skinny love cover.

learning to be brave with my art even in all its imperfections.
my heart for this year is to not categorize myself in a certain box, but to just be an artist.
i wasn't going to originally share this, because it's rather rough right now.
i can pick out all the mistakes (cracks in my voice, missed keys, moments of hesitation). but :
I love this song so much and I've had several people ask.
so in all it's messy beauty...here it is. :)

xx h

a monday micropoem / haiku

                              i feel like a pine.
                              watercolor white branches.
                              again dreaming of leaves.

sunday night thoughts.

and here's something I'm wondering.

who says that we can't adore imperfections?

because :

the cowlick that is every bit of its name in the part of my hair is my favorite.

it's messy and bothersome sometimes, yes.

but i've had it since i was little,

and that is enough to be proud of it, because i've carried it from six into sixteen.

would you be embarrassed if i told you i check for laugh lines by my eyes?

i look in mirrors and give my best red carpet grin and pretend there are creases that say i laugh.

 most people don't want crows feet.

but i'm not most people.

that bump on the ridge of my nose?

i secretly love it.

i read somewhere that almost every woman hates her nose. i used to.

but there's something about hearing, "you have the maxson nose!"

that makes me feel like i'm home.

and

ooooh.

if this was chocolate mousse, i'd be swirling my spoon in the empty glass.

I can't get enough of freckles.

i count the ones on my nose and wait until summertime when they're as thick as paint splatters

i love finding them on my cheeks. would you laugh if i said that they're sun kisses?

(i'll wax poetic anyways and learn to say it in ten different languages, because freckles are my fav)

what's the deal with perfection anyways?

i know this : it's vastly overrated.

stop running.

We chase pretty like it's something you can buy. Redder lips, bigger eyes, smaller thighs, a trendier haircut, the new outfit you'd sell your fav pair of shoes for. It becomes part of a marathon we run all our lives, going round and round the track instead of sprinting. We circle. We gain ground and fall back. And we're passerbys in other's races, other's runs. We spur them on. We tear them down. We get left behind with broken laces and aching feet. We get shin splints and finally break in our shoes and trip and fall and waste our energy chasing something that doesn't matter. We have the wrong finish line for our destination. There is no ribbon fluttering triumphant red to break through, because we were never supposed to chase these mile markers in the first place.

What is pretty?

Pretty is reading one more book to a three year old who sits, sticky fingers and messy hair in your lap. Pretty is waking up at three in the morning because your best friend's heart is breaking and she needs to talk, and if her soul aches, yours does too. Pretty is making breakfast for your family before you go, loading the dishes just because, brewing another cup of coffee for your mom. Pretty is telling people they are beautiful and meaning it, pretty is listening and not interrupting, pretty is laughing because you can. Pretty is giving grace and loving deeply even when it doesn't help you and pretty is allowing yourself to dream even though your heart has been broken. Pretty is buying lunch for a friend and sending little gifts to cheer others up, pretty is remembering details about people and investing in their lives. Pretty is dressing with grace for yourself not dictated by the culture. Pretty is knowing that even when you're in the middle of a bad hair day, breakout, day when you feel less than lovely, that you are beautiful. Pretty is seeing the good in other people and helping to bring it out. Pretty is adventuring and saying no to things and saying yes to better things. Pretty is making the daily mundane into small adventures and finding good in the ordinary moments. Pretty is lending a helping hand or a shoulder to cry on or an ear to listen. Pretty is doing what you love and being nice to people, pretty is taking time to breathe, pretty is a joyful spirit and a thankful heart. Pretty is remembering how to play and pretty is living a life of whimsy and pretty is taking risks and being bold with your life. Pretty is being honest and brave with your story and pretty is being confident in who you are and loving yourself and forgiving yourself. Pretty is not a nose job, ankle tuck, mascara swipe, or new pair of jeans. Pretty is who you are.

Stop running a race to chase something that is an echo.
Listen.
You were made to dance.

if a photo is worth 1000 words : story 1

Source: mezzaluna.me via Sarah on Pinterest

The island was cold come october, but she couldn't bring herself to wear a coat. You'll catch cold and be laid in bed for months, her mother fretted. Nonsense, she would insist. The island air does me good. I like tasting the sea when I breath. Her mother would simply shake her head and head to the kitchen to put in the roast, sit in the parlor to finish her knitting, or generally just disappear. The ways of her daughter not only worried her, but perplexed her. Their connection was frail, thin as blue milk and fragile as the last moment of a dream.

Her father was of the island and the stories he told were her history. He understood her, could not help not, as their roots went deep into the earth, rich dirt smelling like spring. It gets in your blood, he used to say. We breathe the salt, in and out, and pretty soon, we're as much a part of the island as the water surrounding it. She was very little when he was still around, but she carried the words with her and pulled them out to remember, daily. It was at the dock that she remembered him most. His favorite place in the world, yes. Her mother hated it and all it stood for, yet there was no money to leave.

Above her, the sky was pulled taught, gray like the stones making up the harborer's island. There was always the threat of rain, not the rain that mainlanders were used to, but the hard sheets nearly ice. Her mother made her promise to take shelter as soon as the sky broke and that was one promise she needed no trouble to keep. While catching cold wasn't ideal, the chill from the rain was dangerous. In nearly every case, the dampness that settled in the bones and burned in the lungs of those taken with it ended in death, despite the poor island doctor's best attempts. It was the dampness that took her father six years ago and daily, her mother worried it would be her next.

"Hello Posy!" A fisherman called, going over his boat for that night. She waved back. Soon, he finished tucking away the nets, closing the hatches, and making sure the boat was settled for the night, and joined her where she sat. He was one of the youngest of those who went out to brave the shale waters, and up until a few years ago, had been friends with Posy. As usually happens, the age difference between boys and girls in the later years of young adulthood stretched into eons, and their friendship crumbled under the strain. It wasn't proper to be running around with a young man, anyways, her mother continually reminded her.

"Hello Teo." She inched over on the slab of rock on which she sat and smiled shyly at him. He had the ruddy skin that came from being out under sky and on the sea daily and his skin was freckled like the speckled eggs her chicken gave. But he had kind eyes that melted when he was particularly happy and she secretly loved the ridge on his nose from he had broken it.

"A good catch?" Posy asked, looping her fingers together.

He shook his head. "I wish. At this rate, we'll be in for a hard winter."

"It's always a hard winter." The words slipped out involuntarily and she flushed, shook her head. "I'm sorry."

Teo nodded, "No. I understand. It would be." That was all he said and yet it was enough to make the ache for her father rise to her throat. It had been six years and she should have been over his passing by now, should have been able to let go. Her granddad found her crying a month ago and gave her a stern talking to. Island folk tasted death and knew that life was short. She should not be still grieving over someone who was gone.

The silence between them stretched into awkward breaths. Posy waited for him to speak, found a word on her tongue and watched it tumble out just as his did.

"What are you --"
"Did you--"

They laughed and the tension eased for a moment. Beside them, the sea lapped the rocks with increasing urgency and Posy shivered from the chill in the air. Wintertime was never dry, but eternally damp and cold. She dreaded the long winter months by the fireside, watching the dimness of the world outside melt into black on the snow.

"Did you need anything?" Teo finished his sentence. The words crumbled in Posy's open hands. She tasted the wish baited in the air and tried to catch her thoughts.

"I --" Posy started and looked away, embarrassed. "Thank you." She finally said, staring at her hands in her lap. "It's very -- generous -- of you to offer. But -- I can't -- we can't accept." She bit her lip. "You know my mother." Even saying that felt like a betrayal. You know my mother. It was worse than gossip, because anyone can try hard enough and pick out the dishonesty in false talk, but with saying that he knew, she was admitting the truth.

He ran a hand through his hair. Squinted. "Yeah." He stared at her, gave her a shy smile. "You take care of yourself, then, you hear?"

She nodded. Gratefulness spilled from her face. "I will. Thank you, Teo, I truly do appreciate it. It means -- a great deal." She finally managed and blushed under the transparency of her words. With her red hair and white dress, she looked every bit like the island girl she was. He had never seen her lovelier.

Impulsively, he grabbed her hand, gave it a squeeze, and she did not let go. He glanced at the sky. "Will you make it home before the rain?"

"I think so." Posy started.

"Do you have a place you can stay if it starts up?" He phrased his question carefully. Rules of conversation were strict, and it was easy to say something to offend, even without intention.

"Yes." She lied. If it began to rain, she would run. She stood, letting his hand fall from hers, and brushed her dress. "But I better be off then. It was good to see you, Teo." Even there, she was saying to much, but his hand holding hers had given her boldness. And her mother, nor anyone worth twopence in gossip, was there to see.

"I'll be seeing you, then." He waved as she set off.

It started raining before she was halfway home.

--

taking the old cliche literally. I'm going to attempt to write 52 short stories weekly this year, all from various images, all around 1000 words. this is partially because I dream of writing a novel, partially because I need a challenge to give myself a push, and partially because there are so many images that inspire me. so, number one done, fifty one to go.

my life as a poem.

inspired by the lovely abby

I am the dripping faucet.
I am the leaking boat.
I am the dropping gauntlet.
I am the faded coat.

I am the deepening twilight.
I am the sky pulled blue.
I am the first wide-eyed sight.
I am the beauty of the new.

I am the tangled hair.
I am the days of dreams.
I am the wind in air.
I am the soft split seams.

I am the longing morning.
I am the quiet night.
I am the gentle warning.
I am the heavy fight.

I am the ink touched fingers.
I am the paint brushed dry.
I am the hello that lingers.
I am the hush of a lullaby.

I am the singing sparrow.
I am the light of evening.
I am the whistling arrow.
I am the blue of leaving.

I am the unclosed front door.
I am the bare feet come spring.
I am the whistling of the moor.
I am the quiet winters bring.

I am the long adventure.
I am the break of dawn.
I am the brave new venture.
I am the beginning of a song.

I am the nerves backstage.
I am the hands that knead.
I am the smell of sage.
I am the rubbed clay bead.

I am the wild wood berry.
I am the shivery night sky stars.
I am the breathless song danced merry.
I am the first strum of guitars.

I am the late night lazy.
I am the campfire smoke.
I am the morning mist hazy.
I am the heart no longer broke.

I am the mountains grown tall.
I am the last poem you ever loved.
I am the photo on the wall.
I am the kiss of those beloved.

I am the filled journal pages.
I am the golden afternoon.
I am the stories told for ages.
I am the first day of june.

I am the hills of purple heather.
I am the dirt under your nails.
I am the seas stormy weather.
I am the forgotten lonely trails.

I am the sound of a shutter.
I am the smell of home.
I am the words you'd never utter.
I am the traveler, alone.

this is for the mornings.

This is for the mornings when you drag yourself out of bed, eyes deep with sleep and hair messy in the tangles of dreaming. When the alarm clock isn't turned off the first time and outside it's gray, gray like the shale of pencil lead smudged across your hands during first grade. Math problems were never easy, but the heartbreak of five a. m. alone is worse than long division and calculus. It's cold in your apartment, and alone, and the floor feels like ice under your bare toes, already numb. You're questioning why you decided to put in wood anyways -- and where's a decent throw rug? The fridge is bare save seven day old cottage cheese and half a piece of pizza from a few days before when you couldn't take the expense or stress of just eating greens and caved to the little restaurant down the corner. The next morning, your abdomen looked pudgy and you sighed at your hips but the restaurant was quiet and you sat in the corner, alone at a table lit barely by candlelight, and you savored the loneliness like a rich chocolate, a fine dessert. Learning to be alone is a skill, loving being alone is an art. You've become a maestro at holding in words you've wanted to say and pretending that going to bed on the right side of your king size mattress is fine, that it doesn't matter there is no one to hold you on the left when you wake up at two, sweaty and flushed from a nightmare.

And so, you walk through the chilled kitchen and scrounge around in your cramped apartment for change, deciding to buy a bagel on thirty-first and west. You glance at the clock and suddenly it's five fifteen and if you want to be on time, you'll have to skip a shower. The grime of yesterday feels sticky on you and you glance longingly toward the shower. Finally, another look at the clock, and you head to the bathroom. There's no hot water again and it's the faster shower you've ever taken. Once you get out, you're shivering in a thin towel that was really meant for the beach but was all you could afford. Your pants are stiff and your socks feel lumpy and it's five thirty nine before you're halfway to presentable, but you can't leave any later than five forty five, so you swipe on some mascara as your eyelashes clump and twist your dripping hair into a bun. Messy buns are in, right? You sigh at the reflection in the mirror, the dim yellow light of the bathroom flickering. Am I really that pale? You wonder. Yes.

This is for the mornings when you ask yourself if you are really that pale. Yes. You really are. And it doesn't matter. Your beauty isn't defined by the line of tan on your skin or the freckles across your nose or the swipe of red on your cheeks when you blush. Embrace that dimple, that petite chin, the curvy line of your hips that says you are a woman. Embrace the red lipstick on days when you feel less than pretty and embrace the little black dress even when you feel too round to make it work. You can always make it work. A little black dress is an ambiguous trick to make you feel beautiful, but it's not cheap and it doesn't lie. Allow yourself to believe that you're beautiful, and not only believe it, but say it. Say it loudly to the quiet of your apartment, to the smudged bathroom mirror, to the man on the subway, to anyone who's listening. When you get breakfast at Dunn Brothers, picking up your steaming black roasted coffee and bagel swashed in cream cheese, and the man behind the counter with the smile like a question asks how you are, tell him you are beautiful and life is good. And if he smiles and laughs, embarrassed, let him go. Shake it off like a bad dance, like a bad dream, like a memory of your middle school self at a school dance. Eat your bagel by the window and write in your journal in big black letters that YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL, as many times as you need to before you believe it. Someday, when you step outdoors in your heels or flats or boots, it won't be a word that you have to ink onto your hands to remember, but it will be a truth that you believe fully, wholly, completely. There is a confidence and bravery in seeing yourself for who you are and still believing you're beautiful. Someday, you will have mastered that grace and when people wonder who that pretty lady is, it will be you. Not because you lost the last ten pounds or wore a smoky eye, but because you'll be exuding the confidence of a woman who knows who she is. Hold onto that thought, that dream, and when the scale seems to suggest you're less than you truly are, let it go. Numbers are no determiner of beauty.

This is for the mornings when you decide to take three scoops of sugar in your coffee instead of two and feel bad because you're not trendy having it black, and you should be eating less sugar, and those last five pounds won't just disappear. Ignore it. Sink yourself into the richness of the morning brew and savor the taste of the roasted beans on your tongue, the sweetness of the sugar rounding the milky brown goodness into a drink that could have been made in France, Spain, Rome, anywhere but here. Close your eyes a moment and allow yourself the luxury of pretending that you're at a little cafe and the sun has just decided to peak over the horizon in the smudges of red from a crayon. And you are watching it all from your small table outside, a little chilly for want of light, but then the first flush of the sun rays hits the streets and you sip your drink and feel marvelous. Allow yourself that dream, for just a moment, for there is no shame in the pretend and the wanting. Let yourself want things, deeply. Don't forget how to love and how to lose and how to do them both gracefully and painfully at the same time. There's a difference between letting go and giving up, like the difference between true white and yellowed paper. Don't be the copy, the cop-out, the cheaper way because your heart can't bear the hurt that letting go will mean. Keep going. Your heart is strong and you will survive. Keep going even if it means saying no to things, saying goodbye to things, throwing out the TV and buying a bookcase that you will someday fill with penciled in, crumpled, stained books from second hand shops and thrift stores that will become your someday children's legacy.

This is for the mornings when the jeans fit a little too tight, when you look in the mirror and can't stand what you see, when you have no time to fit in a run and honestly, can't stand the thought of your feet pounding the treadmill next to strangers for three hours just for the sake of beauty. Shake it off, let it go, and tell yourself you're beautiful. Walk to the office and enjoy the taste of the world on your tongue, breathe deep of the crispness of possibilities. Look at the people on the street and smile, because not only is it your best asset, there is a kind of bravery in choosing to be happy when you feel anything but. Don't let the world rid you of your joy, don't let it rob you of the quiet voice in you that says there's good and beauty in those hard moments, those crying at the foot of your bed because you have no strength left to climb into it moments, those sitting at your cubicle at work with your head in your hands moments, those moments of feeling not good enough or not worth it. You are good enough and you are worth it and someday you'll find a man who will believe those truths more than you. And he will pursue you and love you a protect you and encourage you to take risks and send you flowers just because. Don't give in and don't give up, wait for the one who you click with, who you love deeper than blood and thicker than the skies come sunrise. There's a richness to the soupy sky much like romance between you and the one who is yours. Wait for the one who has a word on his tongue that when he speaks, you find it's the same as yours.

This is for the mornings when the quiet of your apartment rings in your ears and you no matter loudly you play your music, you can't drown out the break break break of your heart pounding from your chest. When the sky is blue but it feels grey and your lungs are heavy with loneliness, when you stare longingly at photos of your family plastered on the wall and secretly check plane tickets to find a cheap one, trying to convince yourself missing a couple days of work won't matter. Stop and let yourself be sad. Let yourself miss your family. Call your mother and tell her you miss her (because she worries about you, all alone) and tell her that you're sad. She will understand. And if she doesn't have words to give, the hum of listening to her speak on the phone is enough. Ask her what the sky looks like where she is and hold the image close to her heart all day. Let yourself remember summers in the country and swimming under the stars and that one time lying in the fields all day, watching the sky. If you have that afternoon alone, go explore. Pack yourself a picnic lunch of food you like to eat, even if that means just eating mast brothers chocolate and freshly baked french bread, and set yourself on a flat rock, doing nothing but staring up. It's not silly to still be picking out shapes in the clouds and you don't have to allow yourself to feel childish for crying from homesickness. Picture the sky at home and allow yourself to be sad, to be homesick, to be lonely in the city you love. Someday, your loneliness will be a badge of courage you wore when you were trying to get by. Was it worth it? They will ask, and you will say yes, because you will have learned to be lonely and to let go.

This is for the mornings when you feel like it's all too much.

Take a deep breath.

And keep going.

750 words this morning turned into 1823. but it felt good to write again.