Far away, you fly.

Like the leafs as they float. 

Your direction is simultaneously sporadic and controlled. 

But your mind is lost. 

In places 


And dreams. 

And sometimes I wonder, do you feel a flame?

When you see her.. do you feel a sort of flame?

Does she remind you of your legal  name?

What you want and what you need, 

Allow them to change.

It’s my earnest plea,

That you wouldn’t care 

That you would just leave, 

So that if possible you might one day see

The sea. 

The sea. 

The ocean and breeze. 

It’s waves, I promise they offer a sort of key. 

But.. Those thoughts. 

Fucking thoughts. 

The thoughts you learnt once you left,

That passion we felt,

Nothing  held can ever be kept. 

And you see her, 

Where you used to see me. 

But now you see her

And she knows nothing of the sea. 

So I go, 

And you stay where the ground is grey. 

But your thoughts remain gold, 

For you’ve always been told…

It is her

She’s the kind, the type you desire

And I was but a wave, 

A wave with heart. 

A heart you broke..

A heart which is now nothing but parts.

A part, ONE part

A part of a life

A life that I chased 

A life that  I caught. 

And what they told me, 

You already taught, 

Don’t love it’s a trap, 

Now you’ll never come back. 


8:18 am 

Sometimes the morning light offers a type of sweet release. Release from the day before it: it’s thoughts, tears and doubts. Release from the darkness that crept so foul over your bed throughout the night. Some nights are terrible, they grip you with a sort of fear that seems only  daylight can cast out. Though our hope lies in the unfailing truth that morning has always come, so far. Morning doesn’t let us down, we must wait, participating in a natural timeline, an exchange of minutes that was not set into motion by us, nor can be controlled.. Sped up or slowed down.. By us. We put in our time of fear, fighting like hell not to crumble into a ball of tears. We put in our time of doubting, reliving every possible moment our sleepy minds can recall.

But as the morning arises, as it seems, along with it rises our calm. 

Be still and know. 

You are like the whole damn storm. Waking me up from my slumber, causing me to stare in amazement at your great power. You are uncontrollable, threatning to destroy all that I have planted; all that I have planned. You  seep into every crack of my spirit, into any, sometimes all hours of my day, you can leave me renewed or completely over fed.
I’ve always loved the rain. I love what it does to my mind, I feel clear when it is raining, all the pressure releases from my spirit and I am left just doing. You might be the first thing in my life that I have just done. I’ve tried to control the storm but every time I leave the safety of your arms to step outside, my screaming commandments towards the clouds are left unanswered and I am left to dripping.

Every tear that I have cried out of sheer frustration while I’ve watched the seeds that I’ve planted be washed to death, total to few when compared with the amount of raindrops which you have released to bring life to the trees that I neglected, even some that I had never even noticed.

If tried to compare all the ways you have destroyed, with all the ways you have nourished I would be doing a great injustice to your character. For you just are, your intent is not to be questioned for you a far more vast than a simple minded girl like me. A storm does not choose who he wishes to hurt, he does choose who he wishes to aid. He just does. You do not understand nor should you, the importance which every individual seed held in my life. For your main objective is far greater than my little garden. Your impact is a life-long type. A storm feeds the entire world, he does not look at a single lake and decide it is worth filling. You see more than I do, and I can not control you. I can not control the impact you have on my plans or on my heart. Somethings will inevitably be destroyed, rather cleared away when you choose to strike. But to place small umbrellas over my garden seems a silly alternative to watching which seeds flourish under your raindrops. You will be and my life will benefit in the way that it will.

As it is now, I will try hard to stop screaming commands at the sky and rather watch more often with wonder.

2 weeks away

imageI have a little time, and a lot of hot chocolate. Two things which have been scarce over the last few weeks, though to be truthful I’ve barely noticed. My mind is set on my visit home. The last few times I’ve gone home I’ve been a restless type of ¬†excited. It’s a funny thing, I don’t remember ever appreciating my visits home more than I have since moving to Winnipeg. In general I’m a less homesick person than I once was. Maybe that’s because home sickness is more of a virus than an actual incurable disease. My Nana has always told me that, “to be homesick is to experience the worst kind of life’s growing pains.” However she always continued on to speak about the ways in which homesickness heals itself. It’s not something we can cure away rather something that eventually dispels from our system.

That’s what it is, we have to embrace where we are now. We have to muddle through our dreams and desires while desperately trying to maintain a view of what God wants in order to find a sort of path. I don’t want to hold onto what I can’t, life doesn’t allow enough seconds to do that.

Memories into stories



There are times ¬†when creativity flows like a river, where constant realizations about life and love and people come into our minds much like those annoying jingles. Except such realizations, such creativities are anything but annoying. They are inspiring at their very core, they give life momentum. Breathing is easy when one feels so compatible with their own thoughts. The world isn’t so distressing when the good is being constantly highlighted by way of simple ‘joy’ moments.

Seek joy. Never let go of true joy once you uncover it, yes uncover not discover, for joy is there sweetheart, waiting. 

Finding joy these days feels like raking a forest in the fall. Every morning I place, what feels like blistered and battered, hands onto the grip of my shovel. Every afternoon around 1:00 I go into the bathroom and pray, I dig- I dig- I dig. Every evening I bury the joy which was uncovered-unburried during the day when I  give into the temptation of worry.

When I was little at the end of each day my dad would tuck me into safety. More often than not he listened with care to¬†my self-loathing, self-defeating confessions about all the ways the daylight had proven my¬†imperfections. He met my worry with a constant and never failing response, “Cole” he would start, “tomorrows a new day, try again”. God, my dad taught me, doesn’t care about how often we succeed. God¬†doesn’t look at us worriedly when we crawl back into life’s traps again and again. God say’s, “tomorrow’s a new day, try again.” Try to trust Him, again. Try to love Him most, again.

But still I admit, I’m tired. Somethings shifting, I can feel it – feel it the way you feel age. ¬†Except tonight my dad is far away, my bed was sold, and Im not the same little girl I once was. All I have is the memory of his words and the confidence of his eyes when he taught me, “tomorrows a new day, try again.”

a little chaos is our calm.


Shall I for once try and not be so depressive in my writings? When re-reading past entries my mind is clouded with self-loathing and antioptimism, though I suppose those thoughts linger in even the most positive of hearts.

Have you ever met a person who is so in stride with the world that even the screaming stranger ¬†on the corner of main and portage doesnt cause a flinch on their face? I think I may have. These people ¬†balance their emotions with life’s cruelty in an almost annoyingly suave way. Their perfect style/feeds/words inspire envy in even the content.

As for the rest of us it seems a daily struggle to not forget atleast one appointment, misplace one item of importance, or accidently offend our coworkers. We cry at inopportune moments and abandon¬†our laundry in the washer for days instead of hours. We strive to ¬†be on time for something, anything. Our cookies burn on the bottom renderring them not uneatable but just… undesirable, for pretty much anyone other than ourselves. Our toothpaste is so scarce that retreaving it out of the tube takes up 75% of the alloted ‘get ready’ time in our morning routines. Our coffee is either too weak or dirt-tasting strong.

And yet there are the others, gliding into the coffee shops, picking up lattes for them AND their coworkers. Chatting with the baristas and carrying a ‘saturday-morning’ feel in their ¬†midweek smiles.

Change in life is constant. Some seem to handle this truth with elegance and grace, claiming their love for adventure is stronger than their fear of the unknown. Though for the rest of us we can barely get our priorities straight in the most ordered of enviroments, let alone when there is any sliver of confusion. Lets just say each person is unique. Embrace the scatteredness, embrace the failure of forgetting. Let be the rushing. We will choose to love our messy hair and stained T-Shirts, for to us there are things worth panicking over, a little chaos is our calm.



Here’s to new begginings in old houses. Here’s to new dynamics with old friends.

 I’ve always been a girl-power promoter, at least thats what i would boast to anyone who might listen. I believe in gender-differences. That our sex is more than just our sexuality, that gender is not only something that humans have constructed to ‘order’ the universe. Although I will admit without hesitation that we have definetly neglected the complexities of gender. I admit how many traits/interests/professions/passions ought not to be assigned to a gender as if each womans feminity is supposed to shine through in a replica way as her sister’s. I missed having a 24/7 girl(em)power(ing)bestie to live with. I missed casual shopping without a purpose. I missed runs with a friend, and someone to vent with about cramps and mood swings. Someone to share clothes/makeup/hairbrushes with. Its been a while since I’ve slept next to-and woken up with someone more than one night at a time. 

This feeling of comfort is something I had nearly forgotten. I dont like to fend for myself. I take independance in stride, utilizing her tools when necessary but abandoning her lonliness whenever possible. These walls of self-preservation are beggining to crack, I can feel emotions I have been scared to. I can see life a little more clearly than a few weeks ago. Theres a hope in the idea of passing time, I dont feel so trapped by independance’s chokehold. 

Theres this feeling we breathing machines feel. This specific feeling’s beauty rests in its unknowness to everyone except THE ONE; The one who is feeling. We have moments in life where we feel most at home, most ourselves. These moments pass like the days and threaten to flip  as life chooses where to spin us around. The funny thing is just that, our feeling of self is unpromised. This feeling  isnt a product of good situations. To label life circumstances as a ‘good’ situation is completley subjective to what we believe success or comfort to be found in. This feeling of wholeness, of being who one was created to be, comes at the strangest of times. Theres been moments in my life where my lungs have failed to remember their primary function, where my knees have fallen out from under me, and where my heart has sent chilling aches throughout my entire being. In these moments of what has been labelled heartbreak I have felt most myself. There is something about crying in your mothers arms that reminds you who are. Something about a life infusing prayer or singing praise at a familiar campfire, something about dancing with children to silly songs or entering into tea-chilling deep sorts of conversing that induces this feeling no matter the life circumstance. 

No matter the place, no matter the walls. Whether summers are long and dry or winters short and wet it is this feeling I seek. A feeling of home. I know what it is to feel truly at home somewhere, as life changes it often rearranges. I left home when I was 17, now I am 21 and home looks and feels completley different. My mom and dad live in seperate homes and my beautiful sister in an entirely different province. Each is creating/falling/embracing new feelings discovering who they really are. I feel home lies within spaces and people. But those spaces often change as the people who control them move and shake and embrace little by little their own feelings

I’m beggining to feel in ways such as I have only tasted shortly throughout the year, remember the one who is creator of all for in Him you will feel more deeply, more often. 


“Like a dog that returns to his vomit is a fool who repeats his folly. Do you see a man who is wise in his own eyes? There is more hope for a fool than for him.”

Contemplations begin knocking at the walls of my mind upon familiar smells and sights. Insecurities arise upon the embrace of familiar words from now unfamiliar people. Concepts that were once truth have morphed into old ignorances in my self righteous and over worked mind. I hope to be humbled, I pray to be humbled, though once humbled I feel all my strength leaving along with the pride.

Often I block out the ocean from my day to day thoughts. I can’t stand to smell the salt and hear the cliche seagulls. I push aside the hurt that arises from the ache of missing those who understand my intent in every word and facial expression. I miss freely crying without¬†the added pressure of stopping. I miss being lazy with the pressure of being better. I like being pushed to work, to run, to love better.

I block the hurt, the reality of the life I find to be mine. I forget the tears those who I used to comfort now cry without a hug to be found.

Though once here I remember what it feels like to have a brick on my chest. I remember what its like to panic over small details and refuse to tend to¬†¬†anything worth tending. The weakness seeps in and the post’s get¬†dramatic.

Hello November, may your cold breeze bring warm clarity.

9c8232330c2631f6e6fd781e9c22cdbaIts a new feeling to be so unsure of a person, to wonder daily wether this person you hold will be a temporary type of person, or if they will somehow become a permanent fixture in your heart. Its not something that can be explained, this type of uncertainty. A battle of mind and heart are the words I have used to describe what is internally happening, but those words seem to lack some sort of reality. I want, but I fear. I see, but I doubt. His arms, his eyes, his heart are all real. He is a breathing, feeling, loving type of being. But I find myself contemplating him like some sort of idea, as if such contemplation can’t effect him. The common ground that him and an idea hold is that no matter what conclusion my weak heart comes to, they would both remain. But to treat him as an idea that is permanent and unchangeable is a sad misfortune.

Like the morning dew I will wait. I will wait for the sun to blast through my skin, to penetrate my veins with some sort of warmth, some sort of leading. I want to be strong in my direction, I often used to wish to be a go with the flow type of creation. But as life marches on I find myself in deep desire to stand my ground, to be intentional in my direction. God has never seemed much like a wind, or some sort of wave that simply tosses me around aimlessly. In contrary every leading God has called me into has been full of peace, though I must admit often these callings have not made sense to me at the moment of understanding, they have never seemed aimless.

I can feel Him calling, calling me towards the ocean, asking me to wait. Asking me to lift my eyes and practice patience as he slowly appears. Life should be an inspired type of journey.. love even more should be a valued adventure. Something chosen and embraced completely. Not just something that happens, though i believe one may stumble upon such a beautiful jewel, those who do love best seem to enter into with their entire being, their entire heart and m ind. My mind has entered, but my heart is resisting. Love is not something to be rationalized or explained. But it should be chosen in a sort of way.

So here I wait God. I will quiet my soul, I will steady my heart to feel your warmth to anticipate your whisper of truth in my ear.

My dear child, you have these people, you have this city to love. Listen not to your own rational, rather allow my spirit to guide, to soothe, to make sense. Love is too complicated a map for your weary heart to navigate.

Psalm 3:5

My brother is 21.


He had cute curly brown hair and a raspy voice that made my 11 year old heart pound violently when he spoke. He was my grade six crush and although we only spoke that one time the words that he yelled to me across the playground brought with them one of life’s biggest gifts. “PATRICK LIKES YOU” he yelled/snickered. “COOL” (or something like that) I yelled back sarcastically, “I don’t even know who Patrick is?”

The next year in my grade seven classroom Patrick and I began to speak. There was four-five of us over the next three years that spent what seems like lifetimes together. Walking and biking around the island farms. Bleeding and sweating and laughing until we fell asleep. Wrestling around the living room seemed as innocent as co-gendered wrestling can be. When he moved away we all cried. I remember that day in the park hugging him goodbye. He was our best friend, I never did as good at showing him how much I cared for him, his previous confessions of love had scared me. But even at that time, he was the first boy in my life to show me a friendship kind of love worth keeping.

He came back, and we all screamed. The obsession he had with this¬†gummy bear song reminded us that although apart for what seemed like a decade, nothing had really changed. And life continued. We grew up somehow, we got baptized, he fell in love and out of love and back in love. We separated and both found God. He healed from past family hurts, his family grew and mine fell apart. I love him because he has loved me. He has loved me through my years of acne and self righteousness. He has loved me through my leaving and staying. He has shown me what it means to be loyal even to those who don’t remain loyal to you. He is an adventurer… a free spirit who has a love for life &¬†people &¬†God that runs deep deep deep into his bones.

He has wiggled and pushed and hugged his way into my heart. In another life I uttered the sad words,¬†“I don’t even know who Patrick is” 9 years later,¬†I know exactly who Patrick is. He is my best. He my brother. He is my loyal pal. My best friend Patrick is 21 today, and a very happy birthday do I wish him. With a life full of adventure and care and love. May God protect and stretch you this year peetrick.