07/08/07

Yesterday was 07/07/07.

I was praying to God last week and I felt God speak into me, in that invisible yet sturdy way, where it's not like full sentences or word-structures from God, but a kind of whole revealing:

That this year is about finding the Treasures. I want to find the treasures Lord!

And almost like there is something coming up. Somewhere to fall into.

Find the treasures LOrd! in my relationship too. that is how i want my relationship to go. that is what i want to be doing.



This is the year of Sabbath and yesterday was like the apex. I was waiting for this day.
It's like Sabbath times Sabbath times Sabbath.
It's the middle of the year of Jubilee.

Then 7/8/07. The next left. The day of infinity. The way we are moving into 8. 8 as in eternity. The next octave. The new land. The kingdom on earth. the next carpeted step, the good ready prepared spacious land. This is where I feel this year is taking us into.

I had spoken to God straight "What, God. What" like what do you have for me? And boy did He give me a treasure.

The following is my account of my 07-08 weekend. please enjoy the little things of my little odyssey.

I woke up on 07/07 in Marin, had returned to see Sarah one more time before she goes to Costa Rica. A Very Molly and Sarah night in a club we could care less about, with girls done up and girlified and bling. we roll plainer than that but we still like to dress up. went with sarah's guy and his friend and danced in that vast and happy sarah and molly way. that was the night before.

Woke up on 07/07 and fetched Sarah from her friend's room. had to get back to Santa Cruz.

The license plate holder of the car in front of us said "Good."
on the 7th day that is what the creator said. He rested. He saw creation and he called it Good.
Saturday was a good day. It was a day of looking back on my life and where I've been, where I've come from, and knowing it is good.
We went to Sarah's Dad's house, in the neighborhoood I grew up in, Meadow Avenue. I passed the little alley way where the boys that picked on me threw rocks at me. I passed the school where my grandpa would pick me up. My street with the Island at the end where I used to walk my little doggie.

I sat there with Sarah's dad and she told him about the drama of the night before, and he laughed and sympathized and nodded, getting Sarah's tough love-me spirit. the steps where i gave her her first violin. the house i played in.

Driving home I kept calling my mom whose line was busy, had the nudge to. Then for some reason I called my Dad, and he actually picked up the Home Phone which never happens. He never picks up, but is handed the phone. This time my Dad picked up. He sounded happy to hear from me in his voice. "I have something interesting to tell you."

Then my Dad gave me the biggest news he has ever told me, one of the greatest gifts I could thinik of and it came from my Dad. He told me about some important people I'm related to. That they are studying our family line, which I know nothing about, I know a kinds of little fascinating things about my mother's line, but nothing from my Dad's side.

He told me I'm related to Emily Dickinson. 7 cousins. Seven.
I am related to Emily Dickinson. My world flooding. I can't believe it. Only the greatest Female Wordsmith. She is the one I looked up to as I started to sharpen my editing in college. Her command of words and structure. Her voice of daggers. Her obsession with the things, with objects, and the way she floats her worlds around her. That is like me.

She is the greatest female poet, and I started to feel this command, this gift from God, that i have a legacy in my family. That if I could be a poet like Emily Dickinson, but with the Jesus thing in there and the 2007 thing.

And I even started to think about the weird ways I've emulated or been drawn to her.

The book I made when I finished my program, It her her quote that is the epitath to the whole book.
"To be a good writer you must Murder your Darlings."

And I think about how I like to go to my attic, when I lived in my attic and I felt so reassured and that was the only place I wanted to be.

I am not trying to claim to be Emily Dickinson by any means but I do think it so interesting of the little embers of ways that I write or places i like to dwell that glow with Emily Dickinson way. The way she gets so fond of things. And even though her poems are somewhat morbid, there's a way she lives through things in the little lives of her poems.

Right when I was told that my personhood ignited. This is what I must do I am being called to be a writer! And God is blessing me in this dear way. I am in the line of Emily Dickinson.
And I know my poems are obsessed with things and mast up and sail in little worlds.

Could there be a way that our voices are related?

to be continued.....