I go up.

To be taken slowly, savored like chocolate, enjoyed like wine. Rachmaninoff has provided suitable accompaniment. So read on:

Through the haze I see the most beautiful golden hot air balloon ever made waiting for me in a broad green field.
I run and run until I'm safe inside and then, up, up, up I slowly drift.
The ropes creak in the wind and I feel my heart gently melting till it diffuses into liquid light
and flows, glistening to the furthest extremities of myself. The earth spreads out like an open
story book below me, and I read it lovingly even as I fly slowly away. The sky is mine and I hold it
with both arms and recite sonnets to the sun.

I remember who I am.

I remember who my Father is.

I remember that I am loved.

I throw open my window

I love Spring. I peer at the trees every day searching for new growth, willing them to come alive with new green foliage. The sun is so tantalizing, promising so much, keeping you waiting and waiting. Just a little bit here and there to keep you hoping, believing, breathing.

I am inspired this Spring. New thoughts, ideas, desires come washing into my brain, washing over my senses too quickly for me to process. I am in utter anguish. It is now that I feel the passing of time, the wasted days, months, years. It is now that I want most to LIVE. And yet here I sit, desperate to learn, desperate to create, to feel the thrill of accomplishment. I sit here in my room and I listen to heartrending music, and drum my fingers and wander the echoing halls of my mind, wondering, wondering...

I don't hate you Spring. I'm terribly sorry but you must be conquered. Spring, I will conquer you. The window must be thrown open and I must stand under the deluge. I must let the wind blow through my hair, and scatter my thoughts to the furthest corners of my mind. I must allow desire for a moment to fly in and sing so piercing sweet. I must let it chase me to my purpose and chastise me exquisitely until my work is finished.

Dreaming Russia

Someday I shall be seen stepping from a bright yellow taxi, muffled in fur (and maybe a few diamonds), to a waiting doorman, and for one night at least I will pretend to be something special. Maybe I could be one of the lost Russian princesses, corseted, coiffed and awaiting certain doom. I don't know. But what better place to imagine than the Russian Tea Room? Just a few blocks from the Metropolitan Opera and just outside of Central Park, this is the place I am dreaming on these days.

I look over my shoulder

This song represents my childhood. Yes, I am...more than a little nostalgic by nature. This is probably the first movie I ever watched (if you haven't seen it, you must), and my sister and I used to sing this endlessly. When I hear this I see my sister and I lying in our beds in the dark, singing and seeing fantastic shapes in the paint on the ceiling, in the shadows in the corners, in the patterns and textures of our blankets.



I hope you love it as much as I do.

I am blessed.

I have had my share of suffering--and life isn't done with me yet. I have learned that there is secret grief, hidden pain in every heart. We truly live in a weary, weary world, and I cry...all the time. Tonight I am tired. Just when I thought there was nothing more that could possibly happen, more has happened. I am not sorry for the pain. Pain is an excellent teacher. And yet, as I shuffle to the corner for the hundredth time this week to take a few more deep, deep breathes, I do wish for a fast forward button. Or maybe just a pause button. Just for a few minutes. The world can wait a few minutes. One, two, three...



I have learned that God's gentleness matches my need ounce for ounce. I have learned that His love is my only hope. I have learned that His arms are my only hiding place. I have learned that I am blessed. So I'm lining up my blessings and the things I love. Thank you Jesus!













And other things that I don't have good enough pictures to express:

-All my brothers and sisters: Joel & Rachel, Ben & Sarah, Ben & Casie, Nathan & Megan, Tom & Anna, and Mark & Lindsay
-All my nieces and nephews: Mary, Kylee, Katie, Justus, Andrew, Timothy, Kenton, Douglas, Kamryn, Seth, and Brieyn
-All my sweet aunts, uncles and cousins
-New York
-Franklin Square OPC
-The Christmas lights in my bedroom
-I could go on forever...

Of blogs, beauty and life in general

Well that's one of the more fearsome titles I've written. Fret not children, it does not follow that the following contents must be equally as fearsome. But you never can tell...

Why blogs? Why cameras and memoirs and scrap-booking (and for that matter reality tv)? I struggle to justify myself in self-expression. My own personal brand of snobbery recoils at the thought of doing anything simply because my culture lauds it. In fact, my snobbery usually finds me eschewing anything that even smells remotely in accordance with the masses. I admit, I am ashamed of my culture. And I am ashamed of myself for thinking myself so far above it. But its not just pop-culture that prompts my thoughts.

What magical thing happens between the experience of life and the expression of it? What is it in a snap-shot, a blog post, or a poem that takes life and explains it away, and makes it accessible where it was previously mysterious and out of reach? I find that I grasp at fleeting, barely comprehended moments/thoughts with both hands and wrestle them down into sanity through the written word on a regular basis. Is this merely a natural creative impulse, or an arrogance of my humanity, seeking to tamper with what is already beautiful and thus making is so much less than it already is? And am I just mumbling nonsense like a shy child to a house guest on the couch before dinner...

I leave it to you to judge this blog post as being too fearsome, ridiculous or nonsensical. Furthermore, I will keep my own judgments to myself for once.

Sincerely yours,
Rebekah

P.S. I'm trying rather pathetically to draw attention away from the glaring five month gap in posts and ease my conscience over said gap. Am I succeeding? I thought not. Well...tea, toast and Tolkien to you. Amen.

Kylee Natalie

June is Kylee's birthday month. This year she turned 8. I know, seriously. My little tow-headed niece is eight. Kylee is special. And smart. And beautiful. And the best big sister ever. Now that I've moved away, Kylee is one of the people I miss most of all.


Kylee is my second niece, plays soccer, loves games, and has a unique, raspy speaking voice.


And she has excellent taste in shoes.


That's her baby sister Kamryn the cherub cheeked. Isn't Kylee a good big sister?

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Oh rapture. Oh cheeks.


Kylee is a budding photographer.


She likes to have her nails just so. That is a definite virtue.


It was so nice seeing her in April. In honor of my visit she even stayed over with Mom and me and we did everything we used to do. Kylee and I have our traditions you know. We have sleepovers. We have tea parties. We paint our nails. We walk in the rain. We play endless games of match (all of which she wins--I'm not so good at match).


Be still my heart.


We swing sometimes.


See?


Sometimes I wonder if it is quite fair to the rest of the world that I have so many utterly adorable nieces and nephews. I have ten going on twelve you know. I am blessed.