All this Living: A Self Portrait

I have been writing letters to my friends leading up to this day. I can’t say I know why. Perhaps it is because I miss them, miss having them close, miss their voices, their hugs. I also miss their apartments. The couch, the plants on windowsills—which I’m convinced I cannot keep alive, their books on shelves, the games they keep under center tables, the art and framed photographs on their walls, all the different colors and textures and quiet hums that exist within the space. How each room reveals something about them, how they seem to carry a feel to it, a personality of space that is almost tangible. I think about the moments we’ve spent talking into the night, sharing our joys and hopes, our fears and secrets. How we have laughed and cared for each other. How we have cried and held each other in our arms. How we have each opened up parts of ourselves to pour out, to receive, and to carry. I feel a strange sadness in knowing that that time will never return. We might make new memories and grow closer over the years, but I can’t shake off the feeling that those singular, seemingly mundane moments have become a thing I can only speak of, a faint echo that moves through my being, reminding me of what once was.

I find that place is not something I think about until I’m away from it. It is almost as if in departing, I return to it. I take one foot out the door, ready to leave it all behind, and suddenly my senses come alive. So I suppose I never do leave completely. A part of me lingers, or is it that I carry fragments of places with me? Here I am, all skin and bones but really, deep down, there’s a window in my eyes, a yellow curtain in my hair, a red coleus sprouting on my tongue. A girl of homes, of opened doors, and winding paths. A girl lost and found. A girl walking into herself again and again, blurring into the same portrait, unfocused then sharp, same then changed, here then gone, a rhythm as old as it is new. A girl alive. In wonder. Here. Carrying stillness. Carrying the music hidden within walls. A girl of early hours. Of deep silence. Of long hugs. Of the movement of conversations on long walks. The shape of language. The hesitation before the trust. The silent way of asking, how would you hold these words if I give them to you? How would you keep them through the years, even after I’m gone? Again and again, we convince ourselves that only what we hide is protected. Yet, see how we go against our instincts to pry our fingers open, to look into another’s eyes and say, “Here, look at this darkness I’ve been carrying.” Hoping they would say how long, how heavy, how close to surrender, and can I touch it, too?  

Twenty-nine. I read somewhere that it is good to have love for many things. What is done in love, is well done. What have I done in love this year? Kissed my husband after a misunderstanding. Cooked for someone. Walked into classrooms and taught with everything in me, despite the fear. Watering the plant from Courtney. Calling my mama. Building my bookshelf. Budgeting. Cleaning my kitchen. Doing laundry. Looking in the mirror and saying, “I love my hair.” Seeking God. Reading the Psalms. Obedience. Forgiving. Giving. Listening. Quieting the lies. Guarding my heart. Sitting still. Taking a nap. Putting my phone away. Saying thank you, thank you, thank you. Saying I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Speaking kindly to myself. Speaking kindly to others. Going to bed early. Paying attention. Writing poems. Writing letters. Writing myself into light. Writing myself away from despair. Writing myself into memories. Writing myself towards hope. Reaching for words. Feeling them on the page. Turning them this way and that way. Wrestling with the craft. Taking my time with it. Taking my time with all of living.

And what do I have love for? Friendships. Letters. Hobby Lobby. All kinds of food. Poetry that moves me. Pumpkin spice. Chai tea lattes. Used bookstores. Colorful notebooks. The color yellow. Specific shades of green. Libraries. A clean space. Brick homes with bright, colorful doors. The stories of old people. The promises of God. Discovering what I have in common with a stranger. Holding someone’s hand. Acoustic sounds. Dancing alone. Dancing with D. Honest conversations. Hugs hugs hugs. The joy of my friends. Celebrating others. The curiosity of my students. Their growth, too. My tenderness. Acts of service. Chocolate chip cookies. Lit candles on a cake. A sweet kiss. Small, thoughtful gestures. Being seen, being known in a world full of complex people.

Twenty-nine. What have I learned? That the way through fear is trust. A day at a time is a good, good thing. To lead with love. To ask for help. To not rush through life but go gently instead. That things don’t last, and a life of material foundation crumbles to the ground in the end. That, indeed, His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me. If my true Shepherd, then a defenseless and utterly dependent sheep I am. The world wants me in control, but I would rather be held. Anchored to something bigger than me. To remember that it is the little moments that fill our days. That there is joy to be found in the ordinary task of living, without an audience or applause. A new age is the quiet passing of time, the slow witnessing of change, the rustling of desires, needs, unspoken longing,  and the miracle of breath flowing through my lungs. A new age as gratitude. As growing delight. As the lightest feather that rides the air. Free. Not one thing to prove.

And now, all this learning, all this living, what to give if not more love, more love?