Just give me a candy heart.

Her armor is thin.

She knows how this ends: the delicate ones bend.

Oh God, thicken her skin when its arrows they send.

She’s boarding up the door.

She knows how this ends: trusting and expecting unearths the worst.

Oh God, hold the lock and key when no other is of worth.

She’s digging in the dirt.

She knows how this ends: with filthy, empty hands.

Oh God, reap before she sows in what will not grow.

It’s a struggle you know.

To hope in what you cannot see,

Through armor, though thin.

From behind a door boarded in.

Covered in dirt caked like sin.

Oh Love, if you agree,

Let no doubt intervene.

You know who holds the key.

And may you spend your days under each other’s white flags,

Holding dirty hands.

Love,

Taylor

Longing pt. 1

I long to share and break bread.

For rectangular tables with rows of strangers-turned-friends.

To hear the sound of forks scraping on plates and inebriated laughter hovering in the air.

For the day’s worries to dim like the light and for hearts to fill alongside bellies.

I long to love and be led.

For legs intertwined in sheets, a place where sacred and stupid meet.

For steady hands that pull and careful feet that pursue.

To grow, to root, to sink, but to always keep our wings.

I long to be with, not for.

To stand in the right place, not take the right stand.

For the call that elicits response to touch and see.

To share cries, stories, prayers, meals, beds, families.

I long for simplicity, nothing more.

For rhythm and ritual that satisfies and sustains.

For garden sprinklers to run through and a swing on the porch.

For a tiny dwelling that collects memories and not things.

Love,

Taylor

Record

The day was so full of words that carried weight.

That dripped like that candle wax, hot and slow.

That lingered like those billows of incense, permeating and veiling.

Reminders that finite is a description of life. Of time.

Sentences strung together on a broken record we play to remember the infinite.

Round and round, it goes. 

The day was so full of glimpses that stung.

Gazes all too revealing

That what I know and what I do not know are now perhaps equal in measure.

Searching for love

That only I am capable of giving, myself.

Where it stops, no body knows. 

October 17

When Love beckons to you, follow him,

Though his ways are hard and steep.

And when his wings enfold you yield to him,

Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.

And when he speaks to you, believe in him,

Though his voice may shatter your dreams as north wind lays waste the garden.

For even as Love crowns you so shall he crucify you.

Even as he is for your growth, so is he for your pruning.

Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun, So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth.

He assigns you to his sacred fire, that you may become sacred bread for God’s sacred feast. All these things shall Love to unto you that you may know the secrets of your own heart.

Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself. Love possesses nothing, nor would it be possessed. For Love is sufficient unto Love.

When you Love you should not say, “God is in my heart,” but rather, “I am in the heart of God.” And think not you can direct the course of Love, for Love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course.

-(parts of) ‘Love’ by Kahlil Gibran

I saw Clayton yesterday. Today would have been our 5-year wedding anniversary. And although my stomach was in complete debate mode over the thought of being in his presence again, I’m glad it happened. Really, really glad. It ending up being one of the best experiences I’ve ever had. There was laughing, crying, hugging, happiness, sadness, regretting, forgiving, and gushing over the new. It never once felt painful or awkward. It was honestly like something out of a movie. Like a bittersweetly heartwarming ending to a romantic comedy. It was how a Bon Iver song makes you feel when you listen to it. And as I walked away from him, my heart was pounding and a smile was beaming from my face. I was in awe of how healing it was…to see each other and to know that we are both okay. That we are both incredibly proud of the other. That we are both rooting for each other with all the adoration in the world.

If it were not for the hard and steep, the wounds, the shattered dreams, the crucifying and root shaking…I would not be who I am today. Today my heart aches over the loss, but it is simultaneously overjoyed because of what I gained through that Love. It grew us, pruned us, and refined us. Where I once wanted to curse that Love for the ways it hurt, from a place of wholeness I can now say that it formed me and I wouldn’t give that up for anything. I am unendingly grateful for the Love that directs my course and for the years that course was with Clayton.

Love,

Taylor

I think this ^ sums it up. Keep going. Everything is going to be alright 🙂

Juvie Jamz

It’s time for another Juvie Jam.

Untitled

When I was a boy I was raised in the trap

Never wanted a toy unless it resembled a gat

Me and my little brother was skinny ‘cuz we were barely eatin’

We got our water from a neighbor’s pipe that was leakin’

Mama stayed in her room ‘cuz she was always tweakin’

Daddy was in prison, they didn’t free him

I used to see my Grandma every other weekend

Not anymore because she has trouble breathin’

I think my family just needed help

By the time I was 9 I had to fend for myself

That same year I started bangin’, I found another family

They taught me loyalty and respect

They understand me

They taught me love, they taught me care

They taught me to never snitch and to that I solemnly swear

While other kids had books and backpacks

I had hooks and crack bags

I have no feelings to feel

Just worried about a ceiling and meals

Every night I walk into a cloud of meth smoke

Every night I lay on my bed and ask myself is life and death a joke?

-C

Also. THIS. Those budding artists, let me tell ya…

 

Love,
Taylor

 

Juvie Jamz

Every week at work we go into the juvenile detention center and do a one hour art or writing workshop with youth there. It’s a great way to briefly spare them from boredom and recruit kids that are interested in participating in our programs once they’re out of detention. Sometimes it’s fantastic. The kids are engaged and happy to be there. Other weeks feel like disasters. The past couple weeks we’ve been expanding on the idea of home. We’ve encouraged them to come up with similes and metaphors for home. To think about what home is or where home is. To explore unique ways of describing where they come from. For one person it’s grandma’s house. For another it’s the basketball court. Or Chester’s Chicken. Or the neighborhood park. Or Liberia. After hearing/reading what emerged, it felt good to know that everyone could at least think of some place or someone that felt like home, even if the connotations weren’t great. On the other hand, my heart still sank into my gut. It’s hard to wrap my head around these homes I’ve never entered. But I think what they write exposes a lot. I learn a lot about them and where their heads are at without having to outright ask them and without them having to outright tell me. There’s this strange paradox I see of kids having to grow up way too fast, but never actually growing up. I’m not sure if that came out right or makes sense. Anyway…here’s an example (from a kid who wouldn’t perform his rap in front of me because he said my ears were too precious):

I come from a broken home, shattered dreams and stained mildew floors

Crawling around on all fours in my drawers

My dad always high like my ambitions to grow and survive

I went from not knowing when I’d eat to having so much, I’d throw away half my plate

I went from a rental property to a place I’d learn to call home

My dad smoked so much meth, he done lost his dome

But my mom, cold as stone, took me away and said he’d have to live on his own

Not always the best, my whole life’s been a test

I’d have to learn a lot of things on my own because my dad left me

On Father’s Day I used to cry

I’d wish death upon my dad in my own eyes

Through all the deception, all the lies, he left a son who would have to find his own will to strive and survive

 

Juvie Jamz

I have a severe case of job whiplash (a general life whiplash, to be honest). It isn’t a bad thing. It just is what it is. I took a job at a non-profit arts organization that offers art and workforce readiness programming for at-risk/court-involved youth. So, I basically went from spending all day with the sweetest baby girls to juvenile delinquents. I went from nursery rhymes and pre-school pick up to court rooms and gangster rap. It’s been a weird transition. But hey… I’m excited to have a job in my field! I love what the organization does and am excited about the summer programming possibilities/opportunities. I believe so passionately in the transformative power of art and am driven to see these kids achieve their best in ways that are dignified and fulfilling. I’m honored to be a support, an advocate, a cheerleader.

Granted, I’m only two weeks into this job, so maybe I’m over analyzing all of this…but here’s what’s going on in my head and heart:

I’m just a nice, fairly quiet, middle-class, small town, white girl. I don’t know what its like to grow up in foster care or be initiated into a gang when you’re 6. I don’t know what its like to see your brother get shot or to shoot someone else’s brother. I don’t know what its like to live in fear of getting jumped. I don’t know what its like to have parents addicted to drugs. I don’t know what its like to runaway from home. I don’t know what its like to get arrested. I don’t know what its like to hold so much anger and hate in my body. I don’t know what its like to always be in trouble. I don’t know what its like to have a .1 GPA. I don’t know what its like to experience racism. I don’t know what its like to be really poor.

And I feel guilty for all of that. For the sake of bonding, relating, understanding, being influential, etc…I wish I shared in the experiences. It’s strange to be in an environment where being myself feels hard and awkward. It baffles me how insecure teenagers can make me feel about myself haha isn’t it supposed to be the other way around?

“You just don’t get it.” Truth. I don’t. I can’t. But I want to. Is that enough? Or are the all the words from my lips going to be discredited? Will my be attempts at being genuinely interested and invested roll off your shoulders?

“That’s impossible.” I believe that there are ways out of tough situations but maybe that’s because I’ve been afforded options and opportunities my whole life. I believe you can overcome addiction, but maybe that’s because I’ve never had one. I believe you can stop cycles of violence, but maybe that’s because I’ve read a lot about achieving peace.

“I can’t change it.” I think part of every egocentric high-schooler is the inability to see or imagine beyond what is right in front of them. I know I’ve been there before. That said, it has been amazing to me to see how much power the past seems to hold for them. The belief that your past not only influences, but dictates your future. The belief that the past is a much stronger force than the present. Obviously there is a lot about our pasts we didn’t have control of: where we were born, who are parents were, our social and economic status, how we were raised, what we saw and what was done to us as children, etc. There are uncontrollable factors that set us up on involuntary trajectories. Yet, I just have such a hard time believing that the past robs us of change, if we want it badly enough. I might not “get” where they’ve been or what they’ve done, but I want them to look where they’re going. And I feel like I need to expect things from them. You know, bigger, better, brighter things. I don’t know the cost/benefit analysis of something like leaving a gang. I don’t know how difficult it is to jump through systems. Everything is easier said than done, I know. Maybe change or doing the “right” thing means taking a beating or lots of beatings, or losing family, or moving away from everything you know.

Cue: City High ‘What Would You Do’

*sigh*

I’m constantly picking apart every interaction and they probably couldn’t care less. C’est la vie.

In summary: I don’t know anyyythiiinnngggg. But whatever, tough kids…

I’m just going to be there. To help you apply for jobs. To ask you about how you’re going to achieve your goals. To tell judges that you’re involved in something good. To draw next to you. To listen to your free-styles. To read your poems. To be proud of you. I’m going to love you to pieces (but honestly, I will probably never love dirty south rappers or your Nicki Minaj art collages).

Deal.

Without further ado…here is a piece written by one of the students during a free-writing activity we led at the detention center last week. Juvie Jamz might make a semi-regular blog appearance:

“I come from drugs

Where every nigga’ round me gettin’ mugged

Where people catchin’ feelings trynna get snug

When girls in your ear listen to your convos like they planted a bug

Where to the West, them white girls got their Columbias and Uggs

Where sleepin’ under the bridge is better than sleepin’ in the mud

Little girls go from tots to thoughts and every nigga you see endin’ up on the Block”

-Anonymous

Love,

Taylor