"grace is not tame."

Grace is wild. Grace unsettles everything. Grace overflows the banks.
Grace messes up your hair. Grace is not tame.

// doug wilson // 

anytime you're gonna grow, you're gonna lose something. you're losing what you're hanging onto to keep safe. you're losing habits that you're comfortable with, you're losing familiarity. 

james hillman 

if you took note of her subtleties, she wrote those words on every action of what she was slowly but surely becoming. you'd think change would still scare her, after all the tsunamis that ripped through the currents of her heart over the years and all the people who navigated away from her depths over the course of time. she was losing familiarity—yes, but she was becoming more of the person she never dreamed of meeting. 

her laugh got louder. her lips were tinted redder. her heart was sewn onto her shoulder if she couldn’t find sleeves to wear. 

she flung open the windows at night to hear the crickets chirp and feel the cool evening breeze lull her to sleep. there were ink stains imprinted permanently on the palms of her hands from all the words she couldn’t stay up long enough to write down but wished to remember. 
her past was a picture of the grace that had tangled itself in between the broken memories of the nights full of tears and loneliness. after all, the cracks were the only way the light could get in. 
she was learning to receive the blessings of staying — that the people worth loving and the adventures worth undertaking were always going to frighten her a little. but if joy was a fight, it was time to stand still. 
feeling so passionately had always been a blessing...and a curse. 
and it made her wonder: if one felt pain just as deeply, how would one feel happiness? 
xx 

portraits by the lovely anna filly photography.
the words that shake me to tears || by || hannah brencher // & // amy metien
please listen || brokenness aside // picture of grace // alive

we are here, love. x

you kept all the things i threw away
holding on to memories of you and me
we're just a box of souvenirs...
panic cord // gabrielle aplin 

i. and it really comes down to this: 

zesty laughter 

stifling more than conviviality; 

glances 

stolen across busy tables, 

point a to point b 

was a clear shot through crowded hallways

and shoulders brushing 

the world by. 

ii. some relationships weren’t made for the movie screens. 

ours was made up of sarcasm and Skype dates,
sporadic text messages,
and once-a-week phone call conversations
over rain and the irony of life. 

some are made up of hearts being strung over static lines

making up for humid evenings spent on porch swings.

ours was a gentle rain, swelling into a hurricane. 

iii. maybe we were just a collection of mementos:

ticket stubs, a napkin traced with lipstick,

programs from attending recitals.

maybe we were just hasty hello's & elongated goodbye's.

when you asked me what we were 

i just know we are here, love. 
x || o

there is a story in this / edition 3 / tie this around your finger.

TIE THESE STORIES AROUND YOUR RING FINGER LIKE A 

STRING

NEVER FORGETTING WHO WE WERE,

WHERE WE STARTED,

AND THAT YOU WILL ALWAYS BE LOVED.

-g.s.

it started with a ladder. a ladder with two rungs missing that creaked under the weight of the souls who dared to climb it. one after another, words flew from mouth to ear. mouth to ear. 

up. up. up. we mapped our escape route to the skies.

quilts made from the hems of skirts were spread; knees were tucked to our chins. "you have a string," i remember you teased and reached to tug - but i stopped you. "you have to cut it, else it will unravel." (the metaphor of that statement wouldn't sink in until years later). 

shoulders brushed, unnoticed. we blushed hoping others wouldn't notice. but the rest did and pressed lips curled into smiles against plaid sleeves, holding the hearts we all naively sewed there. the humid air was flecked with our rebel talk but eventually a weighted hush settled on our shoulders. silence, though unfamiliar, was full and warmed with genuine camaraderie. 

our group of sixteen, all bound by a town that slept six months out of the year and burned for the rest. except for those few days that dangled at the end of may. sixteen souls sewn together by threads: attic full of memories and a radio station jammed with songs. we seized those rare hours that lingered, when the horizon was drowning in an ocean of colors. gradients of blues bleeding into crimsons, turned cold purple. i still remember it: how the sun sank heroically into the river that cut without apologies through the heart of town - slowly and then all at once. and it fascinated me. 

these years change us. no matter how much we resist. slowly and then all at once. 

and we didn't realize it at the time - we didn't realize what we would lose. sitting there with palms stifling laughter, no one knew five years later our number would dwindle down to fifteen...then fourteen...twelve...ten...five...and then three. some grew restless. some ran. for how long? the postcard's that hang on my fridge only will tell of their wanderings. some would be lost, and their names were tinted with rumors. some would come back, battle scarred and with sadder eyes. most of them wouldn't. (daddy had always told me prodigals were common and homecomings were rare).
you didn't come back. now, every lose string on the hem of my clothes threads back to memories of sun-drenched rooftop rendezvouses when we were young and happy and content simply being. 

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there is a story in this: is a collaboration between myself and the ever-astounding, forever lovely, incredibly talented, and one of my dearest friends 

miss mikailah of wander/wonder. the concept is to take stills from this board, to motivate us to set aside time to spin stories amidst our busy lives, and to unearth the pinches of fiction, inspired and gathered from daydreams and reality alike, currently squeezing our hearts. read my first installments I & II and mikailah's breath-taking compositions: EDITION I & II & III on her lovely blog. 

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it feels good to write stories again || feels like coming home. 
happy june, lovelies!

xx 

*disclaimer: image above via david wallace on flicker

attributed inspiration for this story: hannah nicole's the boy you once loved || gabrielle aplin's home ||