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Completely_Compelled
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Name: Completely_Compelled
Birthday: 12/18/1989
Gender: Female
Interests: meeting new people; faith; peace (for the world and self); yoga; late night jazz; folk music; arts and crafts; literature; gender studies; social justice; human activism; my dog; summertime; sex and the city reruns; bike rides; taking walks; conversing (in english and greek); swimming; travel; family; friendship; counseling; teaching; mother earth; trying new restaurants; sitting around in coffee shops; second hand shopping.
Occupation: Student
Message: message meEmail: email me
Member Since:
5/13/2005
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| Jesus' blood has never failed me.
Jesus' blood has never failed me.
Jesus' blood has never failed me.
Jesus's blood has never failed me.
All else has.
Jesus' blood has never failed me.
Never, ever.
Its never failed me yet. | | |
| I drove to that same building on a brisk fall evening. The mountains were glorious, standing high and proud against a sun-set sky. Oranges and reds decorated the grounds and underneath my feet were the crunching sounds of weak leaves. The air was clean and it was so quiet you could hear that strange sound that is really no sound at all; the ringing of silence. Every now and then, you would hear the call of geese. They sounded almost desperate, screeching and gasping, almost suffering.
Staring at the building I felt as Wordsworth must have when he wrote Tintern Abbey. It had been a "long absence." Yet I returned. I stood there, staring, with my hands in my jacket. A chill came over me as I remembered everything. Every moment of pleasure and sorrow. Every moment of feast and famine. The images were clear and vivid in my head; the feelings strong and rich in my heart. Loss would so easily wish for me to forget.
When we sat on mexican blankets on the concrete, staring up at the stars. When we smoked cigars out the car window, driving down country roads with the windows down. When we took walks through the woods and shrieked at every mysterious sound. When we sat in summer grass and prayed for hurting friends. When we made a campfire and watched the flames dance as we warmed our feet and hands. When we sat on sanctuary floors with a sense of both reverence and terror. When we were simply together. Before that, before this, before life's changing tides.
I hold these times close to me. They are a part of my chapped soul and they are the only balm that soothes it. I remember always, I remember all; not because it was perfect, but simply because it was meaningful. It was familiar yet over time the habitual became more. It became a family and most importantly, a sense of belonging.
As I walked back to my car I heard the geese once again, their call breaking the silence of the country. They wandered through the grasses, stared at me for but a moment and then took flight. It was time to depart, they were heading southward. They were out to find their new home.
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| I am re-examining every single thing I've ever thought; every truth I've ever known.
It's both liberating and terrifying.
I am, "becoming." | | |
| I have decided that one of the worst feelings in the entire world is not knowing where you fit. Feeling aimless and idle is not only boring, but torturous. I know what Emerson meant when he said, All of life is in coming home.
I'm just looking for a place to belong. A place to put my feet up. A place to take my mask off. A place to know that I am needed, wanted, missed. A place where I am "one" of them. A place where I do not stand a lone. A place you go to after a really long journey through a cold, dangerous storm. A place you walk into and just know you're safe. A place like in one of those story books, where there is always something delicious cooking on the stove and the fire is always burning and there is always someone there to help you take off your shoes. | | |
| There are times, many times, where I find that I am wishing I could unsee what I saw, wishing that I could unhear what I heard, wishing that I could unlearn what I learned, wishing that I could return to times of innocence, awe, admiration, simplicity. Yet those times, they're gone. They are gone like leaves floating from autumn to winter, lost in a breeze; lost in but a moment. There is no going back now. There is no choice but to glance behind at shadows of the yesteryear, and then, keep walking forward.
"All of the moments that already passed
We try to go back and make them last.
All of the things we want each other to be,
We never will be.
And that's wonderful,
And that's life. "
(Nelly Furtado, Try) | | |
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