Golden Thyme

Golden Thyme
Coffee and Tea
You don't have any room for me

"What can I get for you?
Coffee, light, with room for cream?"

I'll take mine hollow
With brine.
You don't think
Anything of me.

Midas Touch

The streets and roads
Are paved with gold
But no heart is left in them.
The Midas touch lies over this land
And has left the people heartless.

The streets and roads
Are paved with gold
But the crude and base
Have not suffered.

Instead, like Jason hunting the Fleece,
The glitter is what draws us
Stalks us
Kills us.

Your other master is left in the dust

And all you have is dust.

With airy smiles
That charm ad beguile,
We ignore the world before us.
Our minds are clouded,
Filled up with lies,
We miss the truth before us.

That Midas dream
Would be filling,
It seems,
But all that is left
Are streets and roads
Paved with gold
With no heart left in them.

Good Girl

       I finally relented. After a winter of hinting and winking, I took the leap and bought a skateboard. My brother was ecstatic. A year ago Dj bought a longboard and ever since he's been petitioning for me to get one. Due to my phobia of spending large amounts of money, I waited. And waited.

       And waited.

       Over spring break, my brother took me to Zumiez. If he didn't consider himself too dignified to bounce up and down in company other than my own, he would have been doing jumping-jacks all through the mall. We looked for a while at the longboards, but my gut told me to go classic. That meant a skateboard. I flipped through the racks of decks, trying to decide. It would be pretty awesome, I thought. And after all, I can pull off anything I want. I can be a skater chick if I want to. I hefted a deck--this one was green with leaves all over it. I like leaves. 

       "Karly, that's weed." Said Dj.
     
       I dropped the offending deck like that time I threw my knife and grabbed it by the blade. Maybe "Skater chick" was a bit too loose a term for me.
 
       After much deciding, I did go with a skateboard and had one custom built. It's sitting downstairs as I write, the scuffs and dirt a testament to my efforts to not take a faceplant.

       The problem lies not with the skateboard, but with the stereotypes that go with it. Technically speaking, I'm a "good girl." Homeschooled, Christian (boy do I hate that label, but that's a discussion for another time), who doesn't consider "dating" to be something that should happen unless both parties involved are thinking of marriage. I stay out of trouble (sometimes), I don't loiter, and I try to obey my parents. A good girl shouldn't ride the streets on her (granted, incredibly cool) skateboard.

       I hate labels. I hate stereotypes. I hate that because I've live a certain way I feel like people expect me to be a certain way. I'm not a good girl. Nor am I a bad girl. I can ride my skateboard to church. I can enjoy a day at the gun range and put on my pointeshoes and tutu an hour later.

       That skateboard is a testament to my identity. I do not fit into a mold.        

     

Blue-collar Ballerina

Two weeks ago I fell down the stairs. Sadly, the fall was all pain and no style. It was nothing serious, but it kept me from dancing for two weeks.

Two weeks.

That's when I start hating myself. Two weeks is a frustrating number when you don't feel bad but know you need to take a break. But in the midst of all that mental stagnation, I started thinking.

Ballet isn't beautiful up close. It's painful. A dancer often looks worse before she looks better. And its  stinky--really really stinky. My brother can attest to that.

Ballet isn't always fun. Fulfilling, yes. But it's hard to have fun in the midst of aggravating those blisters over and over again. It's hard to feel happy when you are so ludicrously sore that moving hurts. Everywhere. Even in places you didn't know muscles existed.

I think to myself--there has to be a purpose to all this. There has to be a reason I keep returning. Well, even if I don't fully understand it yet, there is a reason. For now, dance is my calling. My goal is to follow God and bring Him glory through it. But I'm still learning how to put in "Him" instead of "I."

Dance isn't as much for fun as it used to be. It's for work. Glorious work that doesn't reflect on me, praise God. The thing is, with God, joy and work fit together like those heart necklaces that say "Best Friends" on them.

Two weeks ago I fell down the stairs. Praise God.

Greater

      In a world of prejudice and spite

In a world of pain and horror

In this place of beauty vs. ugly

Kindness vs. cruelty

man against man

woman against woman

Child against child

Where is the place of rest?

Is it found in the trees, the beautiful trees?

Or maybe in the rushing streams along the forest floor?

Could it be--are peace and rest found--

In laughter of other people,

In the presence of other souls,

In the touch of a loved one?

Turn to the child who says

“Mother I love you”

Turn to the dog who barks in happiness

Turn to the joys of something greater,

Of a presence we can’t ignore.

If the trumpeted cry of the mountains,

The pleading voice of the eagle,

The pounding feet of the deer in autumn

Were not passed by,

Perhaps we’d find the Greater Rest,

The presence we can’t ignore.