there's something about cold weather

that brings you closer to other people.

it’s one thing to be friendly when all the world is - sunny, warm temperatures, shorts and bright colors. it’s a completely different thing when even the skies take on a gray tint.

it’s cold and hard to get out of the house. everything requires extra effort, everything is covered with frost.

but then there’s a flip side. buildings become cozy, the warmth and friendliness of summer preserved in a cup of coffee or tea. and when it’s shared with other people, it becomes a moment of instant friendship.

blankets are shared, feet in thick socks and uggs. breath is frozen in the air, then melted by the warmth of a bonfire, huddled together. holiday food, blankets, cooking, memories.

when all the world is cold and moody - that extra measure, that extra effort it takes to be a friend and reach out - is all the more worthwhile.

Russia.

i’m being called there.

let me explain a bit. we have a school mission trip going there over spring break, and it’s mad expensive but i feel… positive, that when i step into that country it will all be worth it.

the problem is, everyone but my parents share that feeling with me.

it just seems like a perfect fit. we’re traveling, and working with orphans who have disabilities. orphans, children, and the disabled have always had a place in my heart, especially on the mission field. i’ve never had an opportunity like this before - who says i’ll have it again?

and this passion. oh. it was kindled when i first heard the words moscow, russia attached with such a tangible, world-changing meaning.

one of my friends said this: “the cool thing about misssions is that God will provide a way. i’ve never seen a mission trip fail because someone didn’t have enough money.”

so if God wants me to go, i’ll be able to. i have to see if it’s logical, of course, because that country isn’t necessarily safe, and everything attached with college is expensive.

but it’s in God’s hands now, and it always has been.

Psychologists

have diagnosed a disorder where a person, out of worry or grief, will actually start showing symptoms of a disorder, even though they are perfectly healthy. Maybe this is what happens when you want something too much. Like a track star so worried about states he gives himself shin splints, or an artist so concerned with the upcoming contest she loses all inspiration. You might think you've moved past an emotion, healed. But when it's prompted or teased, something stirs deep inside. A shadow of a real emotion comes, casting doubt and creating the notion that you have a crush on someone when, really, you're just good friends. You just want to be loved so badly you will fabricate it out of nothing, out of anyone. Maybe that's what desire does. Distort. Confuse. How would psychologists, then, diagnose this?

A writer's process.

Scribbles on countless pages. Notebooks. Old assignments. Post-its. My handwriting in margins, tiny and cramped, an attempt to collect my thoughts. Writing whenever and wherever the inspiration strikes or an idea takes hold, some like a lightening strike and some like a whisper. Various colors, various inks. Words then tumble out from my mind onto paper like unruly children.To put them in even, straight lines would take away their powerful individuality, their sharp descriptions. So instead I give them free reign, guiding my hand, finding even myself curious to see what they will create.

An idea.

A notion.

A tingle, on my spine, on my brain stem.

Electricity, sparks.

A fire, kindled.

Exploding.

Forming pictures, color, words.

A story. A design.

Searing through synapses,

running down veins,

jerking muscles,

moving the tongue,

the hand.

Shapes to create words,

to create emotion for me,

then to move to someone else,

A flare.

A notion.

An idea.

if hope is a thing with feathers,

can’t it also be just a thing with wings?

a thing that stirrs in a gentle breeze,
in a whispered word,
in a dark tunnel with only a glimmer of light at the end?
a thing that needs only a faint smile
to infer that everything will be all right?
a thing, that despite what the world says,
sees not only cloud nine,
but a future on it?
can’t hope be a thing -
anything -
that you make it to be?

Image.

She lay on the ground, head turned away from the mirror. Ran her hands over her body. She felt bumps, love handles, soft flesh where it should have been taut and lean. Every extra indulgence, laid out for the world to see. A body of imperfection. Guilt. She sighed, feeling so unlovable. So fat.

She couldn't see why it was worth it to live if she looked like this. Who in their right mind would talk to her, get to know her, much less love her?

The very thought of food was nauseating. All she had eaten today were two crackers and half a cookie. Even that was too much.

She wanted to waste away, to melt into the earth. To let the cold seep in, freeze away her outside, so she could find the inside. The only part that was left to love. But the summer sun still shone with bright light outside; winter was half a year away. No, the easiest way to get inside was to starve in from the outside.

And so she had. Ignoring the clenching of her stomach, the cries of torture coming from her body. I'm finally doing something right, she thought. Every time she resisted, there was a new victory.

And yet, if she had only turned her face toward the mirror, she would have seen a different story. Ribs under skin, stretched thin over bones and ligaments. Muscle undernourished, forced to feed on itself for survival, wasting away into ribbon-like shreds. Joints, large and knobbly. A tiny body. A skeleton. A person close to death.

One of them must be lying.

Both tell a story; both tell of pain; both tell of a lie that did not originate on its own.

The question is, who is right? Who is wrong? And who started the lie?

*disclaimer: this is NOT about me! purely fiction :)