she skips down the sidewalk
ignorant of the clouds gathering above
yet even though the rain starts to fall
she still pays no notice for she’s simply
thinking of her recent dreams
and of the fact that she’s
in love
for what now can harm her
or tell her she’s not enough
maybe she’ll go down to the coffee shop
and buy a mocha
or maybe just a croissant
but now she’s still and leaning against the fence at home
letting her thoughts settle
breathe once breathe twice
is the sky bluer than normal?
is the light through the trees always this stunning hue?
breathe girl get a grip remember your story
but also remember
i am not alone
i am loved
i am known
and there’s a little butterfly perching
on the bench out front
Author: James Hogan
Keep up the Pace
I struggle to write sometimes of that which I know best. Instead I wish to write of dreams, of imaginary scenes, of the tapestries that run through my head in lush depictions of those stories for which I long. And sometimes I actually succeed at hitting the mark and am able to depict the glories for which I wish I was now participating in most fully. But alas, often times my pen runs dry and the prose I affix in permanency seems to be most dull and really a waste of time – both mine and yours, sad to say. What does that mean then? Should I stick to the here and now and write the mundane, the hours that fill my day and the little funny things that pop up in my life that yes of course pop in rhythm with the experiences of you all? I suppose I could. And really I wonder why I don’t allow myself the freedom to wander about and explore the experience of writing which I know. Sometimes I do, do I not? The best writing is that which weaves in the common and familiar and acknowledges the everyday realities which we experience in such concrete ways. And so let me remember that. Yet still if I refuse to write that which burns within and decide to not let my pen linger on those dreams that rise to those mythical images that even now dance before my eyes, then I would be denying the truer realities that dwell beyond the veil. May it never be. May I never focus so much on the here and now that I forget the later and not yet – the truer possibilities that in fact are sure because the faith in which I now abide is not to be gainsaid. So instead let me dance upon the asphalt in this present reality as I look up to heaven opened and gasp, dreaming of the future reality that is mine and yes just possibly yours as well.
Lions and Cloudscapes
I am a bit too far behind on logging books so decided I really should get to work on that. Hope this doesn’t take too long, but no promises!!
28. Northanger Abbey by Jane Austen. I have now read the penultimate unread Austen that I will ever read. And that strikes me with sadness, but it would not do to let that impede me from reading these last two (this one and Mansfield) – for is it not terrible to think of me hoarding unread books indefinitely? And thus it happened this past month that I finally lifted this book off the shelf and turned to the first page and started a delightful journey. For in truth this book was a delight. Does it bear the marks of a first work? Which – upon further research – I discovered this was the first of her books that she completed, even though it wasn’t published until after her death. And yes, to answer my above. This book definitely is a bit less mature and full than her later works. It’s absurd in many ways and definitely the least “Austen” Austen I’ve ever read, but still I kind of love it? This book is humorous, ironic, playful in all the right ways. Her writing is quite arch and ridiculous and I love it. And even though the main character – one Catherine Morland – is quite silly and preposterous at times, I only need to remember that she is in actuality only seventeen for it to all make sense again. There is lots in this one to love and I shall certainly return to it for re-reads in future.
29. Evangelism in a Skeptical World by Sam Chan. A solid book helping me to understand that evangelism may – and should – look different in different cultural contexts, including generational ones. I’ve been thinking on this subject recently, especially after reading the biography of John Paton a few months back, and so this book came at the right time for me. Too often I feel it’s easy to think of “evangelism” or “sharing the gospel” as something that must be done in a certain way or following a certain method, and Chan does a great job of refuting that mindset. In truth, sharing the gospel is simply telling someone the truth of how God has made a way to have real relationship with Him and why this is something utterly existentially necessary to every person on this earth. In stating the previous sentence as I have, I have already made choices in how to present this truth and there are leanings and perspectives that I have unwittingly betrayed as I attempted to state the good news of God’s gospel in as simple a fashion as possible. Chan helps us understand some generational shifts that have taken place and how we (at least those of us in the West, for he speaks to predominately a Western audience here) have moved perhaps past the point where a strictly apologetical and fact-based approach resonates with the majority of people. I was intrigued reading about the shifts that have taken place and how Chan has in his own ministry noted that people respond to gospel presentations very differently now than even twenty years ago. Maybe we in the West now respond to more of a story-based approach than the old more structured gospel presentations (such as the Four Laws, bridge diagram, etc, etc). I am very much simplifying this book but what I’m saying here is what stuck with me. Chan attempts to go much deeper and to highlight and give examples for different methods of sharing God’s gospel with others that may be more effective. In all of this, the part of me that hates pragmatic Christianity and tactical discussions cringed a bit. Surely, it is not us who can change the hearts of man? May it never be thought. And Chan rightfully affirms that only God can truly change the hearts of men and women and draw them to Himself. But does God not use such mean instruments as ourselves? And give us wisdom to understand different ways of communicating and approaching others with the greatest story ever told? And so I appreciate this book as one that makes one think more on how we might be lights and witnesses in this modern age. Perhaps I do need to consider more carefully my friend groups and how I might live my life in such a way to more clearly and boldly proclaim Christ. Maybe I do need to think on how I present Christ to others and how the stories I tell can be used by God. Part of me winces a bit at how much Chan loves the story or example method in his talks and speeches. I don’t think I will ever love the leaning on such. Yet I do understand that there are times when stories and parables are brutally effective and useful. Did not Jesus tell stories? Did not Jesus give examples from real life to indicate spiritual truths? So might I too not get too defensive when I hear of preachers and pastors using stories to point to the truths of God. This has been a bit of a rambling review and I apologise for that. I will say this book was worthwhile and made me think a lot about evangelism and how I approach it. Very worthwhile read for that.
30. An Experiment in Criticism by C.S. Lewis. As anything written by Lewis, a very worthwhile read. I much enjoyed this little book (or really almost an essay) sharing Lewis’s thoughts on literary criticism and the desired result of reading a truly good book. As always with Lewis, he makes some firm statements that really cannot quite be backed up, yet I did chuckle as I felt very validated on my stances on re-reading (very very pro) and also enjoyed Lewis making quite clear that reading a work is not simply about the imparting of information for its own sake but that in actuality the reader when reading enters into an actual transformative experience – i.e., the reader cannot get the same effect simply by reading the summary of a work, but that a work is the sum of its parts – content, prose, structure all, and if one truly engages with it will reap a corresponding reward.
I feel as if my mind doesn’t quite work at the same level as Lewis’s (shocking I know), and so it’s challenging for me to truly grapple with this book as I feel it deserves. Yet if anything, I think it made me revisit and think on why I love the books I do. And it also made me desirous to continue to seek better books and to read the truly excellent. Lewis is a bit much sometimes when he attempts to classify the types of books and types of readers that fill the earth. Maybe a bit dogmatic yes and in this day and age, he can even strike one as strident. Yet also I think we could use a bit more of Lewis in this modern age. It is bracing to remember and be reminded of the fact of objective beauty and truth. Yes, almost transgressive no? What does that say about us? And Lewis does not deny the usefulness and delight of different types of works. He is anything but haughtily pretentious in his discussions of literature. He sees the value in works that critics would sneer at, and for that I love him.
31. The Small Rain by Madeleine L’Engle. I still love this one. It is passionate and dreamy in all the best ways. It is a tale of a girl who has yet to truly understand the world or herself. It is the tale of a girl who sees with the maturity of one beyond her years because she has already seen so much and been through so much yet you’re often reminded that she is really just a girl. Katherine Forrester is one of my favourite characters to revisit – as I’ve been reminded as I read this one – and though at times she seems almost alien in the way she hovers above the text, there are brutal moments when all crashes down to earth and Katherine is revealed as oh so human. For a first book, this is revelatory. If only I could write like L’Engle. There are some of her quirks that will be further utilized in later books, but there is also a freshness here. Yes, it’s an adult book and thus some heavy themes – do not read this if you want a light read! – yet this book does not delight in the darkness. There are some descriptive passages that made me almost want to weep for beauty. Yes yes, I know I’m biased because I love L’Engle’s writing so, yet I truly believe this is a wonderful book. This is a book that just works as a late-night read, good for being curled up on the couch with a candle burning as one’s mind slips into a state suspended between the waking world and the world of dreams.
Let’s Talk
Do you hear the whispering around the corner or is it just me? She asked softly and eagerly with her eyes she hinted more. I knew not how to respond for it was one of those questions that didn’t really need an answer as you knew it was just a lead-in to a grander theme. But really, she said, isn’t it something how we all go through life as if this was just the beginning, an opening to a play that’s far grander than we could hope to do justice to? Or is it just me? Even those who carpe their diems and proudly proclaim their yolos seem to in an undertone admit that even so there is a faint whiff of dissatisfaction and that the meaning of life is not quite fulfilled. I hesitate to say all is vanity but do you not think that just about sums it up? I lean back and take a sip of my cold drink and let the luscious bitterness roll across my tongue and ponder the truths of what she’s just said. Or are they truths? Or perhaps just grand philosophical statements of the unexplained phenomena that the firing neurons in our brains frantically seek to connect in the patterns that we love to caress once they are defined and neatly boxed? I think sometimes the latter yet she speaks with such fervent adoration for the mystery that she almost understands. I for one cannot understand her fire yet I cannot doubt there is a fire there. So that is the question. From where does that spark come? And is it an eternal predestined flame or is it just a random outshoot of the conflagration of the universe in all its infinite randomness that must in its ways produce a moment such as this? And she as she sips her drink peers back at me, understanding the moment demands a silence and a question as that demands a pondering. What shall I say? I do know that there is something beyond the veil but sometimes I wish someone would tear it down and tell me that all is done and dusted and that here you go – the truth of it all is plain to see. I startle as I realize I have said this aloud. So yes she said slowly, the beautiful real smile dawning upon her face. You do hear the whispering. And you are more fortunate than you know, for your wish? Granted. We cannot see with eyes now but still yet there were some that have. That veil has been torn down and that true answer granted. All in one it was done and now all eternity lies bare to see. No, I say, in sudden realization. You tricked me. And here I thought it was an innocent philosophical digression. Is there ever really such a thing she mused. If you play at seeking answers you do indeed run the real risk of facing truth. Simply taste and see. Look at the words that were written. I choked in fear. Dare I go on another step. If so I may be caught and unable to escape. Or perhaps it was already too late. Those words that were written. They were written in blood, were they not? Veritably, she replied. Blood and water and spirit. The historical accounts all agree. History I muttered. It would be my nemesis. I cannot resist a good story. Well she smiled once more. Let me tell you one.
Curtain Falls
Storms roll in on the tide of weekend dreams. Sufficiently pretentious opening line aside, I do marvel at the fury promised by the cloudbank that peers at me over the horizon. I wish I could stay a moment to linger and watch the trees around me welcome the storm as they all lift their hands and celebrate its arrival but alas my feet are not planted quite as deep and firm as their roots and so I must away and fleet to home sweet home where shelter awaits. Oh part of me wishes to throw my hands up wide as well and feel the first winds of the advance guard buffet my shirt with their hearty embrace. Even to feel the sheets of rain fall around me and drench me entirely with the bounty of the heavens would not be a bad thing, for the storm is a clean thing, mighty in its power and joyous in all the clamor that it creates. Lift up a new song this day, ye heavens and even now shout aloud ye earth! This storm that so many cower from as they peer at their small bright screens and tap in disbelief that happy hour plans should be so rudely inconvenienced – it laughs and shakes its fists in hearty disapprobation at your antics. But as for me? My soul strains to escape the gravity of this plane and rise to higher heavens to shout aloud with angels at the mystery that is merely hinted at by the chaos of this storm that all earthly intelligence – artificial and otherwise – fails to truly grasp. See how the stars peer down and marvel at the beauty of the approaching thunderheads. Alas but I cannot see them. I look up and sigh for I cannot see the stars any longer. The last dark clouds roll overhead and thunder whispers it is time. I spread my arms to the heavens. Take me away with you and let me witness the purity of your wrath! For a second I stagger. It is stronger than I expect and then I blink as in an instant I am wet to the skin and feel the water pouring off me. I open my eyes and gaze up into the heart of the storm. Lightning flashes in golden chorus and my heart beats the rhythm of the rain. Oh sing with me this night my dear comrades, sing this anthem of creation’s might! I hasten to sing though my voice is drowned out by the angels. I am grateful that I have a front row seat this evening to the grand old show. Thank you for this opportunity, my good sir. It is very good for us to be here.
Faded Jasmine
I compare my stanzas to that woman’s prose and instinctively feel the gap between
Us that stretches and towers over like a giant sunflower mocking me
Maybe yes it is true that her wells go deeper but that doesn’t assuage my sense of supreme
Inadequacy that simply weighs upon me as a hand upon my shoulder a finger
Scrawling that I am found wanting but perhaps that is ok if my emptiness is filled by the divine
Everlasting water even if she writes lines of such exquisite beauty and did when she was only eighteen so what good am I
Scribbling stories still to be told I suppose and so for now I’ll just turn the page and read another few sentences that play the ivoried keys ever so
Sweetly reminding me of the open door to home at which the candle
Flickers
Marvelous
And we come to it at last, a Sunday almost worthy of all the acclaim. I wish my pen had ink sufficient to write all that I wish to describe, my mind thoughts clarified sufficiently to impart them to the page here and now. Alas my pen is dull and my mind distracted and so I feel most ill fitted to the task to talk of that which most fills my heart. Is that not the way of it at times? Alas, alas. Yet still I must write. For my soul burns within me as I consider this day that is used as a fitting marker to celebrate the reason for which I live. Some call it Easter, some call it Resurrection Sunday, some have their own reasons for not celebrating it at all. For me, I simply delight that there is a day still commonly known as a day we look back to the point in time – real time, defined time – in which a man that was dead came to life. And this was not a cheap trick or temporary reprieve from that most ghastly enemy death, nay, this was a conquering triumph, a resurrection that was a turning of the tide, a proclamation that the grave no longer had any power, death no longer had any sting. For on a certain day on this very earth not that long ago as one reckons time, the man Jesus Christ rose from the dead with the power and authority that verily spoke to the fact that he was not simply a man, but God Himself, the very essence and fullness of God who had been made flesh and now walked upon this earth in a body the like the world had never seen – a resurrected body in all its glory – pointing to a hope that for those who call upon the name of Jesus will never fade nor fail. Indeed – we all who call ourselves Christians rejoice in the verity of the resurrection and delight in the hope that is ours – bought with the blood of Christ and set aside as a people to the very Lord of the universe, we too have a future that is free of death and pain, better than that, a life that will be lived forever with our Lord. Oh what glory, oh what joy! I cannot proper do justice to the song that fills my heart. All I can say now is glory hallelujah. Sometimes I cannot quite believe that God died for me. Sometimes I cannot quite believe that to accomplish this fact, my God hung bleeding on a tree. Yet I look back and sing of resurrection story and cannot deny the truth. My God loved me, my God chose me, my God set his hand upon me and declared me beloved son. What can my fickle heart say in response? Perhaps my pen isn’t quite dry, not yet. Perhaps my mind isn’t quite empty, not yet. Perhaps my song this eve is one granted to me by the God who made the stars who sing along in triumphant harmony. Perhaps – nay, for truth – I am one who can now rest secure in my God’s promised eternal security. It is a thing of beauty that my God hath wrought. I can but look upon it and cry out in praise, that my God has seen fit that justice and mercy might kiss each other at that cursed tree. Jesus Christ is my risen Lord – for now and all eternity.
Another Turn about the Room
A few book thoughts this grey Saturday.
26. Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf. A strange and beautiful delight of a book. Typically one reads a book and feels that one has a decent understanding of it and feels satisfied upon reaching its close. To the contrary with this one – I feel that five more rereads will not begin to plumb its depths. And I greatly look forward to reading it again. I could talk more about the many characters who are so richly presented and teased throughout – the titular Clarissa, Peter Walsh, the Warren Smiths, even all the smaller bits that still receive more lavish study and attention than the main characters in most other novels – the scene-stealing Sally Seton, the contradictory Mr. Dalloway, Elizabeth and Miss Kilman and others. I think that’s what I loved most about this book, the empathetic and deep look into the lives of those who in other cases would be passed over as mere superficial things. Of course the imagery and description is simply luscious. This book is veritably cinematic. But even so, much of the action is internal and in the minds of the characters we follow, so in a way – is this a story that can only be told properly in the form of a novel? Perhaps perhaps. I feel as if I need to read this again in a year or so and see how it strikes me then. The storyline following young Septimus and Rezia – powerful and affecting and the scene near its close still haunts my dreams. I think on how Septimus and Clarissa mirror each other in certain ways yet wonder on the thread that binds them. Also it’s fascinating seeing the comparison and contrast between Sally and Clarissa and the lives they once led and the lives they now lead. Are they so different now after all? Many more words I could write but I fear without insight. This book is not one that can be entirely captured or comprehended on first read.
27. Martyr! by Kaveh Akbar. This book is written masterfully yet I confess I struggled with it at times. The themes in this one are deep and rich and highlight the inability of the mundane and human to fulfill the eternal longings of the soul. For what are we on this earth? Why do our hearts cry? I wish I could write half as well as this author, whose prose is such that it quickly and incisively places one in the midst of a richly textured scene, all the particulars laid out that one can imagine you’re actually there, watching and hearing and getting swept up in the drama of this young man Cyrus Shams. The character work is strong and though I’m not always a fan of many POVs, the author here handles it marvelously, even with the dream sequences that while a bit self-indulgent, are a delight to read and aid well in developing and revealing the character of our protagonist. I do feel though that the scenes where Cyrus is center were my favourite and I was always excited to get another glimpse through his eyes. This book is a weird one yet wonderful – showing us a man who feels a bit lost and searching for meaning, trying to understand how an Iranian-American can feel at all at home in the Midwest, USA. Does he have a home? Or will he forever be an outcast, a wandering pilgrim in a land that knows him not? I will always resonate with a book and protagonist that has poetry and art – I do love a book where I feel a bit akin to one who feels so fulfilled in writing and where the struggles of such are laid bare. There is a great line about the best part of writing being what comes after it has been accomplished and the satisfaction and feeling of completion it brings. I wish I could whole-heartedly recommend, but as those who know me would not be surprised at, I did cringe and wince at times at the profane and graphic content in this book. Not a fan, though yes it is a part of reality of life. Still, I struggled with it and thus would not recommend this book to all. Yet! There is beauty in this book at times. A bit dreamy and searching and I appreciate reading the heart cries of one who knows this world is not enough.
Oh how Wonderful
On this day I sit and think and ponder on all the fingers that point at me and signal with their urgency – it is you! And thus do I walk forward now on this path and as the relaxed posture of the flowers show, it is hot outside and so it is not surprising that a drop or two of sweat slowly slides down my brow. To return to the theme, perhaps I am a bit too self centered in my musings so I consider that all I see is concerned with me when in reality I know that this cannot be. For true, if I were the center of this world’s play then would not I perhaps inhabit a more prominent role? Or am I just doomed to be the bit character, the one with a single line in the third act that perhaps isn’t even heard over the shrill whistling of the birds perched overhead on the balcony. Perhaps so. Yet if I have a line and if this line must be said, should I not practice the all important art of elocution to ensure that at least there is a chance the few words I have fall gracefully upon the ears of those still perked towards the stage? That is my attitude and hopefully it is not arrogant to assume such, especially if I have manfully resigned the expectation that the central part is mine. In fact it never was. Grateful for that I am for it means I can rest in the shadow of another.
In fact all my hope for a better life lies not in what I can do for myself for all my own strivings show is – in proven fact – how inept I am at bettering myself in the attributes that have that certain something – oh you know what I mean – that aspect of the infinite, that piercing rhythm of eternity. So my ineptitude points to the fact that I cannot in and of myself contribute anything of lasting value to the novel whose pages so rapidly are flicking flicking towards its close. But why yet does my finite sluggish mind grasp so much for the beauty that it cannot in itself define? If I cannot so define, how do I know that there is such a possibility? This concept has stubbornly embedded itself in my mind and perhaps is an original feature of my soul, that idea that the infinite exists and that it is beautiful beyond compare. Where is this treasure, where is this pearl of great price? Perhaps oh if the infinite would bend down and say a word or two to give me that glimpse for which my soul longs. Oh for this word to come down and in itself give me such life that in comparison to it all else is merely grinning death. Oh for this word to stretch forth a hand and say that which my soul aches to hear. Where is this treasure, where this pearl of great price? Perhaps it truly is found in that song of grace and truth which I so casually dismissed so long ago. Perhaps it truly is found in that old worn story that says that man or god or perhaps both came to bring peace to earth. Where is this treasure, this pearl of great price? I shiver as I say aloud that name that rings redemption in divine majesty. I weep as I sit at the foot of the cross and ponder he who is called Jesus Christ.
Signpost
request one more time
kiss upon the brow
see how the stripe splits
the asphalt
blue blinks to green
foreordained
sprinkles of cinnamon
Something Weird 