Like a platypus{..}

"Lighthouses don’t go running all over an island looking for boats to save; they just stand there shining."  - Anne Lamott

For the past 22 minutes I've been thinking about the authors that I really like. And Anne Lamott is one of them. And so I googled "Anne Lamott quotes", since I didn't bring any of her books to Guatemala. I was reading through them while listening to "I Have Loved You Wrong" by the Swell Season, and was nodding my head in agreement with one after the other, and "mmhm"-ing to the parts that spoke into my life. When I read this one (the one I quoted at the top), I smiled. And I wondered if the skin around my eyes wrinkled. I hope it did. I'm exited to grow old and have wrinkles.
I feel like a platypus walking through an overgrown jungle when I'm writing for others to read. [Even when I'm writing to myself, in my abundance of journals, I rarely go back and reread them, and if I did I'm pretty certain the only parts that would make sense were the quotes I copied down.] I don't much like the feeling because it feels like I wasn't made to write, or I was made to write and I don't know what tools I have in my belt. Like I'm pulling out a word here and an idea there but I'm not sure how to hammer them together and what shape of nail or what size or color staple I should use. Kind of like a little kid learning to swim, flapping around all over the place, getting water on the dry towels and in Dad's mouth. woopsies. I should carry a sign around with me. It would say: "When asking Sarah to tell you who she is, you will need a dictionary, and a large piece of paper and your favourite song." The dictionary because I'll need you to give me definitions and words that I can nod my head at "mmhm that sounds right, I think that's how I be!" You'll need the large piece of paper because I'll need to draw you a picture to give you an idea of who I am, or I'll draw you a mind-map of words I think give you some insight. Finally, would you share with me your favourite song? Because I'll find something in the lyrics or the rhythm that I like and then I'll tell you and then you'll know me a bit more. But you gotta ask. Because I want to know you more than I want you to know me, because "me" is a little up in the air. Kind of like a bunch of helium-filled balloons of all different shapes and colours that you had in your hand, and I squirm away because I know when you ask me a question, I'll get lost in my thoughts and it won't come out right, and I'll end up standing in a tangled jumble of words. See, I'm like a platypus in a jungle, getting caught in vines and dragging them into other vines and creating very long sentences of vine-y words. Oh, exasperation.
What is my motivation for writing this post? hmm...I think it was to make you smile. I like it when you smile. And I think so does the person sitting beside you, or across the room from you or down the street. I like how your skin wrinkles around you eyes. I wonder if your skin does the same thing Jesus' skin does when he smiles...