Liar, Liar Pants on Fire

So what's the big deal if sometimes my words don't come out right or I say the wrong thing at the wrong time? What does it matter if I misread, misinterpret or misunderstand? So what if I don't get it right the first time every time?


So what?


It is so easy to ask myself these questions and in so doing really convince myself that I don't have to care so much about screwing up, wigging out or stepping back. In fact, in this moment, I truly feel in my soul that it's okay- even healthy- for me to do these things from time to time. But in the next moment, the very second I might open my mouth and words pop out and I am staring in the face of another human being, I sell my soul to the devil. I stop feeling the freedom to be human. I start feeling flawed, messed up, useless. I feel like an impostor, a fraud, and a liar.

But the reality is, it isn't so much that I am the liar. There is an enemy who has a hold of my brain and my heart and who feeds me these lies that keep me all tied up. I give in to the fear that I'm not good enough. That I'm a screw up. I'm not smart enough, pretty enough, creative enough, articulate enough. I'm too quiet. I'm too loud. I'm too happy, too sad. I'm too passive, too controlling. I'm too emotional, too distant.


It is maddening.


I want it to stop.  I want to sit in a room with a group of people and feel like I am comfortable in my own skin, my own mouth, my own brain. That what I say matters as much and as little as the next person. That I am not measured by my single contribution to a moment but that my single contribution can also be the moment itself.


I so desperately want to just be free. Free to be me. 


So, to the enemy: 
You don't get to win anymore. I see you for what you are. Liar, liar pants on fire.

A Plea

28 july 2009

Alright,

Here is my first attempt at seeking you and I'm scared to death you're going to let me down. I can't bear to think that you don't actually hear me, see me, love me...that what I do or say or am really even matters at all.

My intent is not to capture you but to make myself available to be captured. I'm laughing because I don't even know what that means. All I see as I write is me in the middle of a huge, green field -alone- with my arms open wide... and I'm spinning, spinning, spinning...looking up into the clean, gray sky...hoping, expecting, needing you to reach down, around, over and love me with your warm, giant, comforting arms. Do you have arms?

Maybe I'll feel your arms in the warmth of the wind on a July day such as this. What if it's you but I totally miss it?

Will you come again?

I guess you will because from what I hear, you want me more than I want you. I don't even know if I really want you. Who are you? I'll always wonder. Maybe I'll want all of you someday but today, now, what I long for is peace, purpose, joy, love. I want to be comforted and called. I want to have love for you and love for myself. I want to see that my life might actually matter more than I can understand. I want to be unique and lovely but I certainly don't want to stay broken forever.

How do I rebuild? Can you, oh Carpenter, can you put me back together? Can you make me flawless and broken and tarnished and glorious in you?

Will you meet me in the field? I'll stay put as long as I can but I'm scared to death you'll let me down.

Alright, God.
Here I am.
This is me.
Seeking you.

Self-Reflection

14 April 2007

Will You See?

I am so tired of being a box.

I don’t have six sides and I’m not square, so why do you box me?

I am more than what you think, trust me.

I have breasts and a vagina but that’s not all.

My vagina does not define me for you.

I am a woman but I am no woman like you think I am.

Don’t take me into your brain, your bedroom, and play chess on my ass.

I am not your toy or your game or the hand that strokes your ego.

If I am beautiful, don’t hold it against me.

And don’t hold me to it.

My ugly is my harbor.

I am lovely and brave and I am dark and afraid.

I will love but I will hate.

I will harm you and I will like it.

I will watch you bleed.

I will feel sorrow and shame and will hunger for repentance.

I will cry and ache.

I will swear to love you and I will stab my heart with your bloody sword.

I am a warrior, a shepherd, a queen.

I am a child, a storm, and a blaze.

I am both a womb and a tomb.

I will breathe life and I will suffocate.

I am death and resurrection.

I am no god but I will try.

I will bring warmth and the blueness of ice.

I will make you wonder.

You will starve with dissatisfaction, trust me.

You will see my back but at least you will see me at all.

You will see my brilliance, my grace.

You will find joy in my laughter and rest in my love.

You will scream with frustration and dance with celebration.

You will love me and you will want to leave me.

You will fight for me and against me.

You will find wealth and glory.

Free me from this box.

Free me from this box and dance with me.

I am more than what you think.

I am not my vagina.

I am this and I am this and I am this.

I am not that.

Will You See?

I am not that.

Today, 9 April 2012

In there somewhere is me. I hear in those words the complexity of the human heart, the beauty and the depravity. The glory of being God's daughter and the emptiness that has haunted us all since the Fall. We are relentlessly and wholly lost. It seems we have moments where we feel "found" in which we experience a sense of belonging and purpose and hope... and then the moment escapes us and we're left with the harshness of a world that was only intended to be a temporary home, with dreams that come daringly close to being fulfilled but ultimately only leave us realizing what is not ours this side of heaven.

I hear them...

I hear the powerful voice of a grown woman blazing a path, claiming a truth and defining a purpose. Get it, girl.

She is strong and confident and says yes only when she wants to. She is driven and calculated. She is kind and wise. She has stretch marks and wrinkles and rough patches on her feet. She dances with her words and hugs with her eyes. She speaks with intention. She listens, she loves, she gives. She moves without caution and follows the rhythm of the Spirit. She is free and she is lovely.

I hear the demanding voice of an adolescent waving her fist to the heavens.

She's wounded, she's angry and she intends to take on the world. And she doesn't really care if she dies trying. She is taking her life into her own hands regardless of the cost. She has tried living life their way but it has earned her nothing but scars. She is finished with praying, finished with giving, finished with trusting. She doesn't care what people think, do or say. She doesn't believe in love. She hates hope. And faith is a joke played on a fool.

More subtle is the quiet voice of a young child.

A child who still believes in life and love and hope. A child who remembers the faces of those who stayed, those who listened, and those who loved. A child who is waiting patiently for the war to end, knowing that it's being fought on her behalf. Believing that healing and freedom is just on the other side.

I am trying to see...

I promise, little one. I am trying to find you.

Love,

Self