Patterns

Patterns:
The living see through sepia-toned glass. Only a few are blessed with the sparkling, blindingly clear sight that allows them to see the mirage of patterns that swirl through the air.
I hope you are.
-not, “I hope you are one of them.” But simply, I hope you ARE, for if you understand, if you are truly aware of BEING, you can appreciate the patterns that entwine themselves around each movement in time, each syllable that falls from your lips.
I don’t care whether you see the patterns or merely possess knowledge of them, because it’s what you DO with that knowledge that entrances me.
let yourself go, lose yourself in the slipstream of consciousness to float away into the star crossed pattern that has woven itself into symphonies and sonnets.
Get lost in the stark, sharp landscape that is hidden within the beat of a drum and a guitar, whether it’s in your room alone or drunk in a crowded bar, get lost.
When the shadowed, black tendrils of uncertainty have trapped you in a corner, call for me and I will gladly throw myself in with you, facing the monsters together, creating a pattern of light and love all our own.
Hold on fast to the burning, blazing, vibrating streaks that pierce your heart when you fall in love for the first time. The love that engulfs you and catches you by surprise. The out of body experience that both splits your heart in pieces and gives you strength beyond reason.
When the soft and warm hues of home wrap themselves around you, tuck that scrap into your back pocket, to pull out on a rainy day when you find yourself cold and alone.
Promise me to never let go of the deep vividness of passion slip through your fingers- the flash of red in my shirt that night, the burning yellow from the candle we lit when the power went out, the cold shine of the ice on the power lines outside, keep them blazing for the world to see to let them know you’re mine.
And if I should go and another takes my place, let that palate fade with time, muted to the blue of the dress I was wearing when we first met, the grey flecks in your eyes, the pale first green of spring when you first held my hand, the soft pink you make appear on my cheeks when you smile at me…
The swirls and whirls of love, the gouges and gashes of loss, the cutting bricks of betrayal and revenge, the budding rays of life & quiet lines of death surrounding us, filling us each day, live by them.
I know you said you weren’t good with words, but I don’t care.
Trace the rays across my face with your eyes, follow the twits and turns of life with your fingertips onto skin, make me your canvas, paint on me what you will, and I will help change it, mold it into something more unique than either of us, for that’s what life is- take what you get, create and build, love and live, find that missing piece, your muse and partner, best friend and confidant, lover and bodyguard.
Find them, know them, and weave their pattern together with your own.

An Open Letter to the Church from My Generation

this. THIS. Oh words desert me, this is beautiful

"I Said I Don't Know."--and Other Answers to Hard Questions

Church,

I got to go to the Macklemore concert on Friday night. If you want to hear about how that went, ask me, seriously, I want to talk about it until I die. The whole thing was great; but the best part was when Macklemore sang “Same Love.” Augustana’s gym was filled to the ceiling with 5,000 people, mostly aged 18-25, and decked out in thrift store gear (American flag bro-tanks, neon Nikes, MC Hammer pants. My Cowboy boyfriend wore Cowboy boots…not ironically….). The arena was brimming with excitement and adrenaline during every song, but when he started to play “Same Love,” the place about collapsed. Why? While the song is popular everywhere, no one, maybe not even Macklemore, feels its true tension like we do in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. If you’re not familiar, here’s the song:

Stop–did you watch it? Watch it.

Before the song, Macklemore spoke really…

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Seduce me with sound

To me, words aren’t merely a method of homosapien communication, but an expression. Words can convey such an array of emotions, it’s astounding.
Words, simple syllables strung together, can make me furious, heartbroken, terrified, and completely overjoyed.
Speak the words family, prairie, field, harvest, autumn, bonfire- and I am consumed with contentment, longing, homesickness, and a warmth that spreads throughout my entire being.
Mention words like ignorance Holocaust, bigotry, book burning, Red Scare, slaughter, and my mind is full of loathing, anger, and revenge.
Utter the words betrayal, loneliness, “used to be,” “in loving memory,” lost, aftermath, and my chest fills with an ache that leaves a chasm in my heart infinitely deep and dark.
But words have the ability to do so much more.
Stay. Beautiful. Captivating. Brilliant. Timeless. Priceless. Eternity. Dawn. Anew. Irreplaceable. Rising. Comfort. Caress. Tantalizing. Wonder. Taste.
I go weak at the knees. My mind goes hazy, my words dry up.
A well written paragraph is as seductive to me as a candlelit diner, a sentence concealing heartfelt emotions is more than a bouquet of flowers.
There isn’t any need for Shakespeare, a flowery quote with college-educated words, but take the time to pour your heart into a sentence and you’ve captured me.
Let me loose in a field of sentimental syllables, help me find my way through a maze constructed of raw emotions.
People have said that all a woman asks for is chocolate and roses- No, send me a letter with your very heart trapped in the ink, and I’m yours.

Not country roots–HOME roots

I suppose that a bit of a back story is needed before you can fully understand what the hell this post means.
I’m from Kansas- the Lenexa/Olathe side of Kansas City, but I’ve lived in the ‘burbs of Missouri since I was 4.
I don’t consider myself “country” and no, i’ve never owned a horse or had an accent. My “accent” sounds just like the newscasters on any television station you listen to.
I’ve always hated the term ‘redneck’ – I’ve found it demeaning. ‘country’ I’m fine with, but I prefer ‘we just have more common sense than most.’
I’m a midwestern girl through and through: I drive stick, I love the smell of cattle & corn & dust. Gravel roads are where I’m from. Summer is made of sprinklers and lemonade stands and weekend trips to grandma’s farm where we’d feed the cows & ride on grandma’s tractor.

Fall means bonfires, grilling out every week, the roar of the football stadium and playing tag-football with the neighbor boys down the street.
Winter means ice, ice and more ice.
It means going through more clothes in two days than you usually do in a week because you go sledding after school.
It means chapped noses and cheeks, and cracked knuckles and cold hands. Winter means stocking up on firewood because the power lines might break with the weight of the snow.
It means the cows get their winter costs, so they look like a child’s drawing-all fuzzy and warm.
The Midwest means practicality before popularity.
Our ancestors worked to survive, not survived to work.
It means stopping for a stranger stranded on the highway just because you have AC and their car overheated.
It’s making eye contact with strangers just to say “good morning”
It’s home