illegitmate children ROCK

or so says one of the cabin walls in the girl's area of cherokee baptist camp in tennessee.

i spent my weekend there for our family reunion - the crickets and cicadas were gloriously loud and my hair was gloriously awful and i didn't care. and we played in the lake all day and ate too much food. and wore name tags, since none of us know each other. my grandmother has 12 brothers and sisters, it's not my fault i don't know everyone's name.

and on the drive there i discovered the most wonderful love song . . .

love, love isn't always love
the way that we mean
just like you are right now
is all, all that i need

let's start over
don't be afraid, i won't keep track
let's climb to the top
if you won't look down, i won't look back

love, love isn't always love
the kind that you hold
i will be here waiting
if you, you can let go

let's start over
don't be afraid, 'cause i won't keep track
let's climb to the top
if you won't look down, i won't look back

[needtobreathe]

it's mine. i think it's worth saving, so i'm going to. save it until i get my mail-order boyfriend in the mail, i mean. i think it'll be about two weeks, you know how snail mail is . . .

kidding, kidding.

it's a waltz. a perfect one, i'm pretty sure, except i don't really know what tempo a waltz should be. but it feels like it would be a really nice waltz.

anyway.

for now, i think i should listen to it and let it be sung to me.

and i think i should go hiking tomorrow and sing it to the sky. and it's occupant. or creator, to be more accurate, i suppose.

but it's so tempting to let it swirl me into romance-mode, you know? which isn't inappropriate, necessarily. just distracting. and therefore frustrating. and therefore inappropriate?

i don't know. i know i'm single and restless and god's been trying to hold my attention all year and i keep bouncing around like a kid with adhd who's been given two cokes and a bowl of lucky charms. or maybe fruit loops.

but the point is i'm still running. and this year i feel like my rubber band's gotten a lot shorter. i used to be able to run a long time before i ran out of space and got slapped back onto the cosmic wrist. i've gotten slapped back so many times this year i can't even count them.

i used to be able to count them.

you know, it was about a two year cycle. i would get broken about once every two years. and i could talk about the two times i'd been really broken and say ta da! this is my spiritual life, isn't it nice and pretty and controlled?

but now, now it's like well, yesterday i got slapped and today i'm running and tomorrow i'll probably be absolutely broken and then the next day i'll be overflowing and then i'll be frantic and then i'll get slapped again. ta . . . oh shit, hold on . . . sorry, i just tripped again, no, i'll be ok, yeah - it happens all the time, no really, it only bleeds for a little while, yeah, ok, ta da! this is my spiritual life.

here's my struggle: if i'm looking for perfect, he's the mail-order.

my open heart brings him to tears. he loves me so much that he can just sit with me for as long as i need. he just wants to look at me, you know? i mean really look at me. none of this let's-get-right-up-on-
her-bumper-then-pull-up-beside-her-at-the-light-and-give-her-the-
eager-grin and-beady-eyes business. or even the you're-pretty business. because that's just as much of a cover up as is the other.

he can look at me and see my soul. and he loves it. me. my emotions and search for logic and rationality and my need for space and my need for home and my desire for change and my need for consistency. it makes sense to him.


i make sense to him.


i don't even make sense to myself.

so what the crap am i doing running in the other direction?

i don't know. but i think i'm getting tired. of running and typing.

have a beautiful night.