One of my greatest joys is the early morning hour that rests quiet and still. I sit in silence yet my heart cries out in love for the peace that is mine in my Lord Jesus Christ. Oh how wonderful it is that I may use this time to meditate and reflect upon the words which lie before my eyes on the pages of a book that is far more beautiful to me than any other that I own. And even these words that I read slowly are such that are at the same time both balm and fire to my soul. I know not what lies before yet look with gratitude on what lies behind and rest in sure confidence that even my path before is firm and sure in the promises of Christ. And I rest still in the quiet of this morning hour.
Yearning
one seeks to walk upon the shoreside
and gaze upon the chaotic sea
and in the meantime
hear the waves rhyme
somehow peace whispers in harmony
and if you wish to know their secrets
you may need to travel oceans far
yet listen closely
don’t yet ghost me
for in these fogbanks rises a star
and i hug my arms to myself and sigh
thrill to ancient revelation
in dawning anticipation
stand in the sand
tide tickles my toes
The Process
What one does when one seeks to relax says a lot about a person. Or at least, that’s what I’m pondering now as I – in my own way – spend a few minutes sprawling on the couch attempting to put words to page. When one’s creative juices have gone dry and there are no more faded memories fit to be mined, what does one write about? Well that’s when it all goes meta and the wannabe author starts talking about the process of writing. Nothing more boring for the non-author, am I right? But for some of my fellow authors, well…maybe you’re interested in what I have to say? At this point probably not, because I’m just spinning my wheels in this endless intro and you may now suspect – and you’d be right – that I don’t actually have a plan for what I’m writing. And there’s a reason for that.
I most certainly cannot speak for all writers but guess what? I can speak for myself, and so I do. Writing is something that ends in somewhat the same destination. There are words on a page (or on a screen, or on a wall, or various other surfaces, who am I to judge) and these words are presumably an expression of the author’s mind. Yet the process of writing varies in an almost infinite kaleidoscope of ways. The routines and the tics, the little tricks an author does to trick himself into writing something that could be construed as creative are some of the most treasured tools in the author’s toolbox. And I cringe that I have finally used the dreaded toolbox metaphor. Oh may I never do such again.
And I have now wasted another paragraph spinning my wheels. Oh what is this nonsense! I could be smug and say there is a purpose to that and you know what? There is. But I must also be a bit humble and admit that the fact I have spent two paragraphs talking about nothing to illustrate my point is a fortuitous turn of events that I did not realize its ultimate end until now. And that point shall now be illustrated.
Simply this – and I am proud to think that I am alone in this technique but I am sure I am not and I wait for the other writers to hoarde around me and echo that I am not at all unique – I write of random thoughts and tidbits in my brain knowing the writing soul shall not awaken until I give it a good few kicks. Much as one primes a pump, I know that my best output won’t happen right away. Indeed, I can stare at the screen all I want but it is very rare that my best words bloom immediately. Instead, I write. Sometimes nonsense, such as now. Other times, I will visualize a random scene and simply write what comes to me, allowing my imagination to slowly wake and rub the sleep out of its eyes as it looks around and sees what there is to see. But this is the important thing. I write. It is the most basic and excellent writing advice there is and it is preached for a reason. It works. How does one write? You write. It matters not what one writes. Of course eventually one may seek for quality and depth of substance in one’s prose or poetry, but initially? Just write. I stretch my mind and as I write and let my fingers outpace my conscious mind, sometimes I am even stunned at what is eventually resting on the page, alive and vibrant with meaning and truth that I did not myself know was waiting to spring forth from my soul.
I crave to write things that are of beauty and truth. I often fail, it is true. But occasionally I succeed. And I cannot credit my own foreknowledge or depth of craft that I possess in such meagre quantity. Instead, I am grateful for what I have been blessed with, the ability to communicate somewhat of the miraculous, releasing spirit thoughts from my brain to the great beyond, words on a page. If I simply put fingers to keyboard and pound away, eventually some gold emerges from the dross. Not all the time. Not often even. But when from beyond the great sea come words that ring true in a way that leaves my soul in stunned silence at what has been wrought? I lift my eyes to heaven and say a prayer of thanks. For this is how I rest, by pounding out the fresh harvest of my thoughts so that the chaff may be released and perhaps pure silken wheat may be left behind to witness true. I don’t know what it says about me. But in this ultra modern era in which I inhabit, I write to rest. Writing slows my thoughts and reveals inner dreams that soothe and invigorate my very soul. I cannot promise any of these words are or will be of any use to anyone else. But writing them was of use to me. And why not now release them into the wild? These words are not of anymore use to me now – may they run off into the woods and bless who they will.
First Cup
she tiptoes down the stairs
trying hard to think only
of the warmth of
steaming coffee
not of the cold that lingers
in her bones
she sings a few bars
of the verses that even now
haunt her dreams
sweet ones to be sure
as that which sits on the downstairs table
a chocolate frosted doughnut
not quite fresh yet still not stale
sugar rush to the spirit
as one thinks of truths
beyond the veil
oh Winter where is thy sting?
17. Song of Spheres by Walker Larson. Well, this book was definitely interesting. It was a book that I was hoping to love – elements of science, space travel, philosophical questions all. Yet at the end of the day, I found it wanting. Several reasons and I’ll be brief because I don’t really want to spend all that much time writing about this one. Spoilers follow so please be warned if you care for that sort of thing. Firstly, the scientific concepts at the core of this one threw me for a bit of a loop and I’m not quite sure if the author believes in a geocentric model of the universe or not, but I’m left puzzled. I suppose from a conspiracy theory perspective, it’s fascinating to believe it might be true. But for a whole book centered on it? Oh wow. Oh dear. I will give this book some points since I now want to read some actual non-fiction books on astronomy and the earth since this book annoyed me with so much of its science. So yeah, if you want a thriller about a bunch of scientists proving that the sun revolves around the earth? This is your book. Secondly, the prose and craft in this book were…lacking. Thirdly, as much as the book hints and suggestively raises its eyebrow at philosophical questions and the place of man in the world, it never quite goes there. That frustrated me. Either go there or don’t. If you want a book discussing the meaning of life and and the place and purpose of mankind and the possibility of God…well, then, dive in!! This book dances around the edges and never quite commits. All that said? It did keep my attention! I read it in only 2 nights because I really did want to see how the author would wrap up this story. There are certainly thrilling moments! I slightly apologize for being so harsh here, especially as I’m sure this author is still learning his craft and I can certainly not confess I could write anything better. But poor storytelling and wonky science annoys me. What can I say?
That Which We Confess
Would that I were not currently sitting in front of an empty desk centered in an empty room bathed by the sweetly luxurious outpourings of the fluorescent lights mounted in the recesses far above. I could wish for another fate this late winter day I suppose, but perhaps it is not a bad thing to be in the stillness and in the quiet when so easily might I be in a shrieking cesspit of calamity and chaos. Is this harshly sanitized environment in which I sit not a respite from the nightmares that howl in the greater world outside? Perhaps it would be desirable to sit in this cheery sanitorium if only I believed that the world outside was truly as uncontrollably monstrous as some cannot help but preach. Instead I think that perhaps I do wish my feet were falling in rhythm upon an old stone path as I ponder the fresh air that piles in from the sea and brings the breezes that so often soothe my weary soul. I cast my mind away from this vacant island of pretense and script that vision of reality that so often sweetly haunts my dreams.
In this staging I walk in an old and hallowed courtyard, one lined by brick buildings laced with ivy and a few nodding northern elms who stand proudly in their nakedness. I have an important appointment to keep with a dear friend and though I don’t particularly want to keep her waiting, I do stop for a moment to admire the way the early morning sun filters through the grey clouds above to grace me with a small slice of beauty. I would love to spend a bit of time sitting against one of the trees and writing in my little notebook, yet I cannot spare the time today. Perhaps tomorrow. I put my feet back on the stone path and urge them back into some semblance of pace as I resume my walk. I feel almost as if I could be alone even as I know there are many souls in the buildings that surround me. Yet in the windows that I peer up at I see no signs of life. Only old oaken furniture and a few fluttering curtains in windows that have been left open. Perhaps my friend was leaning out of one of these same windows earlier to watch the sunrise. I know that she likes to do such, even if the sunrise does not promise to be momentous. Ah but there she is now. At the far end of the green I see her sitting on one of the wrought-iron benches that line the path. She waits for me yet makes the most of the time. I see her scribbling away in a notebook of her own. A poem or treatise on theology? Sometimes they are one and the same. Is not a true poem a very reflection on the reality of God? I like to think so. And that’s why people find poets so pretentious at times, for the fact that we seek to impart the deepest of meanings to the most mundane of words. But what are our words but grasping after the most profound realities that our souls ache to know in full? We know how feeble our words are. Yet still we write, in futility and dreams. Now my steps slow as I crunch through the frosty grass. She looks up and smiles.
Let’s talk about all the things and reflect on what our God has revealed to us this day. Let our hearts sing in harmony with the song of heaven. Let’s fill our minds with thoughts of beauty, for vanity unfilled will tends toward chaos and I’d rather not have that. Instead of vacant half-acceptance of the tossing waves of this raging world, let’s set our course by the star we know and firmly with resolve look towards the horizon where the far country grows. We see it now yet dimly. Yet in faith we see it true.
Looking across the Sea we Sigh
A few books this Monday evening.
15. Crossing to Safety by Wallace Stegner. A delight of a read. A book that I quickly found myself swept up in, even now struggling to disentangle myself from the lives of these characters I have found myself so fascinated by this past week. My first Stegner and it shall certainly not be the last. His prose is simply fantastic, efficient where it needs to be yet allowing itself to linger over the starkly beautiful in the appropriate moments. His character work is simply phenomenal, each main character breathing and living in such a way I find myself surprised to consider that these may not be real people. Yes, the supporting characters are all a bit plastic and one-note, but the main four? Sid, Charity, Larry and Sally…wow. Perhaps Sally doesn’t quite come across as full-formed, perhaps the halo that descends upon her head once she succumbs to the Great Trial of her life seems a bit much, yet…even that makes sense, as the protagonist cannot help but paint Sally with perhaps a kinder brush. And of course the couple of Sid & Charity – the center around which this novel turns. Perhaps I’m tempted to assign Charity as the true center of this novel which makes sense in light of the fascinating dive into the relationship of Sid and Charity and the roles they both play. Yet still, I see Sid and Charity as a couple and do they really make sense apart? I think not. The end of this novel may seem abrupt but I think only fitting. The characters in this novel are not always shown in the best of light and I think that appropriate for a novel which attempts to simply portray a life-long friendship between two couples for what it is – four very different people interacting in ways which do not always come easy. It may be easy to judge one or the other. But this novel is not about casting judgement or assigning blame. It is simply a curtain raised and actors upon a stage, only partially aware of the part they perform. And this novel is more than a character study, as much as I’ve focused on them. There are remarkable scenes of description of nature and stillness as well as the revelation of life in an age that now seems bygone. I cannot quite resonate with the world of academia yet I found myself fascinated by it nonetheless as I consider the might-have-beens. I love the look into post-Depression America and the characters it bred. And though I may never own a property on a delightfully secluded lake in the northeastern US, I will enjoy the pleasures of reading of such and imagine I too could spend a summer there. Ah but I go far afield. This book has many delightful set pieces, many scenes that I will have stuck in my head for a while, I’m afeared, so powerful is Stegner’s descriptive prose. I may never listen to Beethoven’s 9th in the same way again. I’m sure there are quibbles I could make with the book here and there, but honestly? This was a delight of a book. It’s an adult book yes. I can’t imagine it hitting the same chords if I read this when I was growing up. Even now, reading this as a married man hits in a way I don’t imagine it would if I was single. And I appreciate Stegner avoiding the overly-crude or profane. I find Stegner remarkably restrained in the episodes he chooses to portray and the focal points he draws attention to. In a way, I too wish I could spend my time writing poetry instead of slaving away at the work I do. In a way, I wish I had a scholarly job writing articles and books and spending prolonged periods in Italy. I long for deep conversations about true things with my closest friends long into the night. Thankfully that last is a bit more attainable. So for me, this book feels like a long-lost friend. As I end this book, I return to the characters. So many questions I have. So much treasure to be mined as I consider the themes of friendship and jealousy, vanity and ambition, love and hate – is it not remarkable how many of these strongest of emotions we can feel for those whom we feel ourselves closest to?
16. Rich Wounds by David Mathis. A gloriously refreshing book to read as we approach one of my favourite times of year – Passion Week and Resurrection Sunday. I did not deliberately choose this book at this time for that reason though. I simply wanted a book that was about Jesus, a book that helped me in my meditation of His person and works. And this book delivered! Made up of many short chapters (easily readable in small chunks of time!), this book was good for my soul. The whole book was profitable, but I found myself most moved and encouraged by the section on the Passion Week itself, each little chapter focusing on a small detail of the day at hand. Mathis does a remarkable job of mining truths from the text and I am grateful for his guiding torch that helps me in my desire to know Christ more fully and in this knowledge worship Him all the more. There are so many little asides and references in this book that made the book even richer to me, and I was most gratified to see the author close the text with a commentary on one of the great songs that never ceases to hit home – “Jesus I My Cross Have Taken”. Might we consider the words of that song as we continue through this life with our eyes lifted to our true hope. Someday, we shall be with Christ. Forever.
Testimony
in shape of warped and unchecked hunger
grows a shadow of terror
that i claim as mine
in fact i serve such
a proud proclamation
dare i boast
perhaps better i die
and in the realization of the situation
in which i now reside
i look to that which i long scorned
scarred for so many years
by those pricks and rapacious thorns
yet now i welcome the blood which drips
and consider that which flowed
from deeper scars
precious now this fountain divine
how long shall i suffer for my pride?
i can do no other
i look to Jesus Christ
Nickel Tour
i walk across the flagstones
briskly wind teases my scarf
between these hollowed columns
and in this stark grey morning
i grip my coffee tighter
to feel the warmth filter through
and to satisfy the growls
i take a hearty mouthful
of my hot breakfast sandwich
piled high with sausage, eggs
and cheese
Why do we Labor So?
remember what it feels like to be at the bottom of that well
dug so long ago by Isaac and his kin in times of chaos
and you will tell me that i can’t imagine it because surely
in my safe and easy life when ever have i wept
and i’ll tell you that it’s when i knew i was loved not hated
so what so what you ask
have you not labored to earn the love of God
yes but in folly did i so strive for in folly was my heart bound
until at last i saw the ladder descend and looked upward
and knew at last the truth which my mother had so often told
that i was loved not for what i had said or done
loved before i was outside the womb
what have i done what have i done
then i worked and strived
for forgetting my name and prizing my pride
i put forth my own hand to the staff again and again
with strength grasped that for which i bowed to self
and yet at end of day when windows dim
and i succumb to that which my father before me did
i remember the truth of the word which was spoken
i was loved in sovereign love
and to my nostrils sweet came the smell of mercy
yet i remember how i worked
even for the crooked paths i walked
that i made so much harder than they had to be
and i remember that i labored so
seven years for Leah
she whose love i learned to treasure
seven years for your mother
she in whose love i never wavered
and seven more years for good measure
and all these years vanished as dust
along with these frail bones which i lay bare now
in fear and trembling remembering when my frame
was strong and able and i clung to him who loved me
and in fear i cried out but he simply said my name
i am loved in sovereign love
how or why i cannot quite know yet someday
all shall know in a new covenant struck by divine blood
in gladness of great joy i sing
of a great mystery that is now mostly hidden
of the song that someday i shall sing with all my children
why should i be loved and my brother hated
i weep now for divine and sovereign love
given for nothing good that i have done
watching for the one to bend and drink from that brook
running sure and swift with living water
no more shall i dig and labor
no more shall i cling to this staff and strive
instead let me simply bow and sing again
my eyes watering to know my maker
Something Weird 