Hello my friends! I sit here in a random coffeeshop this hour. Or actually not so random. Antidote, long time no see. I believe it’s been years since I’ve actually sat here with my laptop to write. It’s strange to be back again but also kind of homey and I have now realised I need to come here more often. Mayhaps you will fill this hole in my cosy coffeeshop craving heart that has not fully healed since the closing of EQ. We shall see. But for now? It’s kind of nice to feel comfortable and at ease in coffeeshop with partial grunge/industrial vibes. I’m weird I know, come out and say it. Anyways! What shall I write? It’s a luxury this afternoon, I have a bit of unhurried time in which I can simply sit here and write and/or read and I don’t have anywhere I have to be for a few hours. What is this wonderful gift that has been granted me!? So I sit here now with my hot decaf americano and sip slowly, grateful for a fully-charged laptop, a beautiful upright chair (why is back support so important these days – I suppose I am not in my 20s anymore…) and the beautiful buzz of background conversation that makes me feel as if I am in the midst of people living their lives and talking about drama and I feel most assuredly that as I type here and now I am not alone. Well, of course I know that and generally I do not give in to melancholia (please no one call me a liar, especially please don’t quote any of my poems), but sometimes the silence that comes with sitting in your own room can make one feel a bit claustrophobic and manic at times. You know? Is that just me? Hm. I have forgotten how alive I feel when I write at a coffeeshop. Of course all this typing now is just nonsense stream-of-consciousness perfectly geared to warm up my writing muscles and relax my mind in order that I might more sweetly seduce my muse into giving up some of her charms to me this lovely December afternoon. We shall see how successful I am and I am most certainly not promising anything profound. But do I enjoy writing just for the sake of it sometimes? A thousand times yes, even if nothing productive or beautiful results. So I make up the tenth person in this small coffeeshop (not counting barista – for some reason, no one ever does count the barista, hm) and as I sweep the small confines with my gaze, I feel my heart warm as I consider these wonderful men and women whom I share this space with this day. I wonder what their heart fills with as they sit here breathing the same air as I. I ponder what dreams rage within their hearts as their faces flush with anticipation for what their soul longs. For me, I am grateful that I can in peace and quiet write a few words. I feel my heart slow and my mind still as I prepare to enjoy this most beautiful afternoon. Peace and love, my friends.
Tag: writing
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.
Tiptoe
Hello friends! I sit here at EQ (I really should start calling it Caffvino someday soon, but it is hard to bring myself to. One day) and am enjoying just a little time to rest and perhaps write before I walk back home and begin some dinner prep. I am a bit saddened that although it is most certainly November – and late November at that! – somehow it is still fairly hot and humid and not at all reminiscent of autumn. Where is my crisp cold weather? Where is the blustery wind and the grey skies that make my heart sing and eyes brighten as I consider that winter is nigh? Alas it seems I shall have to wait a little longer. It does seem as if perhaps this next week – Thanksgiving week! – we may get some decent weather. I do hope.
Now that I’ve gotten the weather talk out of my system, what else shall I discuss? I feel as if I ought use this time to write about something of note but as often happens, when I have the time I now feel antsy and wonder if I ought go for a walk instead. The tragedy!! Well, I shall sit here a bit longer and decide if I can summon up the muse. (No of course not. That’s not how muses work)
So topic switch? I don’t think it would be amiss if I simply state how grateful I am to God for all He has done in my life. Too often do I let my thoughts and emotions run amok as I think on all the things that could or might go wrong (or even the things that have!) and let myself spiral into the depths of despair. Have you ever felt such? I think so for I feel it is a pretty universal experience but of course there are some who would say they have no idea what I’m talking about. Some may say it is useful to imagine things differently than they really are (or is this also a concept my gentle reader is unfamiliar with?) but rather than dwell in unreality and imagination (not that I am demeaning a healthy and vibrant imagination, by no means!), I would urge something different. Instead of spending our time in the hazy mists of the unreal to comfort ourselves as we sit in the midst of the grimy everyday, instead ought we consider what is truly Real?
And that is the trick, is it not? How might we encounter the truths of reality even in the midst of the fogs through which we grope? Can we even say there is such a thing as absolute truth? Or is all contingent upon one’s own space in this matrix of the universe? These are philosophical questions which I freely admit I do not quite have the mental acuity to fully comprehend. Yet at the end of the day I do and will say that I believe there are truths that exist that are real and might be known. I might even say that these truths have been revealed to us who have been granted the grace to lift our eyes and with new eyes see. Hence why I love to use my (mid-tier) writing skills to dance through the swirls of the imagination to connect with the concrete substance of the true. This spark of creativity burns, small but bright. I freely confess I fail far too often to write anything worthy. Oh how common it is that I scribble some words upon the page which are both sparse of beauty and bare of truth. Yet sometimes, I do sense a hand upon my shoulder and as I consider the stars above and the One who knows them all by name, I write with an inner fire that well speaks to the faith that I so cling to. It is naught of me and naught of anything I have done. Instead, if there is a pattern of the beautiful in this weaving I have done, it must speak to a deeper and richer reality than these eyes now see. I now close my eyes and dream.
Snowbound
A quick book review.
79. A Winter’s Love by Madeleine L’Engle. Well, certainly not my favourite L’Engle I’ve ever read. But not entirely terrible and slightly redeemed by the ending, as I was hoping would be the case. Spoilers for this one may follow, so read further at your peril if that kind of thing will bother you. So. This was a book I saw mentioned in one of L’Engle’s memoirs (she mentioned writing it during a certain period of her life) and I had never heard of it so decided to pick it up. An adult novel, it’s one that feels both very real and also a bit surreal and dreamy at the same time. Like the best of L’Engle’s fiction, she interweaves the spiritual and the real together in such dreamy spirals and writes about characters that feel so real you believe they simply must exist in some reality somewhere. There is a solidity in her writing and yet also a floaty dreamlike sense to the whole thing as she attempts to understand the emotions inside us that we so often don’t understand ourselves. This story is a story grasping at what makes a person breathe and love and step forward once again, and as always, L’Engle’s prose is beautiful to behold, a masterpiece in and of itself. But the story. Ah well, the story is one of my least favourite kinds of stories, the kind that I winced at once I realised what would take up the bulk of this book. It’s the story of a woman (one Emily Bowen) who has lived many years with her husband and young children (Virginia and Connie and the ghost of wee sweet Alice) but now in a fraught time for their family, her heart pulls her in another direction and she begins to yearn after an old family friend who seems so much more solid and real and desirable than her husband. Oh joy. This is a real story though. And as L’Engle weaves in and around the lives of the various characters – as I mentioned, all of them seem so real in their own rights! – we begin to understand a bit of this moment that we have been dropped into and find ourselves seeing how the puzzle pieces of these people fit together. Gertrude and Kaarlo and Abe and Sam and Mimi and Virginia and Connie and Emily and Courtney and all the side characters (even Beanie who somehow L’Engle manages to humanize and make me wonder if I can forgive and understand him) bring this tale to life and I am frankly still awash in the emotions this one stirred up. I was even a bit amused to find a flashback sequence in which Courtney rages against Kempis’ Imitation of Christ, a book I just finished reading a bare few weeks ago!! While I wasn’t the hugest fan of it, I found myself amused to see that I disagreed with Courtney (and likely L’Engle) in the thrust of this one, and wondered if it’s partly the framework and perspective from which I sit. L’Engle has a bit more of a humanistic and individualistic outlook at times and of course this would clash against the humble servitude which Kempis preaches. Anyways! Just one of those happy little coincidences. That all being said? I was very prepared to loathe this book in its entirety, depending how it ended. I suppose I should have had faith in L’Engle though. The book does not end with Emily running to her lover, as much as she makes many decisions that made me wince and shake my head, even to the end. No, in the end, Emily chooses to stay true to her vows and oaths and press forward in her marriage to Courtney and her life with her family. A sigh of relief.
There is much in this book I haven’t talked about and many characters who I’ve barely mentioned in all their richness. But I’m grateful for L’Engle using her exquisite skill to bring forth themes that frankly sing in their brilliance and truth.
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.
Sweeter than I Ever Knew
This afternoon is simply gorgeous. Previously I started to talk about life and then began to wax philosophical and then – as seems to happen of late but no complaints – my words turned to wonder and praise. Really I seem incapable of writing normal life updates these days!! But I shall write a few random words of no consequence now before I attempt to write something a bit more poetic. As said previously (go one entry down/back) I’m here on the porch at EQ enjoying a perfectly scrumptious November afternoon. It is a little cold – but not too much, as I’m just wearing a t-shirt! – and the breeze is blowing and the late afternoon light is gentle and friendly and there are many people enjoying their coffee or tea and conversations abound and I could choose to listen but I am not as I’m writing of course and then Dani sits studying soteriology with her half-finished croissant as I write about things much less weighty. I will soon turn my pen to writing about things of truth and beauty and even perhaps my thoughts of God.
A lot of my writing this past year or two (or three?!) has been fairly flighty, I know. And I would apologise but I shall not because it has been my heart and I don’t think there is anything written that I would pull back if I could. Perhaps my heart has been full to overflowing for various reasons and so of course my words have been spilling out in ways that are not always comprehensible to those who sit outside on the porch and are not quite privy to the conversations within the house. So yes, my updates have not been as newsy and perhaps have been too poetic or random to please the random reader. I shrug and sigh but I will not apologise. I am also trying to strengthen my writing muscles and continue to write both poetry and prose in the hopes that one day God would use such for a purpose more than just to fill the pages of this online space. I don’t quite know all that I wish to write and share but I do feel at times as if I have more to say. Perhaps my words will just gather dust. It is the most likely outcome of course. Yet still I write and write and if I can strengthen (or at least maintain) my skills, perhaps my God shall grant me opportunities to write something that has the air of the grand and beautiful. I pray such, if it not be too bold to ask. Of course not, for I am indeed a child of the King!
And now, I cease from writing though I cannot promise this is the last entry of the day. Now, me and Dani are off to walk a bit more to enjoy the fading light of this gorgeous November afternoon.
Steadfast
I stand tonight and look over the tossing sea. I wish I had more reason to feel as melancholy as I do. Alas my heart speaks to me in a language that I once knew but now can only speak in broken rhyme. I could attempt to analyse myself as a specimen, like a butterfly you see pinned to the page. But no, I’m more complex than that, surely? Or perhaps I am that simple and my eyes are simply blinded with the film that washes over them of sudden now as I recall my once grand dreams. I shiver and pull my jacket closer to myself as the first few drops of rain begin to fall. What is it that I wish for now? I hesitate to speak aloud what has been swirling in my heart. Instead, I breathe deep. I close my eyes and as I hear the ever changing symphony of the sea I run my thoughts over the promises that I cling to. Oh thank God that I do not put my hope in mine own fickle heart! If my own emotions were the basis of the confidence in which I wake and stride forth each morn, I would be a sad thing. I breathe deep again. It is good that my roots go deeper than the mountains that lie at the heart of the sea over which I look. Now out loud I do speak a few words, a litany, a pleading, a prayer to the God who sees. Look at the stars that peek through the clouds! Look at the moon light that plays over the singing sea! No less does my heart churn yet somehow now at a slower pace as I consider all that hath been wrought for me.
In Between Spaces
Life is so unyielding she sighs mournfully. I wish I had a response to that or that anything I said or did could give her comfort in this moment when she feels so sad. Yet there is nothing of substance I can offer so I give her all I have. I gently rub her shoulders and stay silent. The chirping of the birds off the path sounds louder in the absence of any spoken word and I am grateful for that. Slowly as the tears roll down her face and our breaths sync, my hands come to a rest and in silent communion we watch and wait. The clouds above us hold in silent witness and even the birdsong seems to sound in harmony with the sniffling that she makes. Sometimes there are no words sufficient to answer the pain within. At long last there is motion and the clouds move on, seeming to indicate that their watch is done. The evening sun glimmers over the tree line and I put my hand to my eyes to shield the light and I am for some reason surprised to find out that I too have the remnants of tears on my face. I feel under my hands the tension is gone. Something has broken, something that needed to break. I walk around the bench and sit beside her, wondering what comes now. As she leans her head upon my shoulder and lets loose a sigh that contains a thousand lines, I somehow feel better now. Nothing has changed but our posture. We must soon get up and walk down the path and face another day. My arm tightens around her as I feel her shiver in the evening’s cold. And she whispers in the twilight I am glad to be with you in this place.
Beyond the Point
At times it is tempting to slip into the same habits that you fit into so well yesterday and exclaim as you look in the mirror – it’s a new me! When it is of course true that in fact you are wearing something that is quite well used and perhaps even adorned with a new stain or two. Such it is when we get a bit too comfortable with patterns in our life that are not quite advantageous for the life that we so eagerly proclaim we wish for. But this is normal. Most of us have our blind spots and most of us have those hidden reefs that cause peril when we are not carefully navigating by those precious charts we should be more closely paying attention to. Is that not why we ought live with others who can see us as we are and point out those moments when we slip and stumble and laughing through our tears exclaim that we’re all right and say no perhaps not. Perhaps you’re not alright. And that’s alright. Or it’s not, but yet it is, for we walk not alone. Instead we walk through these valleys together looking to the west towards setting sun and though eagerly we look for the next way stop, we still sigh a bit knowing it’s not home.
And so if you have muddled through these mixed metaphors and deciphered anything of use therein, then I am grateful. But really I just want to speak plainly now and state how good it is that we need not live this life in solitary fashion. Of course it’s fashionable to proclaim oneself as self sufficient and capable and independent in all things. But alone we tend to wither and finally crack under the pressure of the burdens of this life. We need each other for we were not designed to live a life in which there was no communion with any other soul. We need a helper or a friend. We need someone with whom we can steadily share eye contact and it not be weird. We need someone to lift us up from life’s muddles when we veer a bit off track. And yet.
This need for a person beyond our own self existence points to a deeper truth that within us speaks to a void that cries out to be filled. What can fill this seemingly infinite hollow that nothing on this earth can fill? There goes that classic question which of course you know the answer to. If nothing on this earth can satisfy that longing in our soul it must mean we need look elsewhere beyond the setting sun. Even your closest companion or partner is not sufficient to satisfy that existential longing, is that not true? Eternity beckons. My heart aches with the knowledge that I was made for more than this finite life. All the history and poetry and philosophy I read testify in a thousand voices that in myself I’m missing something and there is nothing in the created order that can make me whole. Yet there is a voice calling, calling me to come. I know that voice. Do you hear it too?
Something Weird 