the harbor of longing

another morning and I wake with the goodness I do not have...

The great chorus- explosion, really- of dogs barking angrily, as if they might tear down the fence, has died away and all that is left is one lone soloist a few houses away. This morning is noisier than usual, new neighbors that are less than pleasant, with dogs that encourage every other dog in a five-hundred-foot radius to make their presence known. But slowly, they tire, and I am thankful, because now I can hear a bird crying out his three-note motif, and the hum of a neighbors' air conditioning unit, and a garbage truck, and another bird, more free-spirited in her song. Home again, and I begin each morning in the fresh air- one of my favorite things about Boise- trying to make sense of the weather inside of me that is ever changing and more tumultuous this summer than usual.This particular morning of dog choirs and bird songs, Mary Oliver's Devotions is on my lap- as usual- and the Psalms on top of that- also as usual. Both today, are about thirst, the great wanting, longing, for- for what? From Mary: for goodness, for mercy, for time, for love, for God. From the Psalmist: for gladness, for song, for hope, for relief, for God. And from me: for realization, for open hands, for song, too, and for time, too, and for God, too. I long to be like the birds, who sing for the sake of singing, exuberant, bubbling up with joy.It is such a task, coming home to a city you grew up in, as a (somewhat) grown person. There is so much going on inside of my heart I could just burst at any moment! That may sound dramatic, but it's true. I am lonely and happy and longing for purpose. I am missing college and friendships and loving the quiet mornings to play piano and not wanting to miss out on a single second of this season of transition. But the thing is, now that I have moments to breathe, moments to write and discern and decipher, my heart doesn't quite know what to do with it. My heart doesn't quite know how to sing for the sake of singing, doesn't quite know how to be still, and maybe it never will. But I am learning, a student of a Teacher who has the world at His disposal, asking me to look up, to listen, to open my heart to possibilities that feel ever so far away.

My sweet brother Nate had his first day of seventh grade today, Abigail is back at college for her second year, Dad is blazing a trail with his new job at the Boise School District, and Mom is working, steady and kind. Which leaves the currently job-less me, as I try to make sense of the alone-ness, the quiet. My first year without a first day of school of some kind, and I am pursuing how to rest in it. Yet, I feel so keenly aware of and crippled by my inability in this season. My inability to rest, to process the emotions that are sitting in me, begging to be processed, my inability to write this post in a way that makes coherent sense, the inability to trust myself, to trust my instincts, to be content, to find a job, to interview well, to shut out the lies that send me into a torrent of tears and anxiety (which, unfortunately has been a common occurrence this summer, and this week in particular).One of the Main Events of the summer was getting an audition at the Idaho Shakespeare Festival for their educational tours. If I get this job, I would be traveling around Idaho, Oregon and Nevada, doing Shakespeare for students and running workshops with them. Have you ever heard of a more perfect job for me? Me either.  I submitted an audition tape in February for them to put in their file, and to my great excitement, they called me in for an in-person audition. Hopes sky high, I rehearsed like crazy, thrilled just to have something to work on and purpose to be working towards. Rehearsal process, however, was peppered with panicking and lies and that stupid inability to trust my artistic instinct and let myself feel. 

And, despite my best efforts, I felt so terrible after my audition, I held it together long enough to get a chai and peach scone from my favorite coffee shop, but promptly burst into tears on the floor of my aunt's bathroom and have been crying on and off since.I don't think the tears are only about the audition, though. It is a big soup of things- they were also about leaving my sister at college and horribly sad that I am not so close this year, and about leaving Arena Theater and that community that I felt so deeply a part of. They're about living across the country from my best friends, about wanting a plan and not having one, and about being crippled with an expectation I've placed on myself to be impressive relative to some made-up standard of what excellence looks like. The audition was just the last straw, because it felt like the embodiment of a hope that this would be some obvious answer, some clear confirmation that I was home for a reason, not just lost, not just a failure who was so un-driven she had to come home because she couldn't figure out who she was or what she wanted.

And I know what you are probably thinking, and it's probably the same thing my sweet mother and best friend have been telling me since I got home: that those are LIES, and I ought not to believe them. That they are the Liar's taunts robbing me of my joy of what could be- what is going to be- a really wonderful season, and robbing my joy of two of the exact things that make me feel most alive: acting, and home.The thing is, I know this. The problem is getting it from my head into my heart. How do you do that? But God is teaching me, and God has given me new songs to sing that seem like they are straight from my heart, and God has given me poems that speak for my heart better than I could. I have filled my journal, scribbling Mary Oliver's words over the pages, reminding me what it is to be alive in this world, and reminding me what it is to be in the waiting. I long to be a student of life, and God is teaching me so many things.

I was thinking of this poem in particular last night as I sort of loaded our dishwasher (who is on the last legs of his life) but mostly looked out the window into our back yard, especially the line "the present is what your life is." And right now, at present, I am in the middle, and my life is loading the dishwasher, and walking my dog I am trying to learn to be friends with, and making muffins each Monday to start the week off on a good foot, and leaving space for the days to take the turns they want to take, even if that space is silent.

God speaks to me in that silence, I know, that quiet of home. "And yet," God says, "It is not silence, but whispers, if you breathe and take time to listen- listen through the silence." In that silence, there is so much music: an owl, the water bubbling on the stove, the breeze ruffling the trees, and what are all these things if not prayers and songs and lessons? Lessons that teach me everything occurs in its time, that life is a process of discovering, that God has given me gifts for a reason, that I need to show myself patience and grace in the seeking, that I can only be exactly where I am, and exactly here is the only place God can speak.What does it look like, I wonder, to take these lessons to the harbor of my longing? What is the difference, I wonder, between a heart like the quiet- and strong- deer panting in the woods for drink, like David writes about in the Psalm (I can just picture it!) and a heart begging for more? Is there a difference between thirsting for God and for song,  and discontentment? My soul thirsts for God, pants for God- restless and full of questions and thoughts and memories and stories, and I want to join in with the birds, to sing for the sake of singing, free of lies, weightless.The Psalmist writes "by day the Lord commands his steadfast love/ and at night his song is with me,/ a prayer to the God of my life." Is this it? That by this thirst and by drinking, we know even more the God of our life? A thirst that is surrounded by steadfast love and song, and not by clouds of uncertainty and subtle lies that breed anxiety in my heart.Mary Oliver writes, "Who/knows what will finally happen or where I will be sent, yet already I have given a great many things away, expecting/ to be told to pack nothing, except the prayers, which, with this thirst, I am/ slowly learning." Is this it too? That by thirsting, I am learning how to pray and how to depend and how to see the lessons God has for me. How to be content with only seeing the next step, and not the whole path. How to trust that I will find my way. How to quiet myself, and how to drink from the river of my imagination, again.

O Lord, may I not need the answers but only you. May the prayers and the slow learning and bird songs be enough. May I thirst for you, for the sunlight that touches my soul, for the voice that sings in the twilight, for a hope, for your sweet breath on my face. May I thirst with expectation- open-hearted, assured, and longing, all at once. 

-alyssa

p.s. just a friendly reminder that if you so want, you can leave a comment below! or just text me! or subscribe! thank you, thank you for reading!

p.p.s. I've also updated the Introduction andWelcome pages of the site, so if you want a better idea of who I am/where I am at, feel free to take a look at those.

p.p.p.s the poem at the beginning is (obviously) Mary Oliver, from her really excellent book of poetry, also titled Thirst