life after the white routine

We shared this hollowed cove of a room. Dimly lit by the last of our functioning bulbs, fractured by the buzz of air that was kept constant and steady. Nightly, we'd shield ourselves under caves of white blankets - she would be on her bed, I'd be on mine - hidden deep in the cocoon of cloth. We'd laugh until two in the morning, tipsy from sleeplessness. Fifteen years spent waking and falling into sleep to the same face.
The room is quieter now. Dust has coated many of the surfaces, and the books that once lined every shelf and filled every drawer are now sparser than before. The white blankets still top each bed, but one will go unused from now on. The stairs below my doorway will no longer hear the familiar footsteps they once did. Pieces of laundry and clutter have been left behind without intent to be washed or straightened up.
We used to fight over who would move out first. We'd argue over our brother's and sister's rooms. Years would escape us, and those rooms would never know us as their residents, still. Nights spent arguing and words used to intentionally damage the other's self-worth. Days spent in silence and petty quarrels concerning unasked for borrowed t-shirts and skirts returned with stains from slips and spills. Living in such close proximity breeds a type of closeness that can't be found elsewhere. We learned each other this way. I know her because of years spent analyzing how she lived, what she threw away and how she managed to fall asleep following break-ups and newly said I love you-s.
She's moved out now. I'm left throwing away old picture frames and unintentionally salvaged price tags and gum wrappers. Now a man will learn her. He'll know her far better than I ever could, even. He'll watch her in ways I never had the ability to, in a manner that was never intended for me. I'd just like to tell him how to fold her clothes and in what way to dress himself in the morning as to keep her from waking.
And now I sit on the floor, barer than it's ever been and marked with messes from projects gone wrong and mud-caked shoes. I'm sad for the days that are escaping. I'm sad for the time we spent idly. I'm sad for the distance that will be felt over the course of our lives. But I'm also anticipating my own move. I'm anticipating the day a man will ask to be the one to learn my ways of sleeping and making messes and cleaning them up again.
This transition pushes us all one step further. Where to is still unknown. I'm beginning to see that just as the burnt out bulbs on my dresser have been replaced anew, my life, too, will again be illuminated.

down the yellow brick road

Looking back, I wish I had come here more often. This rustic, underground hub of a Starbucks that is tucked under the Maryland Inn off Main Street--so unassuming and calm. The walls echo with thoughts, ideas conjured up by the articulate and unpretentious. A true Annapolitan, gilded in the signature Polo outfit so many boater-town patrons wear, sits barefoot atop the worn leather couch to my left, reminding me I'm back on the Chesapeake. The hum of an acoustic guitar sings through the speaker, and fading snapshots of often forgotten celebrities line the charred brick walls. I almost want to kick myself for not coming more often while I had lived here permanently.
When I recall how I had spent my years in Annapolis, I often think of sitting dockside on humid July nights or acting out in moments of ignorance in some classmate's basement. There are occasional recollections of hours spent with my fingers plucking away at the keyboard, composing thoughts and creating habits. I also remember April evenings spent in bed, listening to thunderstorms as candle-glow flit about my shadow painted walls, drowning in some story that grew my ambition for writing and now elicits nostalgia of such a night.
It's easy to peer in on this past of mine and resolve that much of it was filled with wasted time. I hadn't involved myself with certain occupations that I now define myself by, and in analyzing time by that standard, much of it was spent idly. But I have to remember that I have grown into this person--with each step of my past, the future drew in closer, awakening new dimensions of who I am.
Perhaps I hadn't had time to visit this Starbucks. Perhaps it was yet to have such an influx of customers, which would have left me unknowing of its existence. Either way, I never visited. I never soaked in my precious time here or utilized one of the hidden gems I now frequent upon returning home.
These things combined is why I am so intrigued and drawn in by the charm of this little coffee cove. Knowing now where my life would lead, I want to go back to the young Rebekah and tell her who she would be, what she would enjoy. I would urge her to take certain chances, and let others pass her by. I would encourage her to speak more freely, but also to enjoy the silence more peacefully. But this would all be in vain, I very well know. Though I'm at a place in life where sitting quietly underground, listening to my mind and enjoying the silent presence of fellow coffee consumers brings me joy and contentment, there was a point in life where this would have merely been white noise. I can only fully enjoy all of this now because of every road I took to get here, though many were uncharacteristic of this place. The absence of such a satisfaction is what makes its sudden presence so beguiling. The former, "bleak" roads offer me insight into the fullness of the roads I now travel, filled with a new, complete richness. I was unknowingly relying on those former roads to bring me here, to a place of appreciation of simplicity and the scent of brass instruments sitting on pedestals that seem to thrill my soul.
It's actually quite reassuring to know that it wasn't coming into this cafe that made me who I am. It was staying out.

Remember that period of life when we were all young and had gigantic dreams that were so plausible, and could stay in bed forever and stay out all night... doing non-sketchy things?
Looking back will be filled with goodies.
Somehow that's the most tragic, yet wonderful feeling in the world.

In case you didn't know, I'm semi-obsessed with these two. And will be progressively cataloging their engagement. So, I guess this would be the second step in three documented moments of their life together. Enjoy!

                                          chris & ash

Seven Years After Freshmen Year: a poem about courtney ferracane

Valentine's Day was the night that we met 

You get so self-conscious when your hair appears wet

You like making bracelets and sending out cards, 

You lived in a tent in Indie Brown's yard

You're deep and you're shallow, whichever is needed

And just so you know, you're never conceited 

Elderly sickies call you at work 

But you dislike your job 'cause your boss is a jerk 

Twilight and R-pats, they make you so giddy 

But you don't like K-stew since she isn't that pretty

You stand up on tables and yell people's names 

Your favorite sport teams are the SEU Flames

Sarcasm's your humor and maps, your profession 

When telling a story, you use no discretion

We kid and we joke and misspeak very often, 

But when you're around, all our hearts soften

You're one of a kind and ever-so dear 

We'll always be "girlz", from far or from near 

A Whole Lot of B.S.: a poem about becca strang

Now sugar's my weakness because of you

Starbursts and Reese's, just to name two

But it brings me joy to nosh with you so

To talk about boys and hear what you know

To bike around town and jog by the lake

To laugh at each other and faux pas that we make

Oh, where had you been for twenty-plus years,

Hiding in hay-stacks and absent of tears?

Searching in mountains for men with red cheeks

Or living out stories of which you now speak?

And now we're together, and again we will be

Many more days to enjoy, you and me

For now let's remember the times that we've shared

And hold on tightly to the dreams we've compared

We drank our tea and whistled our tunes

We've shared our cake, but never our spoons

Good-byes are for wusses, and we aren't such twits

In matter of fact, we're proud of our wits

So this is my poem for Becca, my boo

Now sugar's my weakness, because you are too. 

"Pack up all my cares and woes. Here I go, swingin' low."

This season, I've seen it before. But it's also new. It's also alive with something very different than when I've experienced it in the past.

If I could write down all of the memories I have from hearing springtime nostalgic songs, the list would seem endless--in my mind, at least. And now new memories are forming to different songs. Memories that will largely shape who I am, just as all the past moments shaped who I am today. It's scary and thrilling to acknowledge the power of Now to determine who the future you will be. But I'm embracing it. 

I'm embracing a God who is good. Who calls us into so many seasons and allows us to choose joy for each. I'm trusting my faith to see me into the next season and show me who I want to be even further. 

So on and on I'll travel, remembering and living, but always moving to the next spot. I'll evaluate, but also let much of my living be spontaneous and unquestioned. We're all just mid-flight, anyway. One day we'll arrive, but it won't necessarily be the place we thought we were going. It'll be the right place, though. 

This poem always reminds me of springtime. And I love it.


Rainy Day
The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the moldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
My thoughts still cling to the moldering Past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast
And the days are dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary.

Things I'm currently into. . .

• These crazy prophetic moments that everyone's having
• Blue grass (the music, not odd colored grass)
• Candy (that ends tonight)
• Driving around Lakeland, and loving this city very deeply
• Random niche-y antique shops that are hiding all over the place 
• Falling asleep at 4 am in the morning (bad habits, I know) 
• Very large iced coffees 
• Any/everything with a wild west motif, it is rugged and dusty-ish and I love it
• Books circa the 1940's that explain things like how to enjoy literature or what to serve at cocktail parties--they're oddly applicable today 
• Procrastination. 
• This really cool ring I can't seem to take off. It has an owl on it. Enough said? 
• Road trip planning
• The Starbucks on Beacon, which has been seeing more of me than my dorm room
• Sporadic phone calls between my sister and I about life and weddings and singleness 
• Talking to people. Listening is becoming an enjoyment again
• Eating waffles on Saturday mornings. For the community, and the sugary syrup... 
• Andrew Bird, The Weepies and Local Natives are all making their rounds in my playlist more frequently again. Absence and fondness and all that
• Tea with friends, I've missed this for the past month 
• Court Ferracane and her love for pre-teens and deep conversation at erratic times
• And you! If you're reading this then you probably think I'm at least semi-interesting, which I appreciate. So thanks!

Sometimes there's too much to say, keeping you from saying anything at all.

There are quite a few. Writing. Style. Literature. Men. Cities. Music. I have used all of these to heavily dictate who I claim to be. My identifiers that in attempting to pronounce an identity over me completely suck out all signs of my true character. Not one of those things really defines me. I'm not that easily accessible, honestly.
But even despite knowing I can't be contained by an object or idea, I still allow these associations to be made. I still allow myself to be called "this" or "that", for the sake of just knowing who I am. But in this, I never truly figure that out.
Right this second Rebekah Renko is... the answer is in a perpetual state of change. As it should be. But maybe the transition doesn't always need to be so harsh.
I don't often take time to evaluate who I am at any given moment. I'm very easily influenced, and this has been the driving force to many of my identity crises. In relating to others and enjoying certain talents and likes, I allow myself to become boxed in and characterized by things that aren't fully me.
I'm created in God's image, conforming to His likeness.
That's all there should be. Everything else falls subordinate. It's when we forget what our initial image was modeled after that we fail to truly figure out who we are when conformed to the likeness of that thing.

            

The goal was New York City. Growing up, my family would see the Rockettes perform at Radio City Music Hall at Christmastime. I was terrified of the city, actually. I can remember the relief that surged through my veins as our car rolled away from the slums and under the tunnels, enveloping us under the cityscape that Woody Allen described as best being seen in black and white, showcasing a broken horizon with the twin buildings on our right. Something about this terror I felt toward the city grew in me a curiosity for it. Over time I realized my fear was for the mass of dejected denizens we passed, curled up in cardboard boxes with blankets of soggy newspaper. My fear was that these people would never know what life was really about, what it could be. But even more than that, it made me wonder if I knew what life was about, shielded in by the tinted windows of a warm, sans-newspaper vehicle. Through those windows I could see their eyes. They could see mine too. It was the loneliness in those people’s demoralized glances that scared me and constantly tore at me to return. For some reason I just always felt that if I were there with them maybe we’d all understand everything a little bit more. 

{photo credit: Walk In New York}

give it up

Do you ever just wake up in the morning and realize you're alive? I have an incredible life. He has given me everything I've ever wanted--really. And now I'm at a place in life where He's bringing back old desires, renewing them and allowing them to come alive within me.
I'm starting to see that if I don't sacrifice everything I want then He can't perfect these things in His own time, so that I can actually enjoy them one day. He never says, "Sacrifice every want and desire you have to me so I can completely obliterate each one and leave you with nothing." He wants us to enjoy our passions and desires, but in the most perfect way possible. After all, He created us with these desires and dreams. How much more do you think He wants to see them fulfilled?
The things I sacrificed when I was younger in order to gain a better picture of who I am in the Lord are being brought back to me, only now I can fully enjoy them because I have learned to fully enjoy the Hand that is providing them.
It's just a matter of putting our focus on God. We're in love with the good things of this world. But why wouldn't we want to be in love with the Giver of those good things, instead? All He asks is that we trust His sovereignty. And there really isn't any other way. We can't eternally enjoy something that hasn't been marked by His holy goodness.
We need to start realizing that we don't really sacrifice to lose. We sacrifice to gain.

wake up

When we’re young we see adults engaging in lives that seem so elegant and manicured. We place ourselves in their shoes and dream dreamers’ dreams of what it would be like to live within those moments also. But when those things actually begin happening to us we allow them to slip by without a turn of our head. It no longer becomes the fruition of what was once our longing. It simply becomes life.

There’s no resolution in that. There’s no living. Yeah, dreams are important to living, but rather than imaginative dreams, I want an imaginative life. 

I feel the need to share this. Whether you care or not, here it is...

Christine Wilson was my first "friend" at Southeastern. I use the quotes because she was really just the first person I used all the dumb introductory get-to-know-you phrases on. Whatever the case may have been, we played the, "Hey, how are you?!" game for a good few months, dilly-dallying around progressing our acquaintance-y to friendship. Well, the past few weeks we've been upping our status and now we're full on friends. Like friends friends. The ones who call to tell you they're not doing anything so you should come keep them company for the heck of it.
I'm telling you this because Christine Wilson is cool. And you would like her too. And now I realize the Lord is just as un-incidental as I say He is...

i wanna forget how convention fits

There's a comfort in conventionality. Stirring raisins and cinnamon into my oatmeal every morning is a silent way in which I acknowledge that my day will be planned around uniformity--reminiscent in appearance to the day before. I sit on a taut white comforter against bright floral throws and cover my legs with the same knitted blanket I have used for over two years. Even the forest green ceramic bowl I use to hold my warm cereal tells of days past, mornings of stark resemblance to this one.
All that to say, this makes me wonder how much of my life is conventional, housed in by presuppositions that it must be so in order for any semblance of normalcy to be held. But then I analyze that question. How badly do I wish my life to be normal? How strongly do I really desire to fit into the molding of uniformity and adjust to the worldly standards of expectation?
I think of the freedom that the Lord has given us. Complete freedom to move and breathe, yes, but also freedom to roam about this world and release His presence wherever we dare to. A "normal" trip to the store can quickly turn into a wild spiritual adventure, depending on my determination for it to be so.
I want to speak up, touch, give and take from this world. As a body that houses Jesus, I see Him doing that. I see Him doing so much more than I do, thinking that that is how it should be--after all, I'm no Jesus. But what about the words He spoke in saying that we will do greater things than even He did? The power of the Holy Spirit (the same one that resurrected a murdered Christ) is now mine for eternity. There should never be a normal moment with that kind of power embodied in me.
I love oatmeal. I love consistency. I love knowing what's coming next.
But more, I love being pleasantly surprised by the unknown. I love learning how wild and abnormal the Lord I serve is. I love knowing that deep inside me is the potential to be wild and abnormal too. I'm ready. I'm finally admitting it.

Spring is here! Let's pot plants and whistle outside.

I grew up reading the books most teenagers wouldn’t appreciate, let alone understand for the value that they held. Books that knew me. I came to know them also, and would continually call upon them for reassurance throughout my life. To a certain level, they defined me. I helped define them. We were in it together, yet worlds apart. I loved those books. I still do, but even now, they’re different. I’m different. It’s this blasted curse we’re all under. It’s this blessed transformation process called growth. It’s something else, too. 

Sometimes I'm eccentric. I say 'sometimes' because I don't always fall under the abnormal category. I actually tend to steer towards the stand in a line and mimic everyone else way of living. All too often. It's not that I like conforming, and I don't know that I would even consider myself a contortionist of sorts, but rather I can comfortably lack the vivacity to explore and dare. I count down the days to a future that will never arrive, waiting. Constantly waiting.
Well the waiting must end. Now.
Sometimes must become always. Or else some will just become a modest synonym for none.

terminal A

I always order a tall skinny vanilla latte. After the sun sets they dim the lights in the airport and you feel as if you've been asked to just sit and relax for awhile, like an upscale ballet is about to start or something. That's how I feel anyway.

What do I see? A man reading one of this week's best-sellers from the airport bookstore that he probably payed ten dollars more for than he should have. A Starbucks employee eating an apple danish, slowly. I don't know what she's thinking about, but I know she's thinking. I'd imagine she's prolonging her snack break by taking bites in ten minute intervals. And, of course, the high profile businessmen on their way to somewhere warm and in need of their expertise, stirring refined white sugar into their venti paper coffee cups. I also see children. A lot of children. Everyone's always excited in the Orlando airport--Disney is the choice destination for those traveling here, so it makes sense. But even in spite of the anticipation, everyone is taking their time. Everyone's enjoying the night, it seems. 

As for me, I'm waiting. My sister's on her way. I'm playing Sweet Disposition on repeat and trying to get a liquid thought to emerge. I'm excited. Not "we're going to Disney World for a whole week!" excited, but excited in all the senses I should be. 

I guess anticipation is weird. You wait so long for something, your sister's arrival for instance, and you almost make yourself believe you can't live without it. But then the night comes when she boards the plane and calls you after landing, and suddenly...well you realized you lived without it. And not only did you live, but you had fun leading up to it. You may have even been okay if it were next weekend she decided to come. 

I'm not saying I don't want her to come or that this weekend isn't going to be as great as I imagined it to be. I'm just saying, unlike these kids coming to see Mickey Mouse for the first time, I understand more about life than I used to. I understand that days come and go, some exciting and some dull. But they all come and go, either way. 

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