a window,into which people look(while
people stare
arranging and changing placing
carefully there a strange
thing and a known thing here)and

changing everything carefully

spring is like a perhaps
Hand in a window
(carefully to
and fro moving New and
Old things,while
people stare carefully
moving a perhaps
fraction of flower here placing
an inch of air there)and

without breaking anything.
[cummings]

“Are you ready to go back?” The question comes as I sort through clothes on the floor, folding sweatshirts and tucking lone socks into my overnight bag. My legs are folded beneath me, falling asleep. I smooth a t-shirt, and glance up at her, and she sees the answer in the way the question sits between us before I say it out loud. But I do say it: “No. No, I’m not ready.” Sitting on the side of the bed, she nods and hands me a sock.

****************************

I’m sitting across from a dear friend, and together we are sorting through life, and we are eating chocolate, and we are laughing. She starts to talk about possibility, about what could be, you know, with a twinkle in her eye. She raises an eyebrow as she sips a Coke, her head cocked as she waits for my answer. I can’t help but smile, but I say, “Oh, I don’t know if I’m ready for that.”

****************************

Another friend says, “Can I ask you a question?” and I say, “Of course.” “How do you know? How do you know if you’re ready?” I think about all of the times that I’ve felt ready, and the list is short, and I think about all of the times I haven’t, and the list is long, and so I shrug. I tell her there’s a difference between being not ready and being afraid, and that you have to run from the latter. I tell her there’s a difference between not knowing you’re ready and not feeling peaceful, and to search out the peace, not the readiness. I tell her to ask God, to listen to the Spirit, to jump in even if she’s not ready. “So,” I say, “I guess maybe you don’t you were ready until it’s been done.”

****************************

I got a new planner. She’s a pretty one, already boasting marked-in lines, dates promised to friends, and then a whole lot of empty. That’s one of my favorite parts of this year. It’s the thing I keep writing about, this lack of knowing, of plans, of written-in days. The weeks spin by so effortlessly when I flip through my planner, but I see them for what they are: slivers of chances to love more deeply, to know God more fully, to tie bows for my best friend. Chunks of days where I get to walk by my favorite steps, sit in a sunny classroom and pore over a novel, wrap my hands around an afternoon coffee on a bench under a tree that feels like it’s mine. And then…what? I caress the pages of summer and fall gently. My eyes fall on the empty blanks, space that I know will be filled just right, and I say, “Just a little bit longer.”

****************************

“Are you ready?” The question falls, lands, and looks at me. I shrug and smile a little. “Maybe,” I say, but I look around. I see what’s happening, that the days can be lost, that I can forget to notice the remarkable things. I cannot have more than what I have left; in my heart and my soul, I know it is time, and that must mean I’ll be ready. I am ready for anything. But I can take the next few months and squeeze them for all that they are and accept them for all they are not, for the moments I feel like they’re too much and not enough. And then, with all the blessing in the world, I will open my planner to the rest and smile, ready or not.

I shall imagine life

Posted on December 27, 2012 by Lindsey under regular

I was startled today to realize that my planner has but six days left to fill; I was startled even more, perhaps, by the realization that I have plans that forge past that six-day mark, that billow into 2013 as if the days are no different (and also that I am the kind of person who demands a particular planner, which is, HAHA SO low-strung of me.)

I mentioned this to my mom: As a freshman in college, I walked into the student center and saw a banner hung that said, “Congratulations Class of 2013!” I thought (I guess fairly distinctly, because I remember the moment) “That’s so far away!” But I’ve got 2013 plans, the sort that I mark down in my planner–copy deadline, January 16 / classes start, January 9–and the kind that have been inked on my brain for months–graduation, May 4 / Janie and Coston’s wedding, May 25. I need to get a new planner.

But I walked away from my email, my old, worn-out, smudged-up calendar, my list of assignments for that copy deadline. I walked away because no one was going to answer my emails anyway, and also, there was 2013 to consider. I drove to the nearest bookstore and combed the shelves for my favorite planner, but I came up empty-handed and decided to get a latte instead, on account of no one is empty-handed with a latte. I thought on what’s coming: Will the days be different? Will things have a 2013 feel? Will the wind carry wisps of this is the year you’re a grown up or this is the year you watch your friends marry?

It’s hard to know. I know that in the past, I’ve slipped on the year like a new pair of shoes that seems worn-in enough a few days after wearing. Nonetheless, there is a fluttering in my tummy at the thought of 2013, a whole cake of a year without a single bite missing. I don’t have any resolutions; I don’t have any plans that can’t be crossed out and replaced with a new scribble. A cake, indeed.

It’s the tail end of the night, here: the house crackles and pops, but there are no voices, save for the one dribbling out of my earphones. The lights are dim, and sleep is creeping, sashaying around me. It feels a lot like December 27th feels: the tail end of things finished, of envelopes sealed and chapters closed, and the eyes rest before the pen is retrieved again.

If I don’t speak to you again before 2013, let me say this–2012, you were more than enough. You were good and fun and bright and merry. You stretched and spun me; you whispered to me and you sang me songs. You shone on me, and you let your winds blow. 2012, you were this and so much more, and I’m a better person to have known you.

2013, I know the best is yet to come. I believe, I trust, and I expect.

“Moses said to the Lord, “You have been telling me, ‘Lead these people,’ but you have not let me know whom you will send with me. You have said, ‘I know you by name and you have found favor with me.’ If you are pleased with me, teach me your ways so I may know you and continue to find favor with you. Remember that this nation is your people.”

The Lord replied, “My Presence will go with you, and I will give you rest.”

Then Moses said to him, “If your Presence does not go with us, do not send us up from here. How will anyone know that you are pleased with me and with your people unless you go with us? What else will distinguish me and your people from all the other people on the face of the earth?”

And the Lord said to Moses, “I will do the very thing you have asked, because I am pleased with you and I know you by name.”

Then Moses said, “Now show me your glory.”

And the Lord said, “I will cause all my goodness to pass in front of you, and I will proclaim my name, the Lord, in your presence.” –Exodus 33:12-19

Where the Wildflowers Grow

"I am my beloved's, and my beloved is mine: He feedeth his flock among the lilies." —Song of Soloman 6:3

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Capture

spring is like a perhaps hand

I shall imagine life

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