Emmanuel

The name Emmanuel is striking to me. The idea of God dwelling with us and becoming His creation is beautiful in form and action.

Perfection submitted to imperfection.

God chose that which He formed and created with His own hands to nurture, raise and love His son, a perfect being. He trusted His creation to the point of releasing His son to us.

I’m beginning to see the birth and life of Jesus embodying a beautiful picture of a transparent God in absolute perfection choosing to be vulnerable. Choosing to be needy. Choosing to be naked. Choosing to be raised, instructed, and nurtured by very imperfect individuals.

And ultimately He chose to be hated, broken, and killed by the very creation He made and then submitted himself to.

It makes me wonder if true love, true perfection then is oftentimes a state of helplessness and dependence. Perhaps perfection is more about dependence rather than independence. And not only dependence on a God who is perfect, but also dependence on the people He made who are imperfect.

God Himself made an active choice to need the strength of another being by releasing His son to walk this earth and commune with His creation.

I want to love like that.

I want to be brave like that.

I want to understand that maybe true bravery is really trusting. And maybe trusting really comes from the deepest place of humility within. And maybe humility comes from understanding the beauty of grace.

And maybe grace is wildly intricate yet deeply simple.

Emmanuel.

Diamond

love is a broken thing
trying to be whole
or is love a whole thing
trying to be broken

it seems I feel both within

the wholeness is solid and fierce
outside of my being
surrounding me
yet deeply inside
my core
the diamond

the brokenness is only within
a million little pieces
orbiting around the core
dancing so close and so tightly
they almost seem to be the core
chameleons

love is quiet
solid

brokeness is piercing
suffocating

I learn the language of tears
aching
heaving

I learn the language of chameleons
haunting
consuming

to know the diamond

pottery pics

I just wanted to share a few new pitures of my work! Enjoy

Strange Little Aliens

Sometimes I look at my dreadlocks and think how funny they are. There are red ones, purple ones, copper, orange, and brown ones. I feel like I've just stepped unto a set of Sesame Street and I'm one of the furry little muppets with fuzzy antennas of color flopping here and there singing about the word "alien," while dancing with a ruler.

Sometimes my little fuzzy alien antennas don't smell so good, as I wash them only once a month. But they have a very rich, musky smell that is actually rather enjoyable. Not sure how they conduct this odor, but it's hardly offensive, really. They've actaully recieved comlipents on their smell, be-lieve it or not. And I don't think the people were just saying it to be polite, really. And I think compliments promote the little aliens' fragrance-conducting activity, really.

I try and compliment them at least five times a day. Once in upon waking, because they've been silent all night long and tend to get a little lonely by the time the morning comes along. Once at breakfast, because it's my favorite meal and I tend to compliment everything at that time. Once when I'm pulling my dreads back in a bob to ready myself for a long day in a dirty pottery studio, because they are sooo easy to put back without the help of any kind of hair pins or clips. And twice at night to prepare them for the long silence of sleep.

By this point in reading this, you probably think I'm obsessed with my dreads, but not really too much. I just want these little alien tangles of hair to know just how thankful I am for their continued support of strange things, fuzzy, colored, messy, frangrant, stinky or just simply strange. My hats off to you! (Even though I can't really fit hats on my head anyways these days.)

Summer Nights: Leaves and Cork Boards

I’m sitting on my kitchen floor in the dark at midnight with my back door open feeling the cool breeze of a summer night softly linger across my skin. This is a night of dreams. The night air smells of rain. I asked Jesus yesterday for ten days of rain this month of June. When I randomly mentioned it to my neighbor today, she made a half-smile and said to let her know if it happens. I will. And I’m counting. Today was day one. Miracles are missed by those who never ask for them.

I don’t want to live by the expected. Why can’t the unexpected be expected? Why can’t I eat popsicles in the morning and cheerios at night? Why can’t I let my hair grow all the way past my lovely dairy air? Why can’t I sit on dirty floors or collect leaves to write poems on only to send them floating away in the wind? Why can’t I take pictures of people and clouds and stones and pin them to public cork boards? Why can’t I write letters to old and new friends and send them with a real postage stamp? Why can’t I keep my windows rolled down in my old truck all summer long, with my music turned up real loud and my head bobbing this way and that? Why can’t I wear a skirt while I’m throwing clay on my wheel? When I ask for rain, why can’t I expect for rain to come?

I want to dream as if this was the first time I’ve ever thought of a real dream. As if I’ve never been broken. Broken people who stay broken always live in pieces. They have two and three and more worlds they straddle between. They use words like, back then, or someday, or maybe, or we’ll see, or I don’t know…
I want to live in one world. I want to live now.

Swimming in Lakes

There are many things to take into consideration before running full-speed into a lake of shining waters. First, the temperature of the water is key to a pleasurable swim. There’s nothing as thrilling as feeling your skin peel away along with your breath as you fly into the icy, glistening pools below.

Second, just where does the ground disappear to once you've comitted yourself to it's goopy, tangled, or rocky surface? What wonderful surprises must live below the mud, just inches from the only two feet and ten toes ever received in this life? I mean, surely I’ve heard somewhere of inland sharks loving the low life of underground living in lakes and ponds, and burried snakes and poisoness toads. Really, I know these things.

Thirdly, just how many birds and geese and people like to use these waters as their hidden sewage system? The only reason why I even know about this part is because I have four younger brothers whom I know have let it loose in a lake or two or three. Many times have I experienced the sudden balmy tingling around my legs, a sudden warm current, disappearing as quickly as it appeared. One must keep their core body temperature regulated during times like these.

Fourthly, these waters can't be empty and hallow, it's just not that simple. Something, and possibly many somethings must inhabit the quiet murkiness underneath it's sparkling surface. I’ve seen them and their dark, darting forms out of the corner of my eye while innocently stroking along.

And fithly, one must know the etiquitte of keeping ones own bulk on top of the water, rather than below. This is the tricky one. It’s a difficult thing to keep oneself from swallowing so much pond water that you end up weighing at least twice as much as you did before entering the water.

After all has been weighed and considered, only then can one dare to wade themselves into a lake brimming with uncertainties. But, you ask, how could one know any of the answers to any of the considerations above unless tested first by the one doing the considering?

The answer? Well, I pause, the answer is just that. How can one possibly know unless one first tries? And why would one be so afraid to try? Pain and fear have kept far too many a' soul from accomplishing couragious feats as fighting for black freedom and the right to vote, as adopting a child with AIDS, as bearing a child as a single mother, to ones as simple as telling someone close to your heart, “I love you,” or deciding whether or not to jump into a nebulous lake.