You don't forget

The energy is fierce and flush with
earth and wind, fire and water
footprints and breath, heart and sweat.

Once you've been here, you don't forget.

Crouch in the wings,
whirled whispers
Stand under spotlight,
bouncing bright from voice to voice
as you've done over and over and over again,
because practice makes
no, not quite perfect,
but comfy, and jokey, and more than that bubbles under
the surface, even as the crowd chuckles fresh.

Every scene and song has a story
that you built through these countless hours,
a root system that is yours alone,
even as you take joy in sharing the blooms.

When harmonies blend,
when moments meld
it's as if
together
you hold up the world,
and it's not at all a heavy thing
(as it sometimes seems outside these walls),
but instead ripe with wholeness--
See! I am doing a new thing, says the Lord.

See! we are doing a new thing,
and yet it's older than you or I
this energy, this space,
the depth and breadth of why we show up.

As a child in the crowd, this stage held my idols,
watching them made me ache for my turn--
which came and went so quickly,
every curtain call both a buzz and a breakdown
Maybe you watched us, maybe you didn't, but somehow
you got here, somehow it turned into your turn
and you've taken it and made it, this new old thing, your own.

That's what makes me laugh and cry,
yearn and rejoice, because I know--
The children who gazed wonderingly up at you today
will be tomorrow's energy, fizz and pop
they will make this old stage new again
and again
and again
because today they watched you hold up the world

And you will return and understand
we each made our own but we're in it as one
hot bright hope and pounding hearts and quick breaths

Once you've been here, you don't forget

First month, worst month?

You'll be pleased to know that I wrote (drumroll, please...) ZERO new blog posts in January.

I know, I know, I'm impressed with myself too.

I'm blaming it on Advent blog overload from December, though I also chide myself that since I now know I can write 24ish posts in a row, I should just keep going.

But there's another piece to the puzzle: I've actually started writing pieces and submitting them to other publications besides my blog.

This has been an abstract goal of mine for awhile--well, solid in the sense that I can envision my name and words at the top of a screen, but abstract in that I hadn't put in the work to make it happen (funny how common that is). And even now, I'm not sure that it will--happen, that is.

As I've started this process, it feels like 3/4 of it is work, while the other quarter is this weird, floating wait. First, I re-realize how much time and effort it actually takes to create a new piece from scratch, one that will be examined by others before it ever lives anywhere besides My Documents--not simply one that I can dash off and send to the blog (though this is a great option to have). And then, once I hit "submit," there's the lovely auto response that appears from whatever publication I've chosen, thanking me for my submission, and if they decide to publish my piece, I'll hear from them in 3-4 months. (Or... never.)

I'm not sharing this to intimidate fellow writers or as a full excuse for my state of non-blogging so far in 2018. I'm sharing this because sometimes, we have to wait (and not just during Advent). We have to float, and not the dreamy ethereal kind of floating either--floating that feels more like slipping and stumbling on unforgiving air. Unable to turn back or move fully forward.

I've loved this January because it has been a return to my favorite parts of routine: exercise, meditation, journaling, hot tea and toast, group gatherings that I enjoy. I've added a few healthy things, like carrots and hummus and hardboiled eggs at lunch, mouthwash in the mornings, and more water all day long. And the month has had a bit of extra whimsy--a successful shopping trip, two snow days in PJs, a tradition-rich wedding.

But the start of 2018 has also been really rough. People and family members I love have been stricken with illness, with vocational uncertainty, with grief and transition. I feel that stumbling Muggle float very keenly right now. And I'm sure I'm not alone.

So here's what I want to say to you, to myself, and to all of us as we bid farewell to January and (please God) inch closer to sunshine and flowers and leaves on trees:

Do what you can. Hit "submit" on the piece or the project. Whisper the prayer, say "I love you," make the meal, drink the fluids, hold their hand, tell your truth. Do what you can. It may not feel like enough in the moment, and yet it is--and it will be down the road.

Onward, friends, and into February.

This was my message in my February e-newsletter that went out yesterday, along with some of my favorites from the first month of the year. Want in on next month's? Subscribe here!

Christmas Eve: More than presents

For the first decade or so of my life, December 26 always marked the start of the blues. Even though there was still a week of vacation left, everything fun and holiday-related was over. The time of waiting and anticipation had passed; all the gifts had been opened, all the family get-togethers wound down, no more church dressed up with poinsettias and wreaths. It was probably my least favorite week of the year, which had been preceded by the absolute top.

I still feel a fleeting sense of post-Christmas blues as December 25 turns to darkness, but it dissipates when I remember two things: 1) that Christmas will come again next year, and 2) that Christmas (and Advent) is only the beginning. We have waited so long over these weeks, and maybe even longer than that, and now the time has come--hope and love and peace and joy have landed on this earth again to save us. Of course, they never really left, thank God. But my sense of missing Christmas (probably expounded as a child by the fact that time seems to go so slowly) has now transformed almost into another Advent--continued anticipation, ongoing hope for what this new chapter, this new year will bring. And the knowledge that whatever comes, we will keep the light going until this sacred time of waiting comes 'round to us again.

Thank you for reading, writing, praying, and hoping alongside me this season. It's been a gift. Merry Christmas!