Here's the deal. People know fake when they see it. I know I do. I particularly know fake when I see it in me. I used to think that to be was to do and to feel, but that's not quite so. Doing and feeling are good and necessary things. They make up our humanness and aspects of who we are, but they are not our identity. So now I'm not praying for feelings or fame, I'm praying simply to be.
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"I hate admitting it, because I fancy myself wonder woman."
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They tell me that the body remembers, and I think mine has been having too much fun with deja vu. It's remembering where I was one year ago--after Rush, leadership, and responsibilities. It's remembering the cold weather, the mid-November stress, the overcast days, the wind slicing through the buttons of my flannel. Last year, cold weather felt scary and lonely and helpless. And my body is remembering.
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She was just like me at eighteen years old--passionate but timid, needing a friend to tell her she's legit and her dreams are legit. Needing permission to let her passions bust out of the trapdoor and surprise everyone. She needed her moment where someone believed in her.
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“I just have too many dreams. It’s a problem,” I told my dear friend and mentor. I wrapped my arms around my head and attempted to crawl under the coffee table—partially as a joke, partially as a perfectly logical way of escaping real life. Hiding under tables always worked for me as a kid, so what difference does fifteen years make, right?
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Letting go of shame is scary. Because even though He tells me that He can handle it, sometimes I don't know if I can bear to acknowledge that it exists.
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One day, brilliant words will be falling out of your head, and then the next day you're shaking your fist at a blank canvas. Where did the inspiration go? Why are words suddenly hard?
It's tempting to think that on the blank canvas days, we just have nothing--that the well of our brain is dry. But I think another alternative reason for blank canvas days are because the well of our brains are overloaded.
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