Introductions

Since I’m working on starting up this blog again, I figured it was time to do an introduction, which I don’t believe I’ve ever properly done here.

My name is Elisabeth Grace Hacking, commonly called Gracie or Grace. I am 20 years old, a Christ Follower, an INFP, a licensed massage therapist, and also a nanny. I am the second oldest of 11 kids, ages 23-3, with three of them being from West Africa. It’s an adventure!

Image may contain: 1 person, standing, ocean, sky, outdoor, water and nature

I love citrus fruit, blankets, being on or in or around water, massage, bird feeding, reading, hiking and road trips, cannot spell “definitely” right on the first try to save my life (which is odd because I enjoy spelling.), I was born in California but have lived my entire life in western Washington, with rain and mountains and woods and tea.

I don’t tan, I burn, and am figuring out where God wants me in this season, and what He wants me to do. I feel a little lost right now, and that is one of the reasons I’ve decided to be more frequent at writing here. I love writing, always have and don’t intend to ever stop. I have many many notebooks, random poetry, and I don’t even know how many unfinished stories I have.

I’m dating the man who I’ve known since I was 10 and have had crushes on since then. He is tan and can talk to pretty much everyone and make them laugh, works harder  than pretty much everyone I know, loves adventuring and is a fantastic adventure buddy, and is also one of the most generous people I’ve ever met. He’s the best blessing I’ve ever had.  You’ll all probably be hearing lots about him in the future! ❤

There you have it readers, a little portion of who I am now put out on the internet, and hopefully you feel better introduced to me!

Blessings,

me

 

to ground

I hate falling.
From a cliff.
In my dreams.
At the fair.
Into sin.
To uncertainty.
I love feeling solid structure beneath me, whether a physical or emotional assurance. Grounded. Secure. Why I have such an abhorrence I’m not sure, maybe subconscious remembers reaching for a lying branch, falling far, waking up bruised and hanging by my knees who knows how much later. Or maybe it remembers the dirty feeling of falling morally, of missing the mark. That isn’t a bad fear, per se, I should strive to stay strong. It’s the fear that I have of myself (in a sense) that is wrong.
But such is life as a flawed being, falling (whether physically or otherwise) so what should I do with this fear?
I can either dwell in it, entangling myself until I’m a hyperventilating paralyzed mess, a rabbit with wide eyes afraid to move.
Or, I can find my grounding. I can sink my heels deep into my Savior and know that He’s got this. I can cling to His mane when the fears come running toward me, and know that His net is close below when I fall.
He walks with me and He talks with me, and He tells me I am His own. There is no reason for me to replay these fears.

brought out

So, I’ve actually started quite a few blogs, and I literally just “refound”, if you will, one of the ones I had last year.   I still like it, so you all get to see it today. 🙂

 

Lately I’ve been thinking about beauty. I’ve been seeing posts and tweets and pins about this, and normally I don’t pay much attention to them, but as of late they caught my eye and got me thinking about this subject in more depth. I noticed that much, if not all, of what I saw labeled as beautiful was flawless, photoshopped, artificially enhanced. Altered. Which I’m not saying is bad, I love editing pictures and appreciate perfection and aesthetics.
But it made me think of beauty that normally isn’t recognized; the painful, the small, the overlooked type. The melancholy sort of beauty.

Don’t get me wrong; I love the happy beauty; the perfect symmetry of someone’s face and a flawless smile, a perfectly arranged bouquet, photoshopped eyes that are absolutely breathtaking, a textbook perfect moment, but I also love the other types of beautiful things.

The beauty of holding someone as they cry, seeing their tear stained face, and all of their emotions churning just below the surface of their reddened and moist eyes. The rawness. The realness. When someone trusts you enough to pour out all of the ugly problems and messes in their life, that is also beauty, just a different type. Little flowers growing on top of boulders. Patterns in the mud, an imperfect smile, a homely face but a beautiful soul. Crooked teeth, large noses, lips that are “too big”, different shades of skin, eyes that aren’t symmetrical. People rambling on and on about completely random things, vulnerability, shiny glints in granite, vocal and “clumsy” prayers that are completely honest and open. These are beautiful.

Weakness, there’s just something alluring about it.Watching someone break and realize that they can’t do it alone and that they need to lean on their Savior. Brokenness.
Emotional goodbyes. Sadness. Even though it stinks, it still shows you that you can care and feel, that you’re alive. Abandoned houses, broken windows, peeling paint. Imperfectly sanded objects and ripped jeans from being on your knees. Calloused hands. Graveyards with crumbling memories and strong
emotions. Scars, they show that you’ve overcome. Worn and broken books, specifically Bibles, coffee stains and taped pages. An open manifestation of grief. The moment when you honestly don’t care what people will think and worship and pray with wild abandon. The hard times that shape your story and mold you into who you are.

Missing friends, the heartache that is evidence that you care. Broken down cars by the side of the road with windows smashed in and glass glittering, fallen trees that were once majestic but are now giving back, muddy riverbeds, swamps with all of their secrets, when a fictional character dies and your heart goes through an emotional blender. Piles of leaves gathered up like old memories, chipped teacups, and gruff voices. Finding bones in the woods, cleansing tears, shattered mirrors.

I love those happy, perfect moments and people, but I also love this melancholy beauty. I like imperfection and odd things as much as I do perfection; being different makes you irreplaceable, and so often we’re told to be the same as everyone else. But rawness is intriguing. Such a mystery.  I love it. So wild and imperfect, and yet it is perfect in it’s imperfection, and I’m grateful.

Adventures of the frazzled poet

These past few days have been hard. 

  
Combine disappointment with long work shifts, trying to catch up in a class that I had to miss the first week of, my first college math class (as someone who really struggles with math), rampant emotions due to hormones, homework for three other classes, and you get a very frazzled little poet who’s learning how to adult. 

Last night I got over whelmed, and woke up the same this morning, but then I read my Bible. And I talked to God. It was comforting. 

There are not “bad days”, per se, just hard ones. 

The plus sides of this?

  1. I’ve gotten back into a time management mindset. Time is valuable, I have many things to  do with only so much time to do so. 
  2. It has shocked me into getting back into my bible study and more prayer (haha). 
  3. I understand math a tiny bit more. 
  4. My procrastinating brain has thought up lots of poetry. 

Just my five bits for today. 
Love,

me