shouts of joy

It’s that moment when the happenings around create just the right mixture. Those feels from the deepest parts, thousand foot trenches of soul, begin making their debut — surfacing to the smoothed surface. It only took one word to achieve a maximum heart rate and tears that boil over the brim.  But there’s no dark trench to sink into, instead there’s a spotlight, magnifying the moment.  When teaching such fragile lives, my subconscious has made its attempt to keep them protected by shutting off the switch to vulnerability. If they don’t know about the power of our emotions, perhaps they can be “strong” adolescents and adults. This locking up of such things has revealed dire consequences. A separation. Of self, others, and worse of all my Maker. It’s been so long since these feels have seen the light. But this training, it requires all of me: the disappointments, the failures, heartache, and brokenness. Only when it’s all out there, will I reach the summit I longing admire from down h

The keys have been clicking away in my classroom the past few weeks as the quarter closes in and students are vigorously polishing up their final writing pieces. They don't know what that clicking and clacking sound does to my heart. It beating anxiously. A true test of my patience to wait for their work to be done. Will they choose to become author's one day, will they dive into their own personal writing, maybe try their hand at the upkeep of a personal blog, or will they squander deep in research and publish academic journals for a multitude of learners. Sigh.  When I feel their excitement pulsing through the room my heart skips a few beats.  Their energy is nudging me to sit down and orchestrate my own piece. I find my writer's mind standing on a mountain top, the wind tossing my hair around, and I peer out over the valley, a microscopic river below me. I want to jump. Jump off my mountain top into a piece so intentionally crafted. I want to soar from the top, throu

The mountains in my little town are snowcapped right now. They make this smoggy, old Los Angeles suburb feel almost like a mountain town sitting in thin air surrounded by brilliant blue skies. They've got me pausing at every window, drooling as I step into the sun and look up. Because the mountains point up. They never fail to remind. They never fail to remind that they have a hard job, thus their peaks are undisturbed and their lakes are serene; their enemies are many and their companions few. But oh, how these mountains have been masked by the seasons of smog -- just a contented haze that makes life in these valleys small and comfortable. Small and comfortable. Two features I admired at first glance. A lot of folks seem more than happy here. Establishing such greatness for themselves. Oh to be, 30 and poised, confident, satisfied, and qualified, and well on my way to my own greatness. I look around and people make it look so easy. Greatness. So attainable. But the mountains tell

A Pilgrim is, according to Eugene Peterson, a person who spends their life going someplace, going toward God, and whose path for getting there is Jesus Christ - the Way, the Truth, and the Life (John 14:5-6). Another definition calls a pilgrim a traveler in a foreign land.  When I journey through seasons of dissatisfaction the clouds blow in and the storm seems dark and unbearable. In those moments everyone disappears. I'm desperately lonely, uncertain, stumbling through the days with tear brimmed lids. It seems that nothing can go right; I'm in the wrong place at the wrong time, working the wrong job, and hasn't it been forever since my last blessing? Since last I received affirmation for my efforts? Nothing I do can put me in the right direction. I've exhausted my passions to set things right, turn things around, and focus myself. But that's not what this was ever about. A pilgrim will never know her way through this foreign land. This is part of the journey, n

Sometimes all it takes is one dream. Reminding us of where we've been.  Where we are.  And to where we will go.  Just one dream,  from a restless sleep.  That's all it takes sometimes.

Growing is rarer than not at my age.  It is intrinsic -- unnatural, however the adverse is almost always true.  But THIS, this is nearly obsolete.  A thing only I can incur.  They don't believe it's possible,  for if they did they'd do it too.  Or perhaps they don't know there's something else.  Not something else, something better. Better is calling.  Are you the best?  Your best?  I mean, if you are, why in all of God's creation did you stop here?  Nobody deserves to settle here --  call it quits right here.  I run to escape this anarchy. Stride after stride.  Lost thought after lost thought. I can't recall the why after shouting the what  all day, every day, each month, for so many years.  I run to collect my thoughts -- design them -- then call them mine.  For every mile is one mile closer to toward the stillness.  I can barely remember that tranquility now,  it's as if it were a faint dream. lost by the