Oh how I enjoy the eating of strawberries and the concept of picnics underneath gently spreading willow trees. And sometimes in past years I’ve entertained pieces of poetry in my own imagination as I’ve opened wide my heart to those friends whom I hold dear. These times in which the mind soars on the wings of a fresh spring day and feels unreasonably exuberant at the thought of stable intimacy in the frolic of conversation with another? These are the moments which I treasure and hold up to the lamplight in my mind’s eye. Do you remember this? That night in the parking lot when you held court with those dear ones and talked for hours on the subjects that so inflamed your heart? I do, oh I do. And that is why it is not ridiculous to seek to create such environments in which these moments of near divine coherence might bloom into glorious life. I cannot lay claim to such power or intellect that I can in and of myself cause such profound utterances, for that is beyond the power of mortals, even ones as fair as we claim to be. But perhaps I recognize the fact that eternity is not at all as nebulous as it would seem to those without eyes to see. Instead in faith I look with eyes new opened to a sight that is not in my mind’s capacity to fully grasp at least not yet. See the far off shore appearing now even through the fog? See the budding trees and the mountains rising high? So yes, dear friend, let us talk of matters eternal and seek to know the face of God. And as we fill our dreams with thoughts of glory, I ask if you’d join me for a picnic by the gentle flowing stream. I have chicken sandwiches and chips and pickles and yes you don’t have to ask, also strawberries.
Memory Falls
i sit down upon the precipice
lording over all my shattered dreams
for which i see now were simply pieces
of the road as it was meant to be
and see now say now why not now
would i write this song how
i heard it in my head that autumn night
so many years ago found
on the bench under the lamppost
as the snow came drifting down
for as the scars upon my back attest
my fear and shaking hands drove me harder
than the clinging to my innocence
and i cannot rest now even though
the wounds are not quite healed
but for example take a whiff of this
on my hands this rose i hold dear
and you’ll understand that even
in my darkest years
i clung to something greater
and still do so perhaps i can now sit
amidst the wildflowers
and watch the stream wind to and fro
perhaps i can now in subservience rest
upon this sacred mount where olives grow
Lifelines
A few (very few! I promise!) thoughts on books this Saturday afternoon.
18. To Challenge Chaos by Brian Stableford. I’m typically a big fan of Stableford’s weird and wild sci-fi books, but this was a bit of a miss for me. Probably the worst of his I’ve read. Yes it still has Stableford’s characteristic breadth of imagination and delightful prose, but the story itself was a bit too colour-by-number. Almost felt as if one was tossing Canterbury Tales, Hyperion and an Orphic legend into a pot and stirring to see what would result. And the result is muddy. Ah well.
19. The Ancient One by T.A. Barron. I may be the wrong audience for this. If I was 11 or 12, it’s very possible I would have loved this fantastical adventure. As it is, I was left a bit cold. After recently reading Richard Powers’ “Overstory”, I wanted to read another tree book and found this one recommended. It certainly does have strong tree-themes, but it’s a bit more YA than I was anticipating! Lots of Native lore and environmentalist themes which in and of themselves is not a bad thing, but the story itself felt a bit on the nose and also boring at times? I struggled to want to pick it up to read and forced myself to finish. I will say the last quarter or so did finally engage my attention! Not a bad book, but again – maybe it’s my fault for being the wrong age when reading this!
Sychar
the sun dazzles above my head and i lean down
to look at the only source of relief i have
in this lost and abandoned age
down below far below perhaps below
is the water that i seek
does it dazzle or is it only a mirage
perhaps one day i will be satisfied with less
though now i can never get enough
always thirsty for more and more and more
so i come here again and bend my back and strain
for that which i crave yet never
enough
for that which i need or so i say
perhaps there is nothing more
and there is no new and dawning day
yet the song i sing turns
to the refrain
as i go back to that well once again
why do i thirst?
All My Springs Are in You
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.
Something Weird 