Note To Self:*

If the world were to end tomorrow, today would just be today. Lunch would just be lunch, depending which day, the sun would rise and the sun would set and I would probably be leaving a lot of things unsaid, because how am I supposed to know the world is going to end tomorrow?

If the world were to end tomorrow, I would leave the idea of tomorrow to gather dust ‘till the sun’s fingers came to pluck it from my grasp, and I would not mind letting it go.

For if the world were to end tomorrow, tomorrow would be the most beautiful thing to ever happen to this world since God first sang, “Let there be light.”

And there was light. And tomorrow, again.



Things To Do:

1. Cook some hot, sticky rice for breakfast. These little legs of mine will be needing all the energy they can get for some spontaneous visits and last attempts at trying to save the child who dug his own grave and is now standing at its mouth asking himself if this is what heaven looks like.

2. Make my way to the resting place of the one I loved the most.
Smile. I don’t know if it would be wide or not.
Leave a note in green ink —
“See you soon.”
Hug the stone angel that used to give you comfort when you had just lost your mother.
Hum a hymn on my way out.
Leave the gate unlocked.
Let the street children pour in.

3. Run back to the walls placed in my path,
dance around seven times while singing psalms
until they fell
if
they fell
or maybe I would stumble around seven times
while crying and screaming mercy
until they fell
if
they fell.

4. Love harder. Carry around words of fire, vomiting flames of spirit and life to keep the virgins’ lamps burning, remind them that their groom is returning, He just needs to make sure that everything will be pure in time for their vows, and they need to remember that death is not the final destination, but only the beginning of a new journey in which everywhere you go, your car window view is a valley of dry bones coming back to life, and if still they refuse to listen, I will only love them harder.

5. Pretend as if I’m dying then whisper stories of hope into the ear of the kind stranger that kneels down to help me. For some people only listen when shouts have become echoes.

6. Ask around for directions and instructions on how to finish off this list I am making. Take the hands of whoever has the right answers or of whoever has at least one of the same on their sheet of paper, run to any place we can call shelter and sing praises. Quietly. Loudly. Sing with nasal tones and chest tones and head tones, sing until our lungs collapse beneath us, sing like our shakey notes can pierce the darkness, sing like the moon is still shining and the sun isn’t darkened and all the stars haven’t yet fallen, sing until we see glory bleeding from the sky and

7. Weep with gladness. For here comes God singing for the second time,

“Let there be light.”

And there was light. And today, again.

I used to be delighted around fire.
Blowing out candy-colored candles,
On carefully crafted cakes,
And I watched as year by year they increased.

I used to be fascinated by fire.
Eyes as bright as the flames I glared at,
Sat in my parents’ bathroom, with my parents’ lighter.
Burning pieces of tissue until the paper was nearly consumed.

I used to be afraid of fire.
Sparks danced and leapt beside our home,
Turning grass into ash, flowers into embers.
3 in the morning could’ve ended up in mourning

I used to be on fire.
Passionate and determined for all the wrong reasons,
And the world doused me in its cold, unforgiving water,
Too damp to light, too late to recover.

I was drawn to temptation like a moth to the flame,
But the fire only singed my wings,
And though the flames made me feel pain,
At least I was feeling something.

I was a charred and hopeless pile of nothing,
Smoke slowly rising from the blaze I could’ve been,
Ashes as dark and blackened as my heart,
Abandoned and pitiful like a used campfire in the woods.

Then I heard the scratch of a match,
The rubbing of rocks,
The scraping of sticks,
And then the crackle of a new and growing fire.

Someone had set me ablaze once again.
Fanning my flames even though He was scorching his fingers,
Made sure I was flourishing, made sure I never went out,
Until I grew bigger and brighter than I had ever been.

I am on fire once again, but only for the One who lit my flames,
Glowing and burning for His glory.
Hoping that one day my embers would spread far and wide enough.
To be able enough to ignite for Him, someone else’s ashes.

write as if you have something to say
because you do

write as if the sky wasn't blue and every day is as upside down as the next
write in colors then write in black and white

write to me
write to those who need it the most, even if they won't admit it

write about your dreams and hopes for the future
and watch them come alive before your very eyes

as you write whatever thought comes out of your head
though it may sound like gibberish

write because you can
it is your freedom

write novels that span pages upon pages bound together by leather or
some short words

write as if he didn't break your heart
and then write as if he did to piece it back together

write to unlock doors and open minds
write to make others and, more importantly, yourself aware

write because you will see
you will see your ideas trickle down into your fingertips and out your pen

onto a tangible and real medium that you may look back on one day
and remember why you started writing in the first place

write to make sense of what doesn't
in hopes that, one day, it'll be more than just in writing

write and fold it into a creaseless paper plane
let it fly and, boy, enjoy seeing where it takes you

then write to: home on one of those rectangular postcards
document every day and its little details

write it all down
and then live it all out

“I love you” as easily as other girls do.
But I stutter and bite my tongue instead.
I wish I could say “I’m your princess”.
But I know I’m not.
You see other fathers have promised that they’ve got their daughter’s back; you said to kick-****.
I wish I could say you’re my protector, but you’re more than that--- you’re my commander.
Other girls had their father’s hands all throughout their “firsts”
First bicycle ride—you sat me down the chair and pushed it down the hill.
(Thank God I didn’t die.)
I wish I could easily talk with you and laugh with you like other girls can with their fathers
But I know I can’t, because somewhere along the way---we’ve misunderstood.
You had no father, and I can’t seem to find mine.
I’m sorry for that one drunken night
When I asked you if you loved my mother--- if you loved me.
When I whispered a daughter’s greatest insult: I wish to never marry a man like you.
You see, I didn’t understand how a father’s love can be:
So true and so pure.
Ever gracious and ever merciful.
I’m sorry for comparing and blaming you for what you’re not.
Always looking for something else.
But daddy, you’ve taught me a lot.
How fear and love can truly mix.
How tough love actually exists.
You’ve always claimed to be imperfect, but honestly, you’re the best for me.

An old crow does not fly;
        dark, lopped wings un-sing.

His straw men long’d fought,
        are now with stuffing wring.

A lone branch holds his feet,
        claws scratching at its folds.

His caws now echo hoarse,
        his weak legs too grow cold.

His wings yearn but to spread,
        but spread yearn they to die;

To straws he cannot cling,
        hence trust put he to sky.

I will always remember you, too.
You must be so beautiful in autumn,
You, with your golden brown smile
and clear blue laughter.
Someday, I will hear it again, and I will listen
with my heart as your fingers glide across continents.

You are so much more than a pair of green eyes.
Your heart is golden but sometimes your thoughts dull its shine.
It might take some rain and maybe even a thunderstorm, but I promise you,
It will be worth far more than the pain
to see you
see for the first time.
And you are nearing that day.