It Won’t Cost Much…Just Your Voice.

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Sometimes it isn’t easy to speak up. No, make that “a lot of the time”. Not about the little things like where to eat for dinner or whether or not that color suits my husband. What I am talking about are issues of substance, contentious issues, delicate issues, emotional issues, volatile issues, heart-heavy issues. In those cases, it’s really hard for me to speak up. Those in my life know that I take my time with my words. I am not a person to shoot from the hip in an argument or a fight. It is almost a physical impossibility for me, actually. My throat closes, my chest burns, and I just…can’t. Sometimes I wish I could. I wish I could yell and scream and call people out but that is not the way I was built. Often, the words that I wanted for that situation do not come until later and, then, the moment has passed and I am unwilling to dredge up uncomfortableness again in order to make my point. And, often, I wonder if that’s not the best thing, but that is a whole other thought process. When I do have enough of a fire in my belly or conviction to speak up – especially when my opinion or view stands in opposition to people close to me – I worry. I worry about what people will think. I sit and churn in fear that something is going to pop up on my computer, on my phone, in my mailbox, with someone ripping me apart for speaking honestly of my mind or from my heart. And that fear can ruin an entire day or even days on end.

While this might not necessarily fall under lalophobia or might even be more accurately described as a fear of rejection, it is something that I deal with constantly. I am a quiet person by nature, not someone who stands tall and shouts at the world or even those around, particularly on volatile subjects, whether they be personal, political, etc. But, sometimes, there are things that I need to say. I check my words against my own judgement, as well as those of trusted family and friends if necessary. Nothing I say or write is said lightly or without consideration. Sometimes I’m wrong and I admit it. But the fear is always there – the fear of being lambasted for having an opinion, for seeing things differently or feeling differently than others. It might not make sense to some or may sound silly to others but there it is. I go out of my way to promote peace and harmony within my community of life, as much as I may, sometimes at the cost of my own voice. And, most of the time, I count the cost as worth it. There are some battles that just do not need to be fought. However, I’m trying to be bolder, and, while that might not mean necessarily conquering this fear (fear can promote caution, after all), admitting to it is a start. At least, that is my hope. I do not want to sacrifice my voice when it is important to me.

So here it is. Sometimes I do not speak up for myself. It is not because I do not have an opinion, point of view, or heart to speak of, no. When I do not speak up, it is because I am afraid. I am afraid that it will ruin your opinion of me. I am afraid that you will be angry. I am afraid that my honesty will backfire and cause pain or hurt. So I stay silent a great deal of the time, silent and thinking.

I want to balance my honesty with wisdom. I want to continue to listen to my gut when it tells me to speak but to temper my words spoken with gentleness and respect. There are hundreds upon thousands of voices (and far more) shouting and clamoring to be heard for whatever reason, on whatever issue, with whatever emotion or feeling – in big arenas and small. Words are one of the most powerful entities in existence, and I want to use them wisely.

Book Review: Battle Magic by Tamora Pierce

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83067256-20-14 – Finally and at long last! Ever since reading Pierce’s Melting Stones several years ago, I have hungered for more of Evumeimei Dingzai’s story. I really should have read Stone Magic, as it currently sits on my shelf, the beginning of her story in that she was discovered by Briar, but I shall simply chalk it up to working backwards through Evvy’s trilogy. Now, at last, I have Battle Magic, the story of the war between Yanjing and Gyongxe that is so often referenced in Melting Stones.

Battle Magic was my birthday gift from my husband and I have fallen in love with Pierce’s writing all over again, devouring more than half the book in only two days of reading. I know, I know, it’s pittance to my old reading habits but, believe me, that’s saying a LOT in these days of an active eighteen-month-old girl. 🙂

The newest character to me from these books is undoubtedly Briar Mos, the one who discovered Evumeimei and her ability first of all in Stone Magic and the mage who discovers the power is the mage who must train the power. Briar, at the tender age of sixteen, is a fully-certified mage under the Winding Circle Temple. I greatly enjoy the relationship between Briar and his mentor Rosethorn, about whom I know as little, having not read The Circle Opens quartet, nor far enough into The Will of the Empress to know her very well. She is very interesting to me, though, and I have a feeling that I will be expanding my Pierce collection even more after I finish Battle Magic and Stone Magic.

And Luvo! I can’t really say more than that but….squee!!! Luvo! That moment alone made me hug my Kindle as I read on the plane.

I shall return with updates soon!

9-26-14 – I LOVED this book! I finished it a few days ago and actually hugged the book when I was through with it. The first book I have actually finished in about a year or so and I regretted that it was over, though that means that I can now move on to Stone Magic, the beginning of Evvy’s story, which is awesome. Thank you, Tamora, for telling us this story. It was well worth the wait. ^_^

When a Good Start Just Isn’t Enough – #HeForShe

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Author’s Note: I am not an educated feminist, I would not survive the sort of quiz that Mia McKenzie posits in the second-to-last paragraph of her article, cited below. I also know that, in writing this, I run the risk of upsetting people. But this blog is about being bold and honest. That being said, these are my opinions and I own them utterly and completely.

*digs in the closet, pulls out my soapbox, dusts it off, and stands on it* Just for a little while, I promise.

I noticed something that disturbed me last night. Recently, Emma Watson – the portrayer of the beloved character Hermione Granger in the Harry Potter movie series and now appointed a Goodwill Ambassador to the UN – presented a speech announcing the formation of HeForShe, a campaign to advocate for the ending of gender inequality. Now, notice what I just said: to end gender inequality. I did not say to promote feminism. Emma Watson calls herself a feminist, says that she has been ever since she was young girl, and now her position as a Goodwill Ambassador has placed her in a unique position to affect growth and change in the journey toward and fight for gender equality. What has disturbed me is that, already, there are those who would say that she isn’t doing enough, that her feminism isn’t rounded out well enough or analyzed deeply enough. I refer particularly to Mia McKenzie’s article “Why I’m Not Really Here For Emma Watson’s Feminism Speech at the U.N.“.

Miss McKenzie, a prolific writer on the subjects of race, gender, queerness, and class, admonishes that Emma Watson is far from being the icon for feminism that society would apparently make her, calling for her analyses of specific issues in feminism and gender politics, some of which, honestly, I have never even heard of. (I’ll definitely have to look up misogynoir.) And my immediate reaction was to think, “Why is it not enough to make a good start?” Why must we tear someone down just as they get out of the gate? Who are you to say just how much of a feminist she is, and how right her stance is just because she is different from you? What makes her experience or her voice and opinion any less valid than yours or mine, just because of who she is? Why should she have “to step aside and make room for women of color to be heard if gender inequality is ever to be eradicated (McKenzie)”. There ARE women of color being heard, every day. You, for example, Miss McKenzie. Emma Watson did not ask to be called a “game-changing feminist”. She merely cited her personal experience as a feminist on the platform that was afforded her. This woman is young, in her first decade of adulthood, and is still researching and redefining her feminism, as is evident in her own speech.

Most of us had nicknames when we were kids, and, 90% of the time, they were not nicknames that we chose for ourselves and, roughly about that same amount of the time, I’m sure we didn’t care for them. How would you feel is someone decided to judge you based on a nickname that someone else gave you but that didn’t truly represent you as a person? Unfair, yes? Then let’s not do it. Let us not judge Miss Watson purely by the title that others have begun to tack onto her, rather than on her own merits and actions.

I, personally, do not call myself a feminist. In fact, I kind of dislike being called a feminist as it often feel exclusionary to me. I don’t read every article, I don’t research every issue. I don’t go blind with rage at the injustices that are readily apparent in the world. I know they are there. I see them. I acknowledge them. They break my heart. As you can see from the dust around my feet, though, this soapbox doesn’t get used all that often. More’s the pity, some would say. I need to step up and make my voice heard, my actions seen, others would say. And while this might be true, I still don’t call myself a feminist. The rights that women fight for are the same rights that should belong to all human beings. They are human rights. I will happily quote Miss Watson’s speech here as she has put it just as I would myself: “For the record, feminism by definition is the belief that men and women should have equal rights and opportunities. It is the theory of political, economic and social equality of the sexes.” Equal rights for both men AND women. Men and women of all ages, races, shapes, and abilities, working together on equal footing – politically, socially, financially, and emotionally.

Because Emma Watson is white and (we assume) straight, it appears, to me, as though Miss McKenzie is discounting her feminism in her article. I hesitate to even qualify my statements here as coming from a black woman because I’m about as vanilla as you can get as far as gender issues and politics go. But, nevertheless, I think that Emma has made a good start in the position to which she has been appointed. Further, deeper changes, insights, and analyses will come with time. This is but a start. It more than bugs me that someone’s good beginning should be discounted because you don’t agree with everything they said and they didn’t vomit forth on every gendered issue out there in a thirteen-minute speech. I will agree with Miss McKenzie, however, in that I hope that Emma Watson does turn out to be a kick-ass game-changer as she continues on in not only her feminist but also humanist work as an adult and a Goodwill Ambassador. Thank you, Emma Watson, for your work and your good beginning thus far.

Just remember, people, this is a start. You don’t cross the finish line when you leave the starting block. You have to run the race first.

*steps down off my soapbox, dusts off my feet, and puts it back in the closet*

Pretty Unmentionables Day

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There are days that just require pretty underthings. I don’t know how much you think on or even agree with this but it is true for me, at least. There are days when I feel so down about my body (even though I am working hard to be happy with it again) that the only thing that makes me feel better about the physical me is wearing pretty underwear. Today, it was a lacy navy bra from Victoria’s Secret and a lovely, cheeky pair of purple panties with navy-blue hearts and trimmed with matching lace. One of those underwear sets that, though you don’t buy them together, end up being just perfect for each other and for you. Today was a necessary Pretty Unmentionables Day, though, of course, now I’ve mentioned them. Oops!

Honestly, I am unhappy with my body right now. I don’t like the way I look from sternum to thigh. And it bothers me greatly because, just one month ago, I thought I looked quite good and I felt all around. I am not sure what in my routine has changed since then but, yeah, not happy right now. So it’s time to step up the working out and going back to watching what I eat more carefully. I want to be healthy and strong, and feel good about myself, but, right now, I don’t. So that needs to change, but change doesn’t happen in 24 hours. So I needed a Pretty Unmentionables Day.

There come times when we all just need a _______ Day. That day where we do what we can to feel better or to give negative feelings and attitudes the middle finger and go on with our day in spite of them. A dear friend of mine has Pretty Lipstick Day when she’s feeling down and I have participated in that a few times. Uniting is good, especially when it is a union in defiance of negativity. I didn’t feel great about myself today as I dressed but, all day, I remembered that underneath my jeans and top, though no one else saw (OK, so I showed the husband when he came home), I was wearing pretty, lacy underthings. Underthings that made me feel alluring and, in my eyes, made me look quite good, which was the entire point.

Don’t be afraid to take your ___________ Day, whatever it might be that you do for yourself and just for yourself. It can be something obvious or something that you hold as just your own little secret. We all need those days every now and again, the days when we pick ourselves up, brush off, and decide that there will be at least one bright spot in our minds and hearts that day. And it can still do us good, even if no one else knows about it.

That Time of Year

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It’s fast approaching. That time of year. The holidays. Dinners and parties and get-togethers. Decorating, dressing, and entertaining. The time to decorate our homes with warm fall colors, pumpkins, squashes, autumnal leaves. And I look around my little house and wonder, “What I can do to make it look classy and gorgeous for the holidays. How I can make it perfect?”

That’s the trap, though, isn’t it? Perfection. I want my home to be warm and inviting, to smell of spiced cider and cranberry. I want people to walk into my home and gasp (or at least smile) at the elegance of the decoration because, let’s be honest, there’s nothing elegant about my house in and of itself. I want to make it worth the drive for people to come to my home. I want my table to be lovely. I want my living room to be clean, classy, and inviting. I want people to be comfortable and delighted in my home, simple though it may be. As I look around, I cannot help but wonder if they would be now. My child’s toys are tucked into a corner and in front of the entertainment center in my living room, and the fake fireplace of said entertainment center no longer works, which makes me sad (it served me well for almost six years, though). Half of the bookshelves are overflowing and really need to be neatened up. My couches could use a good scrubbing. So I look at the inner sanctum of my life and wonder what I can do to make it elegant and perfect. I want my home to be worth the travel. I just changed the curtains and put new covers on the couch pillows so now they all tie in with the couches and the floor rug and are rather pretty in their greens, browns, tans, and blues. But I still wonder: what more can I do? What can I do to make it perfect?

I want my home to be a place where people feel safe and comfortable and at home. Where they can come to rest and enjoy the company of friends and feel welcome. But I don’t want to get caught in that trap of being perfect. My home will never grace the pages of a magazine. I will never have articles written about my decorating style and creative hacks. And that’s OK. I don’t want that. I want a living room full of friends lounging on couches, flopped on pillows, curled up in blankets with mugs of cider or mulled wine, talking, laughing, and enjoying each other’s company. So I guess the question should be: what can I do to make my home welcoming? What can I do to make my home a place where people feel safe, refreshed, encouraged, and always welcome?

Because I want you to be.

Heart Taps: God’s Blessings

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From my husband’s sermon yesterday:

Scripture: 2 Corinthians 4

Main Text: 15 All this is for your benefit, so that the grace that is reaching more and more people may cause thanksgiving to overflow to the glory of God.

16 Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardlywe are being renewed day by day. 17 For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. 18 So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen, since what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.

= = =
“God’s blessings do NOT equal “stuff”, money or possessions or things. The blessings that God gives us to us are the happenings/events in our lives that encourage us to draw closer to Him, even the difficult and “bad” times. The blessing comes in that we become better people, better Christians through having to trust in Him through those times, both ours and others’. We are blessed with experiences that allow us to draw closer to God’s heart and to be good to/for and love on others.”

To Break an Angel’s Heart

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Once upon a time, an angel told a devil how to break her heart.

It was a strange event, the devil arriving at the edge of Heaven, and an even stranger question that he lobbed at her through the pearly gates.

“How could one break your heart?”

The angel’s wings waved pensively, the feathers brushing the golden bars of the gate. She was reminded of her erstwhile thoughts of whether the gate was to keep the devils out or the angels in.

How could one break your heart?

The question rang in her perfect ears, thrummed against her colorless skin, and pierced her inner light. Indeed, a touch of it seemed to spill from her chest, which she covered with her perfect hand.

“To break my heart, you must first find it.”

“Find it?” the devil echoed, “It is with you, is it not?”

The angel shook her perfect head, light and music spilling from the very rustle of her tresses. “It is not. It is there,” and she pointed beyond the gates, beyond Heaven, in a direction that most supernal beings agreed the earth laid. “It is in uncountable pieces, bits innumerable, hidden in lives lived, living, and to be lived from now through the end of time. In order to break it, you must gather it together, piece upon piece, bit upon bit, and then you must blacken it, every piece. Blacken it with greed, selfishness, unkindness, hate. Every portion must be touched, must be corrupted. In order for my heart to be brittle enough to break, every part of it must be burned and blackened with these flames. For, if even one is untouched, it will continue to beat and glow and that one piece will pour its light into others and those into others and so on. The light will never be diminished.” She blinked perfect, colorless eyes.

“We were all made this way, with our hearts split asunder. That is why we sing and praise and smile and glow. For our hearts are always alight in some corner, spreading to others.”

The angel’s voice was like bells of silver in the devil’s ears as he listened to her explain. When she was done, he slunk away from where he had stood, an inch from Paradise, and walked slowly back down to the Kingdom Below. What he desired was impossible and would always be impossible, for, as long as there are virtues such as goodness, kindness, love, patience, and generosity in but one human heart, that good will pour itself into another and another and another. Good abounding in people uncountable, lives and souls innumerable and alight.

Breathing Love

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Tonight, as with most nights lately, Elizabeth and I disagreed on the fact that she needed sleep. She didn’t nap today but fifteen minutes in the car so I knew she was tired, as well as all the normal signs being there (flopping on the floor with her blankie, rubbing her eyes and nose, going to the gate to be let into her room). However, instead of relaxing and letting me rock her to sleep, she began to fight me to get up and out of my lap and back to the living room. This was my second attempt at rocking her as putting her down in her crib to put herself to sleep resulted in her a) playing a game of peek-a-boo over the railing where she giggled when I told her to lie down or b) trying to climb out of her crib if I left the room and ignored her antics. So as I held her and she began to fight again and I felt the frustration start to kick in, I felt something in me just urging, “Tell her you love her.”

So I did. I kissed her forehead and told my little girl that I loved her.

And it urged, “Tell her again.”

So I did.

“And again. Don’t stop.”

As so I just began repeating “I love you” to Elizabeth, whispering it on every breath. Breathe in. Breathe out: “I love you.” Breathe in. Breathe out: “I love you”.

At first, it was an odd experience to repeat the same phrase over and over again, but then, as I did, it literally became a breathing pattern. And, also, I saw her relax and calm. Her fighting stopped, her breathing evened out, and those little brown eyes fluttered closed bit by bit. Soon, her paci half-lolled out of her mouth in that way that tells me that she’s long gone asleep. And yet I rocked and held her and whispered, “I love you.” It was hard to stop, I found.

Finally, I kissed her one last time, rose from the rocking chair, and laid her down in her crib, tucking her in with a stroke to her hair and a last-breathed, “I love you.” And that was that.

Now, I do not see myself as having the spiritual gift of prophesying or of being one who hears God clearly and pointed all that often in my every-day life, but I believe that it was God’s voice whispering to me tonight and telling me simply to remind my daughter, over and over, that I love her. Elizabeth is 20 months old, almost two, and she is showing it all the time. She’s adventurous and fearless but also willful and melodramatic and, dare I say it, a little bit spoiled. As a stay-at-home currently, I am her primary caregiver and that includes discipline. So I’m sure, somewhere in her toddler brain, it might seem like Mum-mum doesn’t want her to do anything fun or exciting, or maybe even that I don’t love her. But I do, more than I can say and, often, all I have are those three words: I love you. So, tonight, I believe that that urging in my heart and soul was God’s reminder for me to remind her that I do indeed love her. With every moment, with every breath, with every fiber of my being.

I love you, Elizabeth.

The Woman in My Mirror

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There is a woman who lives in my mirror and, sometimes, when I’m not paying attention, she will peek out. And, sometimes still, when I look back, I will catch her and I will freeze. It’s like turning and finding yourself face-to-face with a deer. You don’t want to move for fear that it will start and disappear and the beauty will leave you. So you sit there, breathing as shallowly as you can, your breath silvering out before you in the cold. That is how I felt looking at my own reflection yesterday.

The woman who looked back at me didn’t look like me. She was too…lovely, too refined, had too elegant a line to her jaw, too graceful a curve to her cheeks, and almond shape to her eyes. There was a quality about her that made me not want to breathe, for fear she would wisp away and be just a dream. She followed my movements, mirrored them, and for the longest moment to date, I kept her with me. We even smiled at each other a little. And then, I blinked and she was gone, and I saw myself through my own eyes again, as I always do. For a few seconds that felt like hours, I was breathless. Breathless with the sight of her and with the missing of her.

I looked for her again tonight but I couldn’t find her. All I could find was a woman tired and worn, desperately looking for a bit of beauty in a busy day. And I found it, just not in the mirror tonight. But you know what? I know she’s there. And I know she’s me. And, in those moments, I get to see myself differently. I don’t know just whose eyes I am seeing through then but I am grateful for them and for the reminder.

A Passion for Letters

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In the drawer of my nightstand, there are stacks of letters, cards, and emails, either tied together with ribbons or held together with paperclips stretched to their limit (which will soon breathe their last and be replaced with the aforementioned ribbons). These stacks are representative of people who are important in my life, those who have taken the time to put pen to paper and write to me: their thoughts, their feelings, the happenings in their lives – the good and the bad – their joys, and their struggles. I cannot throw these letters out; there’s too much in them. These are heart strands plainly writ. I could no more be rid of them than I could my own journals.

There are letters that I have lost over the years that I wish I still had, particularly from my first pen pal. We were teenagers and Leah and I became very close, writing to each other almost weekly, as well as checking in and chatting online. I wish I still had her brightly-inked letters but they are surely long gone, unfortunately. So, now, I endeavor to hang on to those notes from friends and family, people I love, those proofs of their effort and heart for me. Most who know me know that I am an epistophile – a person in love with the written tradition. I love the nuances of a person’s handwriting, the time it took for them to create that particular piece of writing. Even when words are crossed or inked out, I enjoy it. It is evidence of thought, of the writer working through their thoughts as they write, either thinking better or more of what they say before they say it, a virtue that has been largely lost these days, I feel.

In my purse, I carry a handwritten “Dear Beautiful Stranger” letter, inspired by the same action taken by For the Wild and the Free. I used to have four of them but three of them found their way into books and onto shelves in several stores around Muncie. I have this one left and am just waiting to find the perfect space in which to leave it for someone to find, someone whom I will never meet but that I hope will pass on the positive message to someone else somewhere else.

Letter writing is a joy. It is an art. It a heart-craft. These letters – like my journals – are the tangible proof of my life, of our lives, of the existence of friendships and relationships. They are proof (some of it) that I am and those whom I love are.