I haven’t written much lately. I don’t want to write, I just want to be.

Actually, I’d love to write, but writing is actually rather tiring, and by the time I get home I don’t want to put in the effort. I have a lot to say. But I’m tired. And I’m forced to do poetry right now, and that’s the worst thing- forced to be poetic. :)

senior wisdom. this is what I shared.

Find your identity in Jesus Christ alone. That is the most important thing I have finally begun to get a grasp on, to embrace. I don't want to be known by anything I am a part of or anything I do, my personality type, being an American or a woman or anything else. I want to be known as a follower of Jesus Christ. alone. There's freedom in the surrender, the daily choice to let Jesus be my identity instead of anything else.

MY FRIEND HAD A HEART TRANSPLANT LAST NIGHT AND SHE IS ALREADY SITTING UP TALKING, NO BREATHING TUBE.

GOD IS GOOD.

poetry

what do you want the reader to experience?

I can't find the soul in it.

you've lost me here.

where are we?

unfocused

anti-climactic

who are the characters?

syllables hindered the poem.

how are the characters connected?

what is the experience you take away from the poem?

doesn't flow

it could be longer

why can't i write what i just want to say?

i don't know your name anymore.

i want them to feel desperation, lonely, but okay

train whistles

dust

dusk

this cerulean wind haunts my soul like a shadow at dusk, quickly disappearing. this cerulean wind smells like landfill and faraway train whistles. full, and lonely. lost. You can hear the whistle from seven miles, and all the way it is loneliness. It runs in soft rhythms that taste sweet. turns dust to delight, wisps of lovely melancholy. This place is quiet, and the silence screams. He, the one in the cerulean wind, whom my heart smells these nights, his name means Birth. Jesus, hold this dust steady. his name means birth. he is the wind. he is the dust. i am the dust. restore us. the dust. 

Easter

this is my favorite kind of loving~ chopping apples picking grapes peeling cold carpels off orange rinds squeezing pineapple juice out of a can rolling the rolls setting the oven prying cookies off the pan— even the dishes.

this is my favorite kind of loving~ vacuuming the carpet setting out another roll of toilet paper wiping down the counters hiding the clutter.

this is my favorite kind of loving~ finding questions suggesting you sit down pour yourself a cup of juice write something you are thankful for tell me about your weekend.

and after it all, the contented sigh from serving, the heart-happy tired that fills up the room.

and now the rain. facing the balcony doors in my chair listening to the rain and watching the blue sky float, the dark clouds in the distance, thinking of maine, the ocean, the cove.

spring, my love.

it arrives with a passion found in rain puddles along the road.

when you look down, you can see up into the sky, the tree tops, their branches still bare from this cold march.

a passion that will show you the sky, even when you are not looking for it.

rain is the same smell as longing, and peace. and sometimes joy, and rejoicing, and giddiness, sometimes, and sometimes it is sorrow- but more often contented peace—to me.

spring, darling.

when the rain stops as suddenly as it began, the faraway blue comes closer- dark clouds whisked east in the wind. you can dance on this sunshine, smash your face up to it.

and now the sunset.

and now a conversation with new friends and old friends, people Jesus loves. tea, slouching, laughter.

spring, darling.

dance!

simplicity

last night my sister made me pasta with zucchini, basil, garlic, lemon juice, parmesan. it was superb.

what can I do? put me to work! I said, eager to chop some zucchini or stir some noodles. uh.. um… you can put water in this pot. and then, a timid, can you just sit on that chair and tell me about your day? I really want to make this for you. (not exact words, but exact sentiments) so I sat on the chair and rubbed the dog’s back with my foot and watched her cook me noodles and chop zucchini, and listened to the delicious sound of water boiling and zucchini frying. and it was soothing to my soul, to just sit, my chin resting on the edge of the tall chair listening and watching and knowing that my sister prepared this food that I choose because she loves me.

this morning I went for a walk because my soul was flustered. I walked through the cute neighborhood near my apartment building. I saw an old woman walking an old golden retriever. I stood directly beneath a robin and marveled at his belly. I looked up through the pine boughs at the blue sky. I listened to a cardinal’s sharp song and watched him at the top of a tree. I stopped to smell a yellow flower, stopped to stare at some purple ones. I looked at the toys left in backyards and old fences, beer cans left on porches and piles of unopened mail, recognized how this neighborhood is exactly the same as all the other countries and cities I’ve seen. I listened to birds chirping and dogs barking. I watched a pudgy squirrel sit in a basket of bird food filling his cheeks. I breathed. I longed. for how life is supposed to be. for where I was made to live. a place I have never been, but will be someday. I thought about where God will take this life.

mostly I breathed.

half an hour. and then I came home and the spring air had seeped into my soul so much I wanted to turn off the heat and open all the windows and doors- but it is only thirty-five degrees outside today. so I didn’t.

cut an apple instead, the juice splurting out all over my fingers, I marveled at my fingers and their ability to handle a knife. apples and caramel.

simplicity.

Psychology Experiment

Psychology Paper

Psychology Presentation

Psychology Presentation at the Symposium

International Relations Paper

International Relations Presentation

Dance Performance

Poetry Group Project

Poetry Paper

Poetry Revisions