song of myself

soldier on, little lady,
with the weight of a thousand suns
soldier on
with knowledge as a lover
while curiosity continues to kill

balance, little lady,
one another amongst your swamp of a self
balance
careful not to let on
slyly tip toe across the ragged edges of the world.

photo by Thad Kopec

a ghost a ghost a ghost a ghost

a spectre
moving listlessly from town to town
stops once then twice
leaving me sliding,
grasping,
as she disappears
as soon as she appeared

a spectre
clad in dust is gold
buried in the bed of the river
enough to keep me constantly
guessing
as I fumble
as she, knee-deep, trudges on

this spectre
oblivious to mountains that provide her shadow
as much as insects that gather in the shallows
and even me
especially
me, the one timidly knocking at her door
she, the one who has no home

photo by Thad Kopec

bootleg

This is one of those posts where I very quickly tell you some things that I wouldn't normally mention on this blog because it's news. And I don't usually tell you folks news about my life because I don't believe anyone actually reads this; it's just for my own use. So technically this is bootleg information about Palmer Durham, you lucky duck.

Palmer is going to study at St. Andrew's in Scotland in the Fall so she's going to be gone for a little while.

Palmer goes to either JJ's (her favorite coffee shop), Whole Foods, or both every single day. She wonders if this is pathetic.

Palmer lives in a new house with two friends who are kind to her.

Palmer has a newfound love of gardening and tea.

Palmer is also going to the Holy Land in May.

2013 means many different countries for Palmer and she's happy about that.

Palmer is learning to love people who are way different than her.

Palmer is struggling to find a church.

Palmer reads books for class every day so she won't fall behind.

Sometimes studying all the time makes Palmer lonely.

Palmer saw Les Mis 3 times in a week.

Palmer doesn't know why this is in third person.

lonely december bones.

A bleak December as of late, I'd say.  All of a sudden, I feel very small due to friends nestled away in their own neighborhoods far from mine.

recently..
I haven't spoken much, but I have walked far down trails of sleeping oaks and pines.  Some had fallen and their branches reached towards me urging and coaxing me off my path.  In my red coat I trudged onward ignoring their summons. Moving listlessly along. Gliding, almost, as a ghost.

on other days..
Smoke has covered my face and drifted away as bitter winds bit through me.

and now..
Warm in my favorite coffee shop with strangers in funny looking hats and Christmas sweaters and turtlenecks.

Probably only 24 more hours until friends begin slowly returning. I look forward to that.

when gloomy doubts prevail.

Dear refuge of my weary soul,

On Thee, when sorrows rise 

On Thee, when waves of trouble roll,

My fainting hope relies 
To Thee I tell each rising grief,

For Thou alone canst heal 

Thy Word can bring a sweet relief,

For every pain I feel

But oh! When gloomy doubts prevail,

I fear to call Thee mine 

The springs of comfort seem to fail,

And all my hopes decline

Yet gracious God, where shall I flee?

Thou art my only trust 

And still my soul would cleave to Thee 

Though prostrate in the dust

.. it's hymns like these that comfort me so much. Because when I feel things like this and get really nervous about them, 

I'm reminded I'm not alone, at the very least. 

Hymns like this are surely not written in our current time. 

So many songs nowadays make me feel like I have to have a great big smile on my face and be fully confident in Christ to sing them.

I feel like those songs are lying about what the Christian life is actually like. That's why I think hymns like these are important. 

Because they're reality. 

Like this hymn shows us. That Jesus is the dear refuge of our weary souls. The one on whom our fainting hope relies. 

That's right - my FAINTING hope. 

What's amazing is that God invites me in, even with my fainting hope. 

Hast Thou not bid me seek Thy face, 

And shall I seek in vain? 

And can the ear of sovereign grace, 

Be deaf when I complain?

No still the ear of sovereign grace,

Attends the mourner's prayer

Oh may I ever find access,

To breathe my sorrows there

Thy mercy seat is open still,

Here let my soul retreat 

With humble hope attend Thy will,

And wait beneath Thy feet, 

Thy mercy seat is open still,

Here let my soul retreat

With humble hope attend Thy will,

And wait beneath Thy feet

crickets & stitches.

I have stitches in my thumb and crickets are chirping outside of my window. Those seem to be the only things in my mind tonight. My eyes feel heavy. My head feels droopy. My heart feels small. My thumb feels large. I don't feel like making important statements. Just gray ones that don't point in any decided direction. Just ones that say, "well, that'd be all right, I suppose."

Here are some words. I don't know where they came from or what they're doing but they're here.

I have this job. Among other things, I use this terrible hook to take jackets down from about 20 feet off the ground. It's really hard. Most of the time I drop the jackets onto my head. They're usually fuzzy and soft so I don't mind too much but it's always disorienting when it happens. When I'm there, at this job, I only think about the pain in my feet and the
(pause. loud robot noise outside is drowning out the crickets. What IS that? I hate it)
time on the clock. That's not true... I'm making it seem worse than it really is. I usually don't mind it so much. Tonight was different though. As the wind blew into the store through the open doors and knocked down a few hats I felt the cool air pour against my skin and breathed in slowly. "I don't want to work here forever", I thought. "I don't want to live here forever, either." There are more things to see. More people to talk to. I feel a little constricted, like I'm wearing a coat from the child's section zipped all the way up.

The stitches on my thumb look like little spiders straddling my skin and hugging it together. I frequently imagine them running up my arm to hide beneath my sleeve. (I never seem to imagine scary spiders on my thumb. Just kind, cartoon ones that have my good in mind).

Fall is poetry. The leaves change and separate from the branches they once loved. They are either brushed away
(pause again. Scary robot noise has come again)
or if they're lucky, they choose their own direction and float on the gust of their fancy. The temperature becomes more intentional, it seems. It wants you to know it's there all of a sudden. It wants to catch you off guard.

If I could go anywhere right now, I would probably choose Target. For some reason I feel like blending amongst the aisles of cooking supplies and greeting cards.

There are worse things.

I'm sure you think I'm rather strange right now.

in case you're wondering.

Folks. Tomorrow I hop on one of those fancy jet planes and jump the pond over to Ol' England. I'm headed to L'Abri, a place started by Francis Schaeffer and his wife Edith back in 1955. L'Abri is a place very difficult to explain, so instead I'll leave you a link if you're a little more interested and have a few minutes to kill.

I'm going to Greatham, England. About 50 miles southwest of London. To be honest, I'm still a little confused about what I'm doing there. I just felt like I was supposed to go. I heard about it and thought, "Mmm... maybe this will help me get my head on a little straighter" and bought a plane ticket. Maybe I'm being dumb. Or irrational. Or just silly. But my chart and compass comes from One who knows me better than myself. The date has come, so here I go. Off, by my lonesome, to a place I'm afraid of. I'm afraid of what it'll do to me. I'm afraid of scraping off scabs and reopening wounds. I'm afraid of breaking carefully built boundaries to pieces and tearing apart haphazardly held together beliefs. And now, I'm sitting here wondering what I've gotten myself into. But I don't think there's any turning back now. 

So, pray. 

Pray pray pray. 

Pray that I'll be safe traveling internationally with just little me. 

Pray that the Spirit will work mightily with my stubborn heart in these short two weeks. 

L'Abri England homepage

Aaaaaaand deep breath. Here goes.

When at last I near the shore,

And the fearful breakers roar

'Twixt me and the peaceful rest,

Then, while leaning on Thy breast,

May I hear Thee say to me,

"Fear not, I will pilot thee."