I am grateful for the small and simple beauties of everyday life. I think that all that know me well know this well enough. Some may call me boring – the Lord knows that some have! Yet I don’t mind this ascription, especially when it very well may be true. I will take the charge and carry on and enjoy my book of the evening as I sit in the candlelight. I am not denying the fun that can be had in a grand adventure or the adrenaline thrill that may accompany a new experience in climes abroad. Once in a while, these have their place. But for tonight, I am thankful for the small things. Perhaps this comfort comes from the larger and greater comfort that my feet are firmly planted on the rock on which I stand and the reality of my place in a symphony that has been written long ago. And so as the music soars out against the rafters and the birds tweet along with the part they have been assigned, I nod along assured that I need not fear when I hear of wars or rumors of such things because I know that I am my God’s and He is mine. Instead I pray for strength for today and good cheer as I walk along this pilgrim path and ask for fortitude that I may remain faithful still. And I walk along the viaduct noticing the way the sunset light touches the foothills and smile to know that I need not worry that the third movement will carry along uninterrupted. Soon the climax, soon the bowstrings will in their anticipation quaver and the trumpet sound one last time. For now I’m simply grateful for this small moment in my armchair.
Paradise
I stand at the shoreline and relish the feel of the cool sand upon my bare feet. I look out over the early morning waters and take a deep breath. The breeze washes over me and reminds me of the long ago time on the Oregon coast when the birds sang low and the bonfire of roses burned. Now I have no such stark reminder of the sacrifice that has been made for me. Instead it is only my inner muse that chants the song and keeps my hands steady in anticipation of what comes. I lift the lamp to my eyeline and let it hang there a moment or two. It swings slightly and the flame bounces merrily to and fro. There is still oil enough. I have prepared. I have done what I can. Though nothing I have done matches what was done for me. I lower the lamp and shift my stance slightly. It has been a long wait, though not as long as the walk that came before. Over mountains and across prairies and on paths bordered by wild grass have I traversed this long night. Now for some reason I do not tremble. I have been given food to eat that has upheld me body and soul. My last sandwich is in the pack and I do not plan on eating it. It is a sacramental reminder, turkey and swiss and mustard on good rye bread. Now I do not need it. A gull cries. I open my eyes and see a boat break upon my sight. The waves lap against it and I need no further call. I step into the water as my eyes begin to fill with tears one last time.
Lampstand
She rose from her chair and walked to the window, trembling. The rain still pattered down upon the sill yet the thunder had long ago ceased its grumbling. The sky had begun to lighten. He had promised, he had said he’d be there before the end. But that was hours ago now. Her phone was silent and still. She turned her back on the window and went over to the coffee table and lit the candle. The room was clean of course, though she still let her eyes dart to all the corners to verify for the seventeenth time. Why did it matter though? She did not know how this conversation would go, this face to face. She sometimes stumbled with her words and he always seemed so confident. Perhaps this time her words would be clear and her face would be calm. Perhaps this time she would know what to say in the moment. But what would he say? Would he approach in humility and purpose? Or would he come full of himself and hollow of all else? Her insides writhed and she sat down on the edge of the sofa. She didn’t know what she wanted. She looked over at her phone on the chair. It had lit up. She couldn’t see from that angle if it was him. She rose slowly to her feet and swallowed once. Then outside footsteps and his profile at the window as he passed. There were flowers in his hand.
With a Cherry On Top
Hello friends! A Saturday morning here. Dani making some breakfast and the plans for the day still to be decided. For now? Decided I would try and catch up on a few of my latest reads! I’m dreadfully behind ahhh!! Well, I will make this quick.
58. Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone by J.K. Rowling. Yup, decided it was time for another re-read. I do love this series, it is warm and comforting like a fluffy blanket on a cold day. This first book? It is simple and sweet. Very much a typical children’s book in that classic British boarding school tradition. The writing is pedestrian and the plot is very basic. If this were the only book in the series, I doubt Harry Potter would be the cultural institution it is today. Yet? The imagination in this book is wonderful and all the groundwork Rowling sets up to give the world its colour and sparkle is something to behold. I am always a bit jealous of Rowling’s imagination! There is so much colour in this book, so many little details that make Harry’s world feel so utterly real.
59. Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets by J.K. Rowling. Rowling finds her groove in this one. Her writing already feels much more confident and the story itself much more compelling. Yes still obviously a children’s tale, yet I felt myself enraptured by the story yet again even though I’ve read this one who knows how many times! I still find the spider scene one of the most terrifying scenes in all of the seven books. And the end confrontation scene between Harry & Riddle/basilisk is simply top notch. Beyond all that? Rowling continues to fill in her world and once again, I find it so pleasurable simply to immerse myself in it.
60. Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban by J.K. Rowling. Another rollicking tale and probably the last one that feels purely like a children’s book. There is some time travel wonkiness yet Rowling does a great job of making it make sense as you read. It’s only after the fact that you start going “Wait a second…” I like seeing the children continue to grow up and their characters continue to deepen.
61. The Door by Magda Szabó. I don’t know if I can exactly call this a beautiful book, but wow is it a good one. It’s certainly one of the finest written books I’ve read in quite some time. I thought this might be a bit of a struggle to get through, yet once I started, the story pulled me in and I never slowed down. This is a challenging piece of fiction. It’s a fascinating character study and relational drama both. And I’m not sure when I’ve last read a book that made me think so much, both about the complex natures of individuals and the way we interact with those we love. Of course there’s a lot here that would likely make a bit more sense if I had grown up in Hungary, yet even so there is much here that transcends culture. This book does not shy away from the darker nature within all of us. Some passages are truly disturbing, some elements that horrify in their brutality and rawness. There are no black and white characters here, each character multi-faceted and understandable in their motivations even as you cringe a bit at their behaviour throughout. I’m grateful I read this one – the prose is truly top notch and the story strong. Will I re-read this anytime soon? Probably not, yet it has earned a place on my shelf. I loved this one. Of course I’m biased a bit, already loving Hungary, its culture and its people. I need to read more Hungarian fiction, I think.
The Temporal in Light of the Eternal
Wherefore, in all these things, be persuaded sometimes to have an eye to Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith. Behold how he is set before us in the gospel, poor, despised, reproached, persecuted, nailed to the cross, and all by this world. Whatever be your designs and aims, let his cross continually interpose between your affections and this world. If you are believers, your hopes are within a few days to be with him forevermore.
Unto him you must give an account of yourselves, and what you have done in this world. Will it be acceptable with him to declare what you have saved of this world, what you have gained, what you have preserved and embraced yourselves in, and what you have left behind you? Was this any part of his employment and business in this world? Hath he left us an example for any such course? Wherefore, no man can set his affections on things here below who hath any regard unto the pattern of Christ, or is in any measure influenced with the power and efficacy of his cross. “My love is crucified,” said a holy martyr of old: he whom his soul loved was so, and in him his love unto all things here below.
Do you, therefore, find your affections ready to be engaged unto, or too much entangled with, the things of this world? Are your desires of increasing them, your hopes of keeping them, your fears of losing them, your love unto them and delight in them, operative in your minds, possessing your thoughts and influencing your conversations?
-turn aside a little, and by faith contemplate the life and death of the Son of God; a blessed glass will it be, where you may see what contemptible things they are which you perplex yourselves about. Oh, that any of us should love or esteem the things of this world, the power, riches, goods, or reputation of it, who have had a spiritual view of them in the cross of Christ!
-John Owen, Vol 7, page 399
Renewal
The two of them sit at the table and let their eyes proclaim their fears. Their words waver, their sentiments at times difficult to read. And though his hands go through all the motions, hers stay still as granite along the shoreside path. Their back and forth seems almost rehearsed at times, as if a matinee showing of a play that’s been running for years. But that’s not quite fair. There’s real emotion in his words. There’s agony in her silent tears. The table is not sturdy enough to bear the weight of their once hallowed expectations. Yet it’s enough to bear the weight of one hand stretched out to the other reminding once again of that sacred oath. She puts her hand in his and in the stillness lets out a breath. This talking about all the things was good and necessary yet the thorns still tore their clothes. But remember, he says in a low voice now. A cord of three strands. The smile in her eyes says it all.
Glimmers
Ah majesty! she sighs to herself and proceeds immediately to trip upon a loose rock in full sight of the rest of the tourists wandering about afore the castle. Well that will make me memorable at the very least. Thankful that no ankles had been sprained nor knees skinned, Emily gets up to her feet grateful that her pride had long ago rolled its eyes and withdrawn into some deep dark cave. She was a lost cause after all. A little bit of Irish dirt clung to her jeans but other than that, no damage done. And even the dirt was only a souvenir at the end of the day.
Now Emily walks off the path and onto the grass, approaching the edge of the cliff, the view that had caught her eyes moments before and so precipitously tossed her to the ground. There is something inherently majestic in the way the three realities collide. The solidity and gravity of the cliff and the ground under her feet sound forth in pompous solemnity. The whimsy and fanciful airs given by the sky and its train of clouds scurrying to and fro whistle jauntily in their place. And of course the sea. The wild angst and sheer power of the waves below her soar forth as strains of the violin, haunting in their beauty and aching in the rawness of their tears. So a symphony is born. The cliffs, the sky and the sea. All a part of something greater yet to be.
There is a sparkling in the air as the waves crash into the cliffs and throw up a spray into the sky and proclaims that this moment has arrived and that in its very temporal nature there is a beauty that signals the eternal of the divine. Emily doesn’t recognize all this in words, at least not in this very moment. Later she would write upon it in full, at least as much as her conscious mind can comprehend at a moment far removed. Yet now, though words escape her and only a silent exclamation hovers in front of her lips, Emily comprehends now more fully than she ever will again. The spirit within her resonates as if strummed by an invisible hand. And perhaps it has been. There is in this moment a knowledge that she has witnessed a creative act that is far beyond her. Emily stands at the edge of the cliff and whispers a prayer. It is good for her to be in this place and worship. It is good for her feet to stand upon this solid earth as she gazes upon the sky that stretches over her and the sea.
Haunted Moors
Hello friends! Writing a few words this Sunday evening. About to perhaps attempt to write something flowery and ridiculous and ethereal and grey in its beauty and majestic wonder. Shall I succeed? Who knows, who knows. While I write now, listening to an old playlist from a few years back – “windswept queens of the haunted moors”. One of my favourites, it is darkly beautiful even though its lyrics are at times agonizing in their pain. Yet, at times the melancholy calls to me and this playlist, while not for the faint of heart, still sings. If you want to listen…well, I’ll link it here. Only if you wish.
Leaving aside the dangerous musical madness of my past, what now stirs my heart? I feel as if the days and weeks have been busy of late and my heart is weary. Yet what does that signal but that I am still trudging on? I am grateful to my God for holding my hand as I walk this path. And I’m grateful oh so grateful that I am not alone. I wish I had more time. I wish at times the things of this world didn’t take so much time and that I had more time to write and dream and wonder. Ah my thoughts are too messy for this mundane of a post. I will attempt to channel into something creative. If I give up, will just move on to making dinner! Leftover meatloaf is the plan. Also going to fry up some broccoli and make some mashed potatoes. Will be a good Sunday dinner, so says I. Now, I’m off, to write. I hope. I sigh and roll my eyes as I think on the likelihood that little of the beautiful shall proceed forth from my pen. But sometimes a leap is necessary. Farewell, my friends.
Tra-la-la
My thoughts burn within me and I wonder what that signifies. If I am but a faded construction of mis-matched cloth and paper and scraps of wood, isn’t it possible that a flame of a thought may be slightly hazardous to my health? Perhaps it would be safer if I kept my spirit cold, dashing bitter water on any thoughts that dare to peep of the far shore. Safer yes but perhaps not as wise. For safety is as safety does, yet wisdom speaks of what she knows and beckons for me to come closer now. I do not think I dare refuse her. This is why I seek for truth and beauty despite the slime and mire of the frantic shouting that is on all the screens we scroll. Might truth and beauty be one and the same? I think so now. This is perhaps a bit simplistic, even reductionistic one might say. But maybe we can acknowledge that truth is not truth if it does not have the air of the beautiful. The false prophet can well cloak their foulness but it will come out in the end. And is beauty truly beauty if it is all a lie? Remember Oscar Wilde’s tale. Ugliness will out in the end. There is a relationship there that I think the wise acknowledge. So please don’t feed me grime and gristle in my daily bread. I would rather eat plain fare and drink cold water and rejoice in the fact that I am growing closer in likeness to the original that I was cast after. I follow now on pilgrimage, plodding yes but plodding true. The dirt rises up in my steps and I refuse the side-paths even though they do have such winsome signage. Neon and steel may once have caught my fancy but I daresay I know better now. I’ve fallen on the way and yes you’ll see mud marked down my left side. I have a scar or two on my face and I cannot deny the grey that is in my hair. Still yet? I have a dream that fills my soul and a word that burns within me. I press on for that greater prize and my eyes water as I think on heaven’s gate and the man that will be there to offer me a greeting. I cannot wait to ascend the hill and hail the master. Soon, my friends, soon. For now though, the path winds on and ever on. And there is even beauty on the way.
Panhandle
To create is to breathe is to let loose a thought a prayer into the winds of time.
I pray now and ask for such grace as might be given one who longs to pen words that point to farther glories and future songs. I pull up my small kayak to the shore and jump out, wetting my shorts in the process. I wade to the shore as I heave the kayak aside me. Do you see the sun setting over the wind-blown palms? It shall be dark soon, this I know. But for now, there is still light to see by. And enough light to even scribble a few words before their memory puffs away. Once written, the pages shall be kissed and sealed. I will then trudge up the dunes to approach the house that lays on the other side. Perhaps dinner shall be waiting, a simmering pot of tomato sauce perhaps, scents of oregano and parsley when I open up the kitchen door. For now though, in the last glimmerings of summer’s sun, I pen what my muse whispers in my ear and I wonder if the words tomorrow will look as good as they sound now. Who can say, who can say. I’ll let future me be the judge. For now, I breathe deep of wood-smoke and smile in repose. If one looked at me now, they’d see green eyes shimmering in the light of heaven’s touch. I have no other longing this night than what I whisper now under my breath. There are some myths that are true, do you know?
Something Weird 