Too often do I wish to write with sparkling wit and put down on paper thoughts that will cause those to read to exclaim in glory. I wish to write with subtlety and with prose that dances up and down the page in elaborate harmonies. Yet what so often happens? My fingers and thoughts run away with themselves and though I start with such grand intention and with such a perfect framework cottage in my mind, I end staring at a castle of grotesquerie that proclaims in bold typeface that theme that I thought so delicate when I began. Alas can it be that I simply do not quite have the mind or tools to express those burning lines of poetry in my heart? Or perhaps – the worse option – is it that the thoughts and dreams I think so lovely are in fact reflections of a dullness within that yet remains no matter all my attempts to burnish in flame. Well perhaps it’s good for my humility that I am destined to be no great artist. It helps me to hold a candle up to my fellow humanity and whisper soft – yes, I am just like you in the end no matter what words I write down. I am too like you a mere clay pot. But still yet my eyes peer to the far horizon that I may gain a glimpse of that glory for which I long. And see. I’ve done it again. I might as well own up to my own folly and be resigned to being called a fool for that which I hope. Better that than a crown that’s destined to burn.
Tag: writing
Visions
It was a long time ago it seems that we walked this forest path. I breathed deep of pine and beech and of an impulse I take your hand. The air is quiet in the way you only get when you’re far off from any sounds of engines or whirring gears though now and again I hear a bird pipe up and say hello hello my friend I’m here! And the air is quiet but it’s also heavy with the air of anticipation that a long awaited moment brings. This of course is something I bring into the forest and so is not native to this land. I turn and look at you and note how still your face is as you simply soak in the moment of a quiet stroll through this fairy realm. It does indeed seem like one of the small woods-folk could be around the next bend and we could have a chat, if only we had the eyes to see of course. But do we? I don’t bring this thread to the surface and chase it down for fear of diverting us from this melody of life. Do you hear the music, my friend? Do you? With that breaking of the silence, you turn to me and smile. This wood is delightful you say, truly I can’t believe we’re here walking where once legends dwelt. And for this moment I’ve waited ever so long, to be here with you, while overhead towers the trees we love. Is it enough, this wood?
Not long ago was it that we sat on the edge of a cliffside and gently tended that fire of roses. We talk of this and that upon this cliff looking out over the seas that leap and shout. But in the stark grey beauty of the ocean there is a moment that I quiver. And I sing now oh be still my heart! From where comes the song that was promised for I wait to hear the long lost melody. You say softly that the song was written on that piece of parchment. And I reply that somehow I knew it was meant for me. I shiver as I think that soon my lips shall sing these words. We both lean closer to the cliffside and let our bodies rejoice in this sea spray. My eyes sparkle with anticipation as I turn to you and say – shall we sit upon the edge here and let our feet dangle and talk of all the tales that we’ve not yet told? You giggle and stir the fire casually and mutter low – I have so many things to tell you. I never want to let you go. As we breathe deep of fire and roses and the song leaps unbidden to our lips we look to each other as blue meets brown and wonder – how did it come to this? This fire, is it enough?
Soon will come the moment when we’re standing upon the beach and gazing off into the west. Do you see the pinks and purples and oranges of the sky and wonder what they all mean? Is there a deeper significance to this beauty or is it just some grand coincidence? I laugh and squeeze your hand a little tighter and you turn to me and radiantly smile. There is more to this than the world that was promised. For truly this world is not enough. I know I tell you, I know. But surely we can bring a little meaning into the world if we in our hearts summon deep the joy and pains we have written thus far. But are we the originators of this meaning or are we merely echoing a long told tale? Echoes and symmetry I sigh. I know, I know. Just as this sunset plucks a chord in our hearts and we tremble knowing that we are made for more. Do you hear the music now you ask me. I do I reply. Oh surely I do. But still something is missing. Or someone.
These rhymes that fill my mind have not stopped. My love do you remember that day we walked in that wood? I do of course. That was the day my heart began to quicken as I began to believe there was more to this world than our eyes could see. But do you remember that grey twilight upon which we sat at that fire and burned bouquets of roses as we told each other our hopes and dreams? I can only reply you know I do. That was the day I knew we were on a road that we could not leave. Then you know that we only wait one thing. Our lives have spiraled around the core of truth that can be no other than what is now before us as we see the sun set before our eyes. Where is the one that was promised? We have been given much but still where is the well-laden table, where is the bread and wine? We are missing the one that was promised, the one that takes away the sin of the world. But remember you say your eyes now beginning to glow with inner fire, that one is provided by the one for whom our soul longs. In fact, you say now in a hushed and reverent manner, that one is come into the world and provided himself for himself for us that might dwell with him in the most full and rich communion that could ever be imagined in this world. Imagine that. Behold the lamb.
I take up the vision and fiercely pen all these things my mind have seen. In the darkening of the night, I feel your hand tighten upon my shoulder as we gaze up at the falling stars. And as light flashes from east to west, I whisper to you do you remember what joy is ours as we look forward to taking cups and toasting at that table? Oh my heart quivers. These words now ring in my head as I prepare myself for the consummation of all that’s been written. We now stand in purple twilight and gaze up at the fires of angels as we prepare to dine in heaven. The echoes of that long ago forest walk come back to me and I whisper what I heard him say and my heart rejoices that he is now near at hand
I will drape my cloak over you
I will ever draw you with my hand
I will call you by the music of my voice
I will surely bring you to my promised land
You and I stand together under the banner of redeeming love. We have no qualms about what is written for now united in sweet union are the songs of faith and hope as they look upon what descends from above. I should not say what, but who. And you know of whom I speak. His name is upon my lips as we hold hands tight and prepare for eternity where the songs will never stop and there will be no more echo for the source shall be before us in perfection of beauty and glory – that one robed in infinity and yet marked still by the suffering that he bore for those he descended to save, that in the fullness of his divinity and might still he stoops down that we might know his name. And now we tremble as we stand before him in a way and place I cannot describe for my thoughts flee far above and far beyond and before him we stand and I see his face.
Discovery
She tripped down the path deeper into the leafy gorge. Where did it go she didn’t know but wasn’t that half the fun? The sunflowers soared high above her head here at the top of the path but as she descended she noticed the light wasn’t able to make its way quite as easily to the rocky path. Still though there was enough light to see by, a kind of golden green light that is only present in places such as this where sunlight is filtered down by the kind beneficence of the still green leaves of late summer. The girl looked up at the patches of blue above her head and smiled. She couldn’t feel the sun on her skin anymore and that was counted as a minor relief as these things go. The hike to this gorge had been a long one and through a vale where few trees stood. The midday sun had beat down upon her and though she had enough water for the journey, it had not been an easy walk in this sub-tropical clime. And so now in this little side excursion? She counted it a blessing to feel the delights of shade. But this path – where did it lead? Clearly it had been walked before though perhaps not for a fortnight or two. Little creepers stretched across the path in places and weeds were starting to grow high for true. Yet this path was placed here it seemed of purpose and the rocks were not natural to this place. Who had come here before her? And where were their past ghosts leading her to? A place of rest assuredly, but would it be more akin to a graveyard or a pleasant grove? She hoped the latter, though surely graveyards were not a bad place to wander through now and then. Still though she had a vision of a bower where perhaps someone had placed a thoughtful few rocks to perch. She had a book in her backpack she’d been saving for just such. But as she descended the path in its mild dancing fashion she noted now a new scent rose to her nose. Her skin tingled as she imagined a garden of wild roses, however improbably that seemed. But hark now what was that. There was a trickle of smoke before her, perhaps as from a cookfire. Had someone else come before her to claim the graces of this sacred place? How dared they? She had been oh so eager for a quiet place to walk and think and pray. And now around the bend her slowing steps brought her and there afore her she saw a face. The last she had expected to see though it was the face that burned glory in her dreams. What is this madness? That last rose to her lips and she blushed to hear her voice. Then her shame fled and along with it her fear and she felt the calm that came with being known. Oh dear child welcome. Sit down with me and let’s feast together as we talk of many things. The girl felt tears run down her cheeks but it was not for sadness that she wept. She walked forward to where the man sat by the fire and she looked in wonder all around. There was a bower true and a little stream and then of course the fire over which a fowl roasted. And a loaf of bread sliced and ready for toasting and even yes, a bottle of wine which seemed as if it was meant for sharing. She looked in awe again at the face of the one who had spoken and said my lord i came seeking but didn’t know i’d find you. And he said surely those who seek find and to those who ask will it be given. Sit at my feet and learn from me and lay down your burden and rest. And so it was in that gorge that day whereupon that girl learned what it meant to discover the pearl of great price. And so it was and so it ever shall be and so someday shall our joy be made full when we upon that same face gaze.
Dialogue Part Two
Consider my friend, consider the truths upon which my feet are planted. I smiled and said to her that’s a pretty bold opening line. And she tilted her head and looked into my eyes and said I know but it’s because I care for you. And not in a melodramatic sappy way or the way in which you might write poetry and ask me to be your valentine. I care for your eternal soul and so of course I’m going to be dramatic yet no less than true. I come to tell you about the truth in which I believe and have my whole life bound up with because I want you to know this same truth too. But ok I answered I know you’re a Christian and I understand that you have these beliefs in the God who you said saved your soul. But even so it’s just a religion for all that and though I’m glad for you what does this have to do with me? When I’m a person who is just as – or nearly – as good as you and I think deserve a good life too. See that’s the problem she whispered now, her eyes glittering in predestined passion. What do we deserve when all is said and done? What do we deserve when our lives go down with setting sun and smile turns to frown as our bodies morph to dust and ash and our souls cry aloud? Why don’t say hell or any such ridiculous fundamental scare tactic I rolled my eyes as I sounded this rather impressive rhetorical line upon her. You land before me upon the shore she says yes you preempt my lines. All I’m trying to say is that I believe in a God divine a God who made us and who when all is said and done owns us for it is for him for who our lives were devised. And how have we answered him at the end of all things? We spit in his face and say our lives are ours and we shall surely keep them. And he says of course and grants us our way and so we toss the chain more firmly over our own shoulders and we self satisfied proceed on as slaves ending up where we’ve said we most want to be. We end up alone and on our own and apart from God forever. For we have declared we want no part of our Maker. And we end up exactly where we deserve – parted from God forever. Is that what you want? Well maybe I reply a bit abashed at the fervor of her answer. But is this what Christianity is? A bully God bullying me to want to be with Him like some psycho girlfriend? Why would I want to be with a sadistic all powerful being that can’t even condescend to just understand where I’m coming from and treat with me on my level? Wow ok. She almost laughed but instead eyes wide replied. There’s some really profound questions there and I begin to think God is working in you even now drawing you closer to him. How do I answer? Well perhaps consider if there is a God – what do you know about him? Instead of assuming him a monster, what if you think of Him as the pinnacle of infinity and the bearer of attributes that proclaim him more perfect and beautiful than your mind can dare to grasp? And what if he knows that’s what’s best for you is to be in relationship with this God and to be his child? Perhaps he knows there is nothing better than to know and be known by God. And so of course he asks you to come. And perhaps consider that in his desire to call us all to him he knows that we cannot in our weakness and frailty consider the immensity of God and so instead he does condescend to us and does treat us on our level and in fact God steps down and makes himself as one of us to show his love? And in this love he asks that you simply come to him and acknowledge who he is and acknowledge who you are and in this knowledge of yourself and reaching knowledge of who he is you bow before his divine majesty and say i’m not enough. You are. For who is this one who condescends? You know who I’m about to say. Yes I know I answer finally, my cheeks flushed a bit as my world starts to shake between the still settling eternal aftershocks. You’re going to say Jesus. Are you not? And she nods and bites her lip and says yes. Jesus. He is the Son of God and God Himself and is the one who came to condescend and offer to you his hand. But first he hung on a cross and was pierced and bled and died and then yes as you’ve heard – he rose again! The Lord of glory walked this earth as man and did it so that you might know God true. And if you bow and kneel and say Lord forgive me, I’m a sinner and I believe in you then life life everlasting is yours and not life apart but life with God for true. Come my friend. Come to know the truth. For what is truth? Jesus Christ the Lord God made flesh the one who died for you.
Rhymes in Red
I walked up to the solitary tree and lifted my hand up high. Even with all my effort, my fingers came a little shy of the apple that I craved. Yet what did I answer back when my friend asked me if I was giving up? Not yet I shouted. Not yet! Instead I stretched my toes and wavered higher and bit my lip as I focused my eyes on the prize. Yet with all that I was barely closer. Perhaps two inches, perhaps a foot. I’m really not that good at judging distances I said. And there we come to my problem, my greedy eyes and my foolish pride and that auburn fruit that taunted me that I would not give up for all the world though its riches offered. So I leaped again and still yet I seemed no nearer. What is this madness I muttered to myself. And my friend she offered a hint less than helpful. Something like try harder although possibly in language more of poetry than prose. And I laughed and told her that she might have a go herself if she thought she’d do better. She walked over and gave me a quick hug and then glared at the apple with all the fierceness her brown eyes could muster. And what do you know but that the apple quailed before her and with barely a whisper of a breeze the bough dipped and bounced once and twice and the third time her hand closed upon it and pulled firmly. In astonishment I looked at the fruit within her hand. What devilry is this I whispered. Nothing to do with devils she smiled. More of angels I should say. But how? I tried and tried and tried. I gave it all my effort! And there you go she said her eyebrow quirking in that amused fashion she has. With this tree your effort will avail you not. Instead you must simply look and plead. And see? She lifted up the apple to her lips and took a bite. This fruit tastes good. It tastes old and new all at once as if it was the fruit all other fruit wishes it could be. It’s the original model and yet untainted. Taste and see.
Correspondence
Hello, dear one. I write this now from the back of the wardrobe, hoping somehow it gets to you. You may wonder at the strange paper and perhaps what pen produces ink such as this. Well those are the lesser of the questions you should be asking. Firstly – how did it come to this? Bare three days ago we parted under the oak trees ringing the far field. I left you with a promise and you left me with a kiss. Do you remember the golden light that afternoon as the sun slowly bent down to the earth? In the moment it felt momentous and it felt as if the sun knew it too. And so she curtsied to us two and bathed us with the golden light from her beaming face. And through the rays I looked and saw a rainbow forming in the corners of your eyes. For yes even with my words you could not bring yourself to lie to me that you were happy and I don’t care I said. It’s ok my love to cry. Now I walk under stranger trees and stranger skies and I wonder if we’ll ever meet again. I write this in the hopes that your eyes will brush these papers with the dark fire that blazes forth when your emotions are roused. Please my love forgive me for my tardiness. I’ll forgive you your doubts. For now for certain this has gone far beyond the little matter that we thought it was those three days ago. Or was it four? I can’t be certain anymore. Still please pray for me. I need it, oh I need it. I wish I could say I’ll be with you tomorrow and that we could picnic on the porch. I’d delight to share a few sandwiches with you and some cold iced tea and perhaps a few strawberries. Yet I can’t think on that too much. My focus is demanded here, even writing this taxes me as I let my thoughts drift to kinder climes. Pray for me my love. Always yours.
Monologue
Isn’t it glorious to let your words run away with themselves and craft a tale of which even you aren’t certain of the denouement? Far too often do I do this I confess to the surprise of no one whatsoever. Once in a while – even under that proverbial blue moon – I actually have a plan and execute or at least more or less. Yet that is rare and often it is only because I’m composing as I’m driving down the roadside and alas have no time to stop and pen my lines. Thus it turns out that I allow myself the severe mercy of crafting a through line in my head before all the little lovely turns of phrase and details get put down. Then I know where I’m going and there I know where I must end. But even that is fine for the best parts are those lines that crop up like Athena full formed and sing so sweetly that their harmonies are the only ones that get commented on by those who read. Ah for the graces to be bestowed more liberally that I might more often produce some such that even I dare marvel at from whence it came. Yet can I take credit – of certain not – for I know my origin and that I’m yet created so my so-called creation can only be attributed to the greater composer who writes all tunes. Still yet that means an earthen vessel can be gazed upon and recognized as something beautiful in and of itself even if the potter is not at that time credited. True? I wonder yes I wonder and am in humble awe that once in a great while my pen scribbles something almost great. I am not worthy no not worthy I to my God proclaim. For now I sit upon this couch and lean back against the pillow and with the fevered intensity that comes with blazing dreams of glory say – fall back and sit and sigh and rest and take in the little moments of beauty that once upon a time fall upon your eyes. Slow down and realize that these moments that point to greater glory are all around us yes even now look for the cracks in this world that point to eternity and cry for dreams of glory that beg us to consider from whence they come.
Anticipation Speaks
A warm Tuesday evening here. I have a few minutes, so supposed I would fill the time by writing a few words on my latest book! Fair warning – it wasn’t a book I loved so I think my thoughts shall be fairly brief. I think.
40. Hotel du Lac by Anita Brookner. Oddly enough, reading this book made me feel distinctly less enthused about vacationing in Switzerland, regardless of the fact that it’s set in a lakeside hotel that presumably people go to enjoy themselves. And yet. That’s part of the thrust of this book, no matter that you may be visiting a charming location – you still very much come with your own baggage, corporeal and non. And the jury is still out if this hotel and its lake and its surroundings are actually charming. The author does good work here of making this lakeside retreat moody, dreamy and even a bit musty at times. It is not meant to be a happy story about a vacation, especially when the main character – one Edith – is not exactly at this hotel of her own free will. There are factors. Of which – of course – we shall discover over the course of this one, so I shall not divulge all. I don’t think I actually liked this book because I didn’t exactly like the main character. I suppose that’s admirable of course, to be able to write a main character is both sympathetic and unlikeable, but can I say I enjoyed the experience? Even the quite competent writing and sweeps of descriptive prose did little to sway my thoughts. Instead, I found my time in this book a bit claustrophobic, even overwhelming at times. Which now gives me pause as I wonder if that is an intentional device on the part of the author or if I just felt a bit removed from the drama of it all. The character work is brilliant and by far the best part of this book is discovering all the backgrounds and little secrets of the other residents in the hotel. Fascinating stories could be written about each of the other characters – the Puseys! Monica (woman with the dog)! Mme de Bonneuil! Mr. Neville! (Wait, no. No one wants his story) and I admire the fact that the author made them all feel so real – almost more real than Edith at times. Again though…is that not intentional? I hesitate to talk too much of the main themes of this work as it is very much a look at questions regarding a woman’s place in the world and the expectations and societal pressures working upon her. While there are of certainty male characters in this book, firstly none of them are exactly stand-up. Secondly, this is not a book about men. Rather, it’s a book about women (well, English well-to-do women) and engaged in very much prodding at the fabric of society that has led them to this little hotel on the lake. My experiences lead me to hesitation to speak further. I shall at least say that I didn’t find this book a warm one, but I daresay it’s not intended to be.
Last Train from the Northern Isles
Flowers upon the table and a song upon the lips. What shall I say now when I see you looking at me? How did it come to this? Across the room our eyes slowly lock and in that meeting there is a communion deeper than words can tell. For sure there is a history there but also a future that is so richly signified by this moment in which we linger now. I wonder if you see the colours in the flowers and recognize in them the vibrancy that sings of life. I think you do for I still remember when you saw them the sparkles in your eyes. And so of course it happens that our words tangle a bit now and then as words are wont to do. Yet still at the end we pull the threads by opposite ends and tell each other exactly the signification of what we were meaning to. Do you see the candles flickering even now? I walk to the kitchen and stir the bolognese and add just a bit more salt. Almost ready I say to you and I lean around the corner and we share a smile. Here’s to the moments passing that tick on the clock that it cannot quite memorialize. So instead I sit here and write and hope to God that he holds us close even as we look to the western skies. At some points it’s true that our lights will waver and we will dance once more across the kitchen floor. When that happens please do me a favor and remind me of the truths that I so often write in prose. Here it comes and there it withers, so quick does the summertime grass grow. For once I hold my tongue and let the stanzas whirl through the violet twilight and in the moment still I hold my breath. This life I scorn as I look to the promise of what it means to be newborn and I shiver as I await my rest.
Ripples
A lovely evening to let my fingers play across the keys and imagine I hear the music. Perhaps faintly it is there, floating in the air on the other side of the pond. Do you hear it? I wish I could. Instead I sit here at the edge of the dock and wait for the first rays of moonlight. I suppose it wouldn’t be a bad thing to hear the voice of another, especially when now all I can hear are the recriminations playing on repeat. Maybe in a few minutes she’ll walk down and join me, even if it is a bit chilly this night. And we’ll talk about the things that stir the surface waters and she’ll give me a smile or two. And then if we feel like it the moment will grow wistful and I’ll gaze across the waters and then she will join and do the same. The times when we both in tandem look across the lake are the times when our minds tend to be most in sync and so then she (or I) will bring up the subject that is a bit further down yet no less potentially painful because of the depth at which it sits. It’s far too long since we’ve had a frank heart to heart, and maybe that’s the reason for the distances that now lingers between us in moments such as this. Oh come down my love and join me at the end of the dock. Let’s sit under moonlight and stars and share our deepest heartaches and linger in the intimacies in being truly known by the other. I will open up myself to you – will you not do the same? Listen to the piano and the sound the fingers make sweetly dancing hither and yon. I hear the music now and yes the footsteps nearing.
Something Weird 