My Dear Reader,

It has been a while. But the flow of writing has an peaks and troughs just like any wave would, so I will be back with plenty eventually. And that this is how C.S. Lewis describes our spirituality. He likens it to a sine wave. There are times when we are wholly and entirely motivated and our connection with God comes with ease. Then there are the times when it is a struggle just to crack open the Bible or say the Lord’s Prayer with real zeal and meaning. Danger lies in any complacency we may develop during the spiritual lull. So the key to emerging from the depths lies in the recognition of the trough. Only then can we begin to reach upward and begin the ascent to the peak.

With that said, expect more to be written soon.

With Love,


i thank You God for most this amazing
day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky;and for everything
wich is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun's birthday;this is the birth
day of life and love and wings:and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any-lifted from the no
of all nothing-human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

- e.e. cummings

This is one of my favorite poems written by one of my favorite poets. No one does the topic of gratitude justice quite like he does. I have nothing more to add.

I left behind a few things in college that I have missed over the past year and a half. Acting was one of them. So in order to remedy that I recently auditioned for and was cast in a play with a local theater company. It’s a small play with a short rehearsal period. I was cast two weeks ago and next Saturday is the performance.

Now it’s time for me to make an admission. I expected to step back into my acting shoes with the same zest and enthusiasm, but I find myself lacking the same heart and passion I used to have for acting when I discovered it. It is most certainly not because I have gotten used to it. It may be impossible to get used to something that changes with every role that one takes on. No, it seems that I have changed. My passions aren’t quite the same anymore. They may not have been for a while now, but I can’t say so with certainty… It all seems to have crept up on me without me noticing it.

And that is the way most of life has been lately on an internal level–a slow metamorphosis. So although someone else may notice a stark difference, to me, this is the way I have always been. It was simply just not on the surface for all to see. Perhaps that is why I am always stunned whenever a dear friend points out to me that I am so different from the way I once was… “You used to be so much more liberal.” And my response is always the same: “I was not as liberal as you thought I was or I appeared to be.”

It seems that we all have a hard time seeing beyond the surface sometimes.

But as with any metamorphosis, the potential is always within and it is only the next natural step to be taken. The layers shed slowly until the true form emerges, but until it does in old, old age, the onus is on us to look deep within the individuals before us–to see their depths as He sees their depths (“Deep calls unto deep at noise of Your waterfalls…”)

It is only now that I have come to understand the purpose of this blog of mine. You, my dear readers, have been watching one girl become the woman she is meant to be (the most cliched and trite of all descriptions but it is the only one that fits right now.) This blog existed for almost a year before it came to WordPress and I took it all down for reasons I can’t recall. Over time I will be re-posting some of the old entries that fell off into an abyss somewhere in order to make the picture more complete.

The journey and the metamorphosis end when I breathe my last, but there have been and will be many plateaus along this journey up the mountain. Hopefully somewhere along this upward climb my value will grow to exceed that of precious rubies. I will acquire clothing of strength and honor. I will only open my mouth with wisdom only and the law of kindness will be on my tongue. I will simply remain nothing less than a God-fearing woman for the rest of my days. I will become a woman with keys.

But I can’t hand it all away right here…

So next Saturday I will step onto that stage and at the end of that performance I will take my final bow. There are still many roles to be filled but they don’t require a stage or a script or lights and curtains…

I am a woman with keys

Without a door

My wide angle perfect size

Still I pass through

And the space is made

To fit


My spaceship hands

This waterfall of feet

These ship-size eyes

A gun

The very air

It shapes me

Keys jingle

And fish fly protectively

Around my waist


I am a woman with keys

And all the doors are nailed

Dented shut with hammers

Unlikely to ever open on their own

But I am a key woman

I come jingling

And there is a ringing in my ear

That is not song

But how I enter

I am quilted down

With eyes and scale

This is jewelry on my belt

From the Living behind us

I enter        then I knock


I am a woman with keys

And this long middle sash of sorrow

Stays tightly tied

And is given to the yellow chicken wind

For whipping

Do you hear that jingle

As I go slow

I am a woman with keys

The mother-mother of memory


I come to go

As I please

You know I have been here

By the sound of locks

Swinging free

From Zanzibar to Daufuskie to alligator swamp

All along the ocean’s floor

There are attics

And storm cellars of hearts

Castanetting for a key

A Black cobblestone of family

Has never held its breath


Tell them I am on my way


I am a woman with keys

Unlocking the buildings

That now belong

To me 


-Nikky Finney


Currently listening to: “Give Me One Reason” by Tracy Chapman

Sometimes what we want to say has already been said by someone far more eloquent, so there is no point in attempting to rehash what has already been perfected. Today I offer you the last two sections of “Eurydice” by H.D instead of my own words.


Against the black
I have more fervour
than you in all the splendour of that place,
against the blackness
and the stark grey
I have more light;

and the flowers,
if I should tell you,
you would turn from your own fit paths
toward hell,
turn again and glance back
and I would sink into a place even more terrible than this.


At least I have the flowers of myself,
and my thoughts, no god
can take that;
I have the fervour of myself for a presence
and my own spirit for light;

and my spirit with its loss
knows this;
though small against the black,
small against the formless rocks,
hell must break before I am lost;

before I am lost,
hell must open like a red rose
for the dead to pass.

(If you’re interested in the whole text of the poem it can be found here:

now does our world descend
the path to nothingness
(cruel now cancels kind;
friends turn to enemies)
therefore lament,my dream
and don a doer’s doom

create is now contrive;
imagined,merely know
(freedom:what makes a slave)
therefore,my life,lie down
and more by most endure
all that you never were

hide,poor dishonoured mind
who thought yourself so wise;
and much could understand
concerning no and yes:
if they’ve become the same
it’s time you unbecame

where climbing was and bright
is darkness and to fall
(now wrong’s the only right
since brave are cowards all)
therefore despair,my heart
and die into the dirt

but from this endless end
of briefer each our bliss–
where seeing eyes go blind
(where lips forget to kiss)
where everything’s nothing
–arise,my soul;and sing

– e.e. cummings

I haven’t been able to write for a while. I liken it to a bird waking up one day and finding that it can no longer sing. It can produce horrid, sharp, guttural noises, but its song is gone. It is not a lack of material because I can truly write about almost anything nor is it a lack of motivation or drive. Yet every time I open up a new document I can only get a sentence or two out at best.

It is frustrating to say the least. I write when I’m happy. I write when I’m sad. I write when I’m confused or thoughtful. I write when I’m angry. I write when I’m joyful. I write when I’m distressed. Simply put, I write. There is too much thought and emotion in me all the time for my body to contain it, so it must be siphoned out of me in one way or another. Not having written anything in a while, I am most definitely at capacity.

And I know why. Every once in a while something begins to brew within that must be written out, but out of fear I refuse. The solid admission created by pen colliding with paper is far to much of a risk, far too grand of a gesture to sit comfortably with me. Instead, I push it aside and remain intent on putting pen to paper and writing about anything else. But it always fails miserably. The result is countless scattered journal entries, dozens of letters that will never be sent, and a few poems scribbled here and there–never collected in one location, always scattered and buried underneath some old socks or a pile of magazines. On the occasion that I do stumble across my littered secrets I always marvel at their honesty, their fervor, how much of myself has been infused into the paper in front of me, and how I could have ever forgotten they existed.

I always tuck the piece of paper or the notebook away again where I found it, magically forgetting it as soon as I turn around to walk away. I believe tonight I will be adding another piece into the mix. The narrative must continue.