delight.

So maybe it's May 13th and the sky is colored a solid shade of gray. I love Seattle, I love Seattle, I love Seattle, you say as you walk through the heavy spring rain with a squinty face and soggy shoes.

Maybe learning isn't as easy as it was in the beginning. Maybe I've been running with feelings as fuel and coffee as sleep but I don't know how I could sit still when there's more world to touch with these feet.
Maybe the rain falls so we have to sit with our thoughts.

I don't write down life the way I used to. My thoughts don't crawl in black lines on white.

For all of those I live life with:

We're on our way. We're learning to surrender. Love is louder than all of this damn noise.

Be happy, hungry hearts. Be grateful but don't stand still.

These days may be filled with stacks of required reading, scantrons, cafeteria coffee, and a decent dose of confusion.



But I'm in love with the light in this world.

super.

duper.

new mexico.

by the way,

pad thai and a theological library.
i adore your story.




don't go far.
monday nights.


thanks for being home, my fellow bloated fortune telling fairy.




you're filled with honesty and light.
the world is glad to have you around.



i am theodore and you like peanut butter.



ready for a walk or two. or five.




Winter quarter 2009.
Check.

why the world should take color theory.

because studying for a final is mixing paints and playing with ideas of pure light and color spheres.

assymetrical.

She wears a thousand silver bracelets on her right wrist.
With a expo marker in one hand and a curled up, outdated text in the other, she pulls every eye up from their squeaky desk. She paces. Arms up over her head. Leans against the white board with her chunky boots crossed in front. Her voice, that voice that tastes of her british childhood, covered in confidence, perfectly calloused by life, carries truth found in hope; the voice that you can't help drink in pulls a picture of divine love into a room full of young, nervous hearts with twitchy feet. She lifts her hand. She presses the crease of her text with her pointer finger to keep it from folding itself.
Her outfit doesn't make sense. She doesn't know how to use the computer. She smells a lot like musky perfume and a little like cigarette. She's not a clever puzzle to piece together. No costume. No flowery words. No band aids. No botox.

She is. She just is.
She knows she wasn't a mistake.
This hyper, cynical, scarred, disorganized woman was completey and perfectly on purpose.
She knows it.

She warns us of trivial finish lines. She tells us love is never still. She reads aloud and laughs with Flannery O'Connor, cries with Nathaniel Hawthorne, and sees like CS Lewis.


Hey Suzanne.




Thanks.

firefly.