Like a liquid painting
I hear the wind chimes sing,
the ones sitting watch outside my window
played carefully, intentionally
by the breeze that hums
past the trees and kisses their leaves
sweeping up their secrets
whispering them to those still enough
to listen to those melodies smile.
This...
This is the way it should be.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
3/23/08
“Having it together”... I want to say it’s overrated. I want to say we should be able to break down and be ok with it. But in the end, the purpose of the breakdown is so that I can “have it together” again afterwards, because in this world, I need to be functional. I need to be able to study and take tests, write papers and concentrate. I can’t afford to sit around all day trying to “get better.” The difficulty is finding that delicate balance where I have the peace and freedom to lick my wounds while continuing to find ways of functioning.
I've been trying to make the most of the last few weeks I have here. I’ve been trying to keep my eyes on the glass that’s half full hoping that I can ignore the emptiness that screams at me. It screams in my face, and it seems like all I can do is squeeze my eyes shut, plug my fingers in my ears and yell back, “Lalalalala I’m not listening!”
Who the hell am I fooling?
I've been trying to make the most of the last few weeks I have here. I’ve been trying to keep my eyes on the glass that’s half full hoping that I can ignore the emptiness that screams at me. It screams in my face, and it seems like all I can do is squeeze my eyes shut, plug my fingers in my ears and yell back, “Lalalalala I’m not listening!”
Who the hell am I fooling?
The Beauty of Easter Lilies
I came home with some Easter Lilies today. I couldn't bring myself to keep them in my room.
A friend sent this to me yesterday:
The Fortieth Day: Holy Saturday
MARK 15:47
"Mary Magdalene and Mary the mother of Joses saw where he was laid."
Stone Cold. And the stone is closed. Where do I go from here? Nowhere. Back to the city. Which is a nowhere now. The Master isn't there. The Master is not. Everywhere is nowhere. There's nowhere to go.
What do I do? I don't know what to do. Nothing. The Sabbath has started. So what? So, if I pray I'll be mouthing the sounds. Nothing. And if I pray a vain repetition, what then? Will Heaven be offended? Well, Heaven has offended me!
Joseph's stone is like the period that stops the sentence. Boom! - the story's done. And when the story's over, the very air is empty. No place for me. No home for my soul. Silence. Why do I keep standing here? It's dark. It's midnight. Everyone's gone home. Except me. Abandoned. Nothing.
Why can't I leave the tombs?
Because the whole world is a graveyard. Because this is the one that has my Lord.
Jesus! Jesus! Without you I am a nothing in a nowhere!
You are dead.
My world is annihilated.
And still - I love you.
Mary, do this:
Even in your despair, observe the rituals. It is the Sabbath; then let it be the Sabbath after all. Pray your prayers. However hollow and unsatisfying they may feel, God can fill them. God is God, who made the world from nothing- and God as God can still astonish you. He can make of your mouthings a prayer-and of your groanings a hymn. Observe the ritual. Prepare your spices. Return on Sunday, even to this scene of your sorrow, expecting nothing but a corpse, planning nothing but to sigh once more and to pay respects.
One story is done indeed, my Magdalene. You're right. You've entered the dark night of the soul.
But another story- one you cannot conceive of (it's God who conceives it!) - starts at sunrise. And the empty time between, while sadly you prepare the spices, is in fact preparing you! Soon you will change. Soon you will become that holy conundrum which must baffle and antagonize the world: a saint. Saint Mary Magdalene. "As dying, and behold we live; as punished, and yet not killed; as sorrowful, yet always rejoicing; as poor, yet making many rich; as having nothing, and yet possessing all things" - that host of contradictions, the beauty of Spirit, the puzzle of all who know him not, the character of the Saints!
Come again on Sunday, Mary, and see how it is that God makes saints.
Come, follow.
from Reliving the Passion by Walter Wangerin Jr.
A word from Dr. Robinson in response:
"And this is the wonder that is Easter, but the dark night must come first. Then and only then--God, amazing us with that other story out there that we could not conceive of!
But through our dark nights, when as with Mary going to the tomb, or Jonah in the belly of the whale, we still love, we still follow."
Amen.
A friend sent this to me yesterday:
The Fortieth Day: Holy Saturday
MARK 15:47
"Mary Magdalene and Mary the mother of Joses saw where he was laid."
Stone Cold. And the stone is closed. Where do I go from here? Nowhere. Back to the city. Which is a nowhere now. The Master isn't there. The Master is not. Everywhere is nowhere. There's nowhere to go.
What do I do? I don't know what to do. Nothing. The Sabbath has started. So what? So, if I pray I'll be mouthing the sounds. Nothing. And if I pray a vain repetition, what then? Will Heaven be offended? Well, Heaven has offended me!
Joseph's stone is like the period that stops the sentence. Boom! - the story's done. And when the story's over, the very air is empty. No place for me. No home for my soul. Silence. Why do I keep standing here? It's dark. It's midnight. Everyone's gone home. Except me. Abandoned. Nothing.
Why can't I leave the tombs?
Because the whole world is a graveyard. Because this is the one that has my Lord.
Jesus! Jesus! Without you I am a nothing in a nowhere!
You are dead.
My world is annihilated.
And still - I love you.
Mary, do this:
Even in your despair, observe the rituals. It is the Sabbath; then let it be the Sabbath after all. Pray your prayers. However hollow and unsatisfying they may feel, God can fill them. God is God, who made the world from nothing- and God as God can still astonish you. He can make of your mouthings a prayer-and of your groanings a hymn. Observe the ritual. Prepare your spices. Return on Sunday, even to this scene of your sorrow, expecting nothing but a corpse, planning nothing but to sigh once more and to pay respects.
One story is done indeed, my Magdalene. You're right. You've entered the dark night of the soul.
But another story- one you cannot conceive of (it's God who conceives it!) - starts at sunrise. And the empty time between, while sadly you prepare the spices, is in fact preparing you! Soon you will change. Soon you will become that holy conundrum which must baffle and antagonize the world: a saint. Saint Mary Magdalene. "As dying, and behold we live; as punished, and yet not killed; as sorrowful, yet always rejoicing; as poor, yet making many rich; as having nothing, and yet possessing all things" - that host of contradictions, the beauty of Spirit, the puzzle of all who know him not, the character of the Saints!
Come again on Sunday, Mary, and see how it is that God makes saints.
Come, follow.
from Reliving the Passion by Walter Wangerin Jr.
A word from Dr. Robinson in response:
"And this is the wonder that is Easter, but the dark night must come first. Then and only then--God, amazing us with that other story out there that we could not conceive of!
But through our dark nights, when as with Mary going to the tomb, or Jonah in the belly of the whale, we still love, we still follow."
Amen.
Friday, March 21, 2008
Meditations on a Good Friday
More so than any other day, the humanity in the suffering of Jesus should speak volumes to us today. The death of the divine Christ was to reconcile us to God, His blood paving the way to the throne of God. The church teaches this well.
But the suffering... the angst laced with blood that soaked the dirt of the garden, as much as the church stresses the divinity of Christ (and rightfully so), that was the blood of a man crushed by the will of the Father. Here was a man who wished his friends to at least keep him company as he struggled to stand underneath the burden. Here was a man who wished desperately to drink from a less painful cup.
And so Jesus, the Son of God, yet in every sense of the word, the Son of (hu)Man(ity), bones of my bones and flesh of my flesh, suffered. He hungered, he wept, he ran his fingers through children's hair, felt the coolness of wine run down his throat, reclined and treasured the presence of his friends, and here, his sympathetic nervous system threw itself into high gear knowing that every second brought him further suffering.
The humanity of Jesus suffered. Like us, he suffered. In Scripture, the Passion happens in a few chapters. It is read within the matter of minutes. In the reality of time and space, it took hours. Days.
And for three days, God himself was silent in the grave, giving no answers to those who wept or those who now huddled themselves, locked with fear and confusion as their companions. They themselves must have cried, "Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani??"
If God did not spare his son... then... how about us?
It is the divinity of Christ that validates and vindicates suffering of his humanity. It is the status of "Son" that reminds the rest of his very human adopted brothers and sisters that silence and darkness in a grave is not a sin, but the path taken by Christ himself. From the smiles that creased the corners of his eyes, to the unrestrained sobs at Lazarus' grave, our broken humanity was vindicated by God himself.
And on the road into Jerusalem upon a donkey, to the road he stumbled through towards Golgotha, to the road headed towards Emmaus, both his divinity and his humanity remind us that we are to live our lives as journeys, never static, never certain of what praise, suffering, or surprises might meet us along the way.
But one thing we know. Jesus, the one who has both suffered and rejoiced, walks beside us. And as he runs or crawls with us, he reminds us that though three days of silence and darkness felt like a lifetime, a Good Sunday is on its way.
But the suffering... the angst laced with blood that soaked the dirt of the garden, as much as the church stresses the divinity of Christ (and rightfully so), that was the blood of a man crushed by the will of the Father. Here was a man who wished his friends to at least keep him company as he struggled to stand underneath the burden. Here was a man who wished desperately to drink from a less painful cup.
And so Jesus, the Son of God, yet in every sense of the word, the Son of (hu)Man(ity), bones of my bones and flesh of my flesh, suffered. He hungered, he wept, he ran his fingers through children's hair, felt the coolness of wine run down his throat, reclined and treasured the presence of his friends, and here, his sympathetic nervous system threw itself into high gear knowing that every second brought him further suffering.
The humanity of Jesus suffered. Like us, he suffered. In Scripture, the Passion happens in a few chapters. It is read within the matter of minutes. In the reality of time and space, it took hours. Days.
And for three days, God himself was silent in the grave, giving no answers to those who wept or those who now huddled themselves, locked with fear and confusion as their companions. They themselves must have cried, "Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani??"
If God did not spare his son... then... how about us?
It is the divinity of Christ that validates and vindicates suffering of his humanity. It is the status of "Son" that reminds the rest of his very human adopted brothers and sisters that silence and darkness in a grave is not a sin, but the path taken by Christ himself. From the smiles that creased the corners of his eyes, to the unrestrained sobs at Lazarus' grave, our broken humanity was vindicated by God himself.
And on the road into Jerusalem upon a donkey, to the road he stumbled through towards Golgotha, to the road headed towards Emmaus, both his divinity and his humanity remind us that we are to live our lives as journeys, never static, never certain of what praise, suffering, or surprises might meet us along the way.
But one thing we know. Jesus, the one who has both suffered and rejoiced, walks beside us. And as he runs or crawls with us, he reminds us that though three days of silence and darkness felt like a lifetime, a Good Sunday is on its way.
We All Struggle With Forward Motion
It's frightening to wake up one day, instead of being in your bed, to be lying naked on the dirt upon which your house once stood. The walls that you spent so much time propping up, the furniture you spent time amassing... it never was a very beautiful house, with crooked door frames and uneven floorboards. The paint never really matched and the roof had torrential leaks on bad days. But this is where you lived, spent all your time trying to install support beams to keep it standing, nailing patches to the holes in the ceiling... this is what you had tried so hard to build for so long.
You gave them permission to take it down because day after day, they reminded you that it didn't pass the inspection codes. It was unsafe and unsightly. On the good days, the beams of sun that escaped through the cracks and holes brought life to the damp rooms, a romantic picture worthy of being mounted with a silver frame. But when it rained, it was so damn cold, and no memory could comfort the bones of such a dense reality.
You gave them permission to bulldoze it. You gave it up willingly, because your hands had forgotten what anything other than the heaviness of a hammer felt like, and your skin had grown pale with the dark.
You gave it up, but you never expected the wind to howl so eerily or the ground to be so empty. The weeds that grew at the feet of the foundation now brush against a damp line in the dirt. When all that's ever surrounded you were your falling walls and broken windows, not having them as the very last musings of night and the very first stirrings of morning can make you wonder how one can fill this unnerving vacancy...
You gave them permission to take it down because day after day, they reminded you that it didn't pass the inspection codes. It was unsafe and unsightly. On the good days, the beams of sun that escaped through the cracks and holes brought life to the damp rooms, a romantic picture worthy of being mounted with a silver frame. But when it rained, it was so damn cold, and no memory could comfort the bones of such a dense reality.
You gave them permission to bulldoze it. You gave it up willingly, because your hands had forgotten what anything other than the heaviness of a hammer felt like, and your skin had grown pale with the dark.
You gave it up, but you never expected the wind to howl so eerily or the ground to be so empty. The weeds that grew at the feet of the foundation now brush against a damp line in the dirt. When all that's ever surrounded you were your falling walls and broken windows, not having them as the very last musings of night and the very first stirrings of morning can make you wonder how one can fill this unnerving vacancy...
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Random Inflammatory Thoughts on a Sunny Thursday Morning
China is a product of its own propaganda... it has yet to see that the roots of their problems might actually be their own actions.
Is Rev. Wright really that outrageous? I seem to agree with most the things he says. The comments sound racist mostly because many white Americans have the privilege of being oblivious to the reality of those who are not like them, until it smacks them across the face, and it sounds foreign to their ears. Wrights sermons are not foreign to those whose legitimate anger and experiences have been ignored for so long. They are actually borderline prophetic.
I would really like a president with humility, honesty, and integrity like Obama, someone who recognizes limitations, values dialog, and holds personal conviction even at the the possible cost of his image.
America really needs to get its head out of its ass and get over itself. Stop thinking we're hot shit and start realizing that we've pissed a lot of people off, everywhere. Blind paternalistic patriotism that associates a certain ethnocentric lifestyle with "the right way" really has "brought the chickens home to roost."
I'm deeply grateful for professors who understand that mental and spiritual damage control is more important than studying for a test. Mercy is like a drink of cold water to a parched soul. Too bad it's seldom found in the "real world."
Good Friday and Easter Sunday. *I* should probably get my head out of my ass and get over myself.
Is Rev. Wright really that outrageous? I seem to agree with most the things he says. The comments sound racist mostly because many white Americans have the privilege of being oblivious to the reality of those who are not like them, until it smacks them across the face, and it sounds foreign to their ears. Wrights sermons are not foreign to those whose legitimate anger and experiences have been ignored for so long. They are actually borderline prophetic.
I would really like a president with humility, honesty, and integrity like Obama, someone who recognizes limitations, values dialog, and holds personal conviction even at the the possible cost of his image.
America really needs to get its head out of its ass and get over itself. Stop thinking we're hot shit and start realizing that we've pissed a lot of people off, everywhere. Blind paternalistic patriotism that associates a certain ethnocentric lifestyle with "the right way" really has "brought the chickens home to roost."
I'm deeply grateful for professors who understand that mental and spiritual damage control is more important than studying for a test. Mercy is like a drink of cold water to a parched soul. Too bad it's seldom found in the "real world."
Good Friday and Easter Sunday. *I* should probably get my head out of my ass and get over myself.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
"On my knees, empty..."
Sometimes, no, oftentimes, I wish life was not the way that it was.
It's an acquired skill to appreciate and be thankful for the small beauties that keep our heads up, but it's sad that we need to resort to that. It implies that those beautiful things are the exceptions to the rule, and that most of our days are a struggle.
One day.
It's an acquired skill to appreciate and be thankful for the small beauties that keep our heads up, but it's sad that we need to resort to that. It implies that those beautiful things are the exceptions to the rule, and that most of our days are a struggle.
One day.
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Velt
[To:]
The Crackling Static of my dynamic thoughts.
Do not cut them free,
For without grace or consideration
Lacking mercy
They would needlessly trample and rampage
[Throwing:]
Delicate crystal semblances of carefully turned phrases,
Cautiously constructed frames scaffolding my stoic composure
[Into:]
A sandstorm of a rumbling stampede
Undermining the very tenuous ground underneath our feet.
The Crackling Static of my dynamic thoughts.
Do not cut them free,
For without grace or consideration
Lacking mercy
They would needlessly trample and rampage
[Throwing:]
Delicate crystal semblances of carefully turned phrases,
Cautiously constructed frames scaffolding my stoic composure
[Into:]
A sandstorm of a rumbling stampede
Undermining the very tenuous ground underneath our feet.
Saturday, March 15, 2008
It's OK to be not OK.
A month and a half left until graduation. A month and a half left until the end of our college careers. Uncertainties refuse to remain relegated in the damp darkness of our unconscious for much longer. They snarl their threats in grad school rejection letters. They creep behind the masks of questions like, "What are you doing after you graduate?"
We are not our jobs.
We are not our grades.
But we are our community. I won't miss my assignments and papers, but I will miss people who I don't need to explain myself to. I will miss shared experiences that need no words. I will miss my brothers and my sisters who have seen the worst and the best of all I am, who know how I think and have seen me cry.
I remind myself of the ways in which God has worked in my life and how He has directed it, especially in the times He has given me very little choice in the matter. I try to tell myself that this is the case, that if given a choice, I would probably make the wrong one. But the uncertainties ask me if I'm just uttering a mantra to make myself feel better.
I want to actively embrace and prepare for the change that forges toward us like a runaway train. But I don't want it to hit me like one. If I knew how to anticipate the onslaught of frustrations and emotions, I would. But I don't.
My friends tell me that I think too much. (I think it's a control thing).
Henri Nouwen tells me to live in the present.
Where is my faith?
Jesus, I believe. Help my unbelief.
We are not our jobs.
We are not our grades.
But we are our community. I won't miss my assignments and papers, but I will miss people who I don't need to explain myself to. I will miss shared experiences that need no words. I will miss my brothers and my sisters who have seen the worst and the best of all I am, who know how I think and have seen me cry.
I remind myself of the ways in which God has worked in my life and how He has directed it, especially in the times He has given me very little choice in the matter. I try to tell myself that this is the case, that if given a choice, I would probably make the wrong one. But the uncertainties ask me if I'm just uttering a mantra to make myself feel better.
I want to actively embrace and prepare for the change that forges toward us like a runaway train. But I don't want it to hit me like one. If I knew how to anticipate the onslaught of frustrations and emotions, I would. But I don't.
My friends tell me that I think too much. (I think it's a control thing).
Henri Nouwen tells me to live in the present.
Where is my faith?
Jesus, I believe. Help my unbelief.
Sunday, March 2, 2008
March
My world melts.
Inches and sheets of winter
Retreat into soggy lawns, spongy beneath my feet.
Saturated, trickle down the street.
I thought I would forever cringe and
Mutter profanities at
The wind. No. Honestly.
The concept of Spring completely,
Left. My. Consciousness.
Learned helplessness.
If not for the Bose sounds of crackling ice
Vert, sandals, and warmth on skin
Would have ceased to exist in my reality.
Imagine, then, the surprise of
Driving with my windows... down and
Gloves off,
Four letter words strangely missed.
Wind sweeping across a lake…
RIPPLES!! (AND NO TEARS!)
Who woulda thunk?
The clouds are definitely orderly.
Maybe rosey.
Inches and sheets of winter
Retreat into soggy lawns, spongy beneath my feet.
Saturated, trickle down the street.
I thought I would forever cringe and
Mutter profanities at
The wind. No. Honestly.
The concept of Spring completely,
Left. My. Consciousness.
Learned helplessness.
If not for the Bose sounds of crackling ice
Vert, sandals, and warmth on skin
Would have ceased to exist in my reality.
Imagine, then, the surprise of
Driving with my windows... down and
Gloves off,
Four letter words strangely missed.
Wind sweeping across a lake…
RIPPLES!! (AND NO TEARS!)
Who woulda thunk?
The clouds are definitely orderly.
Maybe rosey.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)