The last party I attended, I lasted twenty minutes before I started reciting poetry at the top of my lungs. That was admittedly a low point but I argue that I was baited into such. Every time Rachel shares the memory, her inability to keep a straight face testifies to her guilt. That poetry incident is unrelated to the present tale, but I thought it would set the stage nicely for the relationship between Rachel and I. It’s complicated really. (Aren’t all relationships such, even the ones that are unburdened by any sorts of romantic feelings one for the other?) But like any enduring friendship, ours had its high points and low points. The high points include in their number such efforts as the great Christmas narrative retelling of 2023, the pizza party at the coffeeshop that somehow devolved into a long-winded argument on the merits of Augustinian theology, and the near daily reminders to write something beautiful. The low points? We’ll get there. For what’s a great story without a really, really, bold-italics-underline really, great low point? So to cut to the chase, things have changed. Of course. The drama.
Not that long ago, I promised Rachel that I’d never write again. Obviously I’ve done a great job at keeping that promise. But here my fingers go, darting across the keyboard and providing fodder for scores of psychotherapists in their attempts to disentangle my waking dreams. You may wonder why on earth I would ever make such a foolish promise, me to whom writing comes more easily than breathing (pardon the stale cliche), whyever would I decide it was a good idea to cap my pen and shut my laptop, that the time had come to hang up my cowl? Again, to refer to the low point discussion, we’re getting there.
But let’s reverse a bit. We must retreat to where I can tell you this tale in the peace and quiet and right now my thoughts are screaming at me. I’m honestly unsure whether this is a good idea, but I dare not stop now that the dam has been breached. I suppose we could make this a participation game. Maybe that would make this feel more of a real relationship, even though I am fully aware I am imprisoned in my own head and that these words exiting into cyberspace and manifesting themselves in front of your eyes and being interpreted by your own psychosocial persona will communicate a story to you quite a bit different from the looping tale that is taunting me in my dreams even now. So any relationship between me (narrator, possibly lunatic, author of sorts) and you (a reader or perhaps listener, someone who exists but other than that of unknown quality and character) will of necessity feel a bit forced and mercenary even. Still now, friend? Can I call you friend? Would you like to hear a bit more about the friendship between Rachel and I that led to such a cataclysmic end? I promise you it is not a romantic tale (as much as the suspicion may rise) and I assure you that there’s nothing fantastical about what I’m about to spill. You could call this a theological journey of sorts, and if that word scares you, I will not attempt to urge you to stay with me. Stay or go, it’s all the same for me. I’ll keep writing. The question is – will you keep reading?
Tag: creative
Ceremonial
In that moment at the table he lifts his head and looks directly in her eyes. She blushes and stammers a response to his question and then waits with indrawn breath for his reply. He pauses. His head inclines to one side. And then he smiles. In that smile his eyes change from grey to green and she feels as if the earth has tilted and she doesn’t quite have as sure of a footing as she thought she did before this moment. And to cover for her confusion and her loss of place, she grabs for another piece of garlic bread and proceeds to stuff her face. The smile that has been slowing spreading now erupts into a hearty laugh. She likes hearing it and she at once decides to make it her life goal to provoke it as often as she can. As she is still chewing and pondering the newness of this life, she watches as he twirls some more pasta around his fork and join her in consecrating this moment that has made them anew. There are ceremonies and then there is ceremony, and this is most certainly the latter – a type of ritual that she isn’t sure will or should feature prominently in the tales they will later tell. Or maybe they will. For who else can tell their story and say that in the moment they knew their forever that they both couldn’t talk because they were eating spaghetti and garlic bread? And now Isabel laughs out loud and says, “My love – can I call you that now? I just wanted to say, this spaghetti sauce is divine. And the meatballs are better than the ones I had in New York.” And he takes a sip of wine and his rejoinder comes, “I hope so. For you’re stuck with my cooking forever now.” Her breath catches as she considers anew the promises they have made that night. It is startling to realize how the infinite can be compressed to such a small solitary point, a point of such concrete firmness that it is almost bewildering to realise that this communion is held together by a presence outside the two of them. In that reassuring thought she lifts her glass and calls for a toast. He agrees. And their words spiral up and around like smoke upon the November breeze and their words turn into a prayer. They are blessed and they know it well. He lifts out a hand and takes hers in his. And it is very good.
On the Porch
It is at times like this that I wish my pen wrote with richer ink. It is a sad thing that so often does my mind take flight and dream on the sublime in the moments when the cares of life swoop in and remind me of other more meaningful tasks on which I really ought spend my time. Of course yes, it would be lovely to write. But shouldn’t you start dinner prep? The carrots and potatoes will not chop themselves, oh no. And what is that you say? You have a poem running through your mind that you’d like to put down to page? Well, I hope you have a decent enough memory, for now it’s time to take the car to the shop and take care of that nagging issue you’ve neglected for far too long. Why is it that the time which then presents itself finally for a creative purpose is then taken up by conversations with loved ones? Of course they are far more important than the words you wish to enshrine in this moment for eternity. Aren’t they? One can acknowledge the truths of which I’ve said above, but still the heart weeps for the lost moments. But are they lost? The moments of life, of chopping vegetables on the cutting board, of driving a creaking vehicle through the quiet autumnal beauty of the late afternoon, of laughing as your sister tells you of the absurdity of her day – are not all these the precious sands upon the shores that your feet walk day to day as you breathe deep this salt air and look to the brilliant blue of heaven? I would argue that to hunker down and bunker oneself in that longed for cottage on the English coast in order to write your magnum opus would in fact be a cutting off of self and denying those little moments that thrill the soul even if in the moment they seem just the same old same old ordinary ticks on the calendar that seems to never get any less full. A foundation has been laid and now the bricks are being laid on quietly but surely. These bricks are laid with care and each one lovingly put in its proper place. Without such bricks, what is the setting but a cold marble portico upon which a banquet of plastic dreams is cunningly set forth? No I shall not abandon this simple life. I will keep on laying brick after humble brick.
Still yet. Can we not find rich beauty in these small mundane moments? I would argue so, even now as I wait for my love to walk back through this door and cheer me with her voice this quiet November night.
Grafted
I walk down the lamplit path and wonder what lies at its end. For all I know, the promises that I have clung to will in fact crumble to dust in the light that a closer perspective sheds. We shall see shall we not. But I refuse to give in to fear. I know that my boots are faded and starting to fall apart now. I know that my hair is a bit more faded and sparser than when this path my feet began to walk. Yet there is still a wonder that burns in my heart and there is still a faint taste of cinnamon on my tongue that reminds me of when I sipped the wine back at the last waystation. I hold fast to these signs that point me back to what I have believed in and forward to what lies at journey’s end. I know that the hand that picked me out of the mire that I played in so many years ago is still yet upon me, though at times the pressure seems faint and the shadows play havoc with my sight. These are the times I hum to myself songs of promise and in the darkness those hallowed lines recite. For even now in the darkness I look to my feet and see a light. I am thankful that I do not need to trust in mine own wit or valor for the aid by which I hasten on. Instead I trust in another. And this other has proven to be a trusty companion time and time again. What more can I say now? I walk forward, step by slow step my feet fall heavily upon this cobbled path. My progress is measured more slowly now, yet when I read my old notebooks I’m reminded of how much my voice has become more true. It’s a wonder, divine miracle really. I lift my voice once more in song. And as I begin to sing my favourite, I hear the voices of others join in soon enough. Thank God I am not alone on this pilgrim way. Let’s hurry on now, my brothers and my sisters. Let’s continue to faithful be. See this path does not go on forever, though so often it seems as if that may be the case. There is an ending, a slow descent when the cobbles turn to sand and the path turns down to the river that runs so merrily. I cannot promise the crossing will be entirely pleasant. It is not always. Yet look and see! On the other side, see the mountain that rises in poignant counter-harmony. I do not see it yet with these eyes but I know it’s there from what I’ve read in these manuscripts that I hold so dear. I do so long to see it but not for the grandeur of its created frame. Rather I hope to see the one walking down its slopes to meet me, the one who found me when I was alone and crying, the one who grabbed my hand and pulled me up to walk this pilgrim way. This is what I long for, to hear his voice gently call me in the way shepherds call their sheep. I will answer as I answer every day now. My Lord my Jesus be near to me. And forever and always will I be.
Unseen
It was a grey day. Grey seas sang under grey skies as grey birds soared and swooped low over the quayside. The quayside and its surroundings were also rather grey, nary a pop of colour to be found in the piles of gear and containers that lay here and there. Even the people that scurried about in the casual confidence that comes with being where they belonged could be said to wear faces set in shades of grey. Now to describe a face as grey seems to call for a bit of radical interpretation, but I believe you know what I mean. We have all seen those faces set in the default mode whereupon we decide we won’t smile and ask how’s their day. So yes. To sum up, an air of general grey-ness seemed to dominate the landscape at the shore and it would not be a stretch to say that this grey-ness seemed to stretch further than the eye could see. Ever a soul has strayed near an area where in the process of quick transit through it is felt that the colour is being leached from it. Now one may quibble with such and feel that we are getting dangerously close to invalid metaphysical applications. I will not argue and simply move on and resume my narrative and let the words stated previously sink into your soul and perhaps when you are a little older you will understand.
So to resume? It was a grey day. And so as John approached the dock and lifted his eyes to the heavens, the sigh that issued forth was an echo of the sadness within as he sought in vain for a glimmer of hope. The grey-ness of the day did not entirely escape him but it also did not startle him, for he was similar enough in mood at the moment to feel as if it was only fitting for the day to shroud itself in mourning in sympathetic communion with his yearning soul. John did not entirely abandon hope. Rather, he abandoned the idea that the hope would be consummated at any near point. It was promised and he believed the promise. But how long until hope’s longing would be fulfilled? He put his hand in his jacket pocket and felt again the letter that contained the words he had already memorized. The weight of the paper in his hand felt good, a reminder that his sanity had not entirely fled. But had it begun to fray? He thought not, but sometimes he wondered. And the doubt gnawed at him. John’s eyes narrowed. Begone, ye foul thoughts. I believe.
And so John’s firm steps took him up to the longest and greatest dock, the one at which the great ships moored. He walked up the steps and then begun the long trek down. At the end of the dock he expected to find the answer. Or if not the answer, at least a reminder of that for which his life was pointed towards. The chill wind picked up as he stepped further away from shore and his mind wandered towards the events of earlier that morning. He would not think further of what had happened to Alex. He would not. Her tears tore at him.
Without realizing, John had navigated down the length of the great dock and was even now nearing the end. He went past the inspection offices and broke again into the open air. The wind plucked at his jacket and he pulled his collar closer. His eyes were wet for more than the shrieking of the wind. The gulls hovered close by, wondering if he had a snack for them. Alas, not today my friends. I have in my pocket crumbs of something more valuable than bread. And then John’s eyes picked out the bench at the end of the dock. Upon it was a girl in a scarf of red. She was there.
Cross-roads
My mug is almost dry of mocha deliciousness and my body is aching to go back up into the sunlight this gloriously bright Saturday! And yet I sit here and write, the reasons for which are murky in the recesses of my mind. But maybe it’s just been too long since I’ve properly written, or maybe it’s just because I have too many thoughts swirling around and they’re in need of release. Or maybe it’s just because I’m in a talkative mood? (Or whatever word would be more appropriate for the written word!) Perhaps my muse is just a bit over-caffeinated? Surely not. Anyways, almost half twelve here and that is quite late enough to spend here in the depths of Starbucks.
But briefly now(who am I kidding?), saw Dark Knight Rises last night with Alec and Chris and Jo…most intense. Epic. Heart-pounding(seriously, the music had my adrenaline pumping pretty much the whole movie). Did I love it? Hard to say, as it is a rather dark movie(like the previous two). But this movie ended in the light. And for that, I do think I can safely say I enjoyed it much. It contained echoes of terror, glimpses of hope. I think I can safely say it’s my favorite movie the year, thus far. Which isn’t saying much, since I think I’ve only seen three to four this year. But still.
And now that the previous paragraph(as disjointed as it was) is over, time to return to my fleet-footed thoughts. This past week at work has been both stressful and God-glorifying. Truly, if God is for me(as He most truly is!), what can mere man do to me?? This is the height of rhetorical questions. And while my future still seems but a haze to me, it is not the dim fog of fear, but merely the misty wind of the unknown. I cannot – shall not – ever doubt that my future is anything but good. Because I serve a good God. Because I serve a living God.
And truly, my thoughts wander far afield yet again. But it is good to write. My fingers have been idle too long.
A road that winds over the banks
of fog and fear and fires below,
seems to end in mists and sand and
trails off into deepest shadow.
But never doubt! Why do I cry
when I do not wander alone
or whisper unheard or even
sink deep into my bed unknown.
A road that lies over the mounts
of lies and hope and cruelest pain
shall surely not end in terror
but proceed upward, home again.
It is good to rest this gorgeous day. It is good for me to be here.
And now, up into the sunlight do I go. Have a most beautiful day, my most treasured friends!
A Lighthouse
Driving back from work today was quite awesome, I must admit. Brooding clouds stretched to the horizon in majesty, while the green rolling hills reached up to touch the sky. Gulls wheeled lazily across the face of the heavens, impervious to the smoky gaze of the city below. And as the worked-stone buildings of Aberdeen climbed high, the beauty of the upper reaches of the heavens towered yet higher. The grim grey clouds sneeringly masked the city, but no matter. Above, were sun and stars and glories ne’er ceasing.
And as my fingers trailed off and seemed to have written the above of their own accord, I think it is time for me to log off. After a long week at work and a tiring day, I cannot help but be thankful for the evening of rest that has been granted me! A dinner of leftover spaghetti and meatballs awaits. As do some lovely books, I believe. Peace, y’all.
Unbroken
A tilt of earth,
A veil of lace,
A song of mirth,
A dance of grace!
Upon the wild mountains,
Throughout the misty streams,
A midst the towers stalwart,
Living forgotten dreams.
Whither goes the songstress?
Whither goes the sage?
Who now wields true justice?
Who to end this age?
A flight of laughter,
A bout of tears,
A leap of logic,
Pray bless our years!
Living in the lowlands,
A midst the droughts we kneel,
Throughout the pits most fey,
Upon a dream most real.
Who to dance upon the altar?
Who to tend the fires above?
Who to linger in the glories?
Who to dance the songs of love?
Once more the anthem rings,
Once more shall herald sound,
Once more the light triumphant,
Truly, the lost is found!
King of Kings and Lord of Lords!
Almighty Father above!
Jesus, Saviour, Redeemer!
To Him all praise and all love!
Upon the mount unveiled,
Throughout love strewn stories,
A midst the mist of dreams,
Living now, true glories!
A rift of time,
A song of seas,
A lilting rhyme,
A kiss of peace!
Merrily, Verily
Was there ever a dream so rich, a thought so true? This was a question pondered often by the wanderer. Was there never a moment of pure wonderment so real that all the rain of woe had no strength to wash it away? This man heavily sat down upon his stool. His fire flickered wearily. His eyes echoed the dimming of its flames. His thoughts mirrored the ebbing of its passion. And now it was time. He glanced over at the knife on the table. It was sharp.
Traveler
And through the daffodil-sprinkled field did the man slowly trudge. Onward. Forward. His left foot matched what his right foot offered. His calves throbbed, but what was that? Progress towards the goal. At least the the grass was soft and the sky was blue. There could have been rain. Or worse, darkness. The days of sunlight seemed fewer and fewer in these latter times. But for now, the sun shone bright and breeze sang sweet. It was a good day for walking. And he lifted up his head.
Before him, the field stretched on, but not quite as far as it did before. It could be said that the field stretched smaller and colored brighter. Of course, the field did not change. But the man’s blue eyes perhaps saw with more clarity than before. He was older now, after all.
Past the field and beyond the horizon reached mountains. Not that the man could actually see them, but they were there. They were there. The map was very precise about the mountains. And quite ebullient on what they contained. Mountains were what he walked toward. Yet they were not what he longed for. And though his feet marched on diligently, his heart offered faint betrayal. He sighed. And slowly, oh so slowly, he stopped his walk.
He squinted. No mountains. But maybe, just maybe that smudge against the merry blue of the sky…no, no mountains. Slowly, oh so slowly, he started walking once more.
And as he walked and thought and prayed, he felt the sun warmth slowly fade. Sundown was upon the land. Although he did not like the dark, at least this was a natural dark. A night with stars and moon to dazzle was not so bad. And he slowly adjusted his gait into the saunter of dusk’s music. It was time to stop, he knew. Walking in the dark only led to trouble, yes.
And so he stopped and set down his pack upon the grass. No stream this night to rest by. No stone to lay his head. The grass was soft though. It would do. And sitting down upon the meadow, he lay back to count the stars. He thought he heard the faint sound of music on the evening wind. Could the star song reach so far? All things were possible. Maybe the ones from beyond the mountains sang his name. His name was known, after all.
Songs of hope and light of stars. Drifting into sleep would be easy tonight. He would reach the mountains someday. But now, he dreamed.
Something Weird 