First page of the amp archive.

. the real world.

Posted by jessica on May 21, 2010 with 4 Comments
in I Lift My Eyes Up, Thoughts and Feelings
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Tonight a new friend of mine asked me what the real world is like.

Which made me think for a second before I told her that I think it’s an illusion that the real world is something other than this.

Whatever this is for you.

Because yes, sometimes we are in school or we are teaching tap lessons when we ourselves barely tap; maybe we are doing eight shows a week or we are teaching pilates to a few special ladies from church; perhaps we are working 9 to 5 with some sweet benefits and a tidy 401k or we are taking care of our grandmother. But the thing to always remember is to keep your eyes wide open, to look around, to dig in to whatever you see that’s good, because this is life.

This is the real world.

And what you do is important. It’s definitely a statement that you’re making, whether you’d like it to be or not. But who you are–now that says something. A nice, strong something. And a lot of times people miss it because they are too busy wondering about your credentials or the weather on that side of the country or even which show you last did and what kind of money a thing like dancing and singing pays anyway.

But just because some people miss out on asking us the meaningful questions about relationships with each other and God and what makes us scared and what gives shape to our dreams and even what our favorite colors are, we don’t have to miss out on taking care to carve out these answers in the details of our lives. In the real world. The one that takes place wherever you happen to be. Even in the grocery store. Even in class. Even if you’re in Paduka, KY, because I’ve been there and it’s as fun as it looks to say aloud and yes, the real world happens there, too.

And have you heard of the story people? If not, you have now. My sweet friend Betsy told me about them a long time ago and I love what this eclectic group of artists make. I read this tonight and agree with it so much. I love the thought of pure meaning–the kind that inhabits those things we cannot touch–being a part of everything we do.

If there is any secret to this life I live, this is it: the sound of what cannot be seen sings within everything that can. & there is nothing more to it than that.

And then, this quote from them has long been a favorite of mine:

There are things you do because they feel right & they may make no sense & they may make no money & it may be the real reason we are here: to love each other & to eat each other’s cooking & say it was good.

I love the way it just throws the ordinary-ness of life together with the sublime. We follow the things in our heart–the things that feel right but that might look perplexing from another vantage point. And then we eat each other’s cooking; we affirm them and we live in community.

And all the while we don’t wait any longer for the real world or for life to finally become better or less busy or thinner or richer. We live now, plain and simple, grateful and fully aware of the fact that these moments–or at the very least, most of these moments, anyway–are a gift.

bones

Posted by jessica on Nov 18, 2009 with 4 Comments
in I Lift My Eyes Up, Thoughts and Feelings
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I wrote this when I was going through it a while back. I like the word it because it’s so vague. Even though it doesn’t specify exactly what it was that I was going through, you can rest assured that I was certainly in the midst of it.

So yeah, it’s nice to be able to hide behind the word it.

Anyway, it’s a little crazy, but who isn’t sometimes? Who doesn’t struggle with doubt, with unrest within themselves? And if you don’t, please leave your URL cause I’d love to see proof of a perfect life somewhere out there.

But here you go:

I keep seeing myself taking my skin off. Just like you’d peel off your wet clothes, I take off all my skin, fold it up neatly, and tuck it away in a drawer. I don’t leave my skin all over the floor; I put it away, just like my mom taught me.

And it’s so easy, so simple. Because now I walk around, just bones all bleached white, knocking together like teeth chattering on a January day. And when he tells me he doesn’t love me anymore, it makes sense.

‘Of course he doesn’t love her,’ they all whisper, ‘She’s just a pile of bones, after all.’

(disclaimer: nobody had told me that, but I was feeling sad and that’s what came out at the time)

And as I was fishing through old things I had written, my mind got caught on something else that talked about bones. Something sad, yes, but better.

And I’ll take better.
This is from the Storybook people. And if you haven’t heard of them, I think it’s high time you embark on a google search with that name.

I remember we sat in the swing on the front porch & as the dusk came on us like a song, dark throated & sweet, he told me about the beginning when we had bones of light & hair that burned like the sun & I asked what happened then? & I felt him floating there in the soft dark & finally he said we forgot & I said I never would, but sometimes I do & I understand now why he put his arm around me & said nothing more.


So there you go, a theme of bones.

And I can feel the First Voice very close sometimes, wriggling for attention, making me want to crawl out of my skin. But then there are quiet, wouldn’t-trade-this-for-the-world moments when I hear the Second Voice. The one that talks about the beginning. Of beautiful bones that burn like the sun. Of something glorious that is buried somewhere deep in humanity’s collective consciousness and is ours for the taking.

Not easily, true.
But it’s there.
It’s clean and it’s good and it’s what made God paint the sky with stars rather than take the cheap route of fluorescents because Home Depot was having a sale. See the thing is, Home Depot is always having a sale and we’re always meant for something better. Not cheap, not fast, but better. I know this; it’s a whisper in my soul that tells me the story doesn’t end on this minor note, that there’s a victorious resolution and until then, he’ll show me why the blue notes are so beautiful.

And like that Second Voice, I don’t want to forget these things.

But sometimes I do and that’s when God is right next to me, reminding me with an arm dropped on my shoulder. A push on a swing that feels too big and too lonely to ever get very far at all in this vast and daunting sky.

And in the meantime I will be keeping my skin on.