not quite strangers

7.31.2013


Winnipeg Folk Festival
07/09/13

7/04/2013

7.18.2013


07/04/2013,
Second full day at the lake,
Kazan's birthday,
The day we had beaver tails for lunch,
The day they ran out of lemons,
(so we sent Chloe and her long legs running to the nearest corner store for lemon juice)
The day we ate three huge containers of poutine with no shame,
The night on the dock,
The realisation,
(what I make from something cannot compare to what was made from nothing)
The night I got lost on my bike ride and met a man and his bus named Gus,
"It's our first trip together. Isn't he a beauty?"
(if you're going to tell me a story, know that I'm not going to want to stop listening)

7.12.2013

film, by Keila

These past five months have put a selflessness behind my actions, but a selfishness in my writing. I write constantly, but I hoard my words knowing that they'll never come close to doing these these months justice, these people justice. Nonetheless, a few short and true stories:

I logged sixty-eight more hours on a bus. In other words, I went to New York. I slept on the cracked hardwood floors of a beautiful old sanctuary in Red Hook, Brooklyn. I learned what it means to serve and I wrote more than I have ever written in my life. I lost all of my photos and Hannah responded with the coolest thought. I have many stories and maybe I'll share them sometime, but here's the best one: I set out to bless and came home the blessed. It's funny how things work out like that.
-
I didn't see you that night. I only heard you. My eyes were shut and I didn't have to open them to know that it was your arm around my shoulders, your voice saying "I'm so glad you're here,".
-
I fell in love with worship, took comfort in mutual brokenness. Walls were taken apart brick by brick, confession by clumsy confession. It was a slow and terrifying process in which I learned to let people in again. I am only thankful.
-
Graduation night. I shove some things in my orange backpack and leave my dress lying in a lacy heap on the basement floor. I throw on some denim. Yank the baby's breath out of my hair. Run. You two wait at the end of my driveway, singing. I sprawl myself out across the backseat of Larry and we drive in the opposite direction of the party. Everything is beautiful, everything is beautiful. He nods his head. She drums on the steering wheel with her thumbs. I play an invisible piano. At some wee hour, the dizziness of fireworks and star-spinning and handstand contests fades and there is only us... [half of a story]
-
You told me not to ever lose my quiet nature. It's funny, because I was so ashamed of it until you said that.