Let There Be Words

it works!

2010-06-05T16:39:00.002-06:00

lyndsishae.wordpress.com

Well, Hi.

2010-05-30T17:26:00.000-06:00

I have been gone for a long time from this blog.

But I have been very, very present in my own real life.

Please know this.

Please also know that I am goin on a mission!

Well yes, yes I am.

And I have this very secret mission blog that I used to write on when I couldn't seem to put my Pre Sister Brown words anywhere else.

It is here.

And soon, I'll open it up for all to see.

That means one day, when you click on it, it will let you in.

Kind of like a person you're tryin to be friends with.

I love the whole world.

Right now.

I just want to say that before I go.

This is what my face looks like on my mission papers.

My life is real.

Feel this.

2010-05-01T22:21:00.002-06:00

I need to say something. I’ve been having this bizarre experience. Lately I feel this strange sensation, it’s something like feeling need. It’s a lot like being hungry actually. For the past week or so I’ve actually assumed it was hunger.

The process goes like this:

I Feel it.

I eat something. I’m full. I’m not satisfied.

I eat something else. More full. Still not satisfied.

Still Feel it.

Over the past seven days I’ve tried meat, bread, fruit, vegetables, cheesy milky things, healthy things, greasy things, raw things and cooked things. Do I sound like a Doctor Seuss book to you? I’ve tried it all. None of it is the answer. Upon explaining this to my friend Sarah today I acknowledge a thought that has until recently been pushed to the backburner: Maybe it’s not hunger for food.

What is it that I’m unsatisfied about?

I also cannot sleep. Last night I tossed and turned all over again thinking is this because my new bed isn't not comfy? That’s not it. It feels just fine.

Something else in me is trying desperately to get my attention.

Are you expecting this post to end in an answer? It won’t. Still waiting on that.
For now, let’s talk about secondhand books.

Today I went to the DI, this place is a lot like Goodwill, Salvation Army, Value Villiage. You know, it’s other people’s stuff. It wants to be your stuff now. We looked at the books because Sarah loves this. It’s therapeutic for her. I just had so many thoughts and I wanted to come home and write about them.

First of all, there are so many books that claim to solve life. Finding a Friend in the Mirror (How to love yourself). The fast Track to Heaven (Um, a short-cut to God?). Be a Perfect Person in 3 Days (Really. I’m serious.) Finding Your Best in Multi-level Marketing (Gag.) Even a Writer’s Companion on how to get published (Okay so I might have picked this one up for a second…) One thought about all this: I will never claim that my book has the answer to life.

There are Mary Higgins Clark books everywhere. I wonder what is must be like, to be so well known that even the second hand stores have double and triple copies of your novels. What am I doing with my writing? What do I want to do? Do I want to be a
fattly-sold Mary Higgins Clark? No, I don’t think so. At least, that is not my aim. What is my aim? To tell the truth. To say my words. What does that mean? I will spend my life trying to figure out the answer to that question. I will not find it in the Writer’s Companion, which then goes back on the shelf.

I find The Official Handbook of Hugging. There are actually chapters on How, When, Where, and Why to hug, complete with illustrations of chubby little animals demonstrating. I am honestly impressed with whoever had the audacity to be this cheesy. I will not buy this book today. I have lofty expectations about my future shelves as being tributes to great literature. But you know, the world just needs people to write funny huggin handbooks with cliché love quotes and hearts on the spine, and this is more than okay with me.

As I continue on my search, I begin to look for authors and titles I’ve already known, only to watch myself dismiss them upon finding. The True Confessions of Charlotte Doyle. I think of creepy stow-aways in the belly of moldy murderous ships. No thanks. Frank Norris? Eh. Then I see: The Scarlett Letter. Paperback. Yellowed attic-smelling pages. DONE. In my basket. This book was so hard to read, but full of beautiful things. Full. It is needful that I own a copy. I do now. 75 cents. Success.

With the unknown authors, I skim pages. I read really fast over chapter titles and final paragraphs. I require my immediate interest to be kindled. Make me want you, I am saying to these books. Let your significance yell off the page. All the while, a quiet voice within me fights this method. “My life will get nowhere if I search with these expectations,” it says.

Before I leave I see a Book of Mormon Reader. It’s an illustrated and simplified version for kids. My parents use to read this to us sometimes when we lived in Greensboro. I remember sitting on the rug in a pajama shirt that could have swallowed me whole three times over. I wanted to read the real scriptures because someone in sacrament meeting said that as you keep turning a wheel, it gets easier. And that even if we don’t understand the scriptures, we have to keep going to them, keep turning the wheel. My Mom said the other kids weren’t old enough for real verses yet. Now I am re-reading my study book from my Book Of Mormon class at BYU three years ago. I am going to go teach this to other people. Where is my life going? Look where it’s been.

I leave with The Scarlett Letter. The Lovely Bones. A Book of Days for the Literary Year, which says what James Joyce and F. Scott Fitzgerald were doing on my birthday. (Awesome.) And an old Smithsonian Magazine that has really great art inside, which I can tear out and glue in my journal. I hand the lady my four dollars, and walk outside. I needed that.

It is about 8:15, and still light enough to see the details of the mountains. It will be dark in less than an hour. It is faintly cold, and everything is tinted in blue tones. As I climb into Sarah’s big SUV, I am struck with the impression that Today Really Matters. I don’t need an explanation; I just know it’s true.

On the way home I know that whatever this need is, this toss-turn mystery hunger… I must let it smoulder into discovery.

Hey thanks!

2010-04-28T23:51:00.000-06:00

I just want to write something happy because oh! Oh I'm happy. Oh man I am.
I'm sittin here in this new apartment wrapped up in Claire's blanket and I just have to say something good. That's all. Goodness. (Hey, did you know Claire's my roommate now! Yeah!)

I can't say the details, but here's the deal: Everyone just do what God tells you to do.
This is different from just sayin you're gonna do it.
That's right, you have to actually move forward! Who woulda thought?
And when you do, God sends you good things.
Because he wanted to the whole time you know, he was ready. You just had to do a few more things before he could justify giving you even more than he already has.
You mean I have to earn some of these blessings?
You mean I have to do stuff?
Yes. I know. Shocking.
I know because this happened to me in real life this week.

And here's the deal: My life still doesn't make sense!
Isn't that great?!
It doesn't make sense and I'm still ridiculously happy.
I have been livin blissfully for at least 72 hours straight.

Accept for this one part of the day when I teared-up over my HUGE desire for a cheeseburger and how tired I was and weirdy my body was being. I may or may not have thrown my wallet at the couch and gotten a little flustered. Sorry. I had to pray and take a nap... after I ate my cheeseburger of course. The cheeseburgering/praying/napping combination worked wonders by the way. But really! Except for that moment of gross... miraculous happiness abounds.

If you're havin trouble feelin this way, check out my Little Breezy. Not only has he acquired himselg a cute little pair of glasses, he's ridin a Two-Wheeler!

Ok? Ok.

2010-04-16T22:47:00.000-06:00

Okay so I just have to say a lot of things. A LOT OF THINGS.

My life is going to be okay! It is!

And people can throw down on my conviction. Bring it on. Try and make me feel small.

Because here's the deal: You can.
I'm not too proud to admit that right now.
You have the capacity to make me feel stupid and weak and meaningless.
But oh man I'm so good at bouncing back. I can expand back to full-size.

Lately God does not mess around when he talks to me.
We do business.
He tells me what he needs me to do.
And I have to follow through before I can receive more.
Step. Go. Do.

I saw three deer in the yard today.
They did not run away from me. We just stared.
We saw clearly.
I was so moved.
I wish I could explain what it meant to me.

I am scared.
I have fear.
I move forward.

I think we want the same thing.
But that does not mean
We will see.
I don't have to know what it means.

Brooke showed me this today:
Alma 26:16—“Therefore, let us glory, yea, we will glory in the Lord; yea, we will praise God forever. Behold, who can glory too much in the Lord? Yea, who can say too much of his great power, and of his mercy, and of his long-suffering towards the children of men? Behold, I say unto you, I cannot say the smallest part which I feel.”

See?
Beautiful.

I can keep singing loud.
I can handle your choices.
And mine.

Always preliminary.

2010-04-14T16:17:00.004-06:00

Today, I feel like this.

(I'm one on the left.)

* * * * *

1. to clear, as from an accusation, imputation, suspicion, or the like.

2. to afford justification for; justify.

3. to uphold or justify by argument or evidence: to vindicate a claim.

4. to assert, maintain, or defend (a right, cause, etc.) against opposition.

5. to claim for oneself or another.

* * * * *

Verily, verily, I say unto thee,

blessed art thou for what thou hast done; for thou hast inquired of me,

and behold, as often as thou hast inquired

thou hast received instruction of my Spirit.

If it had not been so, thou wouldst not have come

to the place

where thou art

at this time.

D&C 6:14

* * * * *

And he said, Go forth, and stand upon the mount before the Lord.

And, behold, the Lord passed by, and a great and strong wind rent the mountains,

and brake in pieces the rocks before the Lord; but the Lord was not in the wind:

and after the wind an earthquake; but the Lord was not in the earthquake:

And after the earthquake a fire; but the Lord was not in the fire:

and after the fire

a still small voice.

Kings 19:11-12

* * * * *

This can be me.

2010-04-01T01:00:00.000-06:00

"There were in her at the moment two beings, one drawing deep breaths of freedom and exhilaration, the other gasping for air in a little black prison-house of fears. But gradually the captives gasps grew fainter, or the other paid less heed to them; the horizon expanded, the air grew stronger, and the free spirit quivered for flight."

The House of Mirth

By Edith Wharton

Page 69

Be somebody's Cait.

2010-03-30T14:54:00.000-06:00

* * * * *

Today is Tuesday. On Tuesdays I watch devotional on a big screen in an old room with my friend-for-life Cait. I met her when I was ten. Now we are big and have bigger lives and offer two hours of them each week to each other. The first is spent in front of this big screen, pre-maturely eating our lunches while listening to inspiring people speak. Cait's lunch is different from mine in that it always looks... well, planned. Her sandwiches have turkey and condiments AND vegetables. Like straight up spinach and pickles or something. Kind of like her outfits... an accessorized sandwich. Whereas the hope of my potential PB and J lies within the second pocket of my bookbag, which was filled in a flurry this morning by a jar of peanutbutter, my blackberry jam, a butterknife straight out of the drawer and two loose slices of bread. I forgot napkins. We don't have those in my house. Today I borrowed her poppyseed salad fork to eat out of my half-frozen by a ghetto-fridge disposable yogurt container. I didn't bring anything else, not even a spoon. The food is funny, but it's not the point. The speeches are beautiful... it helps to just sit and learn for an hour because you're actually choosing to.
But really, they're not the point either.

The point is hour #2.
We find a spot. A spot for...
"Lunch"
The food was consumed early for a reason people. It's time to talk about the week.
"Okay so tell me stuff..." I say.
(I usually feel unprepared to verbalize, so I always want Cait to go first.)
This hour. Each week. Has become Absolutely Vital for my heart.
This semester. Each week: A full-feature drama occurs in my life.
On the better weeks, it's a romantic comedy.
But never uneventful. Never without a struggle.
(Also, never fruitless.)

"I don't feel like I'm dumping or venting when I talk to you because we don't wallow. We search."
--Cait

I need to have my own world here with Cait sittin on the floor, over in the corner...
only inches away from 20 or so other college-kid conversations.
We are here.
With our words we spread out the roughly drafted blue prints...
The beginnings of a few answers...
We tear-up over the hard ones,
"I'm not sure what else I can give to this."
take pictures with the good ones,
"I can feel it. I'm whole now. I've always been, but I didn't know."
hold on for the hopeful ones.
"Imagine what it will feel like after ten years of work to feel what you've finally made together."
We figure out what we're gonna do next.
"Tell me what you felt when you prayed..."

I trust Cait because she is kind. Because I've never met someone who's intentions are so undoubtedly pure. Because since we were ten she's had this calm ability to face life.
Not with a set identity and something to prove,
Not with a shield of pretense,
but with a heart ready to reach
Ready to receive.

Hey look I'm still here!

2010-03-23T13:05:00.004-06:00

Today I'm in the LRC.

I cannot rent headphones because my student card is barred.

Yes, "BARRED"

"Look," the nice girl behind the desk turns her computer screen towards me and says.

"See? It says you're barred. All I can do is click okay."

I must have given her the
"Seriously?
Can't you just jack me some headphones so I can listen to sweet jams
while I write 50 papers?" look.

Oops.

That look came after this spaz of conciousness that came streamin out my little mouth...

Well I don't owe any tuition (thank goodness),
and I haven't checked out any books,
and I don't think it's that parking ticket from last semester
and could Wells Fargo maybe have translated their overdrafty hatred for me
into an LRC computer?

I stop. She looks concerned.

After assuring her that everything will be okay, I go quietly to my computer.

No sweet jams for me today. I'm barred ya'll.

Maybe its because I won't shut up and get married?

Joke. Relax. It was a joke.

So yesterday was "I trust myself not to mess up my life day."

Today is "This is gonna be nuts so you best be happy and like it day."

So far I'm doin a great job.
With 3 papers and various grown-up appointments ahead of me today,
not to mention all the heavier emotional spaceships spinnin around me,
I'm laughin it up on this blog.
Way to go! What an adult I am!

You know what, I just love stuff.

I do.

I'm always appalled at where my life is.
Daily I spaz about who I am and who I want to be.
But I just love things and I'm excited about that.

That's all I want to say.

Except to tell you this secret:

I never sing as loud or with as much conviction as I do when I'm drivin alone in Roger Clarence.
Here are some songs that keep me movin forward.
I'm posting them by the line I sing the hardest. CLick this mess.

My song is love. My song is love unknown...

I miss winter just because I miss when I knew you best.

And have enough kids to make a band like Joe and Catherine, yeahhhh.

Turn off the car, breathe the air, let's stay here.

Now I may have faith, to make mountains fall.

Then one day: you'll go away. But I will too. Until then, my darling friend well I will hold...

yes I will hold onto you.

Sing out yeah, Everything's not lost.

We'll have time to know our neighbors all by name.

2010-03-22T12:46:00.001-06:00

Today I was walkin home from school, music playin in my ears.

The sun was out and I was hoppin down the stairs.

I thought I can. I can trust myself to not mess up my life.

And God said to me "Keep going because I love you and I'm going to send you good things!"

I wasn't afraid.

On those stairs, it was just about today.

The condition of my heart right now. Happy.

I want it to stay that way.

I came home and switched my laundry.
I read an old journal while eatin a glorious peanutbutter and jelly sandwich.
And then...

I went for a run.

That's right. Me. I. Went for a run.

Before I left, I asked God for some things. Help me let go of any sense that we are divided. Help me knock down my fears and be peaceful. Help me start from a new place. As I'm running, I want to churn out my anxiety and let it leave me. I want to open up my future and my spirit to you. I trust you. I trust myself. I trust that combination.

Declaration: It's gonna be ok, ok?

2010-03-17T12:41:00.006-06:00

"I chose and my world was shaken.

So what?

The choice may have been mistaken.

The choosing was not."

--Stephen Sondheim

It is in these periods of my life, these eras of choice and forward motion, where I feel most alive. Even if it creates a struggle, even if I am racked with complexity, I am creating my future. And so, I find myself more fulfilled than I would be in a period of indecision, of stagnant calendar weeks, of horizontal silence. Because surely if I am not reaching up, I am sinking down.

* * * * *

Part two: Letter from the bestfriend.

(Katie doesn't really know the whole story, she's missing a lot acutally. But she can tell how I'm feelin sometimes, even if I haven't written in a while.)

Lovie! I'm in between shifts at work again (shocker i know) and typin real fast cuz i have nine bajillion things to get done before tomorrow. I know huge things are happenin-slash-will be happenin for the next few weeks. I'm writin to tell you that you are enough. Just you. And if you don't end up with one of those boys it's okay. And if you end up with one of those boys or all of those boys it's okay too.

I'm writin to tell you i feel the power in your words.
I've been readin (as ush) and I just feel the gravity of your words.

I'm writin to tell you that I know you're workin hard to be the best you can be and be diligent in so many areas of your life and God does too.

And I'm writin to tell you that i know what it feels like to be stuck at the bottom of a well of contradictions and unsureities,

and to just want loving everyone to be enough.

So most of all, I just love you. I wish I could fly you back to NC and we could just lay our souls out on the beach cuz goodness knows theyve been cramped up away from each other for too long.

Also, lately im a mess sometimes. Sometimes I don't know why. Sometimes I'm sad about Africa, sometimes I feel like my life is just nuts. Most of the time I just try to keep workin, keep pushin forward, cuz otherwise I know I'll be drowned in uncertainties. God is showing me important things everyday. I am grateful he just keeps findin a way in cuz sometimes im so wrapped up in everything I cant find his voice amongst all the other ones around me.

Love you bigger than the drive from here to Cali, longer than the plane ride from here to Kenya, and deeper than Mamaw's pineapple dumpcake.

You are my roots,

yourbestfriend

* * * * *

Part 3: Hope.

But the wisdom that is from above is first pure, then peaceable, gentle, and easy to be intreated, full of mercy and good fruits, without partiality, and without hypocrisy. And the fruit of righteousness is sown in peace of them that make peace.

--James 3

Hi.

2010-03-15T13:11:00.001-06:00

Today I publicized a billion words in 3 new posts.

The next one is about the beginning of a story.

The one after that is a what came before the beginning.

The one after that is mixed up paragraphs from throughout.

The story isn't over,

and I didn't explain enough.

I've left out a whole chunk entirely.
I don't fully understand. You won't either.

I just needed to unleash some of my old words.

The universe had it coming ok?

This is how I say

"I am here. I am learning. I am evidence."

That's all.

This is from an ocean.

2010-03-15T12:59:00.001-06:00

“How’s life?” asks a boy, concerned for his friend’s heart which is in my hands.

“Hell,” I say.

“I appreciate your honesty.”

It was a lie. Life is not hell, but it got the point across efficiently. My point: I’m not tryin to mess with your friend ok? He's my friend too and I’m tryin to do the right thing. Please don’t imply that this is a careless matter of batting my eyelashes on Saturday nights.

“If you ever want to fight, you know where to find me...”

"You know most of the girls in your relief society would kill to have this problem," says my trusty Bishop. (We're tight.)
The first time he says this, I just knod.
The second time, I let loose:
"I know. But this didn't just fall into my lap, ok? I worked really hard to show these boys who I am, to give of myself. I did scary things with my heart. this is what happened in return. It's not about fate or luck."

“I think you’re brave,” Ben says.

“Thank you,” I say. I say it like I mean it. Because I do.

I’m up late tonight, all by myself. I used to do this all the time. Here I am with my pot of pasta and fuzzy pajama pants. Here I am. I want to show you something.

There are three parts to this story. I am ready to tell you about one.

It comes from a page marked November 27^th.

I filled it with a question in really big handwriting: What am I doing with Ben?

(I want to fill you in on what that question means, but it would make the story cheap, public, and incomplete. Just replace it with your own pressing question and stay with me.)

I scribbled about how this question was the real focus of my mind, not the novel I was reading, not even the ocean I was laying by. “This is the wrong question,” I write.

I get up. I can’t be on this blanket anymore. Too much movement inside. I am goin for a walk, and that’s all there is to it. Brooklyn comes too. I tell her about how my question was off-track. Here’s why: “No answer will fill all the holes with individual statements. No answer will be a logical blueprint for life except this: I am following the spirit. I am. New question for tomorrow: Am I still following the spirit? That’s all I can do. It has to be enough. It is enough.”

I told her it was going to be okay. I spoke deliberately, knowing that in the absence of my own knowledge, the impossibility of my omniscience, I needed to hear myself say these things. ALOUD. Aloud while walkin fast and alive down the beach.

The sand was flat for ages. No hills or patterns were left by the retreating tide. It made my restless heart crazy. We round a peninsula, one with a lifeguard stand. California is so foreign to me sometimes…as if the little guy in the chair can make it all okay. After this we see an edge. I’m not sure what else to call it. It was a tall piece of rock, jutting out into the ocean, like a small cliff. The water crashed all around and it was very alive with sea urchins and star fish and other smaller things I couldn’t name. I drew back from the urchins at first, in unfamiliarity. But then I remembered that these were alive and part of the earth and connected to the water, just like me. I let go and trusted, like I’d done five days before when I brought the truth on a Sunday night. “Lyndsi Shae, why you breathin like you’re scared to?” I touched their tops one at a time, letting each cling to my hand for a while before pulling away. And then, I did what I knew I would. I climbed the rock.

In my bathinsuit and tye-dyed t-shirt, I followed my own bare feet. It was the roughest surface they’d ever felt. Every step hurt. I knew I was here to find a higher place—that I would sit above the waves and feel certain things, but what I could not yet say. I jumped across a few divides. I reached up and up. I stopped once to rest my feet, but knew I had to get higher. I had to see more of the current. This current flowed around the edge of the cliff and sent waves out sideways, parallel with the shoreline. I had to watch them reconcile with the larger waves that headed straight for the sand.

Out in the ocean, the two wave paths collided into a large rock. The same kind of animals clung there as the place from where I watched. Each time the waves came they would crash over that rock, forwards and sideways, and then both waves pushed on towards the base of the rock where I sat.
The cliff. The edge.

I sat on the harsh rock and curled my toes over the edge. I long to put myself amid things that have not been tamed. Man can never stop these waves. I think I want my life to be this way. As much as I crave immediate answers, I want to my currents to divulge and my cliff to be shaped slowly—by life that clings to the rockface—adding itself to my edges-- by crashing water that pulses with the moon. With all of these I am eroded or refined, whichever I choose. And while I sit up on this folded rock, sore feet and t-shirt beneath me—I am singing to God. I am singing because He comes closer with the sound, because it is a way to call on many other pieces of myself, past pieces that sang these same songs.

I cannot show you these pieces in words, I can only say that there is a need for times like this. Times to climb the first cliff you see and find a unity between what has been felt, and what is still left to find. Time to prepare for the choices that will come, to crash sideways and forwards and hold tight to tumultuous rock. I have been the wave, the rock, the urchin and the tide. So I sing and reach for Him with all of these.

Be still, my soul:  thy God doth undertake 

To guide the future,  as He has the past.  

Thy hope, thy confidence  let nothing shake; 

All now mysterious  shall be bright at last.  

Be still, my soul:  the waves and winds  still know…

I watch the crashing water. It surrounds the base of this cliff and I think, “What would I say to God today, here on this rock. If I could tell him one thing… what would I choose”

I feel the answer come fast and calm and I say it aloud:

I want to do what you want me to do.

I want to do what you want me to do.

The application of this will require more than the desire.

The knowledge is more than just listening.

I know, but I am sure this is what I want to say.

I sit on that rock for a while.

The waves are getting higher.

I am right where I am supposed to be.

I watch water smash into the rock out there in the ocean, first from the side, then directly from behind. It’s covered but not overtaken. White foam erupts and dissolves. The rock re-emerges though the waves rage on.

Then I hear a crash beneath the edge where I sit.

In an instant I see the water lurch up from below.
It has now come for me,
and as I watch this triangle of ocean spring up,
one word comes to mind:

WILD.

It crashes over me then, untame and unexplained. I finish my song.
This is how I leave the cliff, not with a complete knowledge but with a respect for the unknown. A desire for more crashing beauty, more converging currents in my life. I climb down one painful step at a time. I know that my feet have been prepared for the rocks.

As we walk away I try to explain to Brooklyn.

“I feel better now,” I say.

Before, on that blanket with my book, I was too quiet.

I was too falsely focused.

Now I have walked in search of an answer, and instead found peace. There is wild water in my hair, and cliff scratches on my legs. My skin is tired from the sun and I am ready to walk away from that edge. To walk away without knowing the ending.

“I feel like I am here now,” I say.

“All of me.”

And I am.

That was 108 days ago. 3 and a half months.

What can I say?

Leave to thy God to order and provide

In every change He faithful will remain...

Tonight I am in repair. I rest away from the waves.
I am calm, but exhausted. I study the sounds and patterns, try to be still.

I want to do what you want me to do.

Porcelain, do you carry the moon in your womb? Someone said that you're fading too soon...

2010-03-15T12:32:00.001-06:00

There once was a missionary.
I wrote him all his days,
except the last month or so.
He gets home next week,
but he will not drop by to say hello.
He said once that I was his best friend.
I am now dating his other best friend.
Reality: There once was a missionary, but:
Soon, he will be a Ken. Right here in this town.

Reality: There is no real way to prepare for this.

Our letters ended with a box.
Brooklyn text me:
"There is a box on our doorstep that looks like it's been through hell. I think it's from Latvia."
I came home to find it, busted corners and triple-taped.
To me, from him.
A box of all my letters and the things I've made him.
I sit here with them.
My mind looks at my heart and says
"Are you gonna be okay down there?"
"I think so, I mean someday," she says.
(She actually says much more than that. She begins a million thoughts without finishing any of them. She cries and yells. Sprints and sleeps. It's a mess, believe me. We're paraphrasing here.)
"No pressure," my mind tells her.
"Let's just not freak out. But let's not ignore reality either. But well... I don't actually know what to do ...Keep going? Yeah. Let's just keep going and listen for God and be strong."

This is what my mind and my heart generally decide to do. It's our most trusted solution.

So I made a cool thing on my wall out of the pictures he sent back.
And today, I'm readin my old letters.
I am tryin to make something positive out of this.
I am trying to do something constructive with all these emotions.
Wanna be a part of it? You're invited.
Here's a celebration of the last two years, in pieces:

-->

May 2008:

So pretty much Pete Hoyt’s gonna marry my friend Stephy Jay, probably this summer. Another one bites matrimonial dust, and I am a triple bridesmaid.

June2008:

"I’m in the APX breakroom at work, and there are computers for me! And a plasma screen TV... and I feel like I should be excited but I'm not. It's dumb. They should turn the heat on, and add a couch... and then I'd be excited. (Maybe a grilled cheese sandwich maker.)

My supervisor at my new job is pretty huge. He has a Mohawk… like a 4 inch legit Mohawk. The other day I was bragging about eating a whole frozen pizza after my huge dinner. And then, mistakenly, he doubted me. I challenged him. "You. Me. Eating Contest," I said. "Girl, I would put you under the table." He talks now, but I know he fears me. I'll let ya know how it all goes down."

"One more question. I feel like, if I were you, my American life and my Latvian life would seem immensely separate. To the point that remembering who I was before would be surreal, like I was recalling a movie I watched once... rather than something I actually experienced. Is it like that?"

July 2008:

"I'm home now! HOME. Today I took Brad to this sweet carnival thing for dang free! They had a ferris wheel and swings and an airplane ride and a fried chicken flopper! I was too old for everything, 'cept they did let me flop the chicken. I also wanted to get my face painted, but Bradley didn't really want to... and I would have been the only one in line that was twenty.

You know what word I miss? Filthy. My Mom's chasin Brad around yellin 'You are a filthy little child and you're gettin in the tub. Quit whinin'. And ooooooh! Go show Lyndsi how white your heiny is.'

Hi, welcome to the dollhouse.

Other updates on my kids--- Corey just got his first sword wound from Kung Fu, not kidding. He came in flexin his muscles "Finally!" he proclaimed as he let his battle scar shine forth.

Lacey's a fox. She came home soaked the other night because she decided she wanted to jump in the lake. So pretty much: she's me. I'm havin a sleepover with katie and kelsey tonight. I was real excited to ask her to come with me. What else could she possibly be doing on a Friday night? Going to Jason's party of course. So she's me, but cooler. Way cooler.

This morning I woke up to the sounds of Jesse rockin out to guitar hero downstairs. He's SO shaggy lookin. By the time I came down he was skateboardin in his pajama pants. A shirtless bandit of flannel rebellion. My siblings are ballin."

August 2008:

"Right now I'm sittin in a cabin that's been rented out for Sabrina's wedding party. I know--dank. Welcome to the bridesmaid's room, you're the only boy in here. Be glad you can't hear on account of you'd hate it. So Sabrina's gettin married this weekend. Stephy Jay next weekend. Heather and my roommate Kim the weekend after that. Also, Brooklyn has a boyfriend. Me? I have a complex."

August 2008:

"I'm stuck in Cedar City on account of a tire BLEW while I was drivin 80 mph back to provo. Guess who handled it like a CHAMP? Me. And Brooklyn.

I'm in a dorm room, long story. This mornin I woke up, took a sweet long shower, jacked a freshmen's hairdryer... and so now I am atleast a clean, good-smellin hobo.

Did I tell you I was a hobo for real? Cause I am. I had to leave my summer apartment on the 15th, and my new one won't let me in til the 28th. So I'm stayin at Pete and Stephy Jay's empty married apartment until then. Brooklyn's with me, and her little sister Jen who's been livin with us for a month or so. Plus Steph's on her honeymoon so no big deal. Its FULL of boxes, with a mass-pad of blankets in the only open carpet-space-- we sleep there. Yesterday we dropped off Jen at SUU for her first day of college. (Hi, nostalgia major? Yes.) Anyway, thats when our car crapped out on the way home. We were sittin on the side of the highway in the dark, watchin the mountains. With the help of Chris Noel: my hero firefighter, and a state

I feel anxious about the fall, I am anticipating the change and flow of newness. I always get this way when I'm havin a beginning. Plus Sabrina, Steph, Stephy Jay, Heather, and our summer roommate Kim are all married now. So we're pretty much the most legit girls left in this town. And by we I mean me and my Brooklyn, we're a team."

October 2008:

"When Lyndsi gets married, we ain't havin no dainty halibut.

There will be fried chicken at that wedding."

--My little brother Jesse.

"I love my brother Corey. I know we could understand each other. I miss him loving me. Loving me without guard, without anger. I would soar with relief, gratitude, and hope if I saw him go on a mission. I see what he can be. I wish I was more able to show him this love, because I know he doubts it, and I know that hurts him."

January 2009:

“There is one battle that remains-- always, I am fighting for my youth. Back home, I felt like my youth was dying before its time. I worked to preserve the child in me. I think that is why I still need to play in the reain and sing loud and fingerpaint. I need to know that I am not hardened. I pay my rent and write my papers. I go grocery shoppin and apply for scholarships. I help my friends tie up their wedding dresses. I. am. growing. Up. Part of this is beautiful to me. But still, I ache with the change. As God stretches me into who he wants me to be-- there is pain in the growth. I grieve for what I have lost. But I fell him here with me. I am grateful for the braid of past, present, and future. Sometimes, he reminds me, that he won't make me grow up any more than is necessary. Being a woman doesn't mean I lose my warmth. He will never rob me of my youthful spirit.”

March 2008:

"It's midnight and I'm eatin a chocolate coconut bar in my pajamas. I just got off work. There's an engaged snuggly couple on my couch, a leaky faucet down the hall, and a new book in my purse. This is my sweet life. I like it here."

January 2009:

"Lately I've been havin a hard time too. But, I was resistant to God's answers. I didn't want to know them... maybe because knowing them would require action-- and i was choosing to sulk. But last Sunday I told Him I was ready to be in-tune. I opened myself back up. And since then, I have felt hims sending me strength. I sang in the car yesterday, and knew that I was BACK from my greyness. There was confidence and freedom in my voice, instead of disappointment and distraction. I know He brought me back, and I am grateful."

February 2009:

"Now I'm in my front yard eating chips & mango salsa with a stack of the letters you've sent me since I last wrote you. It's sunny. Happy Wednesday."

"...I love Ilga the feisty composer! She sounds like a strong woman, even if she's too stubborn to listen to you these days..."

April 2009:

"There is so much compassion in me, but blocked. Blocked by my distracted self-importance. If I could break down all that opposes it-- the anger and judgment-- the pride and idleness-- I know... that only clear purpose would remain. Only clarified direction.

Only healing."

September 2008:

*Postcard from California*

"Hail from your homeland! I'm here! I know! One of my favorite parts of today was sittin on the edge of the water and playin in the sand and tyin thin blades of seaweed on my ankles. They're still there. I bought some wooden beads from a mexican store for touristy kids like me-- who eat fajitas and fried icecream barefoot outside. Ken, San Diego is WAY different from the beach back home. There's a loud speaker at the ocean?! It's more ballin sushi city... and less country-fried-chicken-letsgofishin. It's not 100% me but I love it for what it is...”

November 2009:

"I have to tell you something. I'm kinda responsible now... like the super-busy-let-me-look-at-my-calendar-I'll-have-to-email-you-the-numbers responsible. It's weird. I used to think this kind of organization would kill my freedom and spotanaety. Now I know I have to be this way if I want to get everything done. Ken, I even wake up early. People depend on my and stuff. Sometimes I think 'Oh no! What if I'm boring now?!' But you're probably more responsible now too, so if I am more boring... hopefully you won't notice."

October 2008:

"Ken are you good at skipping rocks? Because I'm not. It's okay though, because I like the plunking noise..."

November 2009:

"I wish I could just sit you down and show you who I am, that it could be that simple.

The good news is: I've been tryin to do that for a long long time. For a while there, I couldn't tell if you were listening. Maybe that's because you weren't. But it's probably because you listen so differently from me, and so I just couldn't tell you were. Either way, for a long time now I've been able to tell that YES you are listening. I can feel your willingness. I'm always glad to see that it's still there. Always relieved. The best part is, these days you seem so ready to also show yourself. Maybe we can just keep trying. Thanks for doing this with me."

November 2009:

"I always worry that some mailman between here and eastern Europe will think the decorations on my envelope are obnoxious and throw away my letter because it's lame and American. Then I feel ignorant for worrying because that's kinda lame in itself... and American."

November 2009:

"Ken I just wanna be your friend all the time and tell you things. Sometimes I am walkin to school and I think 'I am so happy today. I want to tell Ken how this feels.' I am relieved to hear myself say things like that so naturally. Kinda like that time your companion asked you who I was and you said 'my best friend' without even thinking about it...

... I'm just glad for now-- for this part where we just write letters and learn things. This feels good. I believe in you so much. I hope you're finding out how powerful you are."

August 2009:

“Siovhan asked me what I want to be when I grow up and here's what came out: ‘A writer. And a Mom. Not necessarily in that order, but simultaneously, and forever.’ That's the most complete I've ever felt about the answer to this question.”

September 2009:

"I sit at this table, surrounded by produce and old letters... a gallon of chocolate milk (99 cents!) and the change of midnight. Today in my life I feel surrounded by: CHOICES.

Choices.

This is scary. Empowering. Staggering. Everyday, I find myself doodling question marks.

Where will my life go?

These days I am trying hard to be my best self. I have to keep re-committing, sometimes hourly. I know you are trying hard too. Let's both keep going."

August 2009:

"Okay. There's this very logical thing you keep doing that blows my mind...

1. Acknowledge flaw.

2. Make goal.

3. Follow goal.

4. Progress.

It seems so simple, and I see it working for you. I see your change. In my mind, I want these processes to be poetic-- symbolic and unfolding. Change can be this way, but the steps to change are much more simple. Logical. Accessible. Duh, right? In my mind, great things happen in mass revelations of beauty and truth. But great things just happen out of consistent effort and keeping covenants. That's all. God has been teaching me this, and you too.

Sometimes he says to me, 'See this rain? You hate it because it is slow and misty. It isn't a mad rushing downpour, so you think it has not story, that no one will remember this rain or really feel it. But not everything has to be so intense. Not every feeling has to come fast and strong to really matter. Not every process is a revolution. All the green things you love are benefiting from this rain I've sent, no matter its pace. Slow life can be your life. It can be enough.'

I listen to him, but I forget very fast."

A tall drinka water just a'pourin on down the sink...

2010-03-15T12:26:00.001-06:00

* * * * *

Let me explain:

These are the throwbacks. The drafts I fiercely punched out on keyboards, and then hid away.

...I couldn't ever get them to sound quite right. I couldn't say exactly what I was hoping to say...

Today: they are here for you to see.

EXPOSED.

Because today I was walking away from school, down the daily concrete steps.

I stopped at the top.

I wished I could pull apart my ribs in one quick burst,

let my heart bust out of there.

I can walk slow and heavy. I can handle my choices.

I can relieve my heart by letting go of its critic.

It's not about a beautiful escape for forgotten words,

an idealistic second-chance for inarticulate paragraphs...

it's about exposure to the elements.

Here is my mind.

Here is my heart.

Bustin out of confinement in painful imperfection.

* * * * *

February Third Two Thousand & Ten.

Goosebumps

They happen because a billion tiny muscles, each at the base of a single hair follicle, contract.

If you are cold, your body does this to trap a layer of insulation.

If you are fearful, your body does this to make you appear larger to those that prey upon you.

Except we don't have enough hair for either of those reflexes to really help.

If you are in awe, well, wikipedia doesn't know why your body gets goosebumps for that.

I found an answer on yahoo about spinal nerves and somatic motor patterns.

But we know what it's really about.

It's a soul thing.

You are affected.

We should call em soul chills.

Wow bumps.

I love those.

I love that my body reacts in acknowledging my spirit.

So often we force them into separation.

I am hoping to keep mind entwined.

Every day I try to hear what they both are saying.

But when the soul chills come, I only hear:

"Stay. Stay right here."

And the rest cannot be confined to translation.

I listen to wordless waves.

I listen.

"I can't remember now" he said.

"I'm blank. Maybe that means I shouldn't bring it up with you."

I hold your hand in the dark and we drive.

I can't forget.

* * * * *

February 5^th, 2010

Tonight I went to KidZone. It's run by college kid volunteers during the Utah Flash Game. I sat at a table in my free t-shirt with two rows of little paint cups-- the kind that made me exstatic about life when I was little. Tonight I noticed: They still make me this way. I painted a continuous line of little youthful faces. "Do you want a flash like on the uniforms? Or a basketball? Or we could just do cool stuff like stars and rainbows and dinosaurs..." They were loyal little fans... I did mostly Flash logos. But there was one stegasarus, a butterfly and two ladybugs... and one "red monster with scary teeth and two horns and a curly tail, ok? A curtly tail like this..."

I was born to do this.

I belonged at that table.

Their was a girl ready to switch me spots at the end of the first quarter.

I painted on into the third.

I needed this tonight, to be that happy.

By the end I had a kid in my chair and one hangin on each leg to watch.

When Dan and Brooklyn were ready to go, I let the other girl take my spot.

Before we dropped Dan off he asked,

"So what are you girls doin tonight?"

"Cryin," we both say. In unison of course.

And we are. I assure you this is totally healthy.

Big big things are happening and we need this.

Of course before hand there is the ice cream run.

Brooklyn gets the flavor she always gets when she means business:

Purely Decadent Soy Chocolate Obcession

I got lemon.

What was I thinking?!

I am so weird these days.

I am learnin something... it goes like this.

I left this boy. It was a heavy decision.

As he walked away I wanted to say

"Remember what I said about how I want my family to be someday? Later, you'll be with your friends and you'll want to laugh at that. You'll want to make some sarcastic reference to it, to put a spotlight on what they will perceive as prudishly idealistic, naieve and rediculous. You'll want to shine that light all over me because I made you sad and that hurts. When that chance comes, could you not? Could you not joke about it? Because that is very sacred and real to me. It would hurt if you let someone laugh at it. And because I love you and you loved me and I know you understand why it matters."

But I can't do that.

When you let go of something, you have to watch it go.

You have to let it leave however it chooses.

Sometimes they sink fast, down deep into a place you cannot remember.

Sometimes they take the pretty secrets and show them to everyone in broad daylight until they are worn from exposure and weak from misunderstanding... until they do not belong to you anymore.

Sometimes they laugh.

Sometimes they pretend, averting their eyes when you pass unexepected. Reality is half drowned.

Sometimes they come back, look you in the eye and say everything you want to hear.

Regardless: They leave however they choose to leave.

You can't answer all their questions, and you can't stop them from burning your letters.

* * * * *

February 22^nd, 2010

Today I am thinkin about this stretch of road in the desert of California.

I cannot tell you where it is

because it would ruin the mystery

and because I don't actually know.

I have driven on the skinny two-lanes.

Where old dusty cars are always daring to pass the slower ones

They accelerate in spite of oncoming cars and

switch back

just before colliding.

Breathe faster.

There are no hills.

It is flat and dry and totally unfamiliar to where I've grown up

It makes me think of a line my Dad used to sing:

Ventura Highway, in the sunshine  

Where the days are longer

 The nights are stronger than moonshine  

You're gonna go ...I know.  

Cause the free wind is blowin' through your hair  

and the day surround your daylight there  

Seasons cryin' no despair  

Alligator lizards in the air...

It makes me feel young and alive,

like I belong in one of those

mid-70's america movies.
I want to feel this today.

* * * * *

February 19^th 2010

Can you see it?

Damp bathinsuits hangin on the drawer knobs. The flip flops strewn across the bedroom floor-- after swimming pools and muddy parks and walks with sprinklers. They even take shifts waitin in my backseat, just incase I catch myself barefoot at the grocery store again... oops. (I can't tell you how many late night pints of ice cream I've snuck barefoot at Smith's... stealthy self-checkout with cold toes on the tile floor. Sorry about this.)

Summer for me is feeling.

Feeling the concrete through those barefeet, still hot from the sun late into the night.

The breeze everyone else is sleepin through.

The air comin in through the car windows as my voice goes out.

The ropeswing...

The water that seems to rush up over my head before it even touches my toes.

Because now I am submerged, I jumped from a higher safer place,

I was ready for the current.

Speaking of jumpin,

Everyone just trust me.

I know what I'm doing with my life.

(Haha...)

Okay so I'm tryin real hard to know.

I feel good. Can you believe me?

Because I do. I trust myself.

And I'm jumpin, regardless of whether you believe.

This week my love was everywhere.

Let me tell you something, I WILL NEVER STOP LOVING.

There is this boy Ben. He was my boyfriend.

Today he isn't. Tomorrow he won't be. But maybe on Saturday.

Strange, huh? That's how my life feels.

I wrote Ben a letter.

I was writing about this a picture of this bird in Spain and how

it made me want to do big things with my heart.

Ben wants to do big things with his arms and legs.

He wants to skateboard a 10 stair... yeah...dude.

He is rock-climbing one-footed today,

because he had ankle surgery like one second ago and there's a fat cast on his other foot.

This fat cast is red. That's Ben's favorite.

Really? Rock climbin in your cast? That's what he wants to do.

He said sometimes, when I talk about spreading my heart out, he wants to say

"No! Lyndsi Shae be careful with yourself. Don't get hurt."

He never told me that before, because he knows this big love is a part of who I am.

He also knows that in a few minutes,

He will be wanting to jump out of a plane or climb the side of 7-11.

OR HOP UP THE STAIRS TWO AT A TIME ON HIS ONLY UNBROKEN FOOT.

(I hate that.)

And I'll be thinkin "Ben! Be careful with yourself. Don't get hurt."

But I rarely it out loud, because I know it's part of who he is

"Funny that we both take these risks just after worrying for the other," Ben says.

When I picked him up from his surgery, he was full of anasthesia.

This makes people crazypants.

He was showing me his "cool smock!"

(You know those weird floppy hospital gowns?)

He was smiling the biggest.

He was sayin to the nurses "See this girl? I love this girl! I love her!"

And I thought

"Oh Ben, be careful."

For both of us.

Here we are.

"Love isn't complicated." Chad said to me.

Chad is my new friend. He is marrying my Claire.

Chad and Claire are very new to eachother in a way,

so some people might think their crazy for getting married.

But here's the deal: I trust them.

Do I love Ben? Yes. That is not complicated.

But making it work, making sure it's right, find out how and why and when...

that is complicated.

Sometimes love falls into your lap.

Like Chad and Claire and you get happy and married and it's all simple.

Sometimes love is Chad and Claire: beautiful and smooth and sure.

Sometimes the love is sure, but the rest is complicated.

That's what I know.

It's snowing outside.

Here we are.

* * * * *

And Sarah Laughed.

2010-03-03T16:16:00.002-07:00

Today is Wednesday and woah, I feel big.
My soul is enlarged, and I am surprised by how thoroughly the spirit has found me.
It's in my shoulders and my earlobes and my waving thoughts.
I feel so calm, but also ready
ready for something... else.
It's coming. Whatever it is. I can feel it.
Part of me trembles.
But most of me expands. I float out with diagonal confidence and say:
Here I am.

* * * * *

Two songs that foster this day:

This one is from my favorite movie, The Secret Life of Bees.
This one is from the same fantastic woman, it popped up in my life today.
Sing it India.

Hi. This is my brain.

2010-02-25T13:25:00.002-07:00

A thought:

You know how there are some people who are just... unique?

But they're not really unique because there are so many of them...

What's their word?

You know those people who eat really fantasitcally natural food and are all about whole grains and whole yoga and whole green beans from their own college garden? They call concerts "shows" and movies "films." They know all the little downtown shops and trendy independent online companies that sell the best journals and flat shoes and skinny jeans? They're outfits are like neverending urban outfitters catalogues and they're just smart and funny and hope to be intriguing because they are secretly awesome at taking "photographs" or drawing "sketches" or memorizing folk/indie/bluegrass tunes. (These are like easylistening, but vintage. So above Delilah.) Earth hues. Organic remedies.Get it?

I love watching those people.

I love talking to them on the chance that I understand what they're saying.

The truth is:

Sometimes I really want to be one of those people.

But I'm not.

Besides all the Wendy's I eat and country I sing and pajamas I incorporate into my daily attire...

I have all this emotion and loudness and contradiction...

and I'm just way too intense to be so organically delicate.

I think that's okay.

Another confession:

Gosh I feel lonely on this blog lately.

I leave for such long periods of time, and when I come back, I feel like I have failed this little page.

It's like I come back to my old home,

after being away on something gross like business leave...

something I never wanted to do in the first place.

It smells blank, void, dusty.

There are cobwebs on my favorite chair

and the sun doesn't quite shine through the tired glass of my discarded windows.

Ya'll, it's like even the fish has died.

And no one knocks on the door anymore.

I know this is all very dramatic,

but it's the truth.

Today I even looked up another blog site to see if I should start over.

Gasp! Oh the disloyalty! I know!

But that hypothetical new page would have no idea...

No idea that I let go of my home for so long.

That my expression often doesn't make it past preliminary thought,

And that this has been the case for a dang long dusty time.

It would know no feelings of neglect.

But then it also wouldn't know me.

So I'm not sure it's the answer.

Is anyone out there? Can we still believe?

Learn.

2010-02-23T17:16:00.002-07:00

There are so many drafts saved here, behind the scenes of this blog.

They are full of my confused heart.

They span my stories and end with questions.

Sarcastic lines reference deep conflict and all is misplaced.

So they get pushed to drafts-- hidden, unfinished.

But I have something to say today! Wanna listen? Here it is.

* * * * *

Today I am walkin home from campus to the sounds of Amos Lee.

Behold, the wonders of putting your ancient ipod on shuffle.

I love this man because he just pounds away at that piano and sings himself out.

Slow soul amos lee.

I am thinkin of a time when I sat in a small cafe.

It was at least 1 in the morning,

There were paintings on the wall. Not by Van Gogh or Rembrandt, but by some guy down the street. He could have been sitting next to me for all I knew. These paintings were wild, the kind where brushstrokes make little mountains of unabashed texture, unrefined emotion. There were a few mismatched tables, with creaky wooden and rod-iron and plastery chairs. There some couches from the thrift store of mustard yellow and faded floral prints. Nothing matched but it all belonged, and everywhere, everywhere was this late-night golden glowing. That's why we all fit there. We were not the same, but we had some golden around us.

In the corner was a piano. In it's silence, it seemed to have come from a forsaken life. It landed in that cafe as a refugee, and was making a new home. Half-way through my vegan sandwich, this piano was found by a scrubby guy in faded green pants. You know the kind, he was a stranger full of earth tones and handmade beanies. He sat at that piano and played Amos Lee. And I knew the words! There were only about 7 people in that cafe, and we all sang or hummed along. It was a phenomenon of belonging.

Then it's Dave Matthews in my ears. This song is called #41. My last two years of high school I had a friend who loved Dave Matthews. We used to listen to this on the way home from school in her grandma's convertible. We would sing with the top down and talk about it was very peculiar of Dave to name a song after a number. That's what she called him anyway, Dave. Oh strange, strange Dave. On one of those convertible afternoons we stopped the car to run and jump through sprinklers. And let me tell you, in the 3 houses I lived in during that time, all from different parts of a blending suburbia, the sprinklers are what kept me alive. Because every once in a while in these neighborhoods, the stars align. Newly installed sprinkler systems pop up from under the grass at exactly the moment when you're seeking a spectacular, spontaneous freedom. Later that night, we jumped in the lake with a boy I loved. Actually, I think that's when I started to love him.And me and that boy-- we would sing Dave Matthews like our hearts depended on him. Crash into me. I do know, where you go, is where I want to be.

These people have left my life now.

But don't you see? That's not the point!

This is life.

The pages of my confusion and uncertainty?

I can sing home inside them.

This is what it's like to be alive.

I am skippin home in my baseball hat, elated to be taken down these avenues of my own experience,

all by unexpected music.

But is it just the music?

Perhaps the shotgun immediacy of my euphoria is due to some chemical imbalance that fuels the hereditary instability of the emotional women in my family. (So I've been told.)

Maybe it's the February sun today and how my arms shiver in anticipation of spring.

Maybe we don't need a reason people.

I just love Amos and Dave.

Thanks for the remembering.

Let's be alive.

Oh man.

2010-02-16T10:14:00.001-07:00

I'm sittin in this computer lab on a messy Tuesday that campus thinks is Monday.

This means I have Monday classes. They even cut out Tuesday devotional, my new solace.

Why?

Why do we do that?

I feel like I may be doing this with my life.

Confusing it for something it has been before, but doesn't have to be anymore.

I just love God and I want to do good things.

I switched my ipod away from Eve 6 this mornin, and into songs about Him.

I'm trying to hear where He's coming from.

Which part of my life next God? And where?

(I don't need to know the how.)

I like substituting capital H-i-m

for capital G-o-d.

Is it strange that I am punctuating diety in this blog?

That God can exist within something so modern and formatted?

I don't think so.

I think God is everywhere if you let him be.

I am surprised by how relieved I feel just to type here.

Word word words.

My words.

I haven't seen them in days. Weeks maybe.

When I admit that, sirens go off in my mind.

Flashing.Red.Lights.

They are sayin

COME BACK TO YOURSELF.

And I'm sayin

HELP! HELP!

I'll be back.

I promise.

May there be a reason.

2010-02-06T16:04:00.002-07:00

I miss writing.
I miss writing.
I really really miss writing here.

Just do it.

2010-01-25T14:36:00.004-07:00

So I was thinkin I'd write another post

about my little developments

and my fat question marks about what they mean

but oh!

oh no.

i won't.

Let's talk about something else today.

Like how I'm in the Mac Lab makin my own websites.

Haha!

No really I am.

Yeah, this is me.

Lets just say what comes out.

Here it goes.

I am on the ground.

I am always wondering what I need here.

I am always feeling the crest of the wave

up on my tip toes

neck stretched out

heart comes forth

taller

taller.

And then

we come down.

Teal and blue we fall.

We rumble.

We swirl and stretch horizontal.

We show the shore how much we can touch.

We stretch ourselves thin on the inland.

And then

we retract

Back to the center.

Here in the deep, we mix with what you have never seen.

We converse with what we cannot describe

In a language not collectively spoken

but felt.

It feels like this: upward.

It feels like this: around.

It feels like this: movement.

I am here on the ground.

But I am more than what you see.

In my skinny ponytail and bookbag.

I am further.

I am hoping

to be sonorous.

For now, energy, oscillating.

They say through space and time we are oscillating.

Sometimes my heart comes out in one word lines.

Over and over and over.

This is where I am today.

And apparently, that is what I have to say.

Oh world!

2010-01-18T15:28:00.001-07:00

Are you sure you want to navigate away from this page?
You have unsaved changes.

STORY OF MY LIFE.

I just want to love!
I just want to say that and not hear all the mocking inside me.
All the voices that say:

"Oh Lyndsi Shae, that's cute. You want to love, huh? You and your naive little double-name want to 'show the world who you are'... quaint, really."

"No one wants to listen to your hippie be-my-friend crap anymore. You are weird."

"They don't need your love. In fact, you need to love much more than any of them need to receive it. You will never be satisfied. You will be alone."

SHUT UP!

I'ma love everyone ANYWAYS.
That's why I'm here.
God wants me to stretch out my heart.
So there.

I don't know what I'm doing with my life.
Because everyone names their major and their boyfriend and their hometown.
As if that means they know what they're doing.
I can do that too.
English. Ben. Mooresville, North Carolina.
See?

I can even elaborate!

English.

[shpeal about how I have to be a writer for my soul.]

Ben.

[story of how we were friends for a long time
and then complication
and now, sometimes, even more complication]

Mooresville, North Carolina.

[list of good southern food
and memories of lake jumpin and grass rollin and sometimes
i will even tell you
about the hard parts.]
I can go on about my categories, but I still don't know what I'm doing.

No one really knows what they're doing.
Ahhhhh!

Here's the good news:
I have new categories too. Categories that feel unique to me,
like they are happening specifically to my life. On purpose.

*I love Native American literature, and I even know things about it. I read the books. I feel their spirit.
*I'm learning sign language. That's right, I'm speakin to you with my hands right now from this computer, and you don't even know what I'm sayin. Because it's symbolic, it's physical. I can't quite write it for you. And some days, I'd rather show you my heart with my hands than use my voice or write it on paper. I would rather sign, signify, embody my words.

*I sing gospel. I don't know anything about this music, or really about music at all, but I'm doing it and it MAKES ME JOYFUL. This is no exaggeration, I'm talkin about feeling a straight-up zeal for life.
*I have a calling in my church that asks me to love even bigger and with more endurance than I have ever loved before, and it is changing my life.
*I wake up early. I can be bold and smart about my time. I will not fall into sinking patterns of apathy or mediocrity. I will find the higher ground of my potential. Take that.

These are not fleeting whims of my 20's. Some of them will stop, and that's ok. But the point is, they are REAL. I am finding out who I am through these avenues, and I want to keep them always. They are that much a part of me already.

A false sum of the parts.

2010-01-04T12:26:00.004-07:00

re⋅frain [ri-freyn]

1.	a phrase or verse recurring at intervals in a song or poem, esp. at the end of each stanza;

2.	to abstain from an impulse to say or do something.

. . .

Facebook asked me what was on my mind today. I had 3 answers.

Lyndsi Shae...

* doesn't know why she's beginning every morning with a computer class. Gross. Gross. Gross.
* is cold and grey today.
* wants to choose something drastic and reckless.

. . .

WHY DRASTIC AND RECKLESS?

Because I want to get out of the grey.

Because I am feeling something that shakes up my world,

something which is not manifest through my groggy-walk-to-school.

or anything else I will do today.
But I feel its weight regardless,
and I want it to SHOW.

Today I told facebook this quote was on my mind,

It's from Henry Van Dyke, but Kaylie showed it to me.

"Time is too slow for those who WAIT,

too swift for those who FEAR,

too long for those who GRIEVE,

too short for those who REJOICE,

but for those who LOVE,

time is eternity."

Remember the thing that is shaking up my world?

It's loving.

It's a complicated loving.

And when this kind of love causes

the waiting, the fearing, the grieving, and the rejoicing...

time passes with conflict, contradiction, and confusion.

That's the problem.

I want to BE this love I'm feeling. 
I want to create from it, for it.

But I can't today.
It's a long story.

In the mean time, what can I do instead? 

Because if I continue to do nothing,
if I keep all this loving without knowing how to move forward,
I may combust.

Choices I've considered so far...

Painting something as tall as me. Driving to the ocean. Plane ticket to New Zealand. Taking a lap around the block with no pants and loud yelling. Getting Married. Going to live with Katie. Getting Married to Katie. All New Clothes. Just screaming about stuff. Running running running up the mountain. Pilgrimage to ______. Dying my hair something ugly. Ripping stacks and stacks of paper. Swimming across shallow, freezin Utah Lake. Meeting 50 new people.

Nothing is enough.
Because these choices stem from a restlessness,
from the side-effects of waiting, fearing, grieving, and rejoicing.
And I don't want to act on those.
I want to act on their origin, on the loving.

But I can't right now.
It's still a long story.

Instead I will go grocery shopping and to the bank. I will add/drop classes and write 3 letters and getmyharddrivebackedupandmycellphoneupdatedandpaymyrentandandbuymybooksandunpackmyluggageand

makesomedinnerandtellbrooklynwhathappenedandprintoutasyllabusandtakeanothershowerandexcerise and
PUSH BACK

against what could otherwise keep me

solitary and confined on this blanket

for the rest of the day.

I will fight the sinking of stagnant water, the aching refrain of stillness and indecision.

In the mean time, I am ticking.
Ticking towards the day when this refrain from action,
this repetition of the unknown,
is resolved.
I hear it even now,
a ticking too slow
too swift
too long
and too short.
Can you feel it?
When time passes inside of loving,
it ticks with the weight of eternity.

Could I drop out of college to play with Brad?

2009-12-22T16:40:00.000-07:00

Last night I took a bath.
I was on a mission to take the best bath in the history of time.
There was a playlist made specifically for this event.
There was a spiral notebook taken from the paper-drawer downstairs,
7 pages of which became full.
(Yes, I write in the bathtub. Are you really that surprised?)
I would love to post up the clarity I found, but there is too much backstory.
And sometimes I keep these things to myself.

I can tell you that today
I walked through the pet store with Brad.
It was his idea.
His winter boots were clunkin under his little legs
He ran from snakes to guinea pigs,
to sounding out the labels on the fish tanks:
"Guh-ol-duh-ehn Bobbies... Golden Bobbies! Those little guys are golden bobbies!"
His lips were blue from the lollipop he got at the drive-through bank today.
He hung out the window in the back seat and waved to the banklady two lanes away,
She was behind the window and he was discovering pneumatic tubes for the first time.
"Woahhhh!" he said. "Hey I can see you over there!"
"This is fun. Ya'll should come more often," she said.

Later in the car, he is rollin down the window and screamin
"I LOVE AMERICUH!"
Because I told him that's what the crazy guy on the corner was sayin.
The southern man wavin his giant flag
in his star-spangled sweat pants and bandana.
He was probably screaming about politics that have
gone to the edge of the right wing and jumped ship.
But I just told Brad
"He thinks we're really lucky to live here. He wants to yell about it."
We drive by later that day and Brad wonders why he's not there anymore.
"Sometimes the police make those people go home," I say.
"Because they scare people away from the shops on the corner."
"I don't think he's scary," Brad says, blue lipped and dancin to the radio.
The light turns green and the man pops out of nowhere, still wavin his flag.
Brad rolls down the window.
"I LOVE AMERICUH TOO!" he yells as we turn left for home.

Being five years old is so dang cool.

I am thankful to get both.
To be the crazy college girl, tearing up in the bathtub with her journal and itunes.
And the big sister, running errands with the motor-mouth of curiosity.
In both roles, I spend most of my time trying to explain the world.

So Inclined.

2009-12-19T00:12:00.000-07:00

1. I am home with my family.

I have been readin my old journals, I brought the last 4.

They start in late July.

I am trying to figure out how my life got this way.

2. I JUST WANT TO BE BRAVE.

3. I want to paint things.

I want my little brother to think he is smart.

4. I have a cat named Cutie. She is snoring on the bed. Corey named her when he was 6. Corey is on a mission now. He is 19 and almost to Nicaragua. This cat is old and ROGUE. She scratches at the door and we let her out, knowing she'll probably pick fights and come home with bald spots. I'm pretty sure she always wins. Sometimes we joke that she will never die. I always feel bad because I mostly ignore her, even though she's a survivor and I love those.

5. It is strange to come home, to think of all that I was doing last Christmas break and be shocked, again, over the changes. I will never predict my life.

6. Littering is a huge turn off for me.

7. I miss my friends. I've been too absent.

8. I have sat on my old bed for hours, writing out words that need to be recorded. Because I'm not so good at writing about actual events. I have pages and pages of how I felt about what was said, with no recollection of the original words spoken. Tonight I exhausted my memory until I could preserve it.

9. I believe in taking breaks from things that are hard. Breaks from homework and writing papers. Breaks from cleaning the house and breaks from thinking about money. But there are some things I will never walk away from. Some things I cannot justify breaking, not even for a day or two. Mainly if I love you. If I love you, I will figure it out. When it's hard, I will not step away.

10. I watch my little sister live. She wants her driver's license so bad she could tackle an army of crabby DMV employees. She wakes up early for seminary and can't watch the first thirty minutes of a movie without fallin asleep. She makes scrapbooks as Christmas presents and takes care of little Brad and cleans the counters and is tired from constantly standing up for who she is. She goes to parties and turns her music up loud. She is always sore from track or soccer. She won't date the boy she's liked since middle school because of the nasty things he wants to do with her now. This girl never stops. I know she is fighting so hard. Does she know?

11. I am so young in my learning. I am so bewildered with how big life is. Four journals ago there is a page filled with one fat question mark. I made it out of oil pastels and then explained that this mark of punctuation personifies my life.

I say "I am not ready to be adult and play multiple choice."

I look at that page and read about all the paths I was considering. I read about cryin with my best friend Katie over what to do. I read but I know how it all turns out. I know that those questions resolve and then evolve to new questions... to the ones I'm writing about tonight. I know my life evolves in this way.

* * * * *

These are the first eleven things that came out of my mind.

I read over them and realize that even my random collection of thoughts remains centered on this idea that one must KEEP GOING.

I believe in forward motion.

"I chose and my world was shaken.

So what?

The choice may have been mistaken.

The choosing was not."

--Stephen Sondheim

This is Finals Week.

2009-12-12T00:47:00.001-07:00

While I study, I keep a blank Microsoft word document open.

This is where I write all my thoughts, so they can have a place.
Because when they don’t get a place of their own,
when I don’t listen to them…
they won’t let me study anything else.

Sometimes these thoughts are inspired by what I’m learning.

Sometimes they are trying to survive,

despite the irrelevance of things I’m learning.

These days, most if not all of my writing is done this way,

right inside of everything else.

My laptop has almost no memory left.

So while I am typing, it struggles to catch up. Thoughts don’t actually appear on the screen until minutes later. It’s ok though, I can’t keep up with them either. So I understand.

On this page are short paragraphs and three word phrases.

Some are directed at certain people— words I have to say right now.

Some are just thoughts for sending outwards, towards anything.

There is a letter to God, so personal that I couldn’t post it for you. Not even because I am embarrassed for you to see that part of me, but because it is sacred to me. It deserves to be selectively exposed. Does that make sense to anyone out there?

Here are two pieces of what started on that page today.

Do you ever hear a few sincere guitar chords and suddenly remember everyone you ever loved? I am overcome with old questions, thoughts of the lake and the radio and saying goodnight.

That happened to me today. A lot of those times are over forever. A lot of them were later exposed to be less pure that I had thought. But it just doesn’t matter. All of them remain. All of them are capable of resurfacing. A few sincere chords. And there they were. I was sitting in the library. But I miss those people.

Is this normal?

Does anyone else’s heart do this?

Sometimes I feel very foolish just spillin my love everywhere, like I have no control where it goes. People are staring but I just can’t hold it all at once.

Like you know when you have a huge load of laundry? And you’re tryin to carry it all in your arms but you just know you can’t do it? I used to try in my first apartment, try to carry my clothes from the dryer, down the hall to my door. But my socks always fell and I’d have to go back to get them. I felt like that today in the library, like I was carryin my love around the fourth floor. It just showed up in my hands after I heard the guitar comin through my headphones. I did my best to put it away. But it was fallin everywhere like my socks, the socks always do. If people had known all I was feeling, if it had shown up like laundry in my arms, I think they would stare. “Doesn’t she know that’s personal?” they would say. “Isn’t she worried that we’ll see? What if her underwear falls out?! This is the library.”

Sometimes I feel very foolish with my arms so full, but I can’t help it and I don’t want to.

Just see my love.

I saw an album title today: Love is red. It said.

He’s right, love is red.

* * * * *

I am reading about Shakespearian times.

There were letters with titles so long I laugh before I finish reading them:

"To the Noble and most Vertuous Princesse, Elizabeth, by the Grace of God, of England, Fraunce, and Irelande, Queen, defender of the Faith. Etc:"

"The Copy of a Letter Largely Written in Meter, by a Young Gentlewoman to Her Unconstant Lover"

I think about what my letters might be titled:

An Email To a Very Busy T.A. Who May or May Not Hate Her Life When I Tell Her That None of my Grades Have Been Posted Online And This Ofcourse Means All is Lost... Forever.

To My Brother Elder Brown, Who I Want so Bad to be Best Friends With Even Though I was Sometimes Mean to You in High School and Who Should Really Stop Being Obsessed With His Girlfriend Who Never Writes and Just Write Me Instead.

To the One I Have So Much To Say To, Here is Another Letter That I Will Write And Never Send Because I do This Almost Every Day Just To Help Me Figure Out What I’m Feeling. But No Worries, In a Moment Of Involuntary Honesty, Probably Within The Next Few Days, I will Say it All Outloud Like I Always Do.

* * * * *

Unfold.

2009-12-06T02:27:00.002-07:00

My mind wants to get some things out before it falls asleep.

Some big things have happened. I haven't written them down yet.

That makes me feel like I can't write about anything else.

But I can.

Here's a try.

Tonight I saw an indigo coat at Target.

A coat is something I should ask for this Christmas.

Next to this coat, was rack after rack of bathing suits.

Some of which were fantastic.

None of which I should ask for for Christmas.

I tried on three.

Can't help it.

Tonight I am very inbetween.

In between what?

Thought and action.

Mind and voice.

Lonely and resolution.

I am tryin to ask the right questions.

I wear a ring on my middle finger, always.

Just underneath, I am missing a tiny piece of skin.

I am reminded of this when I stick my hands in

cold or hot water.

In either extreme, I flinch.

I am reminded of this when I hold on tightly.

I am reminded of this

every time my skin

is not ready for the intensity.

It is new, and it stings.

I lost this skin on Friday, while I was trying to climb rocks.

I like it. It makes me look tough.

I am tough, but I am not stoic.
It's hard to be reminded

that some things are still too intense for a straight face.

I flinch. I sting.

Ouch.

Collide

2009-12-02T15:41:00.000-07:00

Today the sun came through my window and I sat inside of it.
That means I was sittin on Brooklyn's bed.
She was on mine.
"Can you believe it's DECEMBER?" she asked.

No.

My friend Claire says sometimes she looks at old posts from this blog.
I think that's a good idea.
So today, I did the same.

Who was I two Decembers ago?

Ironically, two years ago this time... I was writing about who I was years before.
Because there is something healing about going back.
But that phrase, going back, is misleading.
Because there is no backward. There is no retreat or regression.
It's not that I am stepping back from my current self in order to feel the past,
but that I am inviting that past to come forward. To me.
Inviting these two december voices, into one moment.
Today, full circle, we met each other.

Here's what I found: Collide. Kaleidoscope. 2007.

I am this woman.

2009-11-30T14:26:00.000-07:00

I am on this bed, all showered and ready to be hopeful.
I am a hopeful person.
I am gonna write this paper,
apologize to my friend,
keep my mind open to what I prayed about this mornin.
Today I will make things happen.
Today I will be okay
with the things
I cannot make happen.

Today I will think of all my pages and how I want to show them to everyone.
I will be sad when the publishers
don't bang down my door,
dying to share in my enthusiasm.

and when my paper is done and my body is tired,
there you will be.

Today I will work hard to make my words and myself align,

to push for truth

and then show it to you.

Because you need that.

We need that.
Both of us scrambling for words.
Face down on the floor,
big exhales for the answer that is not simple,
that is not shining above us.
For the release we are seeking, and the question:
do I get to have that with you?
Yesterday you asked, "Are you worried?"
I am. I told you.
How can I show you?
How can I do this
again
and tomorrow
and again?

Today I will do this again.
On purpose.

Today I will exhaust myself with the choices I am now proclaiming.
I will revere and follow these convictions.
I will go to bed without answers,
and I will not want for clarity.
I will trust.

I will be tired, but I will not wonder...
I will not question myself.
I am a hopeful person.

Today I thought about things, with sand in my clicky pen.

2009-11-26T23:03:00.002-07:00

November 26th, 2009. 9:52 am.
I am on the beach alone today, sitting in the sand with my runnin shorts on, reading aloud to myself and the small breeze that hears me. When I look up at the ocean, I feel only gratitude. Pure. Thankful.
* * * * *

10:33 am.
I put down my book in the sand by my face. I am on my belly now, but I stand up and brush off what sticks to me. There is a place in the shore now, a print of myself by my book and my shoes. I leave it there; I've stood-up to do cartwheels. I haven't entirely realized this until I am already doing them. And soon I am running in between. Running and flipping, my eyes open and closing. I used to do this when I was younger. I'd draw a line in the sand and play gymnast on my balance beam. One step at a time. One flip. One turn. Then I am pickin up a purple rock and watchin the little girls in rainbow colored clothes. It's their hair I am watching, wild and curly, red~gold like another country. They take careful steps toward their sleepin mother in the blue dress and all the while their hair is bouncing, blowing, spiraling. I have never had hair this way-- so defined. My hair is curly, straight, and in between. It is up and down... sometimes both... red, brown, and blonde. This is exactly how I feel-- malleable. I have always felt like I am in the middle of a transformation. I see another rock in the sand and I think I like it... it is not purple or green but all colors at once and more. I hold it in my hand or a second before I step back and throw it hard into the ocean. Because I know I should. And like the cartwheels it is flying before I understand why. One flip. One turn. A balance. Some things are this way for me-- I know I cannot keep them.

Finite. Falliable.

2009-11-20T14:18:00.002-07:00

I am amazed at life.

How does it do this?

I'm listening to Greensleeves. Can you believe that Henry VIII wrote this?

Once upon a time, Henry had a huge thing for Anne Boleyn.

He was so enamored with her that he started his own church in order to divorce his wife.

This man threw down with the POPE to get his way.

After that went through, he married Anne.

They had little Queen Elizabeth,

and then they had three miscarriages.

No one thinks about what that was like for Anne.

After this, he had her beheaded for failing to produce a son.

No one thinks about what that was like for Henry, because obviously Henry had no feelings.

We're wrong. He did.

That man wrote Greensleeves, which to me is proof of feeling.

He felt many things, especially for Anne, the girl this song was written for.

How could we understand him?

Sometimes people tell me I am strange.

I think they're right.

Sometimes people tell me I will not find another person to match me.

You know, like I don't get to marry someone I've been hoping for.

I don't get to feel what that is like.

Because I am just an odd girl... maybe I'll just do my writing thing and be fine alone.

Sometimes I hear these things.

"I just don't know how you'll find a boy who rolls outta bed in his t-shirt and plays in the mud with you-- but also bears his soul. I don't think there are boys that do both."

And plus... if you were to find him... he'd still have to want you back.

And so somewhere in my subconscious,

I was preparing myself to settle.

Because I am strange.

And I might never be understood.

That was a few years ago,
before i found out they were wrong.

I get to be loved too.

But there is an element of truth to this idea,
the idea that no human can completely understand me.

Or you.

Because there is one word that applies to all of us: complex.

com-plex 

[adj. v. kuh m-pleks, kom-pleks]

2. characterized by a very complicated or involved arrangement of parts, units, etc.

3. so complicated or intricate as to be hard to understand or deal with.

"You cannot confine someone

solely to the story that you know of them,"

my professor said.

That was in September.

I think about it all the time.

There is always more that we don't see.

That we don't quite feel.

And no matter how far I dig to find out who you are...

You have memories I've never seen,

and choices that even you can't explain.

Greensleeves.

They found the manuscript among his old things.

Written for Anne Boelyn.

Signed Sincerely, King Henry VIII.

Understand?

Today.

2009-11-16T15:14:00.002-07:00

Today I am crying so many times.

First, out of guilt.
Once from a talk I watched by Elizabeth Gilbert.
Twice from this book I am reading.
And once because I realized a very big question I have.

What you're imagining is not right, I don't cry that way.
Each time lasts about 4 seconds, my eyes get sad and watery,
but nothing falls down my face.
I am almost overcome, but then, it's over.

Why?
Why so often?
And why so short?
How am I so immediately back into normal?

I am getting a little sick today. Steph let me take some of her herbs. This was strange. Little plastic medical capsules-- full of something that once grew straight from the earth. Is this what it means to be "organic"?
Is this the best I can do?

My Dad used to pick blackberries in the woods. He'd bring them back on his horse, and his grandma would make pie. Sometimes he would find arrowheads from the indians-- the land was that untouched.
One time him and his cousins made such a mess in the creek that the added dirt acted as a damn and re-routed the whole thing. Someone down the line who depended on the water had to follow its outline upwards, trying to find the reason why his creek had flowed elsewhere.

I know what a blackberry looks like, but have never picked one myself.
I remember how to find poison ivy, from when I used to play in the woods.
But I never play in the woods anymore. I don't know the way.
I wish I could find the herbs and crush them myself.
I wish I did not depend on someone else to package them for me
into eerily labeled bottles: All Natural!
The plastic fixation of the new-age hippie.
All I need now is a hip new shirt with the word GREEN on it,
maybe one of those reusable grocery bags that feel like airplane pillowcases.

I wrote a story about my Dad and a horse.
I read it in front of my class with his picture on the overhead projector.
I want to tell you I'll post it. No promises.
I have written many stories about growing up with my Dad.
Though I now find I am more interested in when he grew up, without me.

And this.

2009-11-04T14:56:00.001-07:00

There is a tiny booklet of poetry
which is published monthly
for a very humble readership
in one town
on the coast of North Carolina

And they took me.
I'm published.
Numero Uno.

Mine was called Fireworks.

Verb

2009-11-04T14:28:00.001-07:00

Two nights ago I wrote a paper called LET THERE BE WORDS.
Thesis: All human disharmony is rooted in unspoken words.
I turned it in at the top of the JFSB, headphones in.

On the way down, I danced in the elevator. Alone.
Because this is my life! Yeah!
Because though I did spend all day in the library-- it was with powerful books. It was with ideas that are new, even spiritual to me. And so I refuse to complain about my homework. I do not refuse to experience a personal revival in the elevator with sweet Beyonce beats. I was dancin to the finale of 2 papers, 2 quizzes, 2 midterms, and 3 presentations. Whew!

Yesterday I got my paper back.
"The passion behind your topic is evident, but more supporting quotes would be helpful. 89%"
Fair enough.

I read a story about Nanapush, who was pushed to the brink of death by a fear-motivated silence.
He'd adopted a girl he found in a cabin, she was wild and savage, raging around her cold, dead family members on the floor. They'd died from the white-man disease. Her name was Fleur. Nanapush tied her to his horse and brought her home. He held Fleur still and sang healing words for days until her spirit healed and her face was calmed. After that, they felt the ghosts of her family in the new house-- and stopped talking aloud. They were swallowed up by the horror and questions of all they'd seen since the tribes began dissolving. And for a length of circular time, the fearful underbelly of his silence took all but the edge of his life.

Then, someone came to visit him.
Nanapush offered this visitor food-- a custom of his tribe.
The silence broke.
He spoke first out of politeness, then out of desperation.
Fleur joined.
They talked all into the night and were healed by their own story.

On a shelf in my living room are 38 journals. They are my personal narrative, the evidence of God in my life. With words I am placed, I am healed. I get well by talking.

There is something in you that pulses with innnate necessity.
It is fueled by complex needs that will take time to understand.
Even if you never learn how to explain WHY, follow it.

Mine is to write.

And while I have been gone from this blog for a while, the words are still coming.
With words I am placed, I am healed. And I'm still a believer.

There's a sun in my front yard.

2009-10-09T15:32:00.001-06:00

Here’s what happened today:

I found a song.

It hit me.

I hit: REPEAT.

…and then, exhausted my laptop battery entirely on the music.

Never bored, only soaking.

Wishing I had life-size speakers to blare the words.

It’s called “In your Atmosphere,” By John Mayer. Live.

“Wishing I had life-size speakers to blare the words.”

This makes me think of a picture.

I saw it in a magazine today: It was Bright colors and Broad daylight.

It was a girl jumping in the air with a megaphone.

Not a cheerleader, just a voice.

She wanted everyone to hear.

Looking at her determined face, it was hard to assign a label.

Should I deem her NAIEVE or HEROIC?

OBNOXIOUS or BRAVE?

A difficult question,

but I knew that the image was me.

“By John Mayer. Live.”

This makes me think of the highway.

I love live music because of my Dad. Because of my night drives in his passenger’s seat. He drove a Saturn with the sun roof open. The engine was loud and untrustworthy, but the stereo? Loyal. Freebird was his senior class song. He knows all the guitar solos. He knows that before Sweet Home Alabama, Johnny Van Zant yells “Turrrn it up!”

He knows all the Oooo Oooo’s and Oh Yeahhh’s.

He can tell me where he was when he decided he loved the song.

And now we can sing you The Eagles. Bob Segar. Bruce Springstein. Boston. Eric Clapton. America. James Taylor. Lynyrd Skynyrd.

Because my Dad’s engine was loud, unpredictable.

But his stereo has always been loyal.

And now we can sing together.

John Mayer is singing “I don’t think I’m gonna go to LA anymore.”

This makes me think “I know what you mean, but I still want to.”

I went there once, with the Jordan boy I write about sometimes.

He had never been to the beach at night, and while we stood on the sand, I stared down the ferris wheel. It was a distant circle of lights. I wished we would go. Things got in the way.

But then

I did go to LA again.

It was barely September, a Sunday night.

I was on that same beach, in my church clothes again.

But the lights didn’t seem so distant anymore.

I felt the difference.

The hope that their promise would only seem closer

With each

Adventuring drive toward the coast.

I sent my words into that night,

Declaring that when I came to LA again,

“You best bet I will ride that ferris wheel.”

I am a strange girl, needing to type out all these thoughts before I can get back to life. But this is my life, here in the kitchen, scrawling for words. And that’s enough for me, even if I can’t make you see what those lights mean.

Can we shout this to the heavens?!

2009-10-09T12:50:00.001-06:00

For God hath not given us the spirit of fear;
but of power,
and of love,
and of a sound mind.

2 Tim 1:7

Your blog sucks.

2009-10-07T01:34:00.003-06:00

When I write
I leave evidence
of that moment.
I do not leave
a lasting definition of myself.

I often read over my pages (or posts) and no longer identify.
Thankful they exist, I still want to delete...
Delete. Delete them from your view.

-------That was a confession-------

There are a billion evidences
of my own bad writing.
But not everyone knows the sound of her own voice.
So I scribble, and hold onto hearing.

Not a cake.

2009-10-05T23:19:00.006-06:00

Someone just texted me.
"What are you doing?"

The real answer:
homework. making dinner. drinking hot chocolate. writing. laundry. dishes. texting you.

How am I doing all of these things at once?
The real answer:
I'm not. I am absolutely not.

Legs: lunge for the shaking pot -- Oh no! That is SO not a simmer.
Ears: listen for the microwave to ding.
Arms: fold what comes out the dryer and
Then: get back to my book at this kitchen table
While: hot water and soap fill the sink.
But: I'm not in any of these things.

I am in my mind, entirely.

Thoughts from Layer 1:
I am so hungry
and late for everything
and I really
really just wanna snuggle.

Layer 2:
I am thinking that I am the craziest girl alive.
I'm thinking about boys. And really,
Can any of you handle my frustrating complexity?
If so, could you teach me how?
If not, I should warn you about that...

Layer 3:
I'm thinking about the mass influx of letters I have recently received,
all unexpected, all from great distances.
There are 6 envelopes full of things I've wanted to hear.
Voices from up to seven years ago embody the complexity I have tried to tame.
"This is what I've learned."
"I love you."
"I wish I still knew you."
"I'm trying to understand."
"I'm waiting on you."
"I still see who you are."
They come from North Carolina, Honduras, Virginia, Lithuania,
and literally around the corner.
Really, all at once.
I'm thinking about how I will ever reply,
because I have to do it with my WHOLE self,
and these days-- I'm divided.

Layer 4, or somewhere in there...
I'm thinking about what my Shakespeare professor told me.
First, she asked "And how are you dear?"
I was getting up to leave,
fixing the hat to my head and the ipod to my ears.
I stop.
She's had me before, and I can tell she knows, so I spill.

"I don't get it. I read and read and gain no significance. But literature is my life, and I've never had this problem, so it's totally undermining my confidence-- and kind of, my identity. I mean... this is the big stuff! If I can't get this, can I ever get the rest? I feel like my response is inadequate, and only further evidence that I am missing the mark."

By now, all other kids have left the room.
She says
"I know you are dutiful. Try to stop dissecting. Instead, let the language wash over you. Lose the fear. You will find something original to reply with."

She was talking about Measure for Measure.
But is this my answer for life?

Layer 5:
Behind all of the thoughts I have just revealed,
are thoughts that try to disprove these things.
LAYER FIVE SAYS YOU ARE NOT ENOUGH. YOU HURT BOYS. YOU ARE DISORGANIZED, AND UNRELIABLE. YOU ARE BAD. YOU DON'T EVEN GET SHAKESPEARE.
Layer 5 is the problem.
Layer 5 is new to me, I don't usually struggle with these thoughts,
Because here's the deal:

I am Lyndsi Shae.
I AM LYNDSI SHAE.
I am strong in my identity, fierce in my convictions.
I AM STRONG IN MY IDENTITY, FIERCE IN MY CONVICTIONS.
I know who I am.
I KNOW WHO I AM.
I know what I want.
I KNOW WHAT I WANT.
I have a voice.
I HAVE A VOICE.

Layer 5 attacks at the source of my strength, my one rare rock.
And I refuse to listen.

I see now, that what I said about my Shakespeare class
is actually how I feel about life.
And what that glorious woman replied,
is probably what God's been trying to say.
This week it's about letters, but always it's more.

And now my dinner is burning.
But so worth it.
If I did not write, I could not define myself past Layer 1.
And I would surely never conquer the 5.

Can you believe what's happening in here?
Much more than laundry, dishes, and texting.
Much more than homework.

The only guide to a man is his conscience; the only shield to his memory is the rectitude and sincerity of his actions. It is very imprudent to walk through life without this shield, because we are so often mocked by the failure of our hopes and the upsetting of our calculations; but with this shield, however the fates may play, we march always in the ranks of honor.

--Winston Churchill.

Bounce.

2009-09-28T11:55:00.005-06:00

*Definitely brought up Beyonce in our relief society presidency meeting a few days ago.

"The woman empowers me lately. It's all I need in my speakers."

"I mean, at least she thinks marriage is important," Bethany says.

"She ain't sayin If you like it then you shoulda cohabitated."

And there we are around the table, snappin and bustin a move.

Yes please.

Can we get that in the handbook?

My life is insane.

There is so much in it.

People Schedules Appointments Assignments.

My next word was going to be: Obligations.

And here's the beautiful part-- I can't write that word.

It applies to no person, no meeting, no assignment which I am trying to accommodate.

That's right, I want to work it out with you.

I want to deliberate for hours over fifty-some girls.

I want to write letters to sad friends and mission friends and the mass number of people who simultaneously have something to say to me.

I'm not sure where you all came from, but I'm trying to answer.

I WANT TO DO MY HOMEWORK.

I want to call you back!

I want to answer

all these big big assertions

that people are presenting to me.

When I do not, it is sometimes because I am scared.

Sometimes because I am at a loss for words.

But most often because I am letting my free-spirit translate to: disorganized-life.

My hippie everythings-gonna-be-alright attitude

will not bring answers.

It will leave people neglected,

letters unanswered,

and potential unfilled.

Dear Self,

Stop running through fields and poems and start looking at a calendar!

My soul says "Nightmare!"

And then, "Okay, fine, you're right."

But I can still be me.

Still the girl that quotes Beyonce in our meeting and challenges the new girls at get-to-know-your-presidency-pancake-sunday. "I ate all seven on my plate! Whatchu got?!"

I want to tell you that it's not all about this calling thing.

And it's not, there are so many things I want to do (for you/with you/about you.) For the ones who are not part of my list of girls. But it has taken over my mind and perspective, so it is about balancing you with that. It is about this motivation-- this new kick in the pants to be better. Because-- and here's a shocker-- my progression is not all about me. Did it used to feel like that? Other people are depending on me to step it up. Thank goodness. Keep kickin.

Happy Anniversary

2009-09-22T16:29:00.008-06:00

From a letter I wrote to Katie, Saturday November 8th 2008.

He tells me he had no idea I wasn't wearing makeup. (Do you think boys really mean it when they say that? I don't know about that.) Anyway, he says I look great no matter what. And I mean, that's nice, but I don't put much weight on those types of comments. It's not that I think he's flat-out-lying to please me, I just don't fall on the floor in flattery, you know?

So then he says

"I've been thinking about something, and I want to tell you..."

This is how a lot of our conversations start out. It's kinda like saying 'There's this thing that I understand, but it's weird... but sometimes you understand my weird things-- so here it is..."

"I think every girl has her own thing about her," he says.

"Like... some girls are really charming. They tend to say lots of funny things and that draws people to them. Some girls are quiet and have a graceful way to them.... and anyway, I think I figured out what your thing is. You have a radiance. It's like a happiness, a bright youthfulness that comes out from within you-- and so when people see you, it doesn't matter what makeup you're wearing because they see this part of you too. It shines towards people. You are red. And golden."

She replies:

"Lovie he is DIGGIN for you. Diggin so see who you are. I know you know this but it's such a big deal. Like it's one thing for a boy to let you dig for them-- to answer all your questions and nod when you say stuff about your soul. But he listens and remembers and applies. Woah. And he likes you for those things instead of just tolerating them."

* * * * *

II.

Remember when you saw me one day at a time?

There was a reverence there, at the beginning.

You remembered my name.

That scar was forming at the bottom of my thumb,

It was the skin over my bone-- my trapezium.

You kept watch

Over that burned skin

And my trapeze.

We were both surprised at how brave I was

in what I spoke to you

in the tricks I attempted up there.

"How is your burn today?" you'd ask.

I'd hold out my hand.

I'd let you see.

Did the transition of today's air feel familiar to you?

Because we felt it once together,

this space between seasons.

(It was conference weekend. The leggos and the roof.)

I used to think: "What's coming?"

Now I know: A Fall.

I was inside this air, when I jumped for that trapeze.

one. year. ago.

We drove away

to escape the cold,

That's where

You named the flame colors in my countenance.

Remember when you told me you'd found them?

On the road, I played this song for you:

If it is born in flames

Then we should let it burn

Burn as brightly as we can...

And if its gotta end (Let it burn)

It ends where it began

So hot with love

We burned our hands.

We drove home from the heat, and

in the end you were winter.

What felt brave, was now humiliating.

I grew tired of showing you my tricks.

So I came down.

"My love is like a blanket

It gets a little too warm

sometimes

I wanna wrap somebody in it

Who can hold me in his arms

Cause when it got a little too hot in there

He was always steppin out for air

And he froze.

Oh he froze."

"How is your burn today?"

You don't ask anymore.

So I don't show you.

I don't tell you that

I have another scar now.

But I am still Red. And Golden.

Don't you forget.

Fall together.

2009-09-21T12:37:00.004-06:00

When I grow older, I promise to never have a job in accounting.

(No offense accountakids, I think ya’ll make great dads. Not because of the hours or the nature of your work, but because every time I meet a dad who is also an accountant, he is honorable, kinda goofy, and gentle.)

Regardless, I promise to never join you in the field of numbers and money.

Gross.

My Dad is an airplane mechanic,

which I have ALWAYS thought is cool.

(I don’t think he knows that.)

Sometimes we would go to his work—it’s called The Hanger.

Does that make you think of closets? Me too—but it’s not about that. It's where the Dads open their toolboxes to show each other pictures of their daughters. It's where they fix the airplanes.

The Hanger.

This is where my family would sit on top of the mini van

and watch the planes come in to land.

The sky was usually pink when we got there, dark purple when we left.

I would look at those planes and think of all the people in there,

The people and their unknown stories.

And I would think
“My Dad helped that thing to fly.”

Today I am also thinking that I want to have tons of good movies when I’m a Mom—but none of those empty-and-kinda-raunchy ones. We will have only movies of substance!

(My kids will get annoyed at their nerdy mother, always shouting "substance!" with one hand in the air, making them trade in their subpar DVD's for literature. They will gag.)

Thursday night I was in the car with my new friend Sarah Motley.

“Where do you see yourself in five years?” she said.

I can tell her things like this—like graduated but not an accountant or dumb-movie-owner.

But I cannot tell her much.

“I’ve been shown recently that I have no idea what’s happening around here. Nothing is turning out how I thought it would. So I’d rather be open and adaptable than make a solid plan,” I say.

I try to explain this to her. It’s hard.

Because here’s what my brain keeps saying.

It says DISENCHANTMENT.

This is a word we’re learning about in my Native American Literature class. I have a nifty blue handout full of what it feels like to experience this word.

Here’s a piece:

“The existence of the her belief, the nature of her destiny, the very shape of reality itself are all, in a flash, brought into radical question. The daughter can either accept the world as bereft of meaning… or find some deeper sense in the ceremonies and objects which had come to mean so much to her. The naive realism of her previous perspective has been exploded. Necessarily, she begins her religious life in a state of serious reflection and in quest of an understanding of the sacred profound enough to sustain her new life.”

It means my world gets turned on its face,

and yes, it’s been doing that lately.

I do not understand the way my relationships are shifting. God still talks to me, but he doesn’t explain why these things are happening. I want to tell you about it.

But how can I explain this to you publicly

without overstepping my bounds?

(Translation: How can I show you these people I have stories with, and the confusion of the plot-lines, without exposing their hearts unfairly?)

Zach. Jordan. Jared. Claire. Stoph. Emily. Brody. Corey. Lacey. Dad. Sabrina.

This intersection of timelines splatters across past journal pages and I watch from the side as my understanding dwindles and my predictions humiliate themselves.

* Some of them are saying “I love you! Come back!”

I say... “I’m not sure why, but I can’t. I’m sorry.”

Or... “Really? Are you finally saying this? Because I don’t know what to say back anymore.”

Or... (speechless).

*Some I will never get answers from.

* Others are popping in and out of my life unexpectedly—planting their roots in the middle of my path. Sometimes I trip over them. Sometimes I have to watch my step for days and days, but sometimes I stop and see their tree coming forth. Trees I never thought could belong to my world. I would not permit my path to be smoother by digging them up and away.

*Some surprise me with their choice to be someone else for a while.

*Some are filling me with love and possibility where I assumed there would always be shadows and contention.

*Some: are just Gone.

And so I am disenchanted with my own predictions—a loss of faith in all things once hopefully deemed “Obvious. Natural. Coming Soon.”

I am by no means obliterated, only silent for a while—telling myself to relinquish control. And then, relinquish the idea that I have any knowledge of what is to come.

“But I am not that girl!” I say to myself.

“I am not the girl with the 5 year plan who refuses to deviate. I’ve always been okay not knowing the answers.”

“Oh please. You’re NOT the girl with the 5 year plan and the permanent mascara, but you ARE the girl who is thrown by all these twisting outcomes at once. It’s okay that you’re that girl, but you have to change your perspective now: You make choices. God makes outcomes.”

He is the only relationship I can predict as Obvious. Natural. Coming Soon.

With this on my mind, I walk into that Native American Literature class.

My professor speaks up. “I’m passing the role,” she says.

“Circle your initials if you’re prepared for discussion today.”

I look down at my blue handout,

“Disillusionment means ‘to be in the condition of being disenchanted.’”

So I reach for the clipboard.

“LSB.” I write.

Circled.

I have a lot to say today.

As my stories with these people take exits I could not see from the driver’s seat—I realize that I am not wholly driving this thing—that the map I’ve got across the dashboard is drawn by my own narrow predictions.

“That’s a nice map you’ve worked on,” God says to me.

“But in the past I’ve always navigated by my own omniscient vision, and I think we should stick with that.”

I tell him it’s okay, and slip out of his seat. I think I was cramping him a little bit.

See how he talks to me like he’s just my Dad?

The truth is: I am thankful, even desperate to believe in something beyond my human limitations—even if I have no idea where He’s going with all of this.

“Fine. But do I have to be an accountant?” I ask.

I think he said no, but he probably just laughed.

Here’s a piece of hope from the blue handout:

“The rites of disenchantment must end on the threshold of revelation, for it is only through the living of the religious way that the sacred becomes fully known.”

I’m willing to fully know the sacred, to let my hope get of the ground.

I see myself as a passenger in that ungraceful airplane,

The child in me looks up to see her future fly over.

My unkno`wn story is contained in

an impossibly huge and bulky machine,

and I am comforted to know:

My Heavenly Father helps these things to fly.

Against the white.

2009-09-15T17:48:00.006-06:00

I'm walking to my second class today, with 15 minutes to spare.

I come to an opening where the sun shines clear and fierce.

"Ouch," I hear my heart say.

Not interpreting an emotion as if it were audible, but honestly feeling that singular word rise.

ouch.

It is then that a mocking voice drips down through my brain:

"Funny that you think your heart has a right to say ouch about this."

As it seeps in, I am hazed by guilt and my own inadequate apologies.

"Hey stop that. We agreed to play nice remember? No more mocking your choices."

This voice is resurfacing from something I wrote ten days ago. I cannot remember what it was like to agree with her, but she is annoyingly congenial.

I step in.

"Can all of you just shut up? I hate fighting with you. I just want to go to class and do my homework and be normal."

Another voice quietly asserts:

"No you don't. You have never been normal, and you know that to quit this conversation would be to banish yourself."

Then,

I know.

The final voice

is my truest voice.

Being self-aware is a constant battle, and it's not about schizophrenia, it's about the recognition of all my complexities. It's about listening. (I think.)

Regardless, this last voice is hearing the booing crowds, the bias past, and again saying

"But this is who I am."

Resigned, I give my heart permission to say ouch, and keep walking.

* * * * *

From ten days ago:

"I believe.

Not only in my potential

-- which I always talk about.

BUT IN THIS CURRENT

FLAWED EMBODIMENT

OF MYSELF.

-- which rarely gets a break from any analysis or criticism.

I will not be mocked for my conviction."

* * * * *

This is the cover I put on my newest journal.

I have since looked at it and wished I could make it words.

Because this image is how I feel. All the time.

A page I can show.

2009-09-12T09:47:00.004-06:00

Today I am walking down the street with resolve.

I feel powerful. It's Nine AM and I've been up for 3 hours.

I set up the water coolers, hung posters.

Cut bananas for the 5K runners.

No big deal. (SO much better than sleeping.)

I walk home in my free t-shirt, no outside motive except I BELIEVE in what this thing is about.

"Voices of Courage."

5 K for abuse prevention.

People register to run and then attach inspirational quotes to their backs.

Here's mine:

Never be bullied into silence. Never allow yourself to be made a victim. Accept no one's definition of your life; define yourself.

Harvey Fierstein.

I stand on the hill and take pictures, with no need to shout my story. No need to center myself as a main event-- just joining. Being this girl. "Here, have a pin. Wanna pose for a picture? Make a strong woman face!" At the end I sign the pledge, my name the same size as the others. We are pledging against silence.

On someone's back:

"In the quiet heart is hidden, sorrow that they eye can't see."

That's my line! A million journal pages of this quote flash in my head and I realize:

I am not the only one who separated it from the song.

These words stand out, and there is no need to justify my conviction.

I turn from the pledge and duck out of Brooke's way, a camera suddenly between us.

"No," she says.

"Stand up.

I want to take a picture of you."

I stop. Smile.

"Do you want to guest post on our blog?" she asks.

Yes. I say.

Really? I ask.

"Yes. Definitely. I love you."

Her sincerity matches mine and I am both comforted and taken aback by this. Maybe that's why this morning is big, because my sincerity is being matched in a clear and bright way, which feels different than the shadow of hesitance that usually meets this subject.

YES. Yes I want to write for this. I have so much to say.

And then there I am, walking home with resolve.

"Your voice matters." I remind myself.

Not because I get to post, because it does.

It matters even in the absence of blogs and journals.

For the first time in weeks, I feel indisputably VALID.

That my perception will lead me, instead of confuse me.

I'm not nuts. It's going to be okay.

Love,

Lyndsi Shae

Happy First Day of Class.

2009-08-31T14:49:00.004-06:00

Today I went on campus, because its the first day of school and I belong there. I don't have class til 5, but I couldn't shake the feeling that I wanted to be out there with everyone else on this big day of beginning. I brought a book, my journal, and found some grass. I layed down definantly like "Yep, my first day too!" and wrote for a while about the things my Mom told me today. When I got up to go home, I saw my favorite tree . "I didn't recognize you with leaves," I thought, and in seconds I am underneath this tree, sittin back against the trunk, with no more thoughts of walkin home. Fresh dirt gets all over my jeans, my bag, and both sides of my journ. I realized: This is where I belong today.

Today I am calm. I can hear my thoughts and they are not all fighting over the same thing. I can write them down and not be embarrassed for you to see. Here are some thoughts from beneath The Freedom Tree.

My least favorite word is: INDESCRIBABLE.

Because using it means I cannot show you this part of my world, though there is a triumph in the word INDESCRIBABLE, because it means I have experienced something even higher than the power of words can obtain, which is a power so great that my entire life has been consumed by the seeking of it.

2:23 PM.

I feel very grounded when I claim myself.

I AM A WRITER.

I AM A WOMAN.

I AM STRONG.

I AM SOUTHERN.

When I say these things, I am comforted by the categories.

I AM A STRONG SOUTHERN WRITING WOMAN.

Is this a cop-out?

Could I be more than a combination of certain, definable compartments?

Yes. Yes I could be.

I must be, and you must be too.

This is why the standard way of getting to know people feels dull and futile to me.

"What's your major?"

"Where are you from?"

Because you are MORE!

You are more more more!

How can I find the rest of you?

Lyndsi Shae 2:34 PM

If I meet you today, I will endure this standard list of questions gladly. Because we are human and I cannot completely alter the process of introduction worldwide. I'll be patient because if you'll let me see who you really are in there-- this whole mess will fade, and real us will emerge. Worth it.

Yeahhh!

2009-08-29T12:22:00.002-06:00

I MADE BEST FRIENDS FRIDAY!

Check. It. Out.

Towel wrapped.

2009-08-20T11:20:00.004-06:00

I am out of the shower and ready to beast this to-do list.

I am out of the shower and not caring about my to-do list.

I am out of the shower and would rather write to you, about the four fish Lou just flushed, because one kept swimmin up. He made it against the current, again and again and again.

Am I you? I thought.

I hope I am you.

He circles the toilet bowl for hours, but when he swims a little too low, Lou pulls the lever again. This time, he does not resurface. He had the strongest will, the most enduring fight-- but he is still just a fish. And down he goes. It isn't fair that his size got in the way of his fight, that he never had a name, that before this day, I could not tell him from any other fish. It isn't fair that I didn't save him. I will think of this all morning. Because I am you, little fish. And who will help the fighters become survivors, if not for those who have already survived?

July 21st, 2009.

I sit before the ocean as the tide goes OUT.

Each wave beats sure and fierce on the shore

before the force of a cycle, the pull of the moon

gives it no choice but to SHRINK BACK.

As it retreats, returns to its center,

it sings its last presence...

chanting in HORIZONTAL BREAKS:

IT'S NOT OVER.

THIS.

IS NOT.

THE LAST.

Even for you, blank face.

2009-08-09T02:50:00.005-06:00

It blows my mind that:

1. At every concert ever, there are those people in the front row. Someone got front row tickets because they have sweet connections and always get front row tickets. But someone is freaking out and having a top ten moment of their life, right now, over there. And if it’s one of those little shows where no one is particularly thrilled out of their face about who’s playing, I’m pretty sure the band absolutely is. Because woah, who cares if no one knows the words to their song… this is their stage.
(I think life is like this.)

2. Girls can have such skinny legs.
I always stare.
Really?

3. I am dating Chris Usher.
I know, kinda embarrassed to admit that this isn’t way standard by now. But really, he showed me to his Mom and wants me to stay a while. Still a big deal for me. (PS: Chris Usher and Stoph are the same boy. Don't freak out.)

4. Claire Dannals Sorensen is on my best friends list. Definitely.
Annnnd her roommates even like me now.

5. I was so pumped to see my Dad this summer.
Before he went back to Charleston,
my Dad came and found me to say goodbye,
where he then proceeded to say “I love you”
…first.
I totally believed him.
I had (almost) no unspoken words left.

6. There are boys out there probably hoping I don’t publish poems about what happened with us. (To those boys, I am a little bit sorry that it may happen.)

7. My bishop reads my blog.

Speaking of, here’s a piece of me from July 20th.
* * * * *

In case anyone hasn’t noticed, I am not a submissive woman.
I will not cling to your side, seeking my identity by leaching off yours.
If you are looking for this girl:
1. Gross.
2. Keep walkin.

I’m on the beach house bed with Katie now, after a nap of unknown length—which ended at 10:30 PM. I woke up and thought: I needa call my Stoph.

Go upstairs in a tired haze.
Find service.
Leave slurring sleepy voicemail.
Receive 50 billion text messages.

3 of which from: boy-you-used-to-love.

Every once in a while he comes back.

Like when he found this blog.
He reads this with you.
So does my Bishop.

Everyone: welcome.

Good thing I’m the same Lyndsi Shae all the time, otherwise I’d hafta spaz that you all congregate here to see (gasp!) the actual me. She’s the same me that’s always around. I have secrets too, but that doesn’t mean I’m afraid.

I am this woman.

• to my professors and my mother.
• to that boy I used to love
• and my new roommate
• and the crabby DMV lady.

But how can you be one person with so many hair colors? they ask.

I am this woman and you are a part of my story, which in this case, is being told in mass volumes—daily. (On pages more frequent and more filling than this blog. And one day, on something printer-press big.) It’s a good thing I don’t have different versions of myself on file for each of you. But you can watch my hair change, if you want.

EXtractioN.

2009-08-05T21:02:00.005-06:00

Meet Lyndsi Shae, grieving the loss of her wisdom teeth.
She is layin in her bed
deliriously singing to Stoph.

(sickeningly hopeless romantic country love songs.)

She is at the store,
20 minutes after poppin an oxycodone,
head imploding
jaw seeking
her 893,23949th consecutive meal of chocolate ice cream.
Ohhh man. she says
about to fall on her face and bust another involuntary nap

What happens when she realizes
Stoph is not in her room, but on an opposite coast
the ice cream is gone
and she can't remember
when she wrote those 5 journal pages
that now stare her in the face.

I'll tell you what happens.
Time for more pills.
Swallow. Go nuts. Repeat.
...Recover?
Ouchhhh.

from the kitchen table.

2009-07-30T14:17:00.002-06:00

Today is my sixteenth day in Carolina.

It is also

the sixteenth day of thunder.

Do you know what it’s like to hear thunder down south?

* A resounding noise produced by the explosive expansion of air *

It comes even on sunny days

On unexpected days

On grey and green and wet days

And this time: it comes everyday.

I hear this sound and my wild impulses ignite.

Surge.

The need to call up a storm.

On these days I find myself fighting:

even gravity.

Don’t feed me a physical law of withholding,

I am on an insatiable journey.

My feet belong to more than the surface sixty-seven inches below me.

LET ME FIND THE REST.

* Humidity often causes excessive thirst *

With the thunder there is lightening.

Sometimes, we never see the rain.

But everyday I’ve seen a spark.

Do you know what it’s to see heat lightning?

A distant flash in the sky.

Not a sinlge bolt

Not a finger streak

But an area of clouds

Simultaneously: igniting.

When the heat lightning comes, there is no sound.

These flashes are warnings of far away storms,

And though the light reaches you

Its voice is a mystery

The shape of her hands has yet to be revealed.

Instead, our sky alights in silence.

And we wait for the answer

And the source

To come at once.