wants.

i could stay in bed all day
lie under piles of fleece and cotton
ignore my mostly-green door
(a portal to an outside world, to which i owe a fragmented existence.
i am no longer fully here.)

i am struggling to stay afloat
in a sea of wealth and privilege
in a place i have chosen
a life i have chosen
a life that has been given to me

if i get out of bed:
i will begin my mental list of today's wants
words on lined paper, awaiting the strike of ink
to smother them into black
what i want:
a new journal
new toms (to replace my slippers. defeating the purpose. yet, the want remains)
a new book (but, to my right sits a bookshelf filled from edge to edge with ink filled pages so far unread)


so i can stay in bed all day
turning pages to wash me of the guilt
of even the luxury of books
fifteen books

and if i read, then maybe,
just maybe,
there will be no space in
my mind or
my heart or
my schedule for

the longing to hear kids singing michael jackson at the top of their lungs

or

the aching to sit and listen to the story of a heartbroken and forgotten girl.
and i could sit and offer ears for hours, until the sun hides behind blue mountains, not understanding the point of her suffering or my privilege.

and i won't have time to listen to our soundtrack--call on me, or a thousand miles away--i won't be able to think about the boys who taught us to dance, or the people we now call family.

or

maybe. i'll forget the moment, driving through pot-hole ridden streets in a place so green that new life is all i can see, and i'm sitting in a van, surrounded by beautiful people on every side, hearing pieces of wisdom, stories of Jamaican experience, with Bob Marley playing in the background.

because if i remember, my heart hurts all the more
and i start crying all over again
celebrating what is such a beautiful new home
grieving what feels like such a profound loss
but i don't want to forget the contentment of that moment,
even in discomfort.

discomfort as we drive past
tin-roof houses and
piles of corregated steel;
goats collecting trash in road-side ditches and
uniformed children begging for a meal
(a meal. i eat three of those a day.)

and all these images are flashing by
and the last week is replaying in my head
and all i hear is music drowning out the noise

redemption song. a song of freedom.
as it was in the beginning, so shall it be in the end.

but then there's the earthquake
and i can't make sense of it.
the news reports
and the thousands dead.
millions affected.
and jesus is suffering with them
while i stay bundled up in my cozy layers
in my cozy house on the beach
with the iPod that i should have left behind
in the country that i can't wait to escape

and my mom--she sponsors a haitian girl
so i guess that makes her my sister
and they're not sure if she is dead or alive
she could be burried under piles of rubble
or crying in the streets

and here i am, planning out the next three years
moving in a way that feels directed by God

and in the back of my mind comes that nagging voice:
"law school" "intellect" "use your brain"

i want to shut the voices down.
i want to hear utter silence.

what i want to do:
be in jamaica.
play with sanka.
dance with kids to michael jackson songs for hours.
listen to taxa talk.
play whatever games they want to play, for as long as they want to play them.
adopt. now.
hold orphans and cook dinner for the poor and
dig through piles of rubble to find that one.
that one dearly beloved child of God.
give away everything, without the want to gain it all back again.

and my wants can only be fulfilled because i swim in a sea of wealth and privilege.

so what am i to do?