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)

I quit

That is all I have to say.

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

My Lifeline

Oh God!

Thou art love!
I build my faith on that!

I know thee,
Though hast kept my path
and made light for me in the darkness.

Tempering sorrow, so that it reached me
like a solemn joy;

It were too strange that I
should doubt thy love.

~Robert Browning

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.

The beat of native red

The color of red beats in my ears and into my soul.

I listen and close my eyes...

Fires burning, shadows dancing, drums pounding, voices lifting. My body and heart sway with each fluctuation of music. This music holds such an intentionality and determination to produce something from within-releasing it.

One voice backed by many,
releasing a prayer,
a story,
a feeling,
a word,
a place,
a memory,
a value,
a truth.

It reverbs, it sways, it echoes.
It is bright and dark,
the sunrise breaking through and the sunset giving way to the stars.
It is sorrow and hope,
young and old,
innocence and experience.

The sounds create a purpose beyond the circumstance- everything together releasing it to provide strength.
A voice,
a beat,
a movement,
a focus,
concentration,
a dance of sound,body, words, and life.

It produces in my soul a story, something I can't contain but seems to seep in and pushes out of me. I grasp the hope shrouded in painful melodies and feel something that is beyond right here. I want more than anything to take part in this unguarded circle of clapping, singing, moving, and flying.

Whether they know it or not woven is echoes of heaven…these pockets in the music that I stumble to catch, to preserve the whispers and hold on to the truths. To keep hope lifted through another day, another hour, another sorrow, another irritation, another wall…an inspiration that breaks me into reality and up from my muddled, mundane view from the mud.

How indescribable is God's grace to bestow through a rhythm stars from heaven into my soul.
How beautiful

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

brief encounters

Today I had a few brief exchanges with a man named James at a book store who seemed fascinated that I read Children's lit. As always the conversations between two strangers flux between enjoyment and curiosity till they end with a dismissive comment. Dismissed not because the solidarity of the topic ran dry; but because neither party is sure of the motives that keep it going.

Is he normal?
Is he a lonely person?
Stalker?
Hitting on me?
What does he expect?

And so we both settle back into our own stories and in the back of my mind I wonder what the purpose was to our encounter if at all? I may never know. Often I fear the powerlessness of my words. What does our silence hold? What would happen if I said what was on my mind to a perfect stranger?

We all regress into our silence eventually.

A little while later a little girl walked up to me and began asking me questions about buttons and who was sitting where. I enjoyed speaking with her for a few moments while the father stood off watching his daughter. He finally called her away- I assume because he didn't want her to exhaust her welcome into my world of reading. I settled back into my book.

Ten minutes later a man came and squatted down next to me. Slightly disturbed or alarmed at what he was doing I fashioned my face into a look of inquiry waiting for him to state his purpose. He started saying that not a few minutes ago I was speaking with a young girl "oh yes uhhuh" I responded relieved he wasn't hitting on me as he was 20 years older and thinking he must just be looking for the father…then he clarified "I'm not weird or trying to hit on you but I was watching you interact with her and" well to be honest his exact wording is lost on me. The general gist was that he saw a light occur in that encounter, that I had a presence or demeanor about me when I was speaking with the little girl that was open and refreshing and he wanted to let me know that. I was shocked and flustered because by now everyone was perking their ears or peeking above their books wondering what he was saying to me all the while pretending they were into their own respective worlds. I said thank you so much and he walked away. I quickly returned to my book wondering what one says to that and yet, at the same time realized that the nature of his compliment lifted my heart.

God it seems, had offered me a pocket of grace. As it was a rather rough day in the thought world and I was feeling rather useless and far from God this man had just lifted me above all that. I realized that God can still be seen in me and I felt honored at that and even more desperate for God's help and presence in my life. How could all of that occur from such a simple strangers comment?

That man did what do few of us do. Thank each other for emanating pockets of grace, for giving love- whether he meant to or not he acknowledged God's presence among us. He saw something good and he wanted to encourage it's beauty and what is beauty but reflections of God?

How many times do I see or feel the overwhelming delight in a friendship or a simple passing human interaction that brings a burst of beauty and I walk away. I harbor that piece of joy and never share it and never encourage because I am surrounded by strangers. Would it be crazy to walk up to a mother and tell her how refreshing it is to see her playing on the playground with her son? To compliment a stranger? I didn't think that man was weird, Instead he took the lenses and allowed me to see the beauty as though I were a spectator and not a participant. Are we so afraid? Can we spread pockets of grace to those who walk beside us enabling them to see what was unapparent to their own eyes?

We are all unknown filters of stardust, spectators and participators of every moment.

Any time we pass goodness to each other the love that is God filters through us and often we are unaware of his power interacting among us. The more we watch for it and the more we see of it the more we can expose the beauty to each other and find that we are all not so different
and
God is not so distant from us.