Let My Heart Speak

Let My Heart Speak

Exhausted by the weight of the world that I’ve chosen to shoulder.
Everything I do must be good enough for someone, must be pleasing or right or noble or sensible.

Look at me, Mama! Look at me, Daddy! Ain’t I doing good?

Even when there is no one around, I feel the eyes of invisible faces watching my every move, analyzing and criticizing.
I just want to do it right for once.
My heart beats fast in the fear that clutches me when I ponder the ways I’ve been missing the mark.
The cycle is endless, this story of performance. Performing even when the blinding lights shut off, the lilting music fades, and the scrutiny is over.

I stare at the cursor on the broad white screen.
Blink. Blink. Blink.
It daunts me and dares me to type out something that will wow the crowd, chaining me to the keyboard with the motivation of making a sensation, not emptying my heart.

Or is my heart already empty?

No. My heart is churning with story. It is churning with magic and wonder and love.
My heart has something to say.
And it will say it, even if only within itself. Even if it is only to be stored in a folder within a folder within another folder and is never revealed to another soul.

Finally, I will let my heart speak.



every day we open our eyes. we breathe deep, we close them again. we breath in, in, in. what does it smell like? cotton and coffee brewing rooms away. we begin to feel; fingers and toes awaken. we move our tongue, swallow, yawn, press our lips together. 43 facial muscles, with which we can smile, laugh, yell, sing, speak. live.

we are so much power. we are limitlessness, wiping the sleep from our eyes, cuddling deeper into the sheets. we are explosions waiting to happen - meteors, streaking the sky.

we've been given rest; restoration. hours of soft breathing and rejuvenation, swept away in unconsciousness. but we are awake now. it is morning now -  a new day, and from here onward, we decide. 

we can choose:





self love,


we create our day, our day doesn't create us. we decide how we live; we decide who we are. with each inhale, we affirm one or the other. each beat of our heart is a battle cry, proclaiming our identity. we live, we move, we have our being in something so much bigger than ourselves; He is our identity. 

so open your eyes, sweet soul. it's morning, hello, wake up.

and choose

choose joy, my love.

- k. a. 

roaring, roaring [i am not from here]

roaring, roaring [i am not from here]

i am a flame.

i am nothing like you. i don't know how to relate to you - i can't. i don't know you, i don't know your ways, tired, pulsing, turning world. people; mere specters. i don't know them, i don't know their ways.

i feel so alone when i am with them. i am nothing like them.

i am the forest. i am the gray, blue, angry sky. i am the storm; the rain falling over the open prairie. i am the void of space, the outer limits. no one understands me. no one understands.

i am the outcast. i am the wind tearing through the fingers of the trees praising God. I am the voice of the ocean, screaming, roaring, throwing itself against the rocks.

why are they sleeping? why are they sleeping? why are they sleeping? i scream with every crashing wave

i do not understand the world. i do not relate to it. i do not know it. i am alone within it; a foreigner. a vagrant. a nomad. an anomaly.

they will hate you, they will turn and tear you to pieces. for you are not like them, my love. children of the matrix hate the ones born of reality. 

i am a flame; fire. roaring, roaring.

wake up, wake up, wake up, wake i howl with the wolves

i will burn and burn and burn down the forest. and i don't care if no one understands. for whether they understand or not, they will still feel the heat.

"If we find ourselves with a desire that nothing in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that we were made for another world." - c.s. lewis

i don't understand the world and am not from here. 

- k. a. 



one speck in an organized world
one dot in a blank page
one note in a symphony
one pulse in a living being

your mind stirs like a galaxy in a bowl
ceramic, clattering, the war of two worlds
you are inside one, slipping out the other
inside you go after a ticket into your mind

brighter, brighter you will gather and
harness the energy built inside you
becoming a magnet of beauty and hope
until the strings of space pull taut

there are crashes, are there not?
failed explorations and uncharted destinations
the debris of doubt floats idle in your head
but they are always cleared in the end

footsteps land on foreign planets
flags break its stiff desolate ground
radios program crackling laughter
hearts are raised, millions of lightyears away

the cosmos is indefinitely infinite
but you will make your mark
in between gaps of clouds and dust and rocks
floating in a celestial oasis

here and there


her heart in your hands

her heart in your hands

Oh look there's another one. 

A female.

Immediately my mind seeks out every single thing wrong with her.
Her face is too round. Her eyes are... what is wrong with them? Ah yes, they're too large for her face. Her nose is squat. Her hair looks terrible like that. 

And that dress?? As if I would EVER wear anything that short. And to church?
Gosh is she terrible. 

And her legs don't even look that good. 
She's really kind of fat.
I bet she's really a terrible person and she's only coming to Mass because she has to. 
Wow good thing I'm not like her. 

three seconds
that's all it took

to dissect a person
lay them bare

three words
that's all it took

to pass it on
look at her

three seconds

that's all you need

to decide who's worthy
who is dirt

three words
that's all it takes

to stop the murder
you look pretty

three seconds

is all she needs

to see the
in your eyes

this has to stop.
I have to stop.

we have to stop.

she is our sister.

and we are slowly killing her.

every female we see from newborn to dying is our sister and we are digging a knife into her heart

we are forcing her hand to the knife that will pierce her own skin
we are handing the gun to her trembling hand,
we are tying the noose.

for God's sake stop this madness before it's too late.

dear friend,
what you just read is not pretty. it isn't funny, it isn't a joke, and you probably know it.
what you read is my own thoughts.
and i'm not condemning anyone, i'm admonishing myself.
i'm sharing this because this mutual disgust and critical eye women seem have for each other needs to stop.  

we are women. we are beautiful and we are bold and we are fearless. we are protective and gentle and loving.
but we are powerless when it comes to another person dissecting us and uncovering us and ridiculing us. 
so why be the hand that gives the weapon when you can be the one to throw it away and save the heart that's dying.


Just Think About It

Just Think About It

    You are a writer.

     No, I'm not.

     Yes, you are. If not with pen and paper, keys and computer, then with your words and actions, heart and soul.

     I can't tell a story.

     Yes, you can. You are an infinitely complex person with something wonderful to explore within yourself every day. God knows every tiny piece of you and your story. Even better, He understands it.

     My story won't make any sense.

     It doesn't have to make sense. Trust God to work in those details and decisions. He is behind every chapter, turning heartbreak into holiness.

     My story won't be any good.

     "God created mankind in his own image...God blessed them...and it was very good" (Genesis 1:27-28, 31 [emphasis added]).

     My story may be good, but it isn't worth telling.

     When you have something wonderful, it's not normal to keep it to yourself. You share it. You spread it. You want others to know about this news that has changed you. Let your heart be open to the beauty that can come from telling others. It may just

     You're embarking on the greatest today you have ever known.

     Just think about it.




Have you ever finished a book and simply sighed in a moment of reverence because the story you had just read took your breath away? It was so wonderful and enchanting and deep and real that you would much rather be immersed in the world it presented than in the world you find yourself in.

The truth is that you are immersed in a story just like that.

Your own.

Your story, regardless of the amount of conflict, the antagonists and protagonists, the plot twists, and the resolutions, is worthy to be called a classic, an epic in the library of the world.

Because of that, today is a day for celebration.
You are unique, and your uniqueness is one the greatest reasons for joy there is.
The way you sing, your eye color, your Africa-shaped birthmark, your accent, your ideals, the jokes you laugh at and tell, your values, your tastes—the list continues for miles. You are a beautiful combination that no other person can claim.
As an avid book-lover, I find my heart melting at the mention of my favorite books, characters, and authors. Finding someone else who celebrates the same things makes enjoying them even more fulfilling.
Today, let me be your companion as we fan-girl (or fan-boy) over your story. The book is your amazing, intricate, beautiful life--the heroine is you, surrounded by your supporting characters, or possibly in your case, victorious over many villains--and the author is God, the lover of your soul. I once read this quote, and it struck me so deeply with its simple and yet profound message: "The Bible is the only book where the author is in love with the reader." Your story is the same way.
I encourage you, my dear friend, to love your story. I promise I know how hard that is, but in turning your love toward your own story and not just the enticing stories of others, you begin to learn how truly breathtaking your own story really is.