Wednesday, February 27, 2008

moon over lake

I wish i had the ability to paint for you all the
pictures i see with my eyes closed,
when the world slows down and
i'm left to be found by the eager hands of
my imagination.
Conversations that never end, because
words are only part of the bigger picture,
at least the one i see.
And i wish i had the ability to
put into words the way i feel about everything, but
then again, in the end,
what's so great about explaining anything?
Letters and sounds need rearranging, but
there's no changing the rest of it,
where conversation takes on a whole new meaning.
Still, i wish i had the ability to
pull that full moon down a little closer,
just enough to reassure you now that
now is all you need to know.
Not here in the wake of,
not here in preparation for,
just here in this moment while the moon still glows.

Wednesday, February 20, 2008

this is why.

Why i jump into the river. Why i get dirty as often as possible. Why i sing even when i probably shouldn't. Why i climb trees. Why i go barefoot. Why i choose outdoors instead of indoors. Why i don't get mad at slow drivers. Why i talk to strangers. Why i eat it. Why i stay up a little later. Why i listen to the whole story. Why i listen, period. Why i read the whole book. Why i pay attention to detail. Why i look up every once in a while. Why i love children and animals. Why i try. Why i do it afraid. Why i learn how to do as many things as i possibly can. Why i say yes far too much. Why i never turn down a hug. Why i admit when i'm wrong. Why i watch how the water moves, how the sand shifts, how the grass sways, how the fire burns. Why i write, even if no one cares. Why i give gifts for no particular reason. Why i wear soft things. Why i'm easily made content. Why i smile too much. Why i laugh when i want to. Why i cry when i need to. Why i daydream at all the wrong times. Why i often do stupid things for the sake of adventure. Why i want to experience everything good and honest and messy in life. Why i need to stop attaching myself to people so easily. Why i need to be more realistic and less idealistic. Why i need to stop wearing my heart on my sleeve.

Sunday, February 17, 2008

the master and the storm

The dark clouds roll out like a carpet for the thunder that follows as smoke preceeds the magician; the audience is thrilled and yet altogether frightened. Something spectacular is going to happen, not because some cheesy flyer told them so, but because they can feel it in the air. Their faith is going to be tested...they're not going to believe their eyes...they're going to be amazed!!!

Always that promise of amazement, never a promise of pleasure. But they all want their faith to be tested, don't they? They all want to be shocked, to see this ordinary man with an extraordinary gift perform the impossible. As the smoke sweeps eerily across the stage and wraps itself round their seats, the audience holds their breath, wide-eyed and frozen still, and waits.

Spectacular things, indeed. At the first brazen bolt of lightning that flashes across the sky, at the first loud crack that echoes throughout the land, terror is struck in the foolish hearts of grown men. Men who spend their days toiling the field and shepherding cattle, their nights chopping wood and pounding metal and building fires. Men who kill animals with their bare hands, settle disputes with swords and spears, and teach their sons to do likewise. Men who must protect their sons as though they're the last living males on earth while living in fear of them dying of disease or else murdered under the law.

So there's a lightshow, and sound effects...is that it? And a few drops of rain...is that it?

The men swap glances, but bite their tongues. Where was the Captain, anyway? They'd spent half the day following him around the city, letting him tell all kinds of fantastical stories to anyone who'd listen. Stories of the supernatural...of provision and prophesy and healings and even people being raised from the dead. Some of these things he even executes himself, right there in the dusty streets. They were tired and hungry and all they wanted was a little time with him for themselves. They'd rescued him from the crowds, taken him on a relaxing fishing trip on their boat, and what did they get in return? Nothing but crappy weather and a Captain who...where was he?

The winds begin to blow, haphazard at first and now steady as the rain comes down faster. Thunder and lightning work their magic intermittently, each one picking up just when a tease of letting up settles in.

The men clear their throats and scratch at their beards, none wanting to be the first to show signs of concern. This is not at all going the way they had planned. Sure, the boat is beginning to rock, but this is nothing impressive. What's a little wind and rain but a distraction from the real show? A real magician doesn't need perfect conditions for his tricks to work. They'll still get their show, they're sure of it. But where was the Captain??

In the time it took to wonder, the situation takes a severe turn for the worse. Rain assaults the crew with no sense of environmental order like shrapnel from the enemy's lines. A powerful squall knocks them all to their knees and with angry waves, jostles the poor boat to near overturn. Thunder rumbles, a whip of lightning brands the somber sky, and suddenly all bets are off. Fear is a wild dog scrambling round the deck, scratching and biting and howling until the men finally give in.

"How did this happen??"

"What do we do??"

"Where is the Captain??"

"This storm will take us under!!"

"Where is the Captain??!"





"...Over here! He's right here!"

The men all turn their heads, clinging dearly to whatever looks sturdy, and squint through sheets of cold precipitation. One of them has located the Captain, lying down and sleeping peacefully at the stern.

"Master! Master, wake up!" The man yells, shaking a resting shoulder. "Don't you care that we're about to drown??"

The Captain wakes and observes all that is going on around them. He doesn't seem the least bit worried and rises, taking firmly the frantic man's hand in his own.

"Quiet, and be still!" He says, raising his free hand to the sea. In an instant, the wind dies down and the waves are completely calm. Says the Captain to his crew, "Why are you so afraid? Have you still no faith in me?"

A soft breeze floats by and the boat rocks gently, comfortingly. The men breathe easy again, feeling reassured and utterly foolish. They'd been safe all along and were too blinded by their own unbelief to know it. Had they not been witnesses to their Captain's power all morning long? Had they not heard of what he could do and seen it all come to pass with their own eyes? Had they not walked with him and trusted him at the risk of being laughed at and mocked and rejected? There they were, panicking in a silly storm, when the Master Magician himself had been right there with them the whole time. No frills or fraud, no bells or whistles, no unnecessary dramatization. Just resting, because he knew. And he had everything under control.

Rest.

Monday, February 11, 2008

bodies and minds

Here's the thing about loneliness. You don't actually have to be alone to feel it.

But nobody ever tells you that. Instead, they'd like you to believe in Hollywood's version of loneliness; that is, Joe Shmoe just lost his job, his girlfriend just left him, and he's sitting by himself at some crapshoot bar in the gutter with a long line of shots behind him. "Pass me another one, bartender." That's pretty lonely, right?

Wrong. It's sad, but it's not lonely, or at least it doesn't have to be. Joe can get another job. Joe can get another girlfriend. Joe doesn't have to blow his final paycheck on booze (but if he does, that's his own fault, and he damn well better enjoy it).

Nope. True loneliness doesn't have much at all to do with singularity, i'm nearly convinced. Don't get me wrong, as someone who's not a fan of sleeping alone and used to barricade herself with stuffed animals in bed as a kid for some sense of security, i'll be the first to argue that there's definitely, definitely a need for physical closeness in life. But i think loneliness is more of a mental affliction than anything else.

When you can't share what's on your heart with anyone...when, should you dare try, no one seems to be able to relate...when you've been doubted, when you've been put in your place, when you've been condemned...when you feel humble and weak and stupid and scared and hopeless...this is what loneliness feels like. Not the burn of alcohol on the back of your throat, or even the awful words coming from the one person you thought would never hurt you. It's the sense that you don't belong, that there's nowhere for you to go, no point to your existence, no reason to get out of bed, nobody who cares or is willing to help...even if it's just in the smallest way possible.

Loneliness is being in a place where everyone can see you, but no one will touch you. No one will talk to you, reach out to you, be real with you. You're going under in quicksand, and no one wants to offer the time or energy that it will take to pull you out.

What is so difficult about helping others? Why are people who are hurting always treated like they've got some kind of disease? You know what? I don't even care if that's the way people want to look at it. You don't need to perform surgery or discover a cure. If you see a wound, bandage it up. It's as simple as that. And honestly, acknowledgement itself goes a very long way.

There's nothing eloquent about love. If i ever had to preach a sermon (and cross my heart, hope to God i'll never be put in that position), that would be it. World's shortest sermon, right there, everybody's home for lunch. Love - in every way, shape, and form - is messy. In fact, if i could create my own dictionary, that's all it would say under Love: Messy (with a reference to 1 Corinthians 13, of course). And you know why? Because love is an action. It's cleaning up someone's vomit or scrubbing toilets or washing the blood and applying a bandage to the wound. It's stepping out of your comfort zone and making yourself completely uncomfortable by getting dirty...and i don't necessarily mean potting plants. It's making yourself vulnerable for the sake of another. Love is a sacrifice...not a performance, but a willingness, with no selfish motives and no expectations whatsoever.

That's all. Just love. There's loneliness, which is a feeling, almost entirely mental, and there's love, which is an action, almost entirely physical...and yet, without love, there is no hope in loneliness. This is true for everything, by the way. Without love, there is no hope, period. I only picked on loneliness because it's something i've struggled with for a very long time.

Anyway, these are just my thoughts.