Tag: on-writing

Path Meditations

James HoganLeave a comment

Why do all my songs of late so often mention that pilgrim path? I like to think of the forest green and beautiful and then that path that winds ever on and on through the thick of the trees and brush to end up on that far shore that calls my name. The path imagery is an old one and indeed one that has been used often throughout the past ages. One thinks of life as a journey from birth to the far unknown and there is no more natural metaphor than that of a path. So I suppose I could say that I am not being particularly original with my creative prose and poetry when I so often go back to that ancient well. Yet sometimes the tried and true is best. There is no confusion when I talk of the pilgrim on the path and the trials and travails that may beset him as he walks on. There is a nodding of the head and an echoing in the heart. We all have walked on paths through the forest before – or at least most of us have, I daresay – and we are all of necessity making our way through life as a pilgrim who comes from dust and will end as dust. So of course. One could use other metaphors of course, and I often have. I like to imagine one sailing on a ship towards that far horizon and that eternal shore. Of course, this is only another angle of the same pilgrimage. We are still going from one place to another, from one time to another. Only the setting and scenery change.

So at the end of the day, as I reflect on the fact that I perhaps use this imagery of a path too often to express the longings of my heart, I come to the realization that I don’t really mind this. I do not believe I am exposing my creative vacuousness. Instead, I believe I am expressing a simple faith. I know I have been created from nothing and though on this earth I may also appear to be progressing towards eventual nothingness, I have a hope that this is not entirely so. Instead, I look forward to the resurrection of the body, a resurrection that is prefigured by the resurrection of Jesus Christ himself, who even now stands in heaven above and advocates for me his little brother. I have a hope and faith that someday I will in my own body stand before my God and with my own eyes gaze upon his glory. This is my song, my salvation!

And so? Perhaps my writing may start with a path, but it is not a path in isolation. There is a destination and a place where the walking stops and perhaps a fire on the beach to welcome me to my eternal rest as I prepare to feast with my Lord God at that wedding supper. I do not walk without purpose. And I do not walk alone.

Upon the Brow

James HoganLeave a comment

Hello friends! A quick little post this evening before I dive into a bit of reading. I have just started a re-read of Name of the Wind and oh I had forgotten how much I love it. I am delighted anew as I read the words dance across the page. Yes this series may never be finished but I’m ok with that – the beauty in this book alone is enough. So yes, reading time awaits. It’s been raining much of the day and so it’s been that grey kind of day that lingers in the bones and makes one linger in the moment and ponder what’s come before. I am happy though and even pleased that I got to write a bit earlier (scroll down). Don’t take any of it overly seriously – all the writings were just little pieces of imagination attempting to let my creativity do something worthwhile for once. Not entirely sure I succeeded with any of them, alas. Especially the poems were something dreadful now that I look at them in the harsh light after the fever has worn off. I don’t know what’s going on, poetry used to be my bread and butter and now it seems a bit drab and off and doesn’t flow as well as it used to. My prose is where I live these days and I suppose I’m grateful for that. But I’m tempted to focus on poetry more now just to see if I can reclaim the flame and dash off some lines that make me smile even after the fact. We shall see, we shall see. Anyway, I’ve talked far too much about writing and not even sure why I decided to write this piece at all. But I will let it live, I suppose. Thoughts on the page are a reflection of lightning in the mind and I am grateful to have these odd writings to look at after a time. Whenever James-of-the-future re-reads this, he will maybe be puzzled at the existence of these lines yet I urge him to think that in this moment I feel at peace and oh so very alive. It is these quiet moments where the candle crackles and the music floats across the room and I look to see my wife smiling to herself that I cannot deny the magic of this life that I somehow have been graciously given. It is good for us to be here.

Dreams

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I wish I could dream in color like I hear all the cool kids do. Unfortunately I can’t even claim to remember my dreams apart from the odd occasion when I have the luxury of drifting back to sleep after waking earlier than my alarm clock, a very rare happenstance indeed since usually I am up and showered all before five am. So my dreams? They vanish into the fog of last night’s sleep as dreams are prone to do. And though I’m sure it would be amusing to know what my subconscious is working through and ponder what I have to look forward to, instead I force my eyes forward and dream for the moments later on when I may have time to write in black and white. These are the moments of bliss whereupon the thoughts in my brain are distilled onto the page or laptop screen and somehow present a snapshot of a moment as I in amusement let my eyes rest upon the words that prance free, born in a moment simply to be frozen forever in that museum gallery for a solitary pilgrim to enjoy as he may. I do wish at times my vocabulary was a bit broader and could better express the thoughts that burn within. Instead it seems as if the same old standbys get used again and again and I feel so shamed that I can’t write as some of the ancients used to. Even now I read a page from time to time that stirs my heart and I wonder what it is to wield such skill. Perhaps someday I shall write a line that is true. For now I simply write what is and let the words fall upon the page perhaps in disarray but you know what – there is a truth even there. I shall in humility fall to my knees knowing that I am not enough. Yet I look to the mirror and though it is broken and cracked, I still see a face that betrays hints of majesty for the one that has eyes to see. There are moments when I breath a quick prayer of thanksgiving that I even now live in communion with the God that knows my name. I still wish I dreamt in color. Yet this world though spinning wearily is not so bad when one considers the long road it’s trod. I do long for the wedding day. I do long for the day when all will be made new. I do so long for the day when the world in technicolor will sing for joy unbridled and for that day when I shall in glory look upon the face of the groom.

Alley Cat

James HoganLeave a comment

Hello friends! A little Sunday afternoon writing extravaganza – or perhaps more of a small digression on the ordinary – and I’m really not sure why I’m writing other than the fact that I do happen to have a bit of time and I felt it would be silly to waste it. Hence laptop open and all that. I really don’t have much to write about but from time to time it’s important to leap headfirst into the chasm without the benefit of any sort of extraction plan. It’s a bit freeing and even beneficial, I would argue, for strengthening the creative muscles that too often can lay dormant as one lazes about here and there. But now, in actuality, I am writing far too many words on nothing as a vacant look begins to grow in my eyes. I allow my imagination to wander afield but now I think I’ve lost her and wherever she is now, I suppose there isn’t any signal. It is a shame, really, when I think of all the wasted moments when I’m driving on the highway and my muse sparks to life. I construct a cathedral of perfect images and the moments that cause one’s heart to stutter in awe and disbelief. But that super structure is ethereal of necessity and given enough time – say, the ten minutes more it takes for me to complete my drive and pull into a parking space – the distractions of what some call real life creep stealthily in and before I know it, I see a puff of smoke upon the wind and pronounce in subdued tones the burial rites for that which may possibly be the greatest creation ever to grace the alleyways of my mind. Now though? I write about all and sundry in part just to drive away the growing dread that I have nothing of worth to say. At least I’m writing I tell myself. At least the words are pouring forth and if no one judges them to rank high in profundity at least no one accuses them of being bland. At least no one says this to my face. Behind my back, who knows. All the comments may be bandied back and forth and perhaps some harsh words on my output may trickle forth from time to time. Yet worse than that of course? The sheer apathy of most and the highest of likelihoods that in actuality no one says much of anything about my work at all. This is of course true and I write these words acknowledging the fact to steel my soul and grimly laugh and acknowledge that even what I love to write here and now does not really have a lasting place beyond the here and now. If I in self-deprecating humor poke at myself and acknowledge my lack of worth or art, does that mean I cry a little less inside? Perhaps. Is it worth it? Perhaps. Still my soul aches to know that I’ve written something beautiful, even if it just once or twice. I doubt I will live to see that day. But let not my bitterness cloud the moment, let not my weeping smear the panes. Instead, I’ll flick on the windshield wipers and allow myself to keep driving forward and I’ll focus on the taillights in front of me as I do my best to escape this pouring rain. Even in the mixed metaphors which clutter my writing it seems I can’t escape my own mediocrity. But to reference my above, is it still not better that I’ve written something? Look up above and see the sunlight breaking through. Do you happen to have a pen and spare piece of paper about you? I’d love to write a quick poem if you do.