words, people. words.

First thing. My house smelled like chocolate and mint this morning when i woke up. I think it's probably because we made chocolate chip mint cupcakes last night. Mmm :)

Second thing. In the shower this morning, I was playing with the idea someone mentioned to me of scouting out the northwest and breathing in some Oregon air for Christmas time. I was thinking how I'd like to read some more travel memoirs of this place, preferably by poets.

And then I started thinking about Billy Collins and how the only literature I'd like to read from here on out must be something written only by him.

Some backstory (you can skip this part if you'd like):

Some very dear friends of mine came to visit the other day (all the way from atlanta...and england :)) and I gave the tour of all tours. We found ourselves sitting on the floor at the Book Tavern reading aloud our favorite poems to one another. My friend mentioned earlier that day (as I was trying to be poetic telling him about my early morning bike ride) that it reminded him of a sarcastic Billy Collins poet and that Billy Collins was his all time favorite. Welp, my eyes happened upon him as I slowly eyed the vertical lines of titles and authors. I pulled the book out and he thumbed through the pages and started reading.

He explained this guy has the most at "home writing." The most realistic sort of tongue. Anyways. I guess I can't explain such things very well. But Tatum, my friend, said he likes to always read Billy Collins before he writes something (he's a writer) because he doesn't want to pen any fluff.

Then. That very next morning with cup of coffee in hand, I make my way into the morning sun-lit living room to find Tatum smirking. He told me Don Miller wrote himself a blog that morning about the very same thing. The same things Tatum had said. About stripping down to your soul to write. Gosh. It is so very beautiful.

I'm at this place where I don't want to read poetry, though I believe poetry is a very important thing. Too many times flowery words are said and too many times things are devalued and lost because we pretend we feel something we do not feel.

And if you think about Jesus, it's beautiful. John calls Jesus the Word before he even calls him Jesus. He calls Him Logos (if you look logos up in the dictionary of Princeton, Jesus is the first definition..ha). And logos means all things reason, account, logic, in word form.

He is the words. God breathed words and we were. His words are Him. He is the logos of our beings in some weird, mysterious, poetical sort of way. He spoke and we were. Words are powerful. If you've ever read James..or Proverbs...or even just lived before, you know these things. Creating poetry should be no silly hobby where you write things that sound pretty.

I hope I do this more. I hope I could strip myself down and be vulnerable. I would like to set my organs on the table before those I love the most, and most of all in front of Jesus himself.

So in short, it's going to be tricky to find some Northwest vagabond memoirs.

Oh, and here. (You might would like to read it out loud)

Today.

If ever there were a spring day so perfect,
so uplifted by a warm intermittent breeze

that it made you want to throw
open all the windows in the house

and unlatch the door to the canary's cage,
indeed, rip the little door from its jamb,

a day when the cool brick paths
and the garden bursting with peonies

seemed so etched in sunlight
that you felt like taking

a hammer to the glass paperweight
on the living room end table,

releasing the inhabitants
from their snow-covered cottage

so they could walk out,
holding hands and squinting

into this larger dome of blue and white,
well, today is just that kind of day.