NEW blog coming!

I've been writing for as long as I can remember - from mystery stories to love stories, angsty poetry and songs with lots of "ooooohhhs". Writing has been the means by which I make sense of life, myself, others, or simply is a way to get out all that doesn't make sense about the world around me.

Just over seven years ago I started my first blog. I have not looked at it in a while and really would be quite embarrassed to I'm sure. From that point though my approach to writing changed. No longer was my audience isolated to my teacher and family - there was now a potential reach far beyond my inner circle. The first blog that I read consistently was by Katie Davis who lives in Uganda. I remember reading about her life and falling in love with this far off land that sounded so foreign and fantastic. As I fell for Africa, I also found myself enamored with this method of sharing. This writing on the internet for any eye to come across. I let the thoughts stir in my head as to what it meant for not just Katie in Africa to write, but for Kyleigh in Texas to write. I didn't have my teachers there to hand me writing prompts and essay topics; this was one part exhilarating and one part terrifying. I was dizzied by all the possibility and the freedom of writing whatever came to my mind. Which in the early days probably looked akin to an overly explanatory Facebook post from your grandmother about their holiday weekend.

I spent the first few years dabbling here in there, posting pictures with lengthy explanations about the sugar cookies my friends and I decorated. It was all very intriguing. In this season of my life there was a great amount of change occurring on the landscape of my soul. No longer was I giving the Sunday school answer to my own life, I found myself enraptured by my Savior and wanting nothing less that all of Him. I was overflowing. This spilling over poured on to the pages of my journal and to my blog. I found new meaning in writing. It was not just a means to express and create fictional lands (which are both still so important), now it was a way to declare and encourage. A space to present the Truth I was learning and grasping for the first time.

This fueled my writing for quite a while. As I continued to walk in this fresh faith, my heart leaping and coming alive and spilling over in words on a page. Then when life came strong like a cold gust of wind, I braced myself with the binding of my journal and the words I wrote there. Change came quick and the rain poured down, yet there was solace in ink on sheets and words on a screen. To this day writing remains the place where I feel sheltered from the storms around me. It is a place I can go to rest, and let out all that feels stuck inside. It is also the place I have learned the beautiful gift of sharing with others. A home to settle in to and invite others to join me. A hearth to cozy up to and listen to the stories of others, sharing encouragement and honesty, breathing deep in the communion of "me too" life moments.

That today is why I continue to write, for the "me too". Over the years I have read many words - memoirs, poetry, blog posts, lyrics, and there is this incredible rest that washes over you when you read someone else's story and see yours in it too. This embrace that warms you with the knowledge that you are not alone. I knew there was a new chapter coming in how I blogged, how I wrote, how I shared - and that is why I am starting a new blog kyleidoscopeoflife.com will launch tomorrow, December 28th at 12pm. I cannot begin to express how excited I am to share this new space with you. My desire is for it to be that home and hearth - warm with the familiarity of past and fresh with the hopeful anticipation of life to be lived. I would be completely honored if you would join me tomorrow and in the days to come. I look forward to writing more, to reading more, and to sharing more with you.

In His grace,
Kyleigh

speak your truth

Speak your truth.

I am ready for this. To speak boldly. Not brashly, pushy with blunt phrases. I am ready to speak with gentle boldness. To speak in to the dark the state of my soul. With weight to the words I speak, that whispers light in to the dark places. More so, I am ready for His truth to penetrate. To burn through the black out curtains that have hung themselves around my heart. They have hung heavy, weighing me down. They pull at the seams of my fragile heart, allowing no light to come in. I have been curled up in the darkness for too long. There has been a season of mourning. A season of learning more of this faith without sight. That He is still here even when it seems so dark. Now I have found the edge of this curtain and with every ounce of strength left in my weary being I want to pull it down. Let the light shine in. Let the Truth soak me in it's warm glow. My soul has tried to live in the dark. Tried to grow accustom to this nocturnal state. Sweet soul, you were not made for this. Not made for sorrow or heartbreak. When it was fashioned, formed, crafted - it was with joy and delight. My soul was made with joy and delight. I was made with joy and delight. Truth sink deep. Light flood every crevice. Joy and delight. That is me. That is you. Speak your truth and let His Truth invade with its warm glow.

bad at Grace

We sat sipping the foam off the top of our lattes. Sunk in to the outdoor couch with the sounds of the highway behind us. Our conversation ebbed and flowed - recalling events, swapping stories, and catching up on the last year. Yet as we spoke, verbally traversing over the months passed, there was a thread that wound itself through.

Grace.

The more we spoke of it, the more we realized we still didn't grasp it. This idea, concept, word - Grace - was not something understood. You can't read about it, making lists of its attributes to fully grasp it. You cannot be "good" at Grace, learning it's patterns and tendencies. It is not something to be studied and observed.

Grace cannot be taught, it can only be learned. And the learning is the hardest part. Why? Because in order to learn Grace you have to be a bad student. In order to feel the healing touch and experience the removal of shame that is Grace - you have to fail. When there is dirt in your teeth and your knees are bruised; when your heart aches like a body fatigued and eyes burn red. Grace arrives. As circumstances crash down like buildings razed by bombs, and thoughts swirl with dust of debris - Grace enters.

So let out that sigh of relief, because this is a subject it is good to be bad in. Fear of failure only inhibits growth. Out of struggle comes growth. In struggle there is Grace. So go ahead and fall. Embrace the ground for it is your classroom. As you gaze upward you will see and know the touch of Grace.

the color of courage

I've decided to not wait this time.

To not wait until all my thoughts have fully formed - in to distinct shape and form. I'm leaving them a little fuzzy around the edges. Since January I've wanted to write, ached to write. Writing is cleansing like rain, scary as hell truth on paper, and brings relief like cold water on dry lips.

I've taken moments - to pause and sit - letting the curves and lines of letter bring light to truth lived. Mostly in secret, on late nights, dim lights glowing and ceiling fan click, click, clicking as it spins. In those moments I scrawl on scrap pages - thoughts, dreams, fears. While those sacred moments were just that - holy and messy - my stumbling in to the throne room to lay at His feet, there is still so much within me from this journey.

I've carried this bag around with me, collecting half-thoughts and shared quotes, it's overflowing with commas and run-on sentences. As I drag it behind me, now so full, I know it is time to open it. To open and share - to lay bare so that every inch of limb, of life, is seen. The idea of being seen, of sharing in word and phrase and sentence is intoxicating. I breathe deep the warm air laced with the light scent of flora.

Jerking me suddenly is the hand that grabs the bag I've been carrying. A voice with the violent hand screams lies in to the peace-atmosphere. Turning light air in to frozen rain - shattering upon impact.
You're too much Kyleigh.
If you write like that, they'll worry about you. 
It's too much emotion.
You can't go back and rewrite all that's happened.
It's been too long, you've forgotten too much. 
Your motives are selfish.
That hand wraps it's fingers possessively around the bag I carry and beckons me to keep holding it.

I can't keep carrying it. To think of all the letters and phrases contained inside - bold, deeply sad, surprisingly joyful. There is this flash of color that comes every time I peek inside the cloth. It is a deep hue of courage, color that dances in my mind long after I look inside.

Now it is time, the courage color has been filling the corners of the bag and my mind. So here I am now. It's time to clear the table, open the bag, and dump it out all over. It's time to let the courage saturate the room with it's color, to pick up forgotten phrases, trace the lines of half-thought and Truth.

I must warn you I am scared. Part of me wants to close the door and just sit and look at the color and shape and form of letter and phrase. These last few months have been anything but ordinary and predictable - in the best and worst sort of way. The idea of letting you in to see the mess on the table - the hues and paragraphs and thoughts - both terrifies and excites me.

Yet, I know I'm not alone. There will be days I write and no one will get it, and that's okay. But there will also be days that one of you will have a tear fall or a smile dance across your face because you will realize you are not alone.

That is why I'm going to write. This is not my story, this is our story.

We are lost and confused and bruised - but more so we are breathtakingly exquisite, beautiful, and rare. So this is for us - to sort through the mess, not to make it tidy and neat. So that as we look at the table with it's hues and letters, our eyes may meet as we look up and we may know - we are not alone.

adventure

There is this great appeal to adventure and travel. The thrill of new places, different cities everyday. The rush of adrenaline as you roll the window down and breathe deep the fresh air blowing in across the bay. Your eyes scan and jump to take it all in - the height of unknown buildings, the flashes of faces, the random reflection of your own face in a shop window. So strange to see you in this place. A reflection of your well-known features taking residence upon window after window. Your glance to see self in this new place as fleeting as your time spent there.

It is swift - travel. The one constant is the unknown road ahead. Yet, that is the draw. The lure that glistens just ahead, that pulls you deeper in. You may plan the steps you take, but inevitably there is a change. You move towards it though, with fervor, accepting challenge. A new opportunity with each day to stretch your view of the world, this life you live, and your role in it.

Road blocks blink bright with exciting possibility. Even the most stressful situation is entered in to with resolve - because it's in the name of "Adventure" that you push on. For when you arrive home again, you will carry with you stories. Titles written in the tear of a shirt, the lost pillow, the journals filled.

This is adventure - that you may accept what comes on the road ahead as part of the story.

Here is where I stand with a question, a quiet revelation of sorts. You see apart from a week long road trip across the Pacific Northwest and a few days housesitting - for the last 365 days I have lived in the same house. Walls plastered with maps, outward pictures of my wandering mind. Tall windows that let in the most baptizing white light after a long rain. Messy corners that are evidence of long weeks and lack of desire to clean. As I sit here in this space, this room I've lived in for the last year I'm challenged and questioning.

I did not expect all that came along the road of this last year. While setting remained the same, aside from a few room re-arrangements, detours and unexpected road signs mark the journey. New faces have come in and out, jobs have changed more than I care to count, my role in many ventures has taken different form.

Then the sudden jerk of the steering wheel and my heart flutters and someone new comes in - a boy I didn't anticipate. It's so much easier to travel alone you know. You can hide in the four walls of the same room you've lived in for the last year and not be seen. But now, he's here and his arms are open wide, yet I'm feeling broken. Days before he asks me to walk with him a while - my family changes. My heart lurches at the crash of circumstance. Suddenly the reality of years gone by comes back and collides with ideals held. I feel like I crumple under the pressure, the change of course. A snow storm blows in and the road is icy and unsure, my sight inhibited by gracefully falling flakes of perfect white.

All I do is scream - "I didn't ask for all of this." I was content with how things were, moving steadily along. Yet here as I look back I am reminded of adventure - my cry for which was loud and long the months leading up to my move back to this place. Adventure is full of detours, unexpected turns, road blocks...but I didn't ask for this. That's all I could think.

Does anyone? Do you leave your home and all you know, cross your fingers and pray for a ten hour layover? Do you drive miles and miles to hike only to find out the park is closed for several days? No, of course not. You don't seek out change, it just happens. Change is Adventure's closest friend - the one that shows up at the party late, but with a great story and extra ice.

I didn't ask for this. I don't think she did either. She didn't ask for the change to bring loss. He didn't ask for change to bring stress and anxiety. But here we are - with the results of change ahead of us, cones guiding the way of the detour.

This is Adventure. Life lived full, entered in to deeply. While I ache to think of some of the roads turned down, I rejoice for where they have led. While I have not traveled miles away, to see my face reflect off the surface of some distant lake - I can look in the mirror in the small bathroom at home and see a girl that has journeyed and is changed.

And this journey is far from complete. Sitting now I can see evidence of road maps that will lead to new chapters never before entered in to, with that boy that I was once scared to share my heart with. While wedding invitation designs lay scattered on my bed, the same light floods in the tall windows. Rushing over with it's rays of baptism, renewing my weary soul. I still have just as many questions as before, my mind will run away with lies on occasion when change enters in, but I am learning to accept the choice of Adventure. To accept what comes on the road ahead as part of the story. Leaning in to each turn and holding tightly to the hand of the Guide.

Act 1 : Sit & Be Still. Listen.

I didn't expect the last three months. I didn't expect the change of storyline, the new character, the themes developed. The curtain opened on a new year, and no one had handed me the script. So I stood center stage - blank, with no idea what words I was to speak. I searched the wings looking for a cue card, something to begin with.

I received a direction - Sit & Be Still. Listen.

So I sat. Right there in the middle of my life, my play. On the stage that had seen so much action, my own bustling about. This new scene went against those before. The transition was swift, almost non-existent. Once a stage full of characters and ever-changing scenes and props. Then, everything removed, a blanket laid out, I walk to the center, and I'm prompted to sit.

In that new space, my heart breathed deep. The sigh of No Expectation, because frankly there wasn't any energy.

Quickly though, the tug of the old drama came. After sitting still and listening long my character was drawn to the rhythm of the scenes gone by. I stood. Feet attempting to run back and forth to reconstruct the set, stage the characters, and muster up a script. My body grew tired faster and then a glance to the wing - there was the cue card again.

Sit & Be Still. Listen.

There was a struggle. To listen to the direction given or push through to manufacture the drama that had already taken place once before.

I walked to the blanket, and sat.

...and sat some more. Craning my neck to the sides of the stage, looking out in to the crowd, I sought an answer - certainly there Should be more than this. What kind of play is this if I'm just sitting. I should be running around - doing, doing, doing. Then I saw it, far out, way in the back. Squinting, my eyes read a sign - Sit & Be Still. Listen.

Okay, there has to be a mistake. Maybe this is the part where I improv my way through the next few scenes. Certainly, this cannot be what I am suppose to do. Sit? Be Still? Listen?

Those words before were part of the action - Sit while you meet with them. Be still so you don't disrupt. Listen so you know what to do next. But now, what do those words mean? They were always tied to an action, the next step, a transition to the next scene. And there weren't any characters in my place on the stage. My eyes looked, but no one felt this exactly. The moments before the quick transition were full of drama, tears, confusion. Now this deep breath of No Expectation.

Yet there was the pull to seek out a Should. Really, I Should be doing something other than Sitting & Being Still & Listening. I mean, scenes can have moments of those in-actions. But entire scenes and acts? Won't that scream boring and a waste to an audience?

I lay here now. On this blanket, center stage. The curtain is drawing for a change of scene, yet the direction is still being given. Sit & Be Still. Listen. So here I'll stay, waiting for a prompt. A script with the words to say next. I let out another deep breath of No Expectation. How sweet it is to breathe that air.

the dreaming & the doing

Here’s the thing – you can dream all day long, but until you do something - that dreaming just sits on journal pages or in your pretty little head or on that pinterest board you spent hours on. Don’t get me wrong, I am a huge advocate for dreaming. Dreaming is the very thing I believe helps us discover who we are. It’s the place where we can take risks, because we can dream of dying our hair pink without actually doing it. It’s like dress up for your life, and you never grow up and enter middle school and end up not fitting in to your favorite pink, frilly, princess dress. Dreaming is a place where fear is not allowed and being crazy is an asset. So with that, I say DREAM-dream big and wide and crazy, and WRITE IT DOWN. Nothing makes you feel like a real live crazy person than writing down your dreams. Because yes, when you write down “own a unicorn” you will realize how crazy you are. But the first step is admitting it, right?

So there ya go, dreaming. Now that I’ve up-ed my word count trying to convince you of how important and lovely I think dreaming is – let me say this – dreaming needs doing. While yes, writing down your dreams is doing something; I believe it’s only the first step. And yes I do also realize that I can’t do much more than just write down that I want to own a unicorn. (Other than buying myself a horse and strapping a horn on its head – ha solved that one!)

Really though, this is where we (yes - you, me and every other lovely human person) get stuck. We can dream all day, we can make lists; we can talk in pretty descriptions, and spend endless hours on pinterest. Trust me, I know; I’m really good at pinterest. But there has to be a step forward.

For some, that first step is sharing. It’s being bold and sitting with a friend and saying “this is my dream”. And oh my dear, that is huge – because these dreams we hold in us are fragile and sharing them is scary business. Once we’ve shared (and trust me I realize this isn’t the easiest step) we have to allow ourselves to believe it is possible. Now I’m not saying this is going to work for a seventy year old who dreams of having five kids by the age of seventy-seven. I mean there was Sarah..but you know what I mean. There is this thing called “reality” and it’s a real bugger because darn it, I’ve tried jumping off the couch with my bed sheet cape so many times and I still can’t fly.

I’m getting off track here – the point is whether your dream is to fly, have kids, open a business, travel to Ireland, grow a beard – you have to believe that you can and move forward from that place. Grab your bed sheet, tie it up, and perch on the edge of that couch cushion. And then….JUMP!

And yes, you will hit the ground. But remember the rush? That singular moment as you were parallel (not crashing in to) the ground and you felt so light and free. That’s the doing. That’s the rush that comes with jumping in to the unknown of your dreams. And yes, there will be times that you fall. Really though, we all need failure otherwise we would all be superheroes that didn’t need saving. (And hon, we don’t need anymore spandex suits in the world – leave that to Cirque de Soleil) Embrace the failure, just like your face just embraced the carpet you fell in to. Failure doesn’t mean everything is wrong. I’m tired of failure being a negative word. Someone needs to paint a pretty canvas with the word “failure” in calligraphy – because dang it failure teaches you and shapes you.

So let’s give failure a bear hug, let’s dream of unicorns and business and babies and travel, and then – let’s jump. Without fear of the fall, the carpet burn, the fact that we may need help up after. (At least you didn’t have to wear spandex.)