gold bones

I pull and nothing happens. I pull again and nothing happens.

“Yo. Open up.”

I watch the little black lock-indicator relent through the passenger glass. In a brash motion I fling the door to its hinge's extent and fall in. I balance two coffees stacked on top of each other. The straws are inconvenient.

 “Soymilk,” I extend it.

His hand is bone and milk white as it comes and wraps around the plastic cup.  “Thank you.”

He is in messy hair and faded skin. I am in high-waisted shorts and a starchy new tee shirt. There is space in his skinny jeans but he's still breathing. There’s no pretty scenery but there’s some trees going out the windshield.

There’s a minute where nothing happens. The car is off so there’s no air conditioner noises and no bastille noises because the key it out of the mouth of the key receiver and the music died like don mclean said it would when I opened the passenger. a car door somewhere else opens and closes and I watch him pull the paper tip off of his straw with his teeth.

“you want to go for a ride?” I ask. “somewhere
where we can drink these. And look at

he shakes his mess. this is the first time he has been out in a week. his eyes aren't ready for the pretty yet, but they are ok with the parking lot. 

"okay," i say. sipping.

"its pretty
he says, moving some bones toward the glass separating us from the coffee shop.

"i'm looking"

"you see those

"i see them."

he leans back,
putting the
into his fist.

i move my eyes to the windshield and look at the trees. i sip the coffee in my hand. this  the first time i've
seen him
in a

i wonder when he's last eaten.

"man," he says. "look at those trees though..."

i say nothing for a minute.

"what do you see
when you look at those trees?"

he thinks.

i think about putting the music back on for him. would it make him feel safer to have the noise? should i give him the noise? 

"i see
tree skin." he says and moves the straw past his thin
tree tumors."

"i saw a bowl made out of a tree tumor at a museum once." 


"yeah, i don't know."

he swallows and then
leans his head back on the rest.
he is so tall that it just kinda drapes there, letting some of the
reddish blonde fall over the back;
coaxing his adam's apple to the surface of the skin wrapping his gullet. 


i agree.

he swallows and it's noticeable with the way his head is. the bump in his throat drifts up and down.
his eyes laze shut.

"you want me to put the key in so
so you can have the

he shakes his head
or tries

and then just says "mmm"

less energy spent in the murmurings than in the movements.
the movements are

"mmm" sounds like yes but i know him well enough to know it means the opposite. 

"i'm ok."

"you sure?"

"i'm ok."


he sits back up again and sips the drink in his hands, swallows some substance this time.
he laughs without parting his lips. the noise catches in the space between his teeth and skin.

the laugh is a swan
covered in oil;

pretty once
but half dead now. 

"why, you want the music on? i thought you liked talking." he says. "the quiet."

"i do." i say.
"i do like
talking but i
want you to be


he stops being
himself for a
second, looking.

"but you know..." he says. "like,

i feel like maybe i'm too

i'm too comfortable in a

bad way.

because my comfort zones... I don't know...

i didn't make them in good places.
so when i'm
in them, i'm

i'm in a not good place."

in a good place." 

"stop with your english," he moans. 

i laugh "i'm sorry,
i'm sorry."

he thinks, but i can tell it's about something else. 

"you know what's so weird though?" he asks, then goes on. "i
those places. the comfortable places. i
made that

head space."

"you can always make new ones, you know." i said.
"new head spaces."

"i don't
know how."

"you say
you don't know how, but
but you won't let anyone show you how." i said

casual but
but wanting to tear him
apart to

to get to the 

"it would start with
thing you
so much.

it would start with something light, like a croissant. maybe some soup. then a drive into the mountains. some clean air
in your lungs--
fresh air.
pretty views.

the trees here, yes. they're pretty.
but the walls in your bedroom can be pretty too
until you make them your
the coffee is good until it just becomes another
hunger killer.
the problem is, you're too
knotted up

in yourself to start building that new place to live in. you still obsess over what other people will think of you, or what your sick mind might say about you.
well listen, pretty eyes,
you're slow dancing death into a
and you're not letting anyone
cut in."

"it's hard to let her go." he says. "i... i don't know. i just..."

"what?" i ask. "you what?"

his tongue touches his lips. he shakes his head. 
so much space in those skinny jeans.

"i feel like i deserve her."
he tells me.

he tells me because he can't see
what i see.

behind those


i missed writing. i missed it a lot


the post that took two years to write

i've honestly been trying to write this for two years now. every time I've tried to get it out of my head, it just hasn't felt right. it just never seems to come out faithful to what it looks like inside my head. this morning i was supposed to be packing but i guess today was the day it wanted to get out of my skull and onto the page. so here goes.

there's a lot out there about anorexia/eating disorders/whatever label you want to give this unhealthy, self-destructive lifestyle. I didn't want to just come to the table that is the interwebz with yet another post about how I went through that and what it was like... i wanted to share that, but yet i didn't. it makes me feel extremely vulnerable to talk about it period. it's taken me almost two years to be able write something remotely coherent. but you know what makes me feel not-vulnerable, and not alone, and not isolated? when other people are honest, and open, and vulnerable. and i guess i've decided over the past few messy years that i want to be that person who is honest, and hopefully maybe, in that honesty, i say something that runs a wrecking ball through someone else's isolation. 

still, i wanted to share from a place of healing-- rescue, increasing-healthiness. day-by-day getting better, happier. working on it. not from a place of darkness, where i was still lost and wandering. that was a season for feeding on other's words, and on His word. which has honestly become deeper a way of life. it's become my salvation.

i can't speak for everyone, i can only speak for me. but i know that my case was not unlike thousands and thousands of others. it's a big, deep, messy, complex, sick, confusing subject. it is a hell that you, on some level, consent to live in. you make it for yourself and you convince yourself to stay. 

i stayed too long.
i ate the food.
the food was poison.
it made me not want to eat anymore food because it made me believe that i was
a mess up.
never mind masterpiece, i was
the eraser smudge.
not good enough.

i wasn't a flesh-blood-bone girl, i was a controller of a body that i compartmentalized. i was sick. i was dancing with darkness, i was deeply unhappy. everyday was a weight on my heavy eyelids in the morning. it was burden to get out of bed, because my feet would hit the ground running; obsessively. running scared of what? of beauty, of peace, of that glorious avalanche that is life; rolling, rolling. i was scared of all that goodness because i wasn't good. no, I was chronically not good enough. the world told me i had to be x y z and i didn't feel like i was x y z yet, so i fought for that paper-thin cause; meaningless flag hoisted, charging into a battle that could only end it fatality. 

i am convinced that i wouldn't have made it out alive if it weren't for the fact that someone made me and bled out for me and dove in after me, and dragged me to the surface for air. i wouldn't have made it out without Papa. He is the only reason i am here. my life, my heart, my lungs, my air, my head, my sometimes air-head, it's all his his his. he saved it, and he saves it everyday from the madness it tries to resurrect.  and i wouldn't have made it out without so much love love from my parents, who are basically my lifeline. and i can't even put into words without crying what they mean and what they've done to keep me here. they are superheroes, loves of my life. my sister, a fighter herself, my better half. i needed them.

but there was one thing that i did for myself, it was really one of the only things that i personally took the initiative to do that really helped me. i've been doing yoga for about two years now, and almost every time i do it, i think about how much i want to share it with you guys. because i know that some of you are fighters, reading and commenting. and if i could give you one thing as a gift, to help you make it through the day, one thing you could actively do, it would be yoga. and here's why.

1 - you're making a decision. you are doing a thing.

there's this violent cycle of go, go, go, do, do, do. so you can be better, so you can be better, so you can be better. you're not good already, you're not pretty already, no. you have this massive list of things you have to do, non-stop all day in order to obtain any feeling of validation by the end of it. you are literally validating your life by this messed-up list. you are measuring your life by how far you can run, how many reps you can do, how little food you can fuel yourself on. you're super woman. unless well, you can't accomplish all those things on that list-- accomplish MORE than yesterday. in that case? scratch those superpowers. you are an actual failure. you ate a slice of actual bread? you only ran four miles, not five? your validation, your esteem, your sanity? it's gone.

it's like quicksand, this kind of thinking. it's a disease. a real, actual disease. through this, yoga was an active thing that i made a  daily decision to do that helped tug me loose from the death grip. yoga breaks the cycle. or at least i've found that it can help. it's this designated quiet time, alone with you and your coach (mine was on youtube). you're forcing yourself to STOP. even if only temporary at first, all this schizophrenia comes to a grinding halt. you're giving your body, your soul, your dizzy brain a break. even if only for a half an hour or so at first? it's pressing 'pause' on all this madness. 

2 - you are thinking about breathing. you are not thinking about everything. you are not thinking about yourself.

you're consciously keeping your focus on your breath, on your movements, on your posture. you're paying attention. you're listening carefully to the instructions, and you're consciously making the decision to be an observer of your practice. not a critic. 

you're not thinking about the work you have to do, or how little you've eaten, or how you will proceed further into this abusive hurricane you're spinning around yourself. no, you're thinking about your next inhale... your next exhale. your movements. your limbs and ligaments, tendons slowly growing stronger each day. growing under your skin, like you are your own child. you are outside of yourself, looking in....and after awhile it becomes harder and harder to keep feeding that self-loathing animal living behind your skull bone. i've broken down crying on my mat before. i've cried because i've felt the ability to hate myself and hate my body being tugged gently from my white knuckled grip. i've heard a voice that says, soft at first, then louder as time goes on, "let go, love." 

3 - it's not about reps, bikini bodies, or who can twist themselves into the most complicated pretzel. it's about who can breathe; who can stretch and feel good.

"it's never about how deep you can get into a pose... it's just about feeling a stretch."**
the beauty is that you are not flexible..not at first. in fact you are inflexible in every way. you refuse to let anything move you. you will not be moved. YOU are in control. YOU. you control your body and how much food you eat and how much exercise you do. you control it-- YOU. I can't even express how tight my hips and joints were... don't think your body doesn't hear all these cutting words your eyes (and maybe lips) tell it's reflection. 

it's not about the pose. it's about the stretch. the stretch in those tight joints, and the stretch out of that dark comfort zone your unhealthy thoughts have created. 

4 - yoga is not just exercise. it's the no violence/self-respect zone. 

if something hurts, you don't do it. it's a hard concept to swallow when normal life has become this repetition of intentionally doing things that you know are hurting you. don't do something if it hurts you?? why?? i do that all the time. i do that everyday.

it's a new concept. it's a bold objection to the destructive, loveless way you are treating yourself. it's an echo of respect, of honor, of tenderness in your hollow, hungry mind. the dark places where you chain yourself and deprive yourself. it's a contradiction to the hate. it's a bullhorn through which someone's screaming about love love love.

5 - you are already beautiful, love.

yoga is a reminder of the fact that you don't have to look like the girl on the cover of the magazine. in fact you never will because guess what??? you are two different people. and people were not made to try to look exactly like one another. you don't have to look like her. you were not made to look like her. guess what, love? you were made to look like y o u . beautiful, beautiful y o u , with skin, blood, bone, ligaments, tendons, and an amount of body fat that is healthy for your specific, unique body. you are beautiful. you are necessary. you are not silicone. you do not exist to look a certain way, no, your purpose is waaaay bigger and better and far more important than that lion-heart. you are bigger than the numbers on the scale, the food you eat, the clothes you wear, the amount of exercise you do. no, you know what you were made for?


massive, freaking huge amounts of, dancing, twisting, late night drives, lip balming, ice creaming, singing punk rock songs really loudly, re-watching disney movies, wearing concert tees, getting pink milk from convenience stores, licking the beaters, laying on the floor and playing with your dog, watching the deep sky, picking out shooting stars, picking out bright coloured shoes, learning how to skateboard, or how to dance, or how to play the ukulele, going for runs, doing healthy, body-friendly workouts, smiling at yourself in the mirror, love, love, loving you and spreading that love love love to the person next to you on the bus, at the concert, in the class, at the kitchen table. you were made for so much j o y , love. joy.

"...I have yet to see a scale that can tell you how enchanting your eyes are. I have yet to see a scale that can show you how wonderful your hair looks when the sun shines its glorious rays on it. I have yet to see a scale that can thank you for your compassion, sense of humor, and contagious smile. Get off the scale because I have yet to see one that can admire you for your perseverance when challenged in life..."**

and so i come to this topic hesitant and fumbling; still wrestling. I feel awkward writing this, but i also feel awkward sometimes at checkout counters, and i still do that. so i guess i can do this too. this may be something i write more about, or write less about, or never write about again. but i wanted to share one of the bright patches. yoga is something that helped me and continues to help me so much, and if i can share that balm with someone else with a sore soul, it would make me happier than i can articulate. 

i love you guys so much i could have a seizure over it.
know that i'm always here, okay?

x o
stay brave

/tiny reference area/

this is the yoga channel i use here. i practice at home. on a side note, none of this refers to specific religious aspects some incorporate into yoga. i am talking exclusively about breath/movement/and whatever restful or meditative qualities you personally incorporate yourself based on respect for your own beliefs. :)
quote 1, Lesley Fightmaster

notch || the road is home

Notch Trail || 1.5 miles
Badlands, SoDak

of all the places in this world i've been, the badlands are one of my most beloved. it's so quiet there, so quiet. i'll never forget the quiet. it's the kind of quiet like what the moon would probably have, i think. it feels moon-quiet to me; broken every oft by a cellphone voice or family of four. or seven.

i woke up early for this one, and put on gym shorts. momma had coffee going and i drank some and abbie put on her wide angle. my dad was scruffy faced and talking about the heat probably. the sky was opaque white over top of us as we drove to the trail head. it would shed its skin to a robin's egg blue later on.

we hiked, climbed ladders and rocks, and sweat some. i took pictures of abbie taking pictures, and at the end of it there was what looked like an ancient cave of bats that were birds instead. birds that swam up and dove down again like the thick air was water; messing up the silence with those heaven soaked voices.


where was the last place you adventured like an over-caffeinated fiend? 

the writers [the world changers] || Grace Anne

a writer does not write
because they want to

a writer writes
because they have to

a writer is a world
trapped inside of a human body.
they bleed stories
it’s not something they can help;
they’re born that way

a writer can make a trip to the grocery store
into a glorious adventure
a walk down the block
suddenly becomes a journey

oftentimes people are confused by writers
they don’t understand

how can they, when the writer can’t even understand

how can they understand why you suddenly awake in the middle of the night
and are found slumped over the kitchen table the next day
but happy
because you finally found the perfect sentence

how can they understand
the way the words become a part of you
pumping through your veins

they can’t

and that’s okay

because maybe writer aren’t meant
to be understood

maybe they are just meant
to be

just the way that they are

the way that their hair is always messy
and the way that they laugh a little too loud
the way that their eyes glaze over
when they’ve become lost in their own world
and the way that they feel
more deeply than you can comprehend

and that’s okay

they are the creatives
they are the world changers
don’t try to change them
let them change the world
let them be their strange
unique selves

because it’s okay


so blessed and stoked and torn to small joyful pieces over these needed, masterpiece words by Grace Anne. This girl blesses my soul, guys. Go show her some love on her beautiful blog space Totally Graced.

x O,