Becoming Monsters

I started re-reading Blue Like Jazz by Donald Miller today. And there was a short portion where he spoke about something very…fundamental.

“I am the problem.”

I'm not what you would call a picketer or a social activists that you know....provides roadkill for tractors tearing down historical buildings. BUT like the best of them I can spew out altruistic and political comments that make me sound like I have convictions and I know where the problem lies. But really….do any of us?

Do we look in the mirror and explore

our habits,

our public speaking skill,

our ideas,

and our time management as scrupulously as we explore those in the spotlight?

Granted…most of us aren’t running for president or anything. But does that negate responsibility? If we spend more time judging the actions and movements of others than we do taking stock of our own motives and actions are we really politically or socially concerned or are we just selfish and ignorant?

“I think every conscious person, every person who is awake to the functioning principles within his reality, has a moment where he stops blaming the problems in the world on group thing, on humanity and authority, and starts to face himself. I hate this more than anything... The problem is not out there; the problem is the need beast of a thing that lives in my chest”

Not to say that every problem that exists is our fault. That’s pretty ridiculous. But I’m just saying…we sure do spend a lot of time pointing fingers. We need not live in a mirrored house to see how many problems are caused but us as individuals that make up the collective.

We may scoff at the altruist motto “be the change” but well…maybe we don’t think about it often enough. That is after all the only control we have. I cannot control what others do, but I can control me (usually, unless I’m extra ornery).

I can control what I give that others come into contact with. And if I start paying attention to what I put out there….well maybe that’s the only way I can really affect what others do and propel change.

I think if we watch others do stupid things and point our fingers instead taking a cue

-we’ll find we’ve all become the monster we scoff at:

“He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster. And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you” Friedrich Nietzsche

Awakenings

If you’ve never see the movie Awakenings it’s a beautiful story based on true events about a doctor who comes across a group of basically catatonic patients who respond to a drug that “wakes” them up for a period of time. I wrote the following excerpt after I watched the movie some time ago when I was going through a bit of a rough patch (not like that’s new!). It gave me just the perspective I needed to latch on to some color and dance around in it:

"I cried through much of the end. It was just what I needed I think to pull me out of my self-centered misery. Not that grieving is bad in my case...
But for someone who believes so much in the beauty of pain- I often forget to live what I write and speak about.

This story reminded me that it is possible to take my pain, and instead of hiding inside myself, I can use it as a way to touch beauty, life, and people.
I have that option.

How can I speak courage to those of a worse fate
when I cannot employ courage at the inklings of pain?

Sometimes it's good to just tell myself to snap out of it.

Stop replaying picture and words and longings. Sometimes I get lost ...and I sit down and weep like a lost little girl. Sometimes I forget to keep moving.
Grieving is not wrong or bad but at some point the tears are no longer an expression of grief but an expression of surrender to things as they are. A hopeless surrender. That is not the way of God, of his love, of his beauty. Pain can be like the silver lining in a blue sky filled with clouds. It highlights the wonder. It sharpens the picture.

The moment a red balloon, a rainstorm, or a star ceases to leave me in a childlike, speechless wonder...
someone please slap me out of it. I am not catatonic. I have a chance.
I don't want to miss it.

Witch of Portobello

A great book by Paulo Coelho

I was recently talking with a friend about why, after time and time of God supplying what we need and working everything out...we continue to worry? It's as though our human condition relegates that we must worry. Because to not worry, is to admit lack of control.

Maybe worry and accepting stress is our pathetic way of feeling as though we retain control.

I read this passage from the Witch of Portobello and although he is talking about love, it nails exactly what we were talking about. We don't want to be saved the way God saved us. We want to be saved in a way that doesn't require us to sacrifice anything- even misery. Because if we at least keep misery, we still have a psuedo feeling of control.

"surrendering completely to love, be it human or divine, means giving up everything, including our own well being or our ability to make decisions. It means loving in the deepest sense of the word. The truth is that we don't want to be saved in the way God has chosen; we want to keep absolute control over our every step, to be fully conscious of our decisions, to be capable of choosing the object of our devotion."

Something to think about.

Here is a bonus quote:
"What is a teacher? I'll tell you: it isn't someone who teaches something, but someone who inspires the student to give of her best in order to discover what she already knows."

The Great Marshmallow Experiment

The marshmallow experiment is a famous test conducted by Walter Mischel.

A group of 4 year old children had marshmallows placed in front of them. They were told that they would receive another marshmallow if they waited 20 minutes before they ate the first one.
fast forward to their adolescent years... research indicated that those who held out the 20 minutes scored 210 points higher on their SAT in comparison to those who had eaten the marshmallow right away. They also were more calm and competent versus sulky and irritable later in life.

This is an interesting concept to me and I often find myself thinking "don't eat the marshmallow". In fact, I once wrote a note and tacked it above my bed that read:

"Remember the Marshmallow"

I mean, of course, metaphorically.
The concept, in my opinion, is not that it is bad to eat the marshmallow right away. That, in and of itself is fine. The marshmallow is good, why not enjoy it now? So what if I don't get another one, maybe I don't need another one. Two, might make me sick.

The problem though, is when I eat the marshmallow immediately because my mouth is filled with so much saliva I can't function until that gooey mass of processed sugar is in my mouth. That is when you are controlled by the desire.

Another way of looking at it I think is to imagine a beautiful smelling rose. When you smell it you take part in it, in what it is. You enjoy what it offers. You walk away happy that you got to smell it. It's just there- a passing pleasure that was lovely.

But what happens when you are always thinking about how good it smells and your mood is worse when you can't smell it. The aroma of the rose no longer enhances your life, it dominates it. In other words you no longer take pleasure in what it is, you are only interested in what it gives you.

Your admiration and derived pleasure for something beautiful has become a selfish desire no longer bent on appreciation, but on satiation. You only want something because it momentarily satisfies a desire not because that thing is necessarily good or beautiful.

Not that splurging on say some chocolate pudding when I crave it means I am doomed. spontaneity is beautiful too and it doesn't mean domination. I guess what I'm trying to say is I think there is a balance and that's what the marshmallow test reminds me of. It reminds me to enjoy what I have but when enjoyment becomes something that controls or consumes me- I've lost the beauty.

that's all. just...if your going to eat the marshmallow- be careful of what it can do to you. It can be delicious and wonderful and you go on with your day with a little wonderful. Or it can haunt you till you taste it again, and again, and again.

I'd like to think maybe I'm the kid who held out 10 minutes for the marshmallow and decided I was cool with just one and ate it and went on my merry way. sweet.

Disclaimer: I do not recommend trying this experiment on your children with marshmallows. They are bad for you. Try it with your favorite organic fruit...like watermelon or strawberries. It'll be a serving (or two if they hold out) of fruit and an indication of your child's future SAT scores. BONUS!

31% cynic

Good News!
According to this highly scientific test I generally see the glass half full!

Cynicism

31

"According to your responses, you are generally the type of person who believes in the goodness of humankind. You give nearly everyone the benefit of the doubt (at least until proven wrong), and will often accept what people say and do at face value instead of making conjectures about their motives. You will at least try to find the good in even the most difficult of people, and are willing to place your faith in others. Unlike their more positive counterparts, pessimists have a lot of difficulty trusting others, believing that most, if not all people have hidden agendas. Tempered with that necessary dose of skepticism, your fairly trusting and accepting nature is refreshing, and likely provides you with a much more balanced and upbeat perspective overall."

__________________________
Which I think is absolutely true.
I think my in filter is pessimistic which is why I initially take things rather hard and end up in some nice depressing holes. But my out filter is optimistic which means I almost always end up seeing the beauty in things. And most times, things come in and go out so fast I don't have time to even notice the pessimistic outlook because it's already been filtered through the optimistic. Lucky me! That all stems from my "Shoulder Shrug Theory" which is for another time.
The problem is when one thing is coming in and one thing is going out at the same time.
That is when I annoy myself.
Quandary # 4356 about myself solved.
(you didn't even know it WAS a quandary did you?)

eating my own words

There are times we come across a great idea or concept (hip hip).We get excited about that idea and think about it lots and we talk about it with other people.

Maybe, we even blog about it.

Of course,

... There are times when you realize your foot just ended up in your mouth...

When the things you crafted in your head and then so heartily ate make you sick to you stomach.

I just spend the last 2 hours thinking "that's not fair" over and over and over again concerning an event that I had just found out occurred.
I thought it,
kicked a couple walls and...er...lockers,
thought it again.
Took a breath to say it again and found myself cut off -there was something squeaking in my ear...

It was my own voice echoing back my recent penned words of "so what?" and reminding myself of all little beautiful things I had written that come from un-fairness! The nerve of me! It didn't make me feel better, it made me bitter at myself for writing words that came to chase me in my peppy optimistic little voice. It's annoying when I can't argue with myself and it's even more annoying when i want to kick some more lockers.

Sometimes, I just downright annoy myself. It's just not fair. (so there!)

Van Gogh's journal

'To lose a passport was the least
of one's worries. To lose a
notebook was a catastrophe.'
Bruce Chatwin

I certainly feel the same way. I have several notebooks and journals that are in working order and should I find myself somewhere without paper and pen I feel...rather naked.

There's just something about pen and paper. About the contact of a writing utensil as it forms lines and swirls to become something potentially life changing.
The contents become invaluable.

And it's different each time. I search for journals. Certain types need to be simple or ornate, plain or lined, large or small. Sometimes I have to write with pencil, sometimes a certain pen, sometimes even a certain color. I have a journal where I right musings from life that are half thinking on paper and half prayers. I have 3 mead notebooks for general info, historical studies, and writing excerpts from books and publications ; I have a quote journal (my fanciest journal); a blank journal to scribble pictures of fancy words ornately; and last but not least...
my moleskin.

(shameless plug below)

Moleskine is a product I scoffed at for quite awhile. Who would pay that much for paper just because it has "history". Too Fancy. As though a certain journal will really change the way you write or think.
As some of you may know however, I easily buy into things...
One day in college my friend Megan took me to the school library and we stood in front of pictures of alumni in our school library. We stood and stared for a few minutes, contemplating their lives. Their history, their impact.
Since then I feel almost everywhere I go there is a sacred history. People, places, cars, pictures. This tea cup I drink rose tea out of in this coffee shop....holds history. Who picked this tea, dried it? where is it from? Who else has drank out of this cup and this tea pot? what conversations have occurred at this table? Everything.

Then one day my friend Matt bought a moleskin and before I could say some snide comment on the waste of money he transformed the notebook into a sacred text "it was used by Van Gogh"

Bam. I was sold. I bought into it.
...the famed journals used by Vincent Van Gogh, Pablo Picasso, Ernest Hemingway. I buy into the inspirational guise and fork out the 16.95 for the lined journal as though it's link to the past will connect me to the minds who have purchased from the same company.
It makes me smarter- I mean I sound smarter right now don't I? (note the self mockery)

Actually even though it's still just paper, it is my belief in that paper that reminds me of the history of others. My first moleskin is used for a book log. I write down the books that have altered my thinking and include the most thought provoking passages. So in a way- it does connect me. I hold that notebook and feel linked to those words, ideas, and authors.

Call me a sucker....but I know in my future there will be more Moleskins. I have just found out that Moleskine now has a city notebook line (Mari you might like these). Maps and markers, transportation and space to log your city experiences. I'm not usually too fond of those journal's that "help" you with entries. however considering my recent conversion to theses journals I anticipate the release of more cities and shamelessly recommend their products.

(end of shameless plug)

I encourage pen (or pencil) to paper. Sometimes I write my initial thoughts on the computer. Sometimes my hand writes slower than my fingers type and I need to keep up with the spinning thoughts. But often- half the release of writing comes not from the meaning in the words, but in merely forming the symbols across the page and seeing your work.
Writing
"I feel trapped" or "My soul is peaceful"
means a lot more scribbled on a piece of paper than it does typed in a word document.

Writing doesn't have to be long. Even one sentence can mean the world to you or someone else. No matter what type of paper it's on...
try it.

p.s. if you don't like what you wrote you can convert it to Toilet paper....

treading water

sometimes it just feels like the world is out for the good people.
?maybe it's cause I know mostly good people?
maybe cause I don't seem to notice the injustice that occurs with the not so good people. Maybe...(ironically) I think it's only fair that bad things happen to bad people.

But sometimes I look around and it seems that no matter where my head turns it's just shitty in every direction. And it makes me want to scream and shove a couple noses up into a couple brains. There just aren't enough band aids to go around and even if there were enough...applying a band aid on a broken spirit just doesn't seem to do the trick.

philosophy sounds so meaningful and good in the abstract: caves, chairs, shadows and never stepping the same river again...
but in real life. people getting screwed -Philosophy is a bit different.

All those catch phrases, all those quotes. They seem like a slap in the face to those who need it most. They are really best for before you need it as a memory stored up to run like a feed through your head when you need it. Those inspirational messages are seemingly appropriated for a time of crisis. However, when your trying so hard to keep your nose above the water and then to have someone yell down at you:
"It's always darkest before the sun comes out buddy!"
or
"Hey man, What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us."

hardly the help you were looking for while your treading water and trying not to breath it in as it rises. A couple more friends yelling down at you and I'd want to submerge myself just to shut their optimism out.

So I guess...maybe when everything seems to be crashing and you can't figure out how to help them I guess all you can do is figure out how to jump in and at least tread water beside them. Maybe you have a rope, it isn't life or death for you...but at least your beside them.
i guess.
(sometimes I'm not even sure how to do that much)

a different side of fair

"it's not fair"

So? Who cares? "Fair" does not necessarily denote good. We all sit around cross legged on the ground passing around a communal cup and talk about what is and isn't fair deeming ourselves the judges of what is good. We toss around words not comprehending their meaning.

If we advocate for fairness then we ultimately advocate for a universal distribution of good as well as evil. Fair is impartial. Fair is conforming to a set of rules or laws of justice (probably whoever uses the phrase above refers to their own set of rules) irregardless of extenuating circumstances.

However, fairness can create a void of grace, of goodness, and kindness. All things we don't deserve, but receive -fairness withholds. fairness can bring selfishness and righteous vindication by paying attention only to the rules rather than the person. Even when God had to appease the idea of fair for our good it brought the greatest sorrow with the death of his son...that wasn't very fair. But I think it was good- even beautiful. We've all screwed up and gotten excused. We stand there shocked that greater repercussions didn't occur. We realize we didn't get what we deserve...we have just participated in a good unfair act.

So the next time you hear yourself say "but that isn't fair" think about what you really mean. Think about what standard or right you are claiming has been broached. Sometimes, it's a bad thing it has been violated, and sometimes...so much good can come from that violation we'll soon be passing our our own unfair acts to those around us.

A Choice

"I suffered, but things that don't kill you make you stronger. How could I possibly show my children the right path in life if I let life break me down? ~Safeta, Bosnia

I feel so American.
So American in the way so many may view us. wanting. spoiled. young. not understanding the cold.
removed.
Like a private school daddy's girl walking past a homeless girl and hurrying home to catch my favorite show.
There is so much more.
I suppose in some ways we are all products of our environment. Surrounded by the latest technology and style we walk by it and want it. Surrounded by it, it can easily consume us. Or instead...is our environment a product of us? One way makes us a victim and removes responsibility. It's a note excusing what we have been made for the time being. The other places the responsibility on us and gives a choice: succumb to it or change it. (it is both I think, but the importance is in which you allow to come first)

Safeta is a Bosnian who was raped repeatedly while her husband was out digging trenches in a work camp during the Bosnian war. They did not kill her assuming she would kill herself. Before the war Bosnia held pride in different nations living on the same soil. "most people identified themselves as Bosnians first and secondarily as members of ethnic groups." She was raped by her neighbors she lived peacefully by for years- the ethnic ties now had ripped the peace apart. Now she when she hears voices she follows the voices to see if one of them was her attacker.
"I want them to see that I am still alive, that they did not kill me, neither body nor soul, nor will they ever be able to do it" She is a product of her environment, marred by memories and left with scars- a victim. But her defiance and hope take control of that and changes her from victim to ...a human living life...i can't think of a poignant word but her choice has brought her above her circumstances. Shaping her- yes- consuming her- no.

As Victor Frankl, a holocaust survivor wrote "Every day, every hour, offers the opportunity to make a decision - decision which determined whether you would or wouldn't submit to those powers which threatened to rob you of yourself, your inner freedom, which determined whether or not you would become a plaything of circumstance..."

tears fall silently down my cheek reading of women and men and the suffering they endure. Now... not to get all rastifari/hippi on you but...these are our brothers and sisters. Fellow human beings. At first I find myself moved by pity and probably as a typical person removed from a situation i want to throw some money their direction to help them out. But pity elevates one above the other. Pity keeps us from learning and leaning on each other. It keeps us from love and I think from seeing God as he is. A deeper look brings humility (and thus empathy which keeps us as equals). perhaps the real difference is the adversity. I lack their harrowing tales that have embedded in them strength, wide eyes, and deeper convictions. I do not envy their pain, but I envy what their pain has produced.

it makes me shift my focus.
It brings me to humility. Oh God you are so good to give me what i do not deserve. even so good as to speak to me when i am not listening and giving when i do not ask. Here God speaks to me through these people fathoms away. do they know God is speaking through their lives to a girl in the northwest?
Once again...i re-evaluate. i long for simplicity. any moment the comfort of an early morning and starry night, warm tea and showers, summer and winter clothes, music to fill my ears may be snatched from me. Who i am, what i receive and what i give has to come from above all those things. If i live in that simplicity then perhaps when diversity comes I too will not be a victim and let life break me down. But I will stand up and defiantly cling to what is real.

meanwhile, I find I no longer "need" a lot of things I have in my mental list. Certain problems or feelings that were overwhelming seem so small and removed from truth. Now I long to come alongside my brother or sister, those who need help standing and instead of pulling them up on firm footing I can put my arm around theirs and walk to firm footing with them. sharing our humanity...hoping when my foot slips and I need to look defiantly in the face of any kind of death someone too, will hold my arms up. I am removed from their pain...yes. i don't know what they suffered. But the things they have learned- their stories can bring- beauty to us. It can prepare me for what I know life will inevitably bring. For that I feel a kindred-ness, and thankfulness towards those who share their pain. it helps us push through and rise above (or out depending on you preposition of choice)

"Everything can be taken from a man but one thing. The last of human freedoms- to choose ones own way, and there were always choices to be made" Frankl

water wings

A table tucked away in corner. Flooded with dusty afternoon sunlight.

She sits and stares.

Annoying music muffled by earphones playing empathetic music-feeding and soothing her pain. She sits in the café, in this corner, at a wooden driftwood table for two; sipping Jasmine tea from black mug. To her right a black kettle rests holding a reservoir. In front of her, sits her journal.

She sips, she sits, she stares.

She glances around every so often. She imagines a wise person meeting her eye across the room. This wise person with a knowing eye holds her gaze until they sit in the empty seat. They draw her layers with their words and speak life to her.She turns up her music. No one pays attention. The café's music is not fit for her mood. The weather is though; it is an overcast yellow day. It holds a wistful if only with windblown branches and tousled hair.

She sips her Jasmine tea and pours more from the pot.

Then, she embraces her pain.
It squeezes around her heart, the heart that doctors can't reach- her soul heart.
She tries to let the flavor of the tea, the sounds in her ears, and the wind in the windows melt over her. To consume her. She tries to force a smile with her eyes.
She glances down at her journal:
"Drowning, falling.
Slowly, sinking, holding my breath.
Everyone is outside, breathing, living, laughing.
My hope is here somewhere, I have to swim through to find it."

She looks up at the window again. Tired.
Being miserable makes you so tired. Tired of being miserable. But too tired to want anything else. She thinks. She considers writing that down. But that is too much work.

She stares. She waits until she finds a pocket of pleasure from what she sees, hears and tastes. Just enough to give her courage.She smiles with her eyes. A fierce determined smile. A transient smile of hope.

But she can't seem to stop the confusing words. They rush back at her and plunge her within herself. They make her sick. Regret. She shrinks wishing the words would consume themselves and pull her in. cover her. Drown her into a comatose state where she doesn't have to fight. Kill her. She is already half dead. Grieving the death of the living. The living cold. The unwanted.

The wind blows and locks her eyes on the waving branches knocking gently against the window. She pours more tea. Sip. Stare. Drama she tells herself. Stop it.

She wants to stand in the wind with her eyes closed, her arms out, her hair swirling. Flying.

She finds a voice of courage. The most courageous thing you can do is to move on and let go. She doesn't know how, but she takes the small piece of bravery she has and whispers for help, refuses blame, shuns bitterness.
She relaxes. She breathes. She smiles with her lips.

She finds she has been given just enough to find grace.
She has found her water wings.

"Sometimes Grace works like Water Wings, when you feel you are sinking"

~La Mantt

all things beautiful become old

Yesterday I was looking through my shoes…trying to recall why I bought most of them.
Cute?
Practical?
A bargain?
Perfect?
Now they sit in a pile in my closet and I am waiting one seasonal rotation of weather to get rid of them (as recommended for impulsive people). They aren't necessarily useless…but somewhere along the way they have become unappealing and I no longer reach for them. Which got me thinking a lot of things are like that...

We can't stop looking at beauty when it first comes. But we look at it for so long that it becomes as familiar as everything surrounding it. And suddenly- it's just- blah, normal. At first you're so excited about those shoes and you want to wear them all the time; but slowly we wear them less and less…they just don't fit right, don't match, -they have lost their luster.

In a way- that's scary to me. Because we get so excited and it's almost embarrassing how quickly we discard the object of excitement for something newer that seems more exciting. How can we trust ourselves?

Of course I hope you realized I am not only speaking of shoes- but of the real things that come into our life- Shoes, shirts, friends, ideas, faith, books, food, cars…

Then again...

What about the old shoes we can't wear enough? How does it pass the process where its holes become like home? A companion. At what point do those lucky few objects pass through excitement, obtain familiarity and wear and tare, and retain their beauty in an endearing way that makes their age a comfort preferred to new and exciting?

huh. It's a rhetorical question. We don't question it really. You never know what will pass the test, it just seems to happen. Some friendships fade and some withstand the wear. Some ideas hold and some are released. Some gifts become a treasure while others become garbage.

I am continually searching for "the one" pair of shoes that will pass the test. I cringe whenever I buy a pair of shoes because well...will they become what I'm looking for? A signature for my feet, always there, always comfort, always practical, always my style? I have a pair in the running- high hopes for them really…but the luster is still there. Will they continue to garb my feet when the newness fades into familiarity? ...Only time will tell.

Meanwhile, I am still looking for that pair of shoes that slip onto my feet and feel like home.

journals from the desert

I want to give.
Daily my heart's desire is met with my self greed. I am tired of shoving aside my irritations and of personalities that annoy me. I am at war with what I so desire and what carries such quick gratification.

So I am living in the desert trying to accept my freedom from my old life of slavery. But my freedom does not feel complete. Often it feels more binding. I am traveling to the promised land but my desert life seems so bleak it is hard not to remember the safety of my slavery.

My slavery is a picture, a life already experienced-tangible. I remember the sweet juice of its empty fruits. The pain is but a word "remember the pain?" I tell myself. No. it's a word- no longer does it carry an ache. So, unbidden, those pictures play in my head over and over calling, distorting, and confusing me. My old life was so easy, reality is so far.

My reality is this desert. This harsh land that I walk where I can't always figure out what is good and what is sweet. I keep returning to my tent to play those pictures because I deceive myself thinking the fruit I remember will satisfy…though it always leaves a deeper thirst.

But I grow tired of pictures and I find that I need to learn to breathe the passing desert and the coming reality of the Promised Land. Sometimes I gain the courage to face the desert and look over the harsh land and look for God. The panoramic dunes are too harsh but I see his beauty reflected in one grain of sand that blows across the desert floor.

This grain of sand on my fingertip.

My torment and hunger for my prison world dissipates and a peace of true reality descends on me. I look up to see God alive in the people milling around me. Life becomes clear. My questions are not answered but they no longer torment me. I rest in the reality of my future home. I see that I cannot live in Heaven while I walk on earth- but that this desert can contain such beautiful fragments of that Promised Land that I can not want anything less. I have seen and tasted the pearl of great price in the grain of sand and shall want and seek for nothing but to have that pearl, to embody it, to share it, until I hold it in my hands forever.

I wish I could find a way to carry that grain of sand with me. So often wind comes and blows it from my hand and I turn to see where it went and find the shadows of my old world. Sometimes it requires such concentration. The beauty and strength that envelops me when I hold that fragment in my hand…yet it's a mystery how quickly it slips through my fingers. I crave those fragments.

The tangible daily excursions of life rob me of it so often. The enemy seeks to recapture me in the most cunning and supple ways. He blows through the desert and finds my cracks of weakness, my doubt, my personal irritations, tired body, and too late…I see my gain of sand gone.

"To see a world in a grain of sand,
And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,
And eternity in an hour."
~William Blake, Auguries of Innocence

Romantic Reflections on why I love life and all it's dirt

At times my life with God often feels like shackles; because my flesh longs to do its will. It longs to be free.

I feel as though everywhere I look I see my wretchedness. My pride, selfishness, and vanity condemn me and my fear keeps me there. Fear of failure. I have failed so much; the despondency in me tells me that to receive grace again is useless. For the one time I convince myself that grace really is waiting for me, I find just behind that hope, a hammer that shatters. I see my future failures and find no motivation to receive grace knowing I will throw it away so quickly.

If only I could somehow make all the things I have done wrong somehow redeemable.
If only I had the power to go to others and replace the worth Ive stripped, or heal the careless wounds. Even grace cannot undo the damage. Bowing before God and asking for grace seems so easy and unfair compared to all the damage I leave in my wake every day.

If only freedom wasnt so cheap.
If only I could feel the stings on my back.
If only people would throw the garbage I throw at them right back at me.

Unbelievably I sit here and think

Who will stand and advocate for me?

Who will stand beside me?

Who will see me as I am- all the dirt- who knows all and will give me a life line in spite of it?

Don't we all yearn to be fully known and accepted still? I wish to shout from the rooftops I AM NOTHING and poor out my dirt making sure everyone knows my faults. Then maybe Ill have a chance for true love despite my faults.

I have only one thing. Grace. Not a grace by feeling, but grace by faith. A faith in the power of love of my God. My God whom I often feel so far from. My God who hears my prayers to be broken and holds me as he begins the process. My God who is capable of more grace and love than I could ever give because all I have derives from him.

He is the only one who knows me more than I know myself and loves me still.
And how beautiful my failures become!

They become an outlet for Gods grace to imbed and my selfish wretched self to be crushed. With every mistake I turn to lean less on me and more on him. Gods grace allows me to be left behind in my failures and the emptiness is filled with pieces of him. My failures chip away my hardness and leave a soft tenderness that God covers.So though I feel beyond goodness. Although despondency feels suitable for my state. I choose the amazing grace of God.

I choose to run to the most powerful thing- the never ending depth of love and mercy- to God himself.

Its all I have left of value when the day is done- but what a beautiful thing to remain.

Dearly Departed Sniffles

Today I walked into my room and I looked for my puppy.She's been gone now since last May and I'm not sure why she still so echos so much in my life. I swear I still hear her nails click on the kitchen floor. Every time my duvet cover gets turned over to reveal the golden material I double take thinking it's my sniffles.

Maybe it's because I am particularly lonely lately. But I still have that slight heartache that comes with the absence of something familiar. She was the perfect companion. I remember sitting against my bed countless times crying and she would glance at me making her sad puppy eyes and come and sit right beside me. She never said anything, she never asked for anything. She just heaved a big sigh as if to say "yeah, I know". Sometimes I stop and listen because I swear in the myriad of noises I hear that her sigh was in there somewhere.

Ok yes, she did have some health problems and she didn't always smell the greatest because well- I was lazy- I didn't like always giving her a bath. But she was an excellent watch dog and a resilient adventurer. I hated towards the end not being able to take her on runs or walks because I was so afraid that her being deaf might perhaps endanger her. But in her younger days she traipsed with the rest of us, braved the frozen creek and braved the freezing water just to get to the other side with us and chase our sleds down the hill. She courageously fought off unwanted critters and took several "hits" for the team knowing full well a tomato and vinegar bath would result (skunk).

I was never afraid and never alone when she was near. Probably because she had the makings of what good friends do- she knows all your dirt, she knows what you can do and you don't, she knows what you have done, and she still sleeps beside you. She still begs to take a walk with you, and she still sits beside you in your tears.No wonder I miss her.
So hear is a poem I wrote about her last summer in my first ugoogely

Dear, dear Sniffles....We didn't name you peaches.
Like my brother wanted.We names you sniffles, cause you sniffled a lot.
And cause I picked that name and I was the favoritist.
Your ears smelled and you had health problems.
But you still were pretty cute.
With gentle wooing and a dog biscuit you learned to sleep on my bed till I kicked you off at 3am cause you hogged the bed.
You went on walks at midnight and protected me from scary Grouse.
You were brave when the car hit you.
You sat down and sniffed with me when I cried.
You pretended to be in shape and catch sticks.
What a good, good puppy because you even tolerated the dumb cats.
You were a good, loyal puppy.
Towards the end you couldn't see or hear.
But you could smell... you could always smell.

Dear, dear sniffles.You are missed.

Moment of silence. 1991-2005

goodbye 200fricken5

I'm going to go ahead an say 2005 was not my favorite year. When I look back i see a dreary hopelessness that vacated adventure and excitement from my eyes, so many expelled tears that it's a wonder my body didn't shrivel from dehydration, and a pure trust in God lost to my selfish need for control. It's dull and it's wasted and it usually evokes a word like "yuck" and I hide my head and my body jerks like I got a sudden case of the chills and I want to shake the whole thing off, leave it behind, and pretend it never happened.

But the really funny thing is that ... last year was also one of the most beautiful years of my life. Seriously- I'm not joking.I'm amazed. I really am. I like to call that pockets of grace. I can't believe all the good I got. I surely didn't deserve it. I was a stubborn, selfish girl who kept taking advantage of grace just enough to survive.

However... I am more myself than I have ever been in my life. More sure of what I am unsure about and comfortable not being sure about anything- including God. I have learned to laugh at myself, I have learned to cry or grow angry and then get up and shrug my shoulders, I have lost my grounding on the logical reality I have always had and found myself muddled in a sea of unfamiliar feelings that seemed like reality. I have learned how to trick myself till the feeling fades and reveals true reality. I have learned to stop caring and that I am only as strong as those around me. I have learned to laugh at somber things. I have learned to like tea and I tasted shrimp dip and liked it.

I have starved myself of God and found that He is deeper than I thought, I know less of him than I ever have did and yet... I am closer to him than before. I have placed myself in a self imposed desert and kept myself there for fear of the comfort of lush greens... yet God keeps bringing the feast to me. God has become a raw reality that the few times I focus on it's reflected waters I realize how everything in life pales in comparison.

It changes my tears of hurt to tears of amazement and the fullness of love. It strips my feelings of inadequacy, dullness of personality, and loss of dignity, to a beloved little girl who just likes to go and play. a flicker of mysterious peace so deep that even when i am crabby or mad...it doesn't shift.

Do any of us deserve this grace? I mean, not really... but I guess God thinks we do, or at least he figured out a way to make us deserve it so he could keep giving it to us. Why should so much be given to us when we spend most of our time refusing it? And if we keep getting so much beauty- why don't we pucker up and learn to take it when it's offered instead of waiting till we are starving on the desert floor? Why in our selfishness is God still so good?

AND SO.... I have only one resolution. To not let one day stack on another so that I am weary. When a new day comes I can leave the last day behind me. I think the bravest thing a person can do face their sorrow and failures and walk through it to find the beauty. It takes a lot of tries. "above all we must avoid the hopeless yielding to things as they are" a wise man once said.

I am still learning. And really the only thing I'll ever learn is how much I don't know. I still bemoan and sulk, get crabby and stubborn and I still pretend sometimes. I mean 2005 wasn't the worst year it could have been- sure it squeezed my inards out and sucked the air from me but... hey- who doesn't have moments like that? There are plenty more to come no use to relive the old ones! So raise a glass, look at yourself in the mirror and laugh every once in awhile, eat your favorite food, let the jerk tailing you pass you and enjoy the trees passing by, do something idiotic, make a zoolander face, don't take a long line at the store too seriously,. and for goodness sake...

...look at all the beauty. I would live 100 years of 2005 again if they would all promise to yield such a harvest.

More thoughts on Hope

Kudos to my friend for his addition to my words about hope...

It’s just hope

Hope that kills me...

Rain comes, hope

Springs eternal and

It haunts me

‘til I die

Well that's just a little exerpt, but I wasn't sure I was allowed to post the whole thing... but I think it's pretty beautiful. And as said...usually the hope that drains so much from us, that seemingly haunts and teases, isn't really the pure kind of hope. It's garbed in our wants rather than our Saviors. Yet still...I often can't tell the difference between hope in magic or hope in selfishness.
Maybe there isn't a difference. I guess I just always thought that if you have a hope that, should it come true, you feel you would be among the stars...it can't be false. Then again...whose to say what will lift us to the stars? Only God.
To pull from my quotation collection...
" I don't want whatever I want. NOBODY does. Not really. What kind of fun would it be if I just got everything I ever wanted? Just like that, and it didn't mean anything. what then? " ~Coraline , Neil Gaiman.
Good point Coraline.

Hope, Christmas, Reality

Hope. Hope despite what you know is real...that kind of hope can kill you I think. I wonder if it really lifts you up or if it might also have the ability to suffocate you?

You know when you were younger around Christmas time –and you knew you parents didn’t have much money. You knew you wouldn’t get what you dreamed of, you wouldn’t get the popular toy, the “in” thing of the year. Most of the things you want you dare not even ask for because you don’t want your parents to feel bad. And it’s Christmas eve and you lay in your bed. You know tomorrow you won’t really get what you want, because you know the reality is that they just can’t afford it. And you’re ok with it. You know that isn’t the most important thing. You don't even care about what you get... You know reality. But still, when you close your eyes, you can’t help but dream, and in dreaming...hope.

Its Christmas morning now. You open your presents, genuinely happy and surprised. You play. You’re thankful. But when your done, when the last wrapping is thrown away...you still hope. Is there another hidden present? No. and you can’t help –even though you know it’s silly- let down. Because no matter what the reality, you couldn’t let go of that hope, if held on and now it’s crushed. Now you’re disappointed that your dreams didn’t magically appear. You knew reality, but hopes and dreams clung to you and delivered disappointment.

It’s a beautiful thing that hopes and dreams (even of toys) can stay alive despite the reality that suffocates them. Sometimes that’s all that keeps us going, dreaming of what we know can’t or won’t ever happen. But often it feels so sad, to know reality...and yet hope for such much...just knowing Christmas morning will come and prove the hopes and dreams wrong. How do you let go of such hope that follows you into your dreams?