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.

Music.

Standin' in the rain

With his head hung low

Couldn't get a ticket,

It was a sold out show.

Heard the roar of the crowd

He could picture the scene

Put his head to the wall

And like a distant scream

He heard one guitar

Just blew him away

Saw stars in his eyes

And the very next day

He bought a beat up six string

In a secondhand store.

Didn't know how to play it

But he knew for sure

 That one guitar

Felt good in his hands.

--Jukebox Hero, by Foreigner.  

That one guitar. The roar of metal and noise and vibration that reached to the man's heart. Stars in his eyes. That one guitar, like a distant scream. Just blew him away.

Absolutely spectacular. 

 Jukebox Hero makes me remember how music reaches to the very soul of the person listening. It makes me remember how the fierce, aggressive, passionate style of rock is an amazing work of art. The power of one sound changed the man's life--his whole life. That is awe-inspiring. Music brings me such joy--often I'll listen and that one guitar will suddenly penetrate my heart. My head will go back and I'll laugh in pure ecstasy. Music. 

What a gift. 

When I am down, and Oh, my soul's so weary;

When troubles come, and my heart burdened be

Then I am still and sit here in the silence,

Until you come and sit awhile with me. 

You raise me up, so I can stand on mountains

You raise me up, to stand of stormy seas

I am strong, when I am on your shoulders

You raise me up...to more than I can be. 

--You Raise Me Up, hymn

I don't understand it. How mere sounds have the power to make people laugh, cry, dance--it will always be a mystery. I just know what is. And I see a stunning tableau of light fighting dark, joy conquering sadness, and the human heart bursting. Someday, someday, this battle called life will be over. Then we'll see what true joy looks like, and it will resonate in our very souls like the notes of fire we call music. 

I guess I was feeling philosophic. Hope y'all don't mind. 

What next?

       In reality, I am a little girl wearing pigtails that clings to her mother's hand in fright. I pretend to be mature, strong, independant, but...some things have to be a pretense before they become reality. I won't say I'm unable.
       This whole college deal makes me feel like a twelve-year-old who walks into a bar and orders a drink. Very small, on that barstool of life. But I can't pretend--I just have to believe in myself. And that (for me, at least) is akin to climbing mount Everest. With no oxygen tank. But...I won't have to do it alone.
       I fell out of my mother's nest rather suddenly a few weeks ago and began to enter a stage in my life with absolutely no supervision. "FFREEDOOMMM!!"
That was the jist of my thoughts. Heh. I squeaked it with eyes wide with fright, as I boarded the bus headed towards independent education. Frankly, I'm scared. The responsibilities and experiences of adulthood are in view...just not at hand.
       So. What next? I have so many dreams piled up in my heart, and yet I know most of them will be thought of fondly and then put aside for later. I have already had to chose between dreams, and I have come to terms with it. But...I still dream of being able to follow all my dreams. What's going to happen? Where will the Lord take me? I can say with an excited whisper, "I...don't...know." I'm just a fledgling, with wings not yet tried, still clinging to a branch and looking out onto the most beautiful thing--the world spread beneath my feet. But soon, very soon, I'll feel the wind on my face, lifting under my wings, and I'll fly to places I've never dreamed of. With a guiding hand in my own, loving family gathered around me, and friends to share in my escapades, I sit on that branch. Turns out, it holds more scrapes and adventures that I thought.
       What Next. 
     
     

A snippet of stuff

I stared at the horse's back. He might have been skinny, but he was obviously not short. But it was nothing new. I had been up and down on a horse's back so many times in the past two years that wasn't the scary part. Actually there wasn't a scary part. What could possibly go wrong? A windy path, gates, mud, flies, and a highly populated trail. Hm.
       It sounded like a whole lot of fun.
       Scary fun.
       Whatever.
       I have the sweetest friend. She takes me horseback riding. I love her.  She seems to have this easy trust in me: Something I'm very glad of. Sometimes you have to fake that you know what you're doing. Seems to me I do that alot. I'm still not sure it was totally wise to stick me up on her sister's horse and say, "here we go!" Thing is, I trust her back. So I hopped up.

      Well, we only got lost once. And I only almost ran a jogger over once. And I didn't fall off. And I galloped for the first time in my life. So all things considered, our trail ride went quite well. Now that's what I call an adventure.