The King’s Lifeblood

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A lost girl walked among the brooding trees. Her eyes watched the ground beneath her bare feet with care. But a strange feeling surrounded her, and she lifted her eyes. There stood before her, a tall and twisted tree, covered in daggers of wood that, if touched, would pierce deep. She marveled at these aeonian thorns. They called her name alluringly, pleading for her attentions, and preying on her curiosities. But still yet, as nature would have, they pricked her delicate finger as she drew too close. As red trickled from the fair skin of her hand, she wondered. “What precious treasure could these daggers be protecting? What light could their shadows be hiding? What diamond could be found underneath the coal surface?”

A mystery never needed to be solved, a danger never destined to be faced. But it was the mystery that called to her, many before her, and many to come. It was a hidden beauty. A promise, an unknown. Without this mystery, the tree would lose is novelty, it’s hallow, and would become one with the forest floor. Lost would be the attention upon it, and the mysteries of the world would be unlocked and fade from existence.

 

As she continued her walk beneath the canopy, her eyes lifted towards the heavens and her hand raised above her head as if to cling to the komorebi light. The patterns of leaves, the varying shades, the breeze that made them sway in an effortless and predesigned dance. She knew the white clouds swam in the sea of blue behind the penumbra, out of reach and out of sight. But she took comfort and security in knowing that they would always remain.

As seasons past and as leaves fell, as snow lay and creatures slept, there would always be a Junoesque azure hanging above, and the simple white with the softness of a pillow would always drift in her midst. Even in the navy hue of night, with stars sprinkling the atmosphere and a sleepy moon smiling from the sky, there was a beauty that would never fade, and a security never to be lost. Even in the seemingly hopeless abyss, there remained a light. A hope.

Far above the canopy.

 

She proceeded to walk among the free roaming greenery, her fingers drifting over the waist high flowers, the weeds tangling around her ankles underneath her long skirts. Her bare feet sank in the soft tilled earth, toes digging through the soil, searching for the cool underground relief from the hot sun. As bugs crawled and buzzed, around her, she closed her eyes and listened the flourishment of the wood. She listened to the birds sing to her, and added lyrics to their song and lifted her sweet melody to join theirs, high above in the trees. As acorns and leaves fell around her, she was reminded that not all things last forever. But all things left something behind in the wake of their death. All things were significant. All things were alive. Even when not.

Even death could bring forth life.

The ground beneath her feet seemed to rise and fall with her breath, as if tied to her very lifeblood… or perhaps it was her, tied to the lifeblood of the wood.

In the heavens above her, a King walked among His trees, under His canopy, among His greenery. His crown of thorns lay on the ground by His feet, fallen from His brow.

This be the Creator of the mystery. The Creator of the blue azure, the navy hue, the sun and stars that brought forth life abundantly. The Creator of every bug, every acorn, every leaf, every tree.

This was the King.

The Creator of the very ground beneath her feet.

She was His heartbeat.

His breath.

His princess- no. His queen.

His reason to be.

The King’s Lifeblood.

He lived in her, and her, in He.

Behind The Clouds

706605B0-9F67-47F4-B5EF-67A2AF7A4D16Behind the clouds, there is a beautiful light. A peace.
Through the sand, behind the gray, there is a hope.
Even with the dust that cloaks the mountainsides, still the mountains stand. Tall. Bold. Ever growing as greenery, flowers, and creatures run their trails.
Though the gray clouds hide the mountains’ beauty, this beauty doesn’t change.

Behind the clouds, there is a promise that they will someday be no more.
The clouds will move along with the slight breeze that cools the tears on our cheeks.
The clouds will fall to earth and lay on the ground beneath our feet.
The clouds will fade and move along, until someday they are only a distant memory.

The clouds may hide the light above us, but that light is still there.
The lights will never go out, they are only dimmed with the challenges of a day.
Until the moon fades away, the stars grow dim, and the sun goes out.
We must remember that these clouds will pass from us.

We must remember that things continue to grow, even in rain and shadow.
We must remember that there is hope, no matter how dim and dismal things seem. We must remember that there is still a light above, it is only momentarily invisible.

Someday, these shadows, these clouds, this gray. It will pass from us.
And the light we were once accustomed to seeing, will burn brighter than ever before.
And in the light, we will dance and sing, for we can see color again.
In the light, we will laugh and watch in awe, for life is beautiful to us once more.

This beauty was never gone, only hidden from the eye.
But even now, even though the life that lays before us is dark and sullen,
Should you watch close enough, you will catch a glimpse, a flicker of this light.
flicker as trees sway, the mountains stand, and the clouds pass us by.

The Odds Do Not Define Me

10D55C40-46AA-4499-9A34-56C37D892E85If I said I have never wanted to quit, I’d be lying.

I’ve wanted to throw the book. Rip the pages. Delete every document. Erase every drawing. I’ve wanted to give up more times than I can count.

When I lay awake at night with all the thoughts and voices circling my brain until I feel dizzy and disoriented? I don’t want to think anymore.

When I stare at a page and can see the characters in front of me, characters of my own making, kids that are MINE, and I see them slowly fade? I sit and I cry and I don’t want to write the story anymore.

When I see my book not living up to my expectations, and it’s not reaching far enough, and I’m not where I want to be in this life? I get discouraged and I just want to quit altogether.

Sometimes I feel like it’s not worth it.

But then I meet little girls that were like me.

Little girls that aren’t interested in dolls and dress up. Little girls that are interested in adventures. Little girls that would rather paint a picture than their nails. Little girls that see a challenge and say “You think I can’t overcome it? Watch me.” instead of caving to the odds that are not in their favor.

Odds are a funny thing.

They go up, they go down, and they change every second of every day.

And despite all that changing, they have never been in my favor.

And that’s discouraging. It’s upsetting. To realize that my book may never make it, that I may never be recognized as a real author, and that I will probably never get to release all my stories, that’s… sickening. Disheartening.

And boy, does it ever make me want to quit.

But on those bad days, I think about one little girl specifically.

A little girl who HATES sitting down. Who HATES slowing down. And who REALLY HATES writing for school. One day she ran up to to me and grabs my hand and looks into my eyes and says “I want to be like you someday.” When those big eyes light up as she grins and tells me “I want to tell my stories. I’ve already started writing them. Wanna see?”

I think about when her mother walked over to me with tears in her eyes, hugged me tightly, and thanked me for being a role model and an inspiration for her young daughter. She thanked me for being a hero.

In my eyes, I am none of those things.

I’m not even a small percentage of the odds!

But then I remember.

Neither is she.

Her odds are even smaller than mine. She is seven years old. She tells stories, and writes little stories.

But there is a possibility she may never publish that story. She might never even FINISH that story.

The odds are not in her favor.

But she is not a matter of the odds.

I am not a matter of the odds.

Giving up has always been in the back of my mind. Just forgetting it, and moving on to something new that I can actually succeed in. Something that could help sustain me. Something that could help people.

But that is already what I do.

If my writing has changed the life of ONE person, it’s worth it.

If my writing has raised awareness for mental health and true American history, it’s worth it.

If my writing has inspired a child to shoot for the stars, it’s worth it.

If my writing has ever even crossed the path of a single person… It. Was. Worth. It.

I am already helping people.

My voice is a drop in an ocean. A small star in a galaxy of billions, all burning brighter than I.

But my voice is NOT insignificant.

It is NOT impossible to be heard and seen.

A small voice is NOT an excuse to go silent.

The odds for giving up are huge. The odds for making it are tiny. But I choose to defy the odds, and not be defined by them.

Giving up has never been an option.

I write, I stand, and I fight. I continue. My story is not over. My words will be shared. My voice will be heard. My small star will burn brightly for all the boys and girls, men and women, children and adults. My small star will burn to encourage those who, like me, never have had the odds in their favor.

Because we can make it.

We can defy the odds.

Sailing off on another adventure 😉

-Lorryn Holt

Adventure In Your Very Hands

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A book is an adventure in your very hands.

Stories of love, of valor, and of tears.

A new friend through a window,

Courage in a world not her even own.

A young hero dives into the depths,

Fulfilling a promise she swore to keep.

Tears drip slowly down a broken one’s cheek,

As she finds her friend as helpless as she.

These stories live on, for years past our fate.

Planted in hearts, passed down from age to age.

Some will be untouched, the tale stands too tall.

Some will live it, believe, and become strong.

Books are our escape from this broken world.

It saves the pure dreams in black precious ink.

A drug of our own, in endless supply.

A temptation of the unread pages.

The idea of a brand new journey

Read beside a crackling fireplace.

An adventure takes place every time,

But to join the story is up to you.

The swing of a sword, the dash between words-

This, a decision only you can make.

***

Hey guys! Sorry it’s been awhile, but I have begun a new job, and we have been working on something BIG that I will hopefully be announcing soon.

In this blank verse poem, I have placed clues to what this announcement may be.

Any ideas?

Allegory is not usually my thing, but lately I’ve been feeling a little extra… mysterious 😉

Off on an adventure!

Lorryn Holt

Plans are made to be changed

IMG_3877Plans are only made to be changed.

I had some huge plans for last year, and this year. I think God just looked at me, read my plans, laughed, and said “Hey, watch this!”

One of the things I struggle most with in my life, in many different ways, is change. A lot of people struggle with change. But for the last few months… I didn’t really know how to respond.

Last year, my entire life was flipped upside down. In two months, both of my older brothers got married and left home. I am the only kid still at home.

I had spinal surgery, and even though I am now fully recovered and doing awesome, I am still learning my new limits.

School is, well, school! I am enjoying some of my subjects, but there is so much to learn and things begin to pile up. Assignments to be written every week, books to constantly be reading, experiments to be performed… studying has become the majority of my day.

My mom and I babysit, so I have an almost one year old walking around my house four days a week, talking and giggling, knocking on my door, yelling for me, and knocking spoons full of peas across the room.

I just turned sixteen a few weeks back, and I’m now driving, turning in several applications to begin a part time job, and sleeping when I get five minutes to crash.

The prayer journaling I’ve talked about previously is continuing, but now more in the form of drawings – one of my favorite ways to express myself.

Blogging has unfortunately been placed on the back burner, but I’m anxious to return to it.

All the things I’ve listed seem like they would be tough, but lately I’ve realized it’s not the changes that’s the problem. It’s me not knowing how to deal with it.

I have been writing and continuing my music, but the things I’m writing and playing are not things I’m used to expressing or experiencing.

Poems about the late night darkness… a story of a girl whose dream decides whether she will be written as the hero or villain of her very own story… a mystery of a clock that times everyone’s lifespan, and a game that decides when the clock shall chime… dialogue prompts and one-shots of a sassy preteen with an annoyed angel and cheeky devil on her shoulder… the list goes on and on.

I’ve began playing new songs, and writing themes for some of my characters. It’s inspiring. Creativity flows, even when it is unplanned – picking up my guitar, fiddle, or even sitting down to play on the piano at random times in the day can lift my spirits and boost ideas.

Things are different.

That’s really all I can say.

Do I like it? Uhhh… yes and no.

I like the comfort of knowing that there are some things will always be the same. And I love the idea of adventure… but there are some adventures I would prefer to only write about. Yet, it seems God has designed me to live them. I wasn’t sure how to adapt. Then I started looking at the things surrounding me as my own story being written.

One brother marrying after waiting five years, loving this girl more than anything… that’s romantic to say the least. The other brother eloping with a bridesmaid two months after… and comedic drama ensues.

Playing guitar in a wheelchair for patients’ families, learning how to walk all over again, and shooting pool in a hospital waiting room the day after getting titanium in my spine doesn’t exactly sound like the most adventurous tale, I’ll give you that.

But when you think of two parents chasing after their fifteen year old daughter who is speed walking around a hospital floor on a mission to get her own tea at eleven thirty at night (in Harry Potter pajamas and teddy bear slippers, nonetheless), all of the sudden the story becomes a comedy.

The changes we encounter in our life can be crazy, they can be sad, and sometimes they can be scary.

I’ve missed writing so much, and I’m really sad that it has taken me almost three months before I began really writing on my stories again. But I didn’t think I was ready. I didn’t think I could create anything good because life was so crazy. How could I have time to think about anything worth writing, much less reading? I could never get myself to do it. I was cranking out drawings and paintings like crazy, trying to express all my pent up emotions, but I was slowly going insane without writing the many stories building in my brain. I was waiting for a slow time, a peaceful time, to sit down and just write.

I never should have waited.

It’s not always peace that brings out creativity. Sometimes, we need a little crazy adventure in our lives to shake things up, inspire us in new ways, and bring out new things that we are to write about. I was waiting for peace, but God was throwing me idea after idea, challenge after challenge, saying “I know you can do it, just open your eyes and mind, and see that the adventure is right in front of you!”

And when I finally started living my own adventures, my characters’ adventures took off too. And I can’t wait to share some of them with you!

I can’t promise a blogging schedule, but I can promise it won’t be another three months before you hear from me again! After all, these adventures involve you too.

Off on an adventure,

                             Lorryn Holt

A Tired Girl’s Prayer

1564435530573_image1Have you ever wanted to have a conversation with your character? Slip into your fantasy? Some actually can. I can. And before you leave and start thinking “Okay, this girl is NUTS!” (which I kinda am, but that’s just me), let me explain. No, I don’t see people in my rooms or talk to the shadows on my wall. But I do have an imagination. A very powerful one. And once I sink into it… yeah, all sense of reality is gone. So I get to live in a fantasy. Even for a few minutes. I’ve talked to many of my characters in the very dreams from which they were borne. I’ve sunk into daydreams where I can see and talk to them. I’ve fallen asleep where I am transported into another world with them and we go on crazy adventures. But sometimes… all I want with them is a conversation. Because to me, it’s like a bonding experience with a person who was made by my very own creative design to be absolutely, incredibly, and perfectly imperfect.

Sound familiar at all?… no? Okay, then let’s take a rabbit trail and let’s see if we can understand this from a different point of view.

A lot of people journal or have a diary. Almost all of us have had a journal or a diary at some point in time. I’ve tried many times to start one, but it always kinda fizzled out. I never could figure out what was so special about them or how to keep up with one. A busy lifestyle doesn’t really count in time to sit down and write about your day in a diary.

But recently I’ve discovered something new. Prayer journaling. It has helped me in ways that I never even thought possible. It’s been my way through some of the hardest things I’ve ever had to face.

Most people think that prayer journaling is where you keep a log of your prayers. You set a specific time to pray, then write about what you prayed for, who you prayed for, etc. But I’ve discovered a new meaning to the words “prayer journaling”.

For a girl who is so crazily outgoing and (usually) bold and creative, I find it very hard to pray. Why? Well, to be honest, I’m not really sure. This is not a new occurrence. It’s just always been difficult for me to pray. It’s almost awkward. Maybe it’s because I find myself praying for the same things (even praying the exact same prayer) and it becomes repetitive and boring. Maybe it’s because I don’t know what to say. Maybe it’s because I don’t feel worthy to speak to my Maker, who also happens to have created every single living thing in the universe AND the universe itself.

But then I started realizing that the reason I struggled was; yes, I was insecure; but I was also giving a monologue. I wasn’t open to the idea of having an actual conversation with God because I didn’t think that that kind of connection existed. Until I recently started using writing as a way to talk to God. I’ve started writing my prayers. Instead of saying them aloud, I pick up my sketchbook or notebook and just start writing. Sometimes I don’t know what to write and so I sit and I listen. I listen to the things around me, even if it’s silence. I look around. It only takes a minute or two. And then things start to click. My pencil starts writing, almost by itself.

Yesterday, I had a really tough morning. I felt really stuck, hurt, and lost. I was at church, but felt so disconnected from my family, friends, and God. I just sat in my church’s bathroom in tears because I didn’t know what to do. My mom and friend came and held me for a few minutes, and while that was a big help, I still felt lost. I felt nothing and everything all at once. I needed some time with God.

So I stepped outside of my church, and went walking in the field. Praying. Talking to God. I poured out everything. I pleaded, cried, sang, and even yelled. I felt weak and vulnerable. But I knew that I wouldn’t find strength in yelling in frustration and anger, or in hiding what I was feeling from God. So I stopped. I prayed for wisdom, strength, guidance, patience, and peace. Then when I stopped crying, and let myself be enveloped by God’s love and let myself be held by Him, I went back inside. But God wasn’t done speaking. As soon as I sat down in my chair, I pulled out my sketchbook with intentions of taking notes of the sermon. God had other plans. I wrote down my prayers and poured out everything. My pencil was moving with no effort from me. Some of the things I wrote, I had no idea why I wrote it. But I knew that God was having me write exactly what He wanted me to hear.

After I finished, my parents asked to see my notebook. My dad was sitting beside me in church and could see pieces of what I was writing, but wanted to read it. So I handed my book over. I felt so vulnerable, but by sharing my prayer, I received even more love and support.

My mom greatly encouraged me to share my prayer from yesterday with the rest of you, and some of the other prayers I’ve been writing.

And I’ve been debating and really struggling with the idea of sharing this. I was torn. Torn between wanting to share what’s been happening and drastically changing in my life, and being scared of being vulnerable and losing the writing family I want to build. But now I think it’s time to share my prayer, because I don’t think it was only meant for me.

*****

 

July 28, 2019

Give me faith like Daniel in the lion’s den.
Give me hope like Moses in the wilderness.
Give me a heart like David, Lord be my defense
So I can face my giants with confidence. {Confidence by Sanctus Real}

I’m here to praise. My job on this earth is not to write, or to nurse people back to health, or to draw visually pleasing pictures. My job is to praise. To sing loudly and worship. To show others Your glory through my writing. To show Your healing power through nursing. To paint a picture as close as I can to the things You show me of Your glory and beauty. God, give me the strength to stand against these attacks from the devil. The patience to learn. The hope for another day. The faith of a child who knows as will be taken care of and loved.

Show me Your glory, that I may learn to walk in Your footsteps and show You to others around the world and introduce You as my Holy Father who is offering love, joy, and peace. Anxiety and stress and pain are tiring. God, I’m so tired. But You give us rest and love and healing. Thank you, God. Not just for what You do, but for who You are.
~LH

 

*****
As humans, we are perfectly imperfect. Prayer is not meant to be a monologue. It’s meant to be a dialogue. A conversation between you and God. For God, it’s a bonding experience with a person who was made by His very own creative design to be absolutely, wonderfully, perfectly imperfect. He wants to spend time with you and speak to you. God speaks in many incredible ways. All you have to do is open the conversation.

-Lorryn Holt