Tag: writing

Pumpkin Time

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Hello friends! Thought I’d write a quick few words this Friday evening. How wonderful it is to get a little bit to rest, I do say! I am also eager at the moment to test out this new laptop which I’m writing on. It’s been eleven years that my previous one lasted and while it is still limping along, I felt it was time to transition to the next generation. It is kind of nice to have a laptop that boots up in mere seconds instead of a minute or two! And the keyboard is glorious. Is it weird that I particularly picked out a laptop that would have a decent keyboard? And didn’t at all consider gaming capabilities? Ah well, I guess I have aged a few years since my last laptop purchase and thus it makes a bit of sense that my priorities would have changed. Now I’m more concerned about how it will feel to type long passages of text than on how capable my graphics card is. Things change. Of course, that change comes with the hopes that I shall at some point type long passages of text that actually have a slight bit of depth or beauty. Praying for such.

And now for what do I hope? I hope for a quiet night in which I am able to truly rest. Grateful for the few minutes I’ve had now reading a lovely and inspiring book – “The Imitation of Christ” and looking forward to a yummy dinner of burritos and avocado/tomato salad. Shall I write a few words now to christen this new laptop keyboard? I’m not sure my mind is settled enough to compose anything suitable. Perhaps I shall attempt nonetheless.

she turns back from the ledge
and smiles at me
reaching out her hand that I might
join her
and then I step forward and take her hand
our eyes meet
in solemn concord
and together we bow our heads and pray
under the sun that blesses
let’s walk forward as pilgrims
bear our crosses as our joy
for nothing else
will satisfy
Christ crucified is our cry
better than life as kings and queens
why do we wail for the want of jeweled crown
when we have one that went before
from whose crown-pierced brow that blood fell
mingled with those tears for us

Unseen

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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.

The Lighthouse at the Point

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A lovely little Sunday afternoon here. Dani and I will shortly be venturing forth and enjoying(?) the unseasonable warmth of this mid-October day. But let me not complain too much about the weather! We still much enjoy getting out and about and walking the trails and seeing all the others that had the same idea as us. I don’t know what it is, but I really am so fascinated by all the little stories I see as I people-watch. So many others having their own little moments in the grand epochs that are their lives. And now I’m just getting ridiculous so let me cease.

I haven’t written a proper journal post in ever so long – not promising one now either, don’t get your hopes up – but in the midst of doing some journal maintenance, was reading a bunch of my posts from back in 2007. Fascinating and wonderful both to read back into the mind of 19/20 year-old James and even reconnect with the emotions from those days as those memories flowed back into my mind. One must be careful to not dwell overmuch on the past, but is it still not a good thing to think back now and again and reflect back on what has been and who one was and consider the many wonders that has led one to the present? I say so. Of course, I am notorious for backwards looking so please keep me honest and gently remind me now and again to face forward and press on to what lies ahead.

And see, I’ve turned from talking about my life into getting a bit ridiculously meta and examining what it is to read one’s past writings. Joy! I can’t wait for the moment eighteen years from now when I come back and re-read this entry! That will be…something.

Forward! I now sit on the couch and enjoy the rest that is only proper on a Sunday, but I think it is soon time to enjoy some of my other favourite Sunday activities, namely…cooking, walking and reading/writing. Hopefully in that order. Burrito prep is needed if Dani and I will have a satisfactory dinner so I suppose I’ll get started that on that shortly. And then of course walk time. Maybe not a long one, but even a 2 mile (our standard of late) will feel glorious even in this dense humidity. And following? There will be some reading, the writing I’m not sure of. I do feel a bit of sadness that I’ve not written lately, but that is my own fault.

My heart does burn within me and soon soon I must write. I’m currently pondering where I want to focus my writing energies. While I do so love writing my little poems and stories and dialogues and metaphysical musings, where am I going with all this? I write what I hope to be beautiful, but is it perhaps possible for me to focus my fire a bit more than it has been of late? We shall see. I’m not certain I’m cut out for long-form fiction, but perhaps I will give it a go. These are my thoughts now, all prayers appreciated.

Now that I’ve written far too much about far too many diverse topics, I shall sign off. If anyone reads this, I hope it doesn’t put them off reading me entirely. I wish I could say I’m usually less scattered than this but well…you know. Peace and love, my friends. Peace and love.

Autumn Thoughts

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’tis a delight to sit and dwell and wonder on all the wondrous things that have gone before. Sometimes it is easy to fill one’s time with little errands here and there and hither and yon. Yet sometimes I find it better to take a breath and breathe in deep and dwell on what lies before me before it’s of sudden gone. I talk in rhyme when I cannot bear to give into mundanity and let all my thoughts run in prose. Yet can there not be beauty in plain speaking and in a turn of phrase that may not have a counterpoint but simply shyly stands alone? I think so. But sometimes I’m afraid of plain speaking or perhaps it’s just that I’m worried that my thoughts are vapid and reflecting on my lack of inner fire. I know it’s not true yet still my dreams groan. Perhaps I feel if one peels back the layers of my metaphors and the billowing tulle of all my words they’ll find a shocking lack of insight and that I just prattle on and on to fake my worth. Maybe it’s silly that even now I can be so self-protective and even paranoid in my lines. Or maybe not? Maybe I just fear that one will look down their nose at me and sneer and say look at this pretense and pomposity – it’s nothing more than wind and lies. Yet still I write and yet still my thoughts tumble over themselves like so many eager puppies at the county fair. Perhaps out of my desire to create nothing great will ever emerge. That would be tragic, one would think. Yet maybe not. For in this desire I have to create beauty in an ordered chaos of rhythm and word, does that not point to something greater than my heart can truly comprehend? I hope that still with my feeble offerings I may kneel and serve. I wonder. Is it silly that I’ve written so long now without actually saying much of note? I will allow it, this once. Just ignore all the times I’ve done it before. I feel that if I’m harsh and overly critical enough of myself, you all will have sympathy on me and with a hand on my shoulder say there, there. He’s been hard enough on himself, poor fellow, and he sees that he has naught of worth. No need to pile on. He is only a brute consciousness after all.

But a glimmer in my eye testifies otherwise. I lay planks of rotted wood across the stream aplenty, I know. Might I lay one or two noble branches, artless in their dress. Maybe an indrawn breath will testify I’ve succeeded. For me, fool that I am, I’m impressed. The fire burns within, low and true. I walk across this brook and breathe deep of fall’s sweet melodies. See how the early evening light falls upon the path now. I forget all else but the strong sweet song that fills this meadow. And I press on to that which lies before.

Mineshaft

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I wanted to dance down to the seashore and look at the moon lit path across the waves. Yet the sky was stormy and thus the moon was hid and so why bother I told myself. But sometimes it’s lovely to walk down the beach in the pouring rain. The tears from heaven testify to a greater love than one has ever known and if I cry no one needs to know. For truly in a day and age such as this sorrow seems to be written on every face and I cannot wait at a bus stop without hearing some sad tale. Is the testimony of the current moment different from all those moments that came before I wonder. Or is it just a fact that all the moments from the past have been piled up in just so a fashion and in a moment when a match has been lit and dropped the bonfire pours smoke towards heaven in living analogue for the ephemeral nature of our collective memory? I think this is close to the truth. And thus I read and write and spend far too much metaphorical ink attempting to memorialize the thoughts and dreams of a single specimen of individuality. For reading links me to the past and present cries of man in ways that pluck the heart strings of my soul and reminds me that my thoughts are not so solitary as I sometimes think. Yes I take pleasure at times in feeling unique in my mode of expressing how I feel. Reading the words of others shakes me up in a way that’s needed and show me that I am not that special after all. Well, I am special. But not at the expense of the beauty of my fellow brothers and sisters. Remember that, remember the sacred witness of my brother who walks past me on the sidewalk and that he too bears the imprint of the divine. Remember that, harken to the true nature of my sister who rings me up at the grocery store, that she too points up to heaven with the very fact of her existence on this plane. I write and I write and I write. Oh I can’t help but write as I feel I burn up when I am not and that these words that pour out of me may be silly posturing, mere leaves on the breeze, yet still they are mine and mine alone. Only one other holds my hand as I write, and his hand is a scarred one. The scars on his hand remind me of divine love. I tremble as I think that this reality we see now is only a shade of the true. Someday we will see in brighter colors and hear in more vivid tones. Someday we will sing in purer voices and as I think on this now I tremble imagining my someday home. I consider those who are my true family, not just those who bear the resemblance because we have a common creator, but those brothers and sisters true who confess the truth of life and death and our resurrected God and cling to that common hope that someday all shall be made new. Why do I sometimes break down in silent tears when I ponder what it is to cross the ford to the other side and read of those brothers and sisters who have done so before me crying in joy at what lies ahead. It is far better than anything here, as has been so often said. Not for the absence of the sorrow that is now ever present in this tainted world in which we live. That is a piece, but only a small one. Rather I look forward to a shared meal with the one who has never stopped holding my hand. One day some day soon I pray I will break bread and drink wine with the one who was broken and bled for the salvation of my soul. Imagine that! I will be with my Lord Jesus and he will hold me even as now he knows me and finally I can truly say I’m home. Some day. Until then, I’ll treasure these walks on the beach in the light of rising sun. When shall the day of consummation be? I do not know. Only one does. But for now I’ll write these words and seal them with a kiss. See how the clouds break. See how the gulls wheel across the sky.

Penelope For Your Thoughts

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I wish I was better at describing the created world. I love to imagine such things as rushing streams and whispering forests and sunlight streaming through the leaves of early autumn. Yet when my pen is lifted and I tilt my head and think about the words to use to describe the blushing sensations that cause a stillness in the air as one walks through the forest, my mind blanks. What are trees? What are rivers? How does one describe light if one has no frame of mind in which darkness plays a part? Why is my vocabulary so bankrupt that I cannot paint a picture with my words? This drives one to reading. I am stubborn, it becomes apparent. If my mind is not furnished with the proper words to pour out my thoughts, then I simply must fill it. Yet I’m afeared that my acquisition process is a bit akin to wandering through a Goodwill at times. Or maybe a comfy used bookshop is a better metaphor. I wander past many friendly paperbacks and fascinating tomes that I let my hand linger on. Yet how many of these do I pick up and take to the counter? Well, far too many, as it turns out. Yet still, I miss the bulk of what is on offer and seem to only enjoy the bookstore in the moment for the moment as my soul quiets in appreciation for the bountiful treasures all around. This metaphor has run to ground. But I think – or hope rather – you get the point that even as I attempt to feed my mind a proper diet that will enable it to pour forth streams of love-wrought beauty, it seems I am instead allowing myself to linger in the beauty of the moment as I dwell on the written word. I am not properly chewing and digesting – no, I am swallowing whole the sublime that I let my gaze gallop across. To continue with the crude, I am simply eating too fast. Of course my mind does not have the time and leisure to wander through the parlor and shake hands with the fascinating words one sees. Instead it’s a mad dash to the buffet table and a piling of the plate with all the goodies that one has learned to crave. Reading is a pleasure yes. But can it also be a discipline? This is what I seek to learn, even as I distinguish between reading that is merely entertainment and reading that is meditative and pointing ones to higher truths and sweeter climes. As I distinguish such, I do seek to alter the ratio of my consumption so that I do not consume such as would upset my stomach and cause me to get used to fouler fare. Instead, ought I not train myself to enjoy and relish the food that is grown by eternal light? I think so. I must be more deliberate about my reading, I do think. Thank you for letting me wander through my thoughts on this in this stream of consciousness pondering. It has been good to share such. Perhaps now as I shut this laptop and allow myself to pick up my book, I will slow down just a little. Perhaps I can allow myself to pick my way through the meadow appreciating the feel of the grass under my bare feet as I notice the wildflowers in my path and the butterflies fluttering past my face. Perhaps I will tilt my head appreciatively as I smell the scent of jasmine and note the changing light as the sun crosses beyond the tree line and heralds dusk to come. Perhaps I will allow my thoughts to think of heaven and of the eternal one. Perhaps I will allow myself to breathe deep and close my eyes as I stand under the darkening sky and muse on the city that rises in my dreams.

Before Midnight

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Quick book thoughts before going out and about this Friday night!

54. Two-Part Invention – The Story of a Marriage by Madeleine L’Engle. I greatly enjoyed this one. It’s a memoir of sorts and it’s by one of my favourite authors and so the odds were in its favour, I’ll admit. And sure enough, a winner! This nonfiction by L’Engle focuses on her marriage to Hugh Franklin, who I’ll confess I knew very little about going into this one! If you know me at all, you know that I’m already a huge fan of L’Engle’s writing and so of course reading this one felt just like snuggling into a warm blanket and drinking a hot cup of cocoa. That’s not to say this story is all sunshine and roses. There are some very dark and depressing parts of this book, to be sure. But L’Engle is frank and honest as she describes her feelings even in these dark moments. You get a very good idea of what she believes and the nature of her faith in Christ in this book, which I found greatly fascinating and encouraging. You also get many of her musings on marriage and life and death. Of course all of this is intertwined with the narrative that L’Engle unfurls so brilliantly. Her prose is as simple and beautiful as always and the core themes of this book sing true. Oh and also? As someone who loves reading about artsy and literary subjects, I delighted in reading about L’Engle’s growing up and living in a very culturally rich and diverse environment. I most certainly felt some twinges of jealousy at times. All that being said? This was a beautiful read and heartily recommended for anyone who wants to know a bit more about one of the best American authors of the 20th century. I look forward to re-reading at a later date, especially when I’m a bit further along in my own marriage!

Carnival Dreams

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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.

Visions

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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

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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.