it seems

I like to write.
I like to write stories.
I like to write my thoughts and dreams.
I like to string words together into a cohesive form that projects a complete thought, one from my mind, that can then be read by another and the thought shared.

It seems simple enough.

Words are my passion-- and not the words themselves, but rather, the thoughts and ideas they communicate. I love communication through words. I love to read them and write them. I love to speak them and hear them. I love that a simple conversation between two people using the most honest and real descriptors they can utter has the ability to be so completely transparent that it is as though each one of them handed the other a part of their soul.

It seems enough.

But words aren't. This we have learned since childhood-- that words are not enough-- that actions speak louder than words-- that words can hurt-- that sticks and stones may break our bones, but words-- those powerful communicators-- those words will never hurt us.

It seems

that words do hurt. Anything with the power to be so completely authentic and true-- the sharing of souls-- has the opposite power as well. I was once told that love is the ultimate of great feelings and that one has to open themselves up to an extreme degree to experience the greatness of this love, but inversely by opening this self they are now able to experience the ultimate in pain. When you believe that words have this power to share something so intimate, you must also realize that they can rip that piece of soul you shared to shreds.

It

is a risky thing-- this writing. If the pen is mightier than the sword, then my words can cut deeper than that blade which when wielded by the skilled and strong has killed so many throughout history. And by choosing to pick up this pen, I take on the weight of that warrior-- knowing that this is my call and my destiny.

I like to write.

doomed doormat?

My mom is convinced I'm a doormat. My reply is that at least I am no longer a habitual doormat, but rather, a doormat on occasion. One of those occasions arose this weekend, and in sharing it with my mother, she informed me that-- yes, Lindsey-- you are a doormat. I guess this means that in this particular situation I was allowing someone to walk all over me. That should hurt, in theory, but for some reason-- I think I volunteered for this doormat position as opposed to another, more daunting and seemingly painful experience. But as my mother (and a very good mother she is, by the way) she felt I should have opted neither for doormat nor for daunting painful something, and rather stood up for myself and just say no. Hmm... Well, I know that she's right, but sometimes doormat status just seems so appealing.

I mean-- think about it...
I am here to serve and love. That is my function. And I belong at the feet of those I want to serve. Down there is where I belong. BUT-- there is a line between being AT the feet of those you love, and being UNDER the feet of those who wish to walk all over you. I think this is what Mom was getting at. I think sometimes, in an effort to show them I want to serve them, I pass that line and fall from servant to doormat. As a servant I show love, but as a doormat I show doormat. I don't know if the love vibe comes through from underneath their feet. The only vibe that seems to come through at that point is that I am weak. I'm not weak. Not in that sense, at least. In fact, it usually pisses me off when Christians won't stand up for themselves as humans. But that dang line-- the one between servant and doormat-- I miss it all the time-- and usually voluntarily! Geez. But hey (and here comes my new favorite mantra) at least I'm self aware ;-)

in a new and most intimate way

There was this song while I was in Oxford that I listened to everyday. It was part of my routine. Every night in my Brasenose College dorm room, as I readied myself for bedtime, I listened to the same sequence of songs from one of my favorite CD's-- Joseph Arthur's Redemption's Son. There's something about this album-- there always has been.

I first heard it in Bart's black Beretta last spring, during one of our infamous "deep" afternoons-- where the two of us would talk for hours on things like the nature of sin or the essence of pain. His lyrics knocked at the door of my heart. I promptly stole the CD. From that point on I listened to the album only when I knew I was completely alone and would go undisturbed. Bart and I continued to listen to it together in the black Beretta. We listened to it as he drove me to the airport in Pensacola, before I left for Oxford. I remember that he reached over and grabbed my hand, smiling at me as the words "you're everybody's favorite girl" rang from the car stereo.

And the love-sick girl that I was last summer would listen to this same album as I went to sleep. In an effort not to dampen my English experience with love's longings, thoughts about Bart and love and relationships were reserved for this night-time ritual. Part of this ritual featured the nightly reading of the most incredible letter I had ever received-- a love letter Bart wrote for me in Pensacola the night I left and mailed to Oxford to meet me there. I would sit and smile, in the presence of two of my favorite men-- Bart in writing and Joseph in song. Every night the three of us would meet up and they would tuck me in, wishing me the sweetest of dreams.

The last song I would listen to before falling asleep was "You've been loved." At the time, the song made me smile, and I would think- he loves me he loves me! I am the first to admit that I am a silly girl. But this is what I did. And I loved this routine.

Then I came home.

Most of you know the rest of the story. The following the semester (fall 2004) was the most tumultuous of my life. Bart broke up with me and left for Spain. I was soul searching and thinking and dreaming-- as opposed to studying and reading and attending classes. Things were a mess. What was life? Who was I? Why why why? And Joseph Arthur went to the back of my CD case. Occasionally I would attempt to resurrect him, but after a few minutes he would return back to the back. I couldn't and wouldn't listen.

But last week while camping Arkansas, Joseph came back into my life. There was one night in the camper where I couldn't sleep. I tried walking, though flip-flops, a dying flashlight, and millions of glowing eyes in the woods don't make the best of combinations. So, back I went to the camper. I used the last of the light to load a CD in my player-- Redemption's Son. Then, I laid down beside my sleeping sister and cried. The only song it would play was "You've been loved." Each word took on a new meaning, the words hit my ears in a new and most intimate way, and I thought-- how does he know me so well? This song was meant for me.

I cried and cried, eventually falling asleep somewhere around 5am. But Joseph stayed by my side, telling me over and over the thing I needed to hear most. And now, the funny thing is, his words continue to ring in my ears, as ever since I returned home I continue to face the question-- what are you gonna do with your life?

Reading the lyrics, the song seems so simple, but the words carry so much meaning. I've never met him, but he knows me so well-- in a new and most intimate way.


You've Been Loved
by Joseph Arthur
from album Redemption's Son

You don't know how you feel
Are you a dream?
Are you for real?
Cause you don't ever slow down
To find what you lost or lose what you found

No one's saying what you need to hear

You've been loved
You've been loved
You've been loved
You've been loved
You've been loved
You've been loved

It's always hard to admit
Most days you feel like you don't exist
Temptation sneaks past your fists
Until the devil won't let you resist

Oblivion is what you want

But you've been loved
You've been loved
You've been loved
You've been loved
You've been loved
You've been loved
You've been loved
You've been loved
You've been loved

What you're gonna do with your life?
What you're gonna do with your life?
What you're gonna do with your life?
What you're gonna do with your life?

You've been loved (all the way)
You've been loved (all the way)
You've been loved (all the way)
You've been loved

the unbearable lightness of being

Anyone whose goal is "something higher" must expect some day to sufffer vertigo. What is vertigo? Fear of falling? Then why do we feel it even when the observation tower comes equipped with a sturdy handrail? No, vertigo is something other than the fear of falling. It is the voice of the emptiness below us which tempts and lures us, it is the desire to fall, against which, terrified, we defend ourselves.

-Milan Kundera
from The Unbearable Lightness of Being