A couple unrelated (but are they?) scribblings.
evergreen even in february
winter dreams
half forgot
and hopes of spring
bloom
along
with strawberry skies
look!
a chrysalis
when will it open
the clock ticks
ashes to
fluttering wings
and Jerusalem calls
the river for feasting
the leaves for healing
how long?
This morning I sit on my couch for a few minutes and feel oh so thankful for all the little blessings that continually attend me. It is easy to feel confident in my own accomplishments and gathered goods and say that I have done this, that I have sowed and reaped and gathered and all that I possess is because I have done this or that. But really? What do I have that has not been given to me? What do I possess that I can claim is mine and mine alone? Am I so bold and sovereign to claim that I alone am the master of all that I survey? This is where the introspective soul looks inward and can potentially quail in terror and think that if I have no sovereignty in my own life, what then do I have and of what worth am I? Am I a worm, am I an ephemeral note upon the breeze, a dusting of moss upon the rock facing seaside? And then I look outward and see that I nakedly cling to this rock of a planet that rotates swift and moves in ordered dance throughout the seemingly void space of universal tapestry of being and wonder at my pride that I should think I am of any worth whatsoever when I possess the most miniscule fraction of energetic ability to do anything whatsoever in the momentary life that I lay claim to as birthright. So to combine the two – the inward look at self and worth or lack thereof and the outward look into the immensity of the chaotic void – and what do we come up with but sheer existential terror. It is not entirely a bad thing to be reminded of one’s place in the cosmos, but one must also understand the totality of being and realize there has been revelation of truth if we would have the eyes to see. This revelation echoes in the masterpiece of the heavens and in the conscience that whispers within and even now we hear music on the wind as we stand on the cliff at the edge of the sea and breathe deep of the rich oxygen that has been bestowed upon us by a being too great to comprehend by my aching broken mind. Because yes, this is where I stop looking in and stop looking out and simply stand still and wait to see the face of God. All I have seen in this life is a testimony to the existence of a being beyond myself that has in itself all sovereignty and inherent glory that I cannot claim as mine. I rejoice in that self-evident truth and sigh in satisfaction knowing that I can rest in God. There is nothing I claim as mine own even though my own pride weeps at the thought. Instead I look to the one who made me and acknowledge His claims to all including me. What can I claim? I can claim an inheritance that comes from calling this God my Father – and that is a mystery too wonderful to truly grasp. For how does this come about – acknowledging the eternal being that is God – that I should be his son? It is simple and it is fact and I do not have time to get into all the specifics, but I can be called a son because there was another, one who stepped out of the corridors of the eternal and clothed himself with the raiment of humanity and in a time-bound moment bled real blood and died a real death that I might receive eternal life and be clothed myself with the garments of immortality and receive an inheritance far too rich to be hoped or dreamed of – a life forever in communion with this God who my soul so longs for. And so as the chaotic void was brought to order with the introduction of a word, so the whirling existential dread of my life is brought to peace with the incarnation of this Word, God became flesh – this Jesus Christ who is my forever song. Amen, hallelujah, may my joy never cease. And it never will, but only heighten – for someday soon, someday soon, I shall in my own perfected flesh with my own perfected eyes look upon the risen Christ and quiver at the eternity that before me lies.
the upright antique mirror dazzles
and gilded golden framework razzles
and i look into it and smile
look at that image it is beautiful
it is mine and i bow before
all it asks i shall do
and all its being i adore
for as i craft my vision statement i can only confess
that i shall do all that my image demands of me
for it is mine
see how beautiful this garden
grows underneath my feet
in the beneficence of my majesty
i laugh aloud with this image that laughs with me
for the foundation of my joy is that gilded mirror
which imprisons my very soul
in pride refusing to remember
that image bearer signifies
i am verily not my own
there is another
the branches bare wave in the breeze
early morning’s kiss in fog descends
and as i walk through the sleepy courtyard
all i can do is think of what came before
a momentary song, a crumpled piece of paper
a notebook half written in my pocket
what more can i do now than lift my voice
and pray
and seek in thought for that peace
sweet as honey on the bread that i had for breakfast
oh no matter that the air is damp with seaside humor
and that the tune from last week’s show
keeps dancing in my head
for i look to a higher hope than which i can rest my
hand upon
and in these pages now i write of all i’ve thought and said
aware that these represent but a leaf upon the wind
a sharp intake of breath as i consider eternity
and nothing more is mine now than that which was given me
so under this sun i sit in this waking courtyard
meditating as i think on the absence of that veil
and the lingering joy of that one epoch defining tree
One little book review squeezed in this balmy February afternoon.
12. the practice of the presence of God by Brother Lawrence. This book was most beneficial and good for my soul. I think it is a book I shall return to from time to time. It is a very tiny book (in both square footage and page count!) but I deliberately slowed my reading pace and stretched this out over a week and a half or so, reading a few pages each night. It is a book that some may scoff at or call simple and that others may gaze warily at suspecting it contains content that is overly mystical and potentially dangerous. I read this and took this book as what I think it was intended to be – a call to be more constantly in communion with our God as we recognize the reality of his presence and the wonder of his love for his children that he has called to himself. Oh how encouraging it is to meditate on the word and work of God! This book is a simple one, written in language that seems old-fashioned and (dare I say) childish at times. Yet the truth contained therein is that which angels marvel at. I’m grateful to read the words and convictions of one monk who spent most of his life seeking to be close to God at all times even in (especially in!) the mundane and everyday activities that at times sap us so. This book encouraged me and convicted me both. I ought spend more time in prayer and constant conversation with my God. I ought form habits that pull me towards such divine contemplation and an intimate realized knowledge that God is real and that He is with me. Do we really believe in God? Do we really believe he is one who is listening and longing to hear our prayers? If so, then why are we not doing more to cultivate and delight in the greatest relationship we will ever have – that of an adopted son and daughter of the living God with this very being himself. I’m grateful to this book for reminding me of such, and of being an aid to renew and spur my hunger and thirst for righteousness – this righteousness only fully realized in saving faith and relationship with Jesus Christ my Lord. Yes at times I read the words of this book and thought – of course it is easy for Brother Lawrence to do this, he’s in a monastery! Excuses excuses. May I more fully and deeply plunge into the deep and true river that is a glorious eternal knowledge and relationship with my God. This book points me towards thinking more of God and less of self, and for that I am grateful. May we ever delight in the most beautiful reality that there could be – eternal peace with God.
There is a verdant reckoning with the asphalted symphony
or so it seems as she reaches down to experience
in silent wonder
the new song that has unexpected sprung from
chaos –
and in a leap she echoes the refrain
trembling awfully
in symmetry balancing on
metal ties binding metal rails
now her hand strains for faint heard melody
stars upon stars in milky kaleidoscope
incomprehensible candles lit
a bridge to whisper underneath
her breath
a gasp a prayer as she underneath her window sits
tagging home at last in humble harmony
this grand yet simple reckoning with holy writ
in the chill of night rests a longing
and my soul cries out to one
who is
and then though the path is narrow
and the briars and thorns threaten
to tear my clothes and rip my skin
i fear not
and look ahead to those green pastures
and quiet waters by the fruited trees
the forever presence of my Lord
even now shimmers the same as i kneel
and consider what it is
to be wholly at rest in him
the white chariot rises into the heavens
in the mirror of my dreams
and now my heart hums a new song
as i ponder the deep thoughts
of eternity
and so while i wonder of why and whereof
is the mist through which now
i walk
it is alright
it is ok
for see the lighthouse beckon
see the signal raised
there is more beyond than
mind can fully reckon
there is a land
which shores
i strain to see
and for a moment
in the corner of my mortal eyes
i catch a glimpse
All the books all the books!!
10. Books in Black or Red by Edmund Lester Pearson. Ok so this book was not what I was expecting. It’s more of a hodgepodge of essays on bookish matters than a cohesive narrative and well…I am warned straight up in the author’s note of such. So really it is my own issue that I was a bit caught off guard with how random this book is. But there are some gems here, for sure! If you like books and/or reading and want to read about attitudes towards books in the early twentieth century, well then – you may like this! It is very random though, be warned. Some of the chapters are great, particularly the chapter on the Cary Girls and the Book Shop chapters. Other than that, I think this book is of value primarily for its historical value – we peek from a window into early 1920s America (specifically New York City) and smile as we see the author’s thoughts on dime novels, nonsense tales, literary personae and modern trends. We see sly asides here and there (Prohibition has begun!) and we get a flavor of this author’s very firmly cynical attitudes toward modern ideas of progress. I enjoyed this less than I thought I would, simply because there is much in this book that sailed over my head, as so many of the books and tales he references are…much less known now. Maybe this book hit harder back in the 1920s, I know not. Still though, grateful to have read this and contrary to all the eye-rolling the author would send my way for doing this, I’m likely to keep this book on my shelf purely because of its 1923 print date. Hey, at least I don’t organize my books by colour.
11. The Narrow Road Between Desires by Patrick Rothfuss. I just don’t know anymore, Mr. Rothfuss. I really was excited to read this one – it has been far too long since I’ve read any new material from your pen and I recently discovered this on the shelves of a bookstore in Paris. What! New Rothfuss?!? I must read. Clearly I have been out of the loop and didn’t realize this had dropped. Everything Rothfuss has written, I’ve loved. Slow Regard of Silent Things – purely fantastic and delightful and fully of whimsy and joy and melancholy all. I really must revisit it, now that I think so fondly of my memory of it. And of course the first two books of the Kingkiller Chronicle are superb. Not without flaws, no. But fantastic books in their own right and even if the third book never comes out, I’m ok with just those two on my shelf and I shall re-read every now and again. But…what is up with this Bast novella? Where is the magic, where is the joy? I found the prose strangely wooden and affected. It didn’t have the wonder and joy I remember from the previous works from Rothfuss’ pen. Maybe I have just changed? Maybe if I re-read Name of the Wind I’ll find myself similarly left cold? I think not, but now I shudder at the small possibility. But this book did not do it for me. Honestly as much as I complain about the lacking prose (compared to what I know Rothfuss can do), I think the real problem here is the protagonist. I don’t like Bast. I didn’t realize how much his character irked me until now, but this book did him no favours. I suppose Rothfuss intends to show the wild fae nature of Bast in all his sly glory, yet…honestly? Bast is a creeper. The majority of this book is him hanging around with small children and setting up a situation to spy on a young woman in her bath. Um ok, cool. And maybe this is just me being hyper sensitive and modern in my sensibilities but…I didn’t enjoy witnessing Bast in all his prancing, prying and creepy ways. Not sure if the author entirely realizes it or not. I feel a bit bad because I really do appreciate Rothfuss’ other works. And writing these harsh words feels a bit of a betrayal. But…something is off about this one. And reading his author’s note at the end didn’t help much. Instead of smiling at him providing a touchingly intimate tale about his children and his desire to write a “good” story for them, I just noticed the way he compared the themes in this one to the inferior themes in books such as Narnia, Lord of the Rings, etc. I’m sorry but…no? The truth and beauty in those books are so far above anything this novella could hope to dream of.
How precious it is to be a child of God. Sometimes I feel like I know it, sometimes the feeling flees so far away, that I wouldn’t be surprised if it was on the other side of the Atlantic. Most thankfully my status as a child of God does not depend on my feelings. If it did, I would be in trouble most deep and would spend all my time wailing for paradise that has been lost. But praise be to God – I am a child of God by His work and His alone! I could go on and on about this work – what poetic majesty swells within me as I think of the person of Jesus Christ who lived and died and rose again – historical reality that makes the earth tremble in its wake. Jesus is my Savior who draws me to Himself when all else seems to dim and turn to dross. I need not fear for what’s been lost in this world for all I can say is that I have been found. A sheep I am that’s carried home. A coin I am that’s held aloft in joy. A son I am that’s been offered a place at the table once again. Oh one day how I long to break bread and wine with my Savior Lord. And at this table as I look at my fellow brothers and sisters and commiserate of our common failures (Adam, David, Peter – we have things to discuss) but better yet speak with delight of our common salvation, I can only hold back a sob as I consider the fact that this someday moment is not so far as it might be thought. Soon sometimes seems so far removed from this present me. Yet the day when all shall be changed and I shall be changed and I shall gaze upon my Lord’s face in bliss and joy? This day is drawing nearer. How precious it is to meditate on Jesus.
Something Weird 