How To Kill Your Dreams

6 Mar

So here I am again. Trying to write some kind of truth.

There’s this long blog entry sitting in draft mode in my wordpress dashboard, that I’ve been working on for too long. It’s one of those things that seemed like a good idea to write, but when the words come, they seemed disingenuous.

So I’ll try to be honest here.

Does anyone else get really exhausted when following your dreams?

My dream, since I was three, is to be a writer.

Sometimes it’s a love-hate relationship.

(Maybe everything wonderful and beautiful in life is?)

Obviously, the love is greater than the hate. I shouldn’t even use the word hate, maybe it’s a little strong.. how about passionately dislike?

Does anyone else spend all this time creating something incredible and than have moments where you ha… passionately dislike your work?

Day in and day out I am attempting to craft words and sometimes it’s just mentally exhausting. What’s mostly mentally exhausting is the self-judgment and doubt I allow to come in and take over.

Every so often I imagine what my life would look like if I took the easy way out.

You know, spent my time doing something easier. Something I didn’t necessarily care about, but something I didn’t passionately dislike either. Something I could be apathetic about, not use my mind, just sort of melt into it and do it without really struggling through it.

That lazy part of me feels like this would be amazing. Just you know, to chill for a little bit. Work somewhere where I actually got a consistent income, not be broke all the time, save some money, not feel the pressure to do anything noteworthy or spectacular.

After all, my life has been so intense. I am always jumping from one crazy venture to the next.

It’s like I am always thrown into risk without even stopping to ask myself it that what I really want.

Maybe I am being dramatic. I tend to be that way. What was I even writing about?

Oh yah, contemplating killing my dreams for comfort.

Ouch. That one hurt. (The truth does.)

As I get older, it feels harder to hold on to the energy I had as a youth.

And… the faith….

I used to have no problem believing big things.

Lately, it’s like this weird, older, responsible version of myself is suddenly trying to clip my own wings,

“But Brooke, you need to be practical. Don’t assume things are just going to happen for you. You’ve had your adventures, it’s time to settle down a little.”

I used to yell at this woman, try to strangle her, but lately I am staring at her all glossy-eyed and hypnotized saying,

“Yes… maybe you are right… it sounds nice. I am just going to nap a little bit…”

Forty years later, I wake up and my life has passed me by. All the books I wanted to write someday are just figments of my faded imagination. All the places I wanted to go, all the things I wanted to do, are just stories from someone else’s life.

I don’t want to pull a Rip Van Winkle.

I don’t want to live my life asleep.

I don’t want give in to the invisible pressures of “growing up” and letting my dreams die.

But it’s so easy to do. So easy. It starts with the little things. The moments. The way I spend my day. The thoughts I allow in my head.

How do you kill your dreams?

One negative thought at a time.

One justification at a time.

One obeying the voice of “being practical” at a time.

One minute at a time.

So just in the writing this I am relieved. I am relieved I am currently cognitive enough to realize this as I the words flow out. I am relieved I am brave enough to put this on my blog.

Because the very act of letting these thoughts out is an act of rebellion against that part of me that would slowly let my dreams whither up and die. 

I won’t.

I won’t.

I won’t.

Because if I do, what’s the point of even existing?

“Hold fast to dreams, For if dreams die, Life is a broken-winged bird that cannot fly, Hold fast to dreams, For if dreams go, Life is a barren field, Frozen with snow.” -Langston Hughes

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Like Yellow and Gray

27 Feb

some days I wake up and I am not sure who I am or how I got there

perhaps I am hung over from being intoxicated on life

that’s a nice thought

 

or perhaps who I am feels like too complex of an issue before I shower and have coffee

and where I am changes too much

either way it’s unnerving

 

I stumble across the bedroom floor and think

maybe I am on a great ship sailing across unknown waters

and a sea monster’s tail just bumped the stern

 

or maybe that was the leftover lingering reality

from a dream I was rudely shoved out of at the sound of my alarm

 

some mornings my coffee cup is half full of goodness

and that’s enough to keep me out of bed, on to slay whatever  monsters arrives

whatever thoughts try to stop me from moving forwards one step at a time

 

I couldn't make this right side up. Sounds fitting.

 

some mornings my mug is half empty

expressionless and dull

and it’s a miracle to let three good sentences out on paper

and that I don’t get seasick doing it

 

some days are like yellow and grey

internally juxtaposed

and I see churning waters mixing

excitement and cynicism

passion and apathy

love and fear

 

and so I hold on and breathe the ocean air

because I’d rather have an adventure then stability

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Once Upon A Book

21 Feb

Eight years ago I was participating in a required fasting retreat. (It’s bizarre to think I ever did that.) Even though I had to break it early and eat crackers, It was Valentine’s Day and it snowed, so it felt like a sign.

I was inspired to write a book.

It was called More Than Enough- Finding Completion at the Feet of Jesus.

Then I spent two and a half years living on a bus, and a lot of things changed, including the name of my book. It became Finger Paintings and Truckee Sunrises- The Beautiful, Messy Adventure Of a Surrendered Life.

My awesome 2005 graphic design skillz

I’d sit in the front on the steps of the bus, looking out the glass doors at the road going by, my trusty old beast of a Dell on my lap, type-type-typing away.

I thought it was awesome. It wasn’t.

I read it now, and my first reaction is, “Dear Lord, I was a weirdo. And I have the spelling of a fourth grader.”

I was a little legalistic, I guess. A little naive. A little intense. But I appreciate my passion.

I went to Writing School in 2007 bound and determined to be the next Donald Miller- only female.

But life would happen as life happens, I got busy backpacking in China and Central America, and I never pursued publishing it. Instead I self-published a collection of poetry, originally to raise money to go live in Kyrgyzstan.

Now, I am so glad I didn’t publish Finger Paintings or move to Kyrgyzstan.

Honestly, my beliefs changed over the next few years about things that would have been “written in stone” had I attempted to get it out for the masses to read.

Who knows, maybe all young writers have that issues as they leave their early twenties and began to figure out what they believe and who they are…

Maybe all people do.

I mean, written words they stick around. Does that scare anyone else?

The sheer power in publishing… You can’t go back and re-edit or recant what you said.

(Which is why I am reading this post over for the tenth time even though I am tired and probably going to miss several typos I never see until I after I press publish. I apologize in advance.)

I am not saying I hate everything I wrote before.

I know we all grow as we learn our voice and what we want to put words to.

I am not saying I need to have everything in order before I publish, obviously you can tell by this blog I am not a perfectionist.

However, I don’t really feel like the same person I was. Not that I didn’t like her, but I like me better.

I guess the thing that mostly annoys me about that nineteen-year-old zealot self, is that while some words were genuine, many were just regurgitated rhetoric that she was taught…

And I realize, I’d rather write worthless garbage and have it be true, then be on a best-seller by faking it.

When I say true, I don’t mean non-fiction. I am actually writing a fiction book, and realizing that fiction can be truer than non-fiction, in a sense that every good story should portray universal truth.

What I mean is, if it’s not truly me, I don’t want to put it out there.

It’s like what my friend and co-author of The Wizard of God always reminds me, “You don’t need to make anything up. You’ve lived this. Write what you know.”

So that’s my new purpose in writing. Be honest. Write what I know.

Write like it’s what is going to be inscribed on my tombstone.

Write like I have one chance to tell the world what matters.

Write like It’s the only thing I’ll do that’s ever going to mean anything.

Write like I am not afraid anymore.

Because the truth inevitably sets people free, including the person writing it.

Now I am going to share a blip from that old manuscript of Finger Paintings.

This is honest. It still is something I believe, something I actually need to remember…

Maybe I should stop being so self-conscious and start being God conscious.  I look at my flaws and insecurities and fears and imperfection and then I try to find a remedy to fix myself. I got to a point a few months ago where I was so overwhelmed by the mess that was my insides.

Sometimes I feel like a finger painting: mismatched colors, random shapes, and scribbles. Others see it and don’t quite know what to make of it. They squint, trying to categorize it, trying to decipher the unknown language.

My heart is a lot like that. Vibrant. Messy. Colorful. All over the place.

Like a proud parent, God looks at this mess and calls it a masterpiece. He seems the abstract emotion. He sees the purpose behind each abnormally shaped line, each hue. He sees the picture hidden among the scribbles. He puts it on His fridge and calls it beautiful.

I got to the point I couldn’t take myself anymore. I was in Truckee, California at the time, a small scenic town near Tahoe. I was staying at a beautiful cabin with five amazing girls, but I just needed to get away. One morning I got up when it was still dark and braved my way into the frosty mountain air. I made my way up the road and across a field to the edge of a cliff that overlooked a small valley. The sun was just beginning to slowly peek over the mountains in the distance. I sat on a cold bench on the edge of the cliff and watched the fog lift over the towering pines and the sky turn a brilliant shade of pink. It was there in Northern California I decided something for the first time.

I am done trying to figure myself out. 
I am way too complicated.
I will lose all that I am, and throw everything into who He is. 
Because He is more than enough.   

I see the journey I’ve been on and I can’t help but smile.
There will be many more miles and many more words.
Many more attempts at being honest.
Many more cliffs and sunrises.
Many more books.
Thank you, dear blog reader,  for coming on this journey with me.

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Like Air & The Sea

14 Feb

what if I were to told you that you are loved

extravagantly

violently

passionately

in a mad sort of way that makes no mental sense

but holds you together, stitching broken emotions, a tangible presence that fills your being with visions of the ocean

wide, deep, never unending

unfathomable

 

what if I told you the entire reason you exist

is to jump into these waters

to find yourself embraced by this warm liquid

 

what if I said to you that your biggest failures

your deepest regret and guilt

your moments you want to erase

the things done to you

the physical feeling of your heart ripping in half

those words that were said you’ve spent years trying to forget

those dark seconds when you wished you were never born

 

those are simply tiny shards of rock

tumbled by this oceans waves

becoming grains of sand

disappearing into the grandeur of this sea

 

what if I were to tell you

you are surrounded by the essence of grace

a sweet smelling mountain air

oxygen, after years of being locked up in

a dark, musty basement

gasping for a breath, longing for escape from a stale reality

 

what if I were to tell you, instead of searching endlessly for love

you could revel in the truth that you are loved already

what if I told you, all the forgiveness, purpose, pleasure, beauty, passion, life you look for

is as close as the in and out of your chest

 

this is the air

you can’t escape it, you can only choose to hold your breath

or to breathe

 

this is the ocean

you can’t contain it, you can only choose to stay on the dry sand

or to jump

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When I am On Display

9 Feb

I really am my own worst enemy

I think I need to fight myself

when the war for my heart

has already been won

 

but I bleed mistrust

my wounds ooze insecurity

so I bandage them up myself

 

still acting like I don’t know my role

like I am ad-libbing this character

but the curtain is not there

there isn’t even a stage anymore

 

so I don’t know what to do with myself

alone in a room with my emotions arguing

my head reciting the lines

 

and all the while

Truth is in the room, cleaning up that ripped curtain,

tearing down that stage, saying,

 

“Show’s over. Give up the act.”

 

(but I am comfortable and afraid)

 

so I move to the museum

putting a replica of myself on a shelf

summing up briefly on a sign

who I am

 

(It’s easier than standing for something)

 

and all the while

Grace is in the room, a wild look in her eyes, saying,

 

“In case of emergency, break glass.”

 

and I know I can’t breathe while I am on display

I know this room is for old things, dead things

I know that stages are for pretending

 

and just then I realize

Choice is standing there, reminding me,

 

“You don’t have to live like this.”

 

he points to the exit sign, lit up, blood-red

 

and I smash through the glass,

a self-imprisoned convict

 

and I run towards the door as fast as I can

knowing life waits on the other side

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Dry Toast, Distractions, and Racing Deer

31 Jan

You may be here because you can’t possibly fathom how anyone can write a blog post with a title like that.

And  I am here trying to write something.  Anything.

I’ve been feeling bone-dry lately.

Sometimes writing is an overwhelming spring of revelation and glorious thoughts, bubbling up out of “The Brook(e)” within me.

Sometimes, it’s more like scrapping the bottom of an old smelly yellow tub of “I Can’t Believe You Think This Tastes Like Butter.”

Thoughts thinly spread on dry toast with a dull knife, barely giving it any flavor or moisture.

My mind becomes fragmented, everything is rushed. My consciousness becomes split, no longer whole but the world seen via blips of images, tweets and half-finished sentences.

I don’t know how to st———-.

Is it just the world we are liv———-?

Did I develop ADD or am I just going cra——– Oh my gosh, I hear a donkey outside!

Today I went for a walk. It was gorgeous out, but I hardly took  it in because I was thinking of the googling jobs in Fort Worth, or changing the banner of website for the book I’ve been writing.

(I did both by the way. No jobs yet, but here is the site. I had to put a little promotion in here.)

What a shame. What a shame I didn’t notice how vividly green the grass is for it being the last day of January.

What a shame I didn’t notice the lone baby donkey staring at me from the other side of a fence, wondering who I was and why I was walking down his road.

What a shame my mind was so scattered I forgot to stop and see  the sunset, to let the colors melt over me and seep inside of me and change me, maybe giving me some consistency, some flow of thought, some together-ness.

I am so sick of being distracted. Distracted from beauty. Distracted from LIFE.

When your mind is in multiple places, you can’t take everything in. You can’t be still and know, you can’t realize how much magic is in the day.

Oh, distraction is the devil!

The other morning I was driving to work.

(This sounds like normal sentence. But the fact I am driving to work is an anomalous thing for me. My last job, I rode my bike to work. Not because I am a hipster, but because I really couldn’t afford a car. Now I have one, although it’s like this strange purple/grey/maroon color. I digress.)

I was driving to work down a winding country road and my mind was full of random thoughts of things to do, worrying about my finances, etc, etc. blah blah blah.

Distractions. 

I decided to talk to God, briefly.

(I love the line from the poem  ”The Vision”  “Our feeble half-whispered, faithless prayer.” I often feel those are the only prayers I can pray.)

“Help me

to see

all the beauty

around me…

Like a child.”

Done. That’s it.  That’s as “spiritual”  as I get lately.

( And to think I used to intercede for the nations until my sweat turned to blood. Ok, not really.)

And then, as my prayer ended,  a deer jumped in front of me.

I stopped.

I wasn’t in danger of hitting him, really. I was going slow enough.

We stared at each other for a moment.

I managed to get this photograph

I managed to get this photograph

Then, he bounded the rest of the way across the road, leapt over fence that had to be at least 6 feet tall, and proceeded to frolic down a path running parallel with the road.

“Race you!” I said out loud, laughing uncontrollably, feeling like a psycho, but letting it all go.

I slowed down to make it a fair race, until I was going the same speed as Mr. Deer.

And we traversed side-by-side for a while, I in my funny colored car, and Mr. Deer free in the wild.

Then he disappeared into the forest. He had apparently won.

And I was left feeling somewhat like Lucy after she met Mr. Tumnus for the first time.

Feeling something like clarity.

Like my scattered worries disappeared quickly as drops of dew in the morning sun, leaving no trace.

I felt a little like I could see,

The grass. The baby donkey. The sunset. The deer.

I could listen,

to the something going around all around me,

outside my computer screen, outside my head,

Something called life.

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Becoming Human (A Short Story)

21 Jan

Something happens when you come alive and are set free from fear.

You realize existence is messy and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Control is an illusion, a grasping at the air only to fall over.

This reality: It’s bloody, gritty, reality.
Broken hearts and broken bones are just a way of life.

So you begin to realize you don’t have to expend your energy trying to avoid the mess.

(You breathe a sigh of relief.)
Once upon a time, you had this idea everything would be smooth because you were trying to say and do all the right things.

The universe seemed to align and God was on side because you were be moral enough and separated yourself from the world, to be to “holy” enough to avoid being like the others you judged and pitied.

Any trials or pain that happened you blamed on some outside force of evil, or how God was testing you.

But you were terrified to admit when you did wrong, you couldn’t believe you could possibly still be struggling with wanting to lose yourself in something you’ve been told is so wrong, so you denied your desires instead of understanding why you have them in the first place.

But they didn’t go away. You can only shove down your humanity so much. 

So when all that inevitably blew up in your face, you couldn’t help but feel a little crazy.

You may have tried again and again, thrusting yourself into an endless cycle of failure and guilt, but when you finally realized it’s all a sham, you got angry.

So you fought back a little. You did something rebellious.

They looked at you and thought,

“There’s another one lost to the darkness.”

But what they didn’t realize was this was all part of your journey to grace.

So you broke and screamed and let go and let all the pain in.

You accepted the fact you are poor and dirty and dead.

You decided to live a little dangerously.

To embrace instead of exclude.

To dare to be open and see the truth all around you.

And I say, if it’s one step closer to you coming alive, go for it.

Feel all your emotions.

Question what you always thought to be true.

Allow your heart to be broken.

Because let me tell you friend, if you spend your life trying to guard yourself, trying to behave, trying to fit into some religious mold, you will cheat yourself out of truly experiencing life.

You will cheat the world out of what kind of beauty can explode when a human being is actually genuine.

And what happens when a genuine human being allows the spirit of a perfect and loving God to be life within them.

God doesn’t want a robot. He just wants you.

Real change comes not in us trying harder, but in giving up and letting go and realizing the beautiful and terrible truth,

We are broken and we can’t fix ourselves. 

………………….

Exactly.

That’s the entire point.

That’s what Jesus is for. 

 

 

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The Divorce of Things From Their Names

19 Jan

“The world is babbled to pieces after the divorce of things from their names.”

-Wendell Berry

We speak and write, but speaking and writing isn’t enough

we want charts and definitions to tells us what we mean

words are meant to communicate but

we’re always trying to read between the lines

to see things that may only be in between our consciousness

and our desire to find the answers we want

the ones we think satisfy our longings

 

I write this because I love words 

but sometimes I get tired of how they fail me

 

How they never seem to be enough

Even if I had a “genius” vocabulary

people will always read things differently

they will want neat clean definitions

to tell them what to do and help them win their arguments

besides, it’s not about loquaciousness

 

Brevity is clarity

true “genius” is saying more with less

So while I have this romantic notion improving my vocabulary

will cause the world to finally hear what I have to say

I know deep down it’s a fallacy

 

Because the world doesn’t need knowledge for knowledge’s sakes

we can “know” whatever we want  (Google it)

and it still doesn’t change the ache in us

 

Sometimes I lie to myself and think I need to fit it with these

intellectual and witty writers

but the truth is

 

I am not them

(this is me)

 

Just a girl trying to put a face on beauty with my few shallow words

Trying to strip away bad definitions of

big things that matter

 

Like happiness and success and desire

and God

 

I am simply trying to name what can’t necessarily be named

 

So much of defining is about trying to prove a point

instead, I’d like to use it to allow the beauty of a thing to unfold

 

There’s something in a name

when we name, there is an intimacy attached

 

and so maybe I can reunite ideas with their right definitions

and be sure to speak the sacred names

all of life has

not leaving out vowels or writing around the issues

because that will never move us forward

 

And so

I leave you with this;

the one definition, the one name that needs to be communicated above all else:

 

God= Jesus= pure love.

 

If that is the only conclusion you arrive at the end of reading this blog

If that is the only thing I know at the end of my life

that is enough

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The Struggle Between The Tree And The Wind

6 Jan

Am I the only one that feels this tension, this pulling within?

I am so afraid of being grounded, yet at times it’s what I want more than anything.

I decided, years ago, I’d rather be a wanderer.

But lately I feel old.

Lately I want to take my belongings out of storage.

Lately I want to live somewhere where I can build a home.

I know these thoughts are ok but sometimes I hate them.

I hate the thought of being stuck.

I  think, “I used to be wild and free.”

But no one is putting chains on me but me.

(This is me surviving.Walking, pacing, watching the sky change.)

I always tell people to embrace these  seasons of coming and going, of no strings attached.

It’s not like I have a family to take care of.

It’s not like I even have a job where I am stuck in one place.

(But oh at times, how green the grass seems anywhere else.)

I am 26 and no more sure than I was 10 years ago.
But I am ready for life to not be about me.

So I tell myself I can follow my passion.
I can live in abundance…

Wait….. I do.
I do live in abundance.
I have so much beauty, love, people. I am doing what I love, too.

Someone from New England asked me last night if I just love living in Texas.

After 8 years I could say honestly that I do.
(Trust me, even forming those words is an act of rebellion to my vagabond soul.)

I used to count my days by the places I went.
I relished living out of a suitcase.

I dreamed of endless places and people and possibilities.
It was never easy but it was worth the freedom I felt.

Have I gotten so comfortable?
Have I fallen into desiring normal instead of living an adventure?

Those things that were so intertwined in the fabric of my being, being reminded over and over that it’s not only ok not to know, but I’d rather not, cause

“Life is better off a mystery.”

So I can be free.
Every day can be magical
It’s all up to me.

I ask myself,

“Can I be a tree or can I be the wind?”

The answer is,

“Both.”

“When did I lose it?” I ask, fearing the worst.

The answer is,
“Never.”

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Twenty-Eleven, In Moments.

1 Jan

The morning came in subtly with shades of amber hues, contradicting the brilliant neon hues of the sunset.

And I think maybe some things come in softly and slowly and go out with a ferocious bang.

And vise versa. Because sometimes ends and beginnings blur together.
2011 felt  like an ordinary year, but it wasn’t.

I took a motorcycle class, got my website hacked by a terrorist, found out my niece has leukemia, biked down a mountain in Virginia, and wrote more the I have ever written.

I have had many wonderful and weird and bad experiences this year. I am going to focus on the good. Because life happens in moments, I will reflect that way.

Dear Sparky and Mermaid, you are indeed shining beacons of awesomeness in my life.

Working for Pais Project was more than just a job. I loved it, even the difficult moments. I met some great people, learned a ton, and was able to be a part of  writing the book, “The Cloud and the Line.” I was there for so many reasons, and when it was time to go it was bittersweet.

I love these guys. I had so much fun working with them. I don’t have a picture of everyone, but I loved my boss and coworkers as well as the people at Lakehouse Church. It was a good year in Arlington.

Vacationing in the Florida Keys with my favorite people was one of the most unexpected blessings and great adventures of my year. My dad was also there (he was taking the picture.)

What a magical place. It was a time of grace. The best vacation of my life. I am so thankful for Steve, who made all this happen.

I did a lot of cooking at my apartment in Arlington. My favorite part of living there was all the amazing Asian and Middle Eastern food. I walked to the Halal supermarket and bought fresh meat, produce and curry.

2011 was the year of really becoming a writer. I typed out a book for my boss at Pais, started writing freelance for  SEO and Social Networking companies, and of course, co-wrote the  “The Wizard of God.” I  also won a poetry contest and was nominated for a Pushcart prize.

I had the privilege of road-tripping with my man up to New England to see my family. We spent a fun day exploring New York City.

I love this picture of my parents and my brother Robert.

Water wars with my nephew Tre.

Hanging out in Portsmouth with my beautiful sister Terra.

Boston! One of my favorite cities.

In the fall I lived in North Carolina for three months. It was a sweet time. I read a lot. I became pretty reclusive, but it ended up being a good thing. I wrote a book. I still can’t get over that.

I saw some great concerts in North Carolina including One Republic,

John Mark McMillan, Michael Gungor,

and of course, The Civil Wars.

We saw them right after we finished writing the book.

It was a great ending to an amazing year.

Steve, Becca and I at the Biltmore in NC.

I am thankful for this year. It has been challenging as all years are, but I feel like I have grown a lot and seen a lot of things come to pass.

Favorites of 2011

Albums-

Josh Garrels- Love and War and the Sea Between

Katie Herzig- The Waking Sleep

Movies:

The Tree of Life

Midnight In Paris

TV Shows-

Pan Am

New Girl

Books-

All Is Grace, Brennan Manning

Trail of Crumbs, Kim Sunee

And now… onward.

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