hope springs eternal, they say.

hope springs eternal, they say.
have you somehow found
the Fountain of Youth
and just not shared the coordinates
with me?
I could use a hope-spring
because it seems that all I have
is a well
and it has gone dry.
have hope, they say.
how exactly am I supposed
to have hope?
is it an emotion
that I can manufacture
like joy
plaster hope onto my face like a smile?
do I just need
to try a little harder
self-help myself a little more?
could you please
just hand me some hope
to put in my pocket
and carry with me every day?
I don’t understand how hope works, really
no more than I understand love
or faith
or trust
or beauty
or any one of those million intangibles
those words we toss around
til they seem to lose meaning
maybe I don’t know how
to have hope
because I don’t really know what
hope is.
belief in things unseen,
isn’t that the phrase?
or maybe it is the thing with feathers.
I’m not sure.
I think my mind has gotten cluttered
and I need to start over
start new
find and define for myself.
hope is believing that if
I just take the first step,
the next step will become clear.
hope is trusting that I get
one more breath,
and then another.
hope is foolish, stubborn,
an insistent, persistent clinging
to the promise
that one day,
it will all be okay.
hope springs eternal, they say.
I don’t know if I believe that,
but I chose to believe
that someday,
it will all be okay.
or at least,
some of it will be okay.
I guess that’s kind of the same thing.



I got a tattoo in September.

did you know that? you probably do if you follow me on instagram (which, by the way, makes my life look like a flawless stream of sunsets and and tea and poetry and journaling. it’s not. instagram lies. we all know that, right? you probably do, but right now I’m tired of hiding behind pretty filters and just want you to know that my life is not nearly as put-together as instagram makes it seem sometimes. I do love instagram, but sometimes it lies, but I love it anyway, but that’s another post.)

but so, a tattoo.

one Sunday night at 8:45 pm, three of my friends threw me into a car, drove me to a tattoo parlor, and walked me in to get inked. which makes the whole thing sound so much sketchier and reckless than it was, I’d been thinking about getting the tattoo for around three years and they just got tired of hearing me talk about it (in the two and a half weeks that they had known me. so maybe I was a little obsessed) and they said…it’s time.

and so, a tattoo.

it’s simple. one word. my handwriting, with a little help from the tattoo artist to even out the loops on the e’s and the height of the d. just a few inches. left forearm, closer to the elbow, on the inside.



people ask me about it sometimes, the girls that took me or friends from home seeing it for the first time or people noticing it peeking out from a sleeve. sometimes I get asked, do you love it?

yes. yes, I love it.

except when I don’t.

see, that one word on my arm declares, staunchly and boldly and permanently, that I am beloved. that my identity rests in being called beloved – not earning it and not performing for it and not following the rules and not being good – but simply that One has called me beloved.

what a beautiful truth.

and so I love it, except when I don’t believe it, that beautiful and impossible truth.

I hate it when I don’t believe that I am beloved. I hate it when I’ve been struggling and feeling like I am falling oh so short. I hate it when I’m trying to earn love and getting nowhere. I hate it when I’m unhappy, when everything seems grey, when I start to feel that at the core of me I am nothing but a mess. I hate it when I haven’t been talking to that One and I want to yell at him but I feel like there’s no point because he won’t yell back. I hate it when my tidy pieces start to fall apart and I don’t think I deserve it anymore.

on the days when I don’t believe it, I want to scrub that word right off my skin. because it feels like a lie, sitting all pretty in the crook of my elbow, telling the world that I am beloved when I am feeling the furthest from beloved. when I am feeling unlovable.

but that’s why it’s in ink, that’s why I walked into that tattoo shop. because even when I don’t believe beloved, I am still beloved. truth is like that, it’s permanent. and this truth is one that I need to be reminded of, frequently. more frequently than the good church girl in me wants to admit. this truth is one that I want to tie my whole being to: that I am dearly loved. much adored. precious.

that I am beloved.

because I think if I can rest in that, that will be enough.

half way.

It’s almost impossible to believe how quickly the time has gone, how fast this adventure has flown by. It still feels like October in my head, somehow, and I can’t seem to wrap my mind around the fact that no, it’s halfway over. Halfway over? How can it be halfway over? We just started.

I’m back on the Greensboro Fellows blog today, and I’d love it if you’d head over there for a little update on reaching the halfway point of this crazy, ridiculous, beautiful, messy adventure.