liz moss

i remember the first time i saw the birth of a butterfly i was hunched over in my parents’ backyard watching wide-eyed as the cocoon unfolded like perfect origami and bloomed into four mirrored hearts in an instant having to reimagine its home from all encompassing darkness  into infinite air. i remember the first time i sank into my mother’s arms after eight months apart her touch holding every sense of temporary-ness in that same backyard where the moon shone like a stopwatch and the trees ticked in the wind telling me that every place plus time equals a memory and a memory plus time equals vapor to get carried along in the passing of the wind sweeping the dust of the road into a cocoon of hand-sewn bedsheets and weather-stained polaroids until i must reimagine my home from four walls into infinite air.

  I sit on a shady patch of grass overlooking my college campus two days before I leave it. Light pours down on the white marble fountain, water trickling excitedly over its curves, the birds echoing their incessant song, grass dancing in the wind. Everything is normal here, but nothing is.  I watch silently as car after car pulls up along the winding road that normally serves as a student walkway, kids tossing the last eight months of their lives into a backseat. As campus grows quieter and I see more and more parents touring the school, I anticipate when my parents pull along this road, and I give them the tour, and I return to the people and places that were once my everything but now seem to exist on a separate planet. I wonder what it would be like if all of my pasts were packed into a single present--if everything that is my life was a whole instead of a collection of scattered pieces. My life back home in Indianapolis and my life here in Nashville hold few similarities;...

 A video journal on hope and strange encounters.

My first semester of college was spent primarily in solitude.  My dorm overlooked the lawn where students would frequently gather, and every morning when I woke up I’d stare out the window at the masked faces walking past, hands intertwined and smiles hidden in corners of eyes… and I wondered how many others were like me; how many others were cooped up in their rooms observing from afar. So much of how we interpret the world around us is based upon what we see. If we don’t see others in our situation--even if we’re in the overwhelming majority--we feel like we’re falling short. The biggest question I had day to day, throughout the whole semester, was Am I doing enough? This reached from making friendships to embracing opportunities to learning to grow in my faith. I always got the feeling that I was behind. My perception that my peers were excelling more than I was was only accentuated by Instagram, as I frequently wasted time mindlessly scrolling through perfectly arranged picnics...

The most intimate way to experience history Is through the stories of old preserved on oil Through the lives locked behind gold-chipped frames. In every brush stroke is a truth veiled in mystery Engaged with my eyes in a quiet discourse. Magnificent marble lines the checkered-floored halls Where one finds herself completely surrounded yet utterly alone In a silence so impenetrable even the floorboards dare creak. The passing names of deceased serve as a reminder that to be remembered is futile But to create something worth remembering may just be essential.