sometimes i wish my pen didn’t run out of ink
just when inspiration strikes
and i finally have something to say
alas more common my pen sloshes full
and in morbid fascination
i fill the pages with lines
no one cares to read
not even me
Tag: writing
Remember Fall
A few book reviews this Saturday afternoon.
33. Gentle and Lowly by Dane Ortlund. An encouraging and wonderful book meditating on the heart of Christ and the wonderful mercies of God towards those sinners who he calls into communion with himself. There are many thoughts I have on this one. In some ways, it is a very simple book, focusing on the unique bent of God’s heart towards compassion and mercy (particularly brought to light in the chapter on God’s natural work of mercy and his strange work of wrath). In other ways, this book is quite a difficult one to read and understand, precisely because it is a book seeking to dig deep into the nature of God and to comprehend his attributes and very heart. And God is God. And we are not God. And to fully and completely understand God is beyond us. Hence there are times when my mind fuzzed as I sought to grasp the realities of God the author was attempting to unveil. And there are times when I was slightly wary of some of the concepts laid forth, especially as I was worried that a focus on the “gentle and lowly” nature of Christ’s heart would undermine the divine simplicity of God. I still fear I am not quite intellectually equipped to grasp all that I read. Yet? This book was wonderful at pointing towards Scripture (and other authors) and what they reveal about the nature of God. I simply loved all the authors (predominately Puritans – and Jonathan Edwards!) quoted and I will confess that probably most of my favourite parts of this book was reading these quotes. The author did do a good job of pulling these quotes into a cohesive whole and bringing to my mind thoughts about God that aided in my understanding and worship of Him!
I will need to read this one again. It is one of those uniquely wonderful books that combines both devotional thought and deep theological study. The chapters are short enough that one can read one in a few minutes and spend time meditating on what has been read. Yet there is enough deep theology packed within that I never felt the author was being overly simplistic or trite. If anything, this book undid some of my expectations (that this was just a light fluffy book about the love of Christ) and I’m most grateful I read it. I still believe there are some theological implications that I haven’t fully understood and I worry there are some who could read this book and come away confused about the nature of God, yet is that not the danger in any book written of God? I appreciate this book as being one that encourages us to think more on the heart of God.
34. A Severed Wasp by Madeleine L’Engle. A book that left me feeling conflicted. L’Engle writes gorgeously and to read this book of hers is to be swept up into a story of numerous characters that feel, act and speak like real people. Yet there are also parts of this book that simply irked me and felt a bit artificial at times. I love L’Engle usually so it pains me that this book just didn’t work quite as well for me (and I seem to remember I liked it more when I first read it!). Possibly reading it right after A Small Rain was not a good idea, as now that first book seems unmistakably superior to this one. I do appreciate this but do not think I’d read it again if it were not a sequel to A Small Rain. That book felt fresh and artless whereas this one feels a bit…overdone. I will echo thoughts I remember having the first time, that it does feel a bit as if Katherine Forrester (a remarkable character!) is almost too above reproach in this one. This book almost feels hagiographic at times! Indeed, she becomes a confessor to practically every character in this book, which felt a bit odd, but I think was a deliberate choice by the author. This read, I also realized some of the flashback sequences that revealed Katherine’s life post Small Rain had parts in them that bothered me much more this time. Surely this is just L’Engle sharing realities of life and attempting to show the costs of suffering, yet still…there were choices made that made me sad. No more said of that now.
Anyways, it seems like I’m being entirely negative and I feel a bit sad for that. There were elements of this book that I loved. L’Engle as always is remarkably good at showing the small everyday parts of life that so many people gloss over. I love the friendship between Katherine and Emily and how Katherine does such a good job of caring for Emily in her pain. I did love the large cast of characters, even if there are some broadly drawn ones that do not perhaps survive closer look. And of course, I love the reflections and meditation on both music and religion, and what it means to worship God. I do not think I fully agree with all of L’Engle’s conclusions, but I did appreciate her attempting to explore her theology in a bit more depth. Also – there is a cynicism and world-weariness in this book that I perhaps did not catch the first time – maybe it is just what comes with being a more mature author, yet still I did not appreciate as much on this read. Is this a bad book? No, it’s not. But definitely one that is nearer the bottom of my personal ranking of L’Engle’s works.
All My Songs are Written in Darker Ink than They Used to Be
How wonderful it is this morning to ponder thoughts of beyond the veil. I confess that my hope is elsewhere and these storms near at hand are little more than temporary annoyances. My mind drifts. I am on the sea, the bark I am in bobbing on the seas that just now start to calm. Sails hoisted, we move towards the east and towards the lands for which our dreams crave. The sun is hot and water supplies little, yet we worry not, for we know the promises of that which is to come. My lips are cracked yet still I sing heaven’s songs. We believe that we are almost there and so we prepare our baggage and check one more time the scraps of leather engraved with our invitation. A cool breeze sweeps across the deck and we exult. Faster our ship glides across the sparkling waves. What is that which pokes its head up from the horizon? Is it just a mirage or is it land? Or perhaps a bit of both depending on who you ask. I see an island, a curved rim of sand protecting a bit of greenery and then a mount reaching up and higher into the sky. My heart shivers in a way I cannot quite describe and which the actual presence of this island cannot quite explain, at least not in any words I can write now. You would have to see it to understand. But see? It’s just over there. I am still on this boat upon this chaotic sea, but not for long now. I hear a voice calling. Peace be still. My hope is met with reality as I now see a figure upon the beach walking slow steps upon the sand. There must be a fire laid close to hand for smoke rises in a thin stream just beyond the curve of beach. The sea is too shallow now and I think I must jump off and swim the remainder of the way. One more leap of faith and then all I am shall be swept up in that for which my soul longs. I don’t mind getting wet. Just a bit and then I shall be home.
Keep up the Pace
I struggle to write sometimes of that which I know best. Instead I wish to write of dreams, of imaginary scenes, of the tapestries that run through my head in lush depictions of those stories for which I long. And sometimes I actually succeed at hitting the mark and am able to depict the glories for which I wish I was now participating in most fully. But alas, often times my pen runs dry and the prose I affix in permanency seems to be most dull and really a waste of time – both mine and yours, sad to say. What does that mean then? Should I stick to the here and now and write the mundane, the hours that fill my day and the little funny things that pop up in my life that yes of course pop in rhythm with the experiences of you all? I suppose I could. And really I wonder why I don’t allow myself the freedom to wander about and explore the experience of writing which I know. Sometimes I do, do I not? The best writing is that which weaves in the common and familiar and acknowledges the everyday realities which we experience in such concrete ways. And so let me remember that. Yet still if I refuse to write that which burns within and decide to not let my pen linger on those dreams that rise to those mythical images that even now dance before my eyes, then I would be denying the truer realities that dwell beyond the veil. May it never be. May I never focus so much on the here and now that I forget the later and not yet – the truer possibilities that in fact are sure because the faith in which I now abide is not to be gainsaid. So instead let me dance upon the asphalt in this present reality as I look up to heaven opened and gasp, dreaming of the future reality that is mine and yes just possibly yours as well.
Let’s Talk
Do you hear the whispering around the corner or is it just me? She asked softly and eagerly with her eyes she hinted more. I knew not how to respond for it was one of those questions that didn’t really need an answer as you knew it was just a lead-in to a grander theme. But really, she said, isn’t it something how we all go through life as if this was just the beginning, an opening to a play that’s far grander than we could hope to do justice to? Or is it just me? Even those who carpe their diems and proudly proclaim their yolos seem to in an undertone admit that even so there is a faint whiff of dissatisfaction and that the meaning of life is not quite fulfilled. I hesitate to say all is vanity but do you not think that just about sums it up? I lean back and take a sip of my cold drink and let the luscious bitterness roll across my tongue and ponder the truths of what she’s just said. Or are they truths? Or perhaps just grand philosophical statements of the unexplained phenomena that the firing neurons in our brains frantically seek to connect in the patterns that we love to caress once they are defined and neatly boxed? I think sometimes the latter yet she speaks with such fervent adoration for the mystery that she almost understands. I for one cannot understand her fire yet I cannot doubt there is a fire there. So that is the question. From where does that spark come? And is it an eternal predestined flame or is it just a random outshoot of the conflagration of the universe in all its infinite randomness that must in its ways produce a moment such as this? And she as she sips her drink peers back at me, understanding the moment demands a silence and a question as that demands a pondering. What shall I say? I do know that there is something beyond the veil but sometimes I wish someone would tear it down and tell me that all is done and dusted and that here you go – the truth of it all is plain to see. I startle as I realize I have said this aloud. So yes she said slowly, the beautiful real smile dawning upon her face. You do hear the whispering. And you are more fortunate than you know, for your wish? Granted. We cannot see with eyes now but still yet there were some that have. That veil has been torn down and that true answer granted. All in one it was done and now all eternity lies bare to see. No, I say, in sudden realization. You tricked me. And here I thought it was an innocent philosophical digression. Is there ever really such a thing she mused. If you play at seeking answers you do indeed run the real risk of facing truth. Simply taste and see. Look at the words that were written. I choked in fear. Dare I go on another step. If so I may be caught and unable to escape. Or perhaps it was already too late. Those words that were written. They were written in blood, were they not? Veritably, she replied. Blood and water and spirit. The historical accounts all agree. History I muttered. It would be my nemesis. I cannot resist a good story. Well she smiled once more. Let me tell you one.
Curtain Falls
Storms roll in on the tide of weekend dreams. Sufficiently pretentious opening line aside, I do marvel at the fury promised by the cloudbank that peers at me over the horizon. I wish I could stay a moment to linger and watch the trees around me welcome the storm as they all lift their hands and celebrate its arrival but alas my feet are not planted quite as deep and firm as their roots and so I must away and fleet to home sweet home where shelter awaits. Oh part of me wishes to throw my hands up wide as well and feel the first winds of the advance guard buffet my shirt with their hearty embrace. Even to feel the sheets of rain fall around me and drench me entirely with the bounty of the heavens would not be a bad thing, for the storm is a clean thing, mighty in its power and joyous in all the clamor that it creates. Lift up a new song this day, ye heavens and even now shout aloud ye earth! This storm that so many cower from as they peer at their small bright screens and tap in disbelief that happy hour plans should be so rudely inconvenienced – it laughs and shakes its fists in hearty disapprobation at your antics. But as for me? My soul strains to escape the gravity of this plane and rise to higher heavens to shout aloud with angels at the mystery that is merely hinted at by the chaos of this storm that all earthly intelligence – artificial and otherwise – fails to truly grasp. See how the stars peer down and marvel at the beauty of the approaching thunderheads. Alas but I cannot see them. I look up and sigh for I cannot see the stars any longer. The last dark clouds roll overhead and thunder whispers it is time. I spread my arms to the heavens. Take me away with you and let me witness the purity of your wrath! For a second I stagger. It is stronger than I expect and then I blink as in an instant I am wet to the skin and feel the water pouring off me. I open my eyes and gaze up into the heart of the storm. Lightning flashes in golden chorus and my heart beats the rhythm of the rain. Oh sing with me this night my dear comrades, sing this anthem of creation’s might! I hasten to sing though my voice is drowned out by the angels. I am grateful that I have a front row seat this evening to the grand old show. Thank you for this opportunity, my good sir. It is very good for us to be here.
Another Turn about the Room
A few book thoughts this grey Saturday.
26. Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf. A strange and beautiful delight of a book. Typically one reads a book and feels that one has a decent understanding of it and feels satisfied upon reaching its close. To the contrary with this one – I feel that five more rereads will not begin to plumb its depths. And I greatly look forward to reading it again. I could talk more about the many characters who are so richly presented and teased throughout – the titular Clarissa, Peter Walsh, the Warren Smiths, even all the smaller bits that still receive more lavish study and attention than the main characters in most other novels – the scene-stealing Sally Seton, the contradictory Mr. Dalloway, Elizabeth and Miss Kilman and others. I think that’s what I loved most about this book, the empathetic and deep look into the lives of those who in other cases would be passed over as mere superficial things. Of course the imagery and description is simply luscious. This book is veritably cinematic. But even so, much of the action is internal and in the minds of the characters we follow, so in a way – is this a story that can only be told properly in the form of a novel? Perhaps perhaps. I feel as if I need to read this again in a year or so and see how it strikes me then. The storyline following young Septimus and Rezia – powerful and affecting and the scene near its close still haunts my dreams. I think on how Septimus and Clarissa mirror each other in certain ways yet wonder on the thread that binds them. Also it’s fascinating seeing the comparison and contrast between Sally and Clarissa and the lives they once led and the lives they now lead. Are they so different now after all? Many more words I could write but I fear without insight. This book is not one that can be entirely captured or comprehended on first read.
27. Martyr! by Kaveh Akbar. This book is written masterfully yet I confess I struggled with it at times. The themes in this one are deep and rich and highlight the inability of the mundane and human to fulfill the eternal longings of the soul. For what are we on this earth? Why do our hearts cry? I wish I could write half as well as this author, whose prose is such that it quickly and incisively places one in the midst of a richly textured scene, all the particulars laid out that one can imagine you’re actually there, watching and hearing and getting swept up in the drama of this young man Cyrus Shams. The character work is strong and though I’m not always a fan of many POVs, the author here handles it marvelously, even with the dream sequences that while a bit self-indulgent, are a delight to read and aid well in developing and revealing the character of our protagonist. I do feel though that the scenes where Cyrus is center were my favourite and I was always excited to get another glimpse through his eyes. This book is a weird one yet wonderful – showing us a man who feels a bit lost and searching for meaning, trying to understand how an Iranian-American can feel at all at home in the Midwest, USA. Does he have a home? Or will he forever be an outcast, a wandering pilgrim in a land that knows him not? I will always resonate with a book and protagonist that has poetry and art – I do love a book where I feel a bit akin to one who feels so fulfilled in writing and where the struggles of such are laid bare. There is a great line about the best part of writing being what comes after it has been accomplished and the satisfaction and feeling of completion it brings. I wish I could whole-heartedly recommend, but as those who know me would not be surprised at, I did cringe and wince at times at the profane and graphic content in this book. Not a fan, though yes it is a part of reality of life. Still, I struggled with it and thus would not recommend this book to all. Yet! There is beauty in this book at times. A bit dreamy and searching and I appreciate reading the heart cries of one who knows this world is not enough.
Oh how Wonderful
On this day I sit and think and ponder on all the fingers that point at me and signal with their urgency – it is you! And thus do I walk forward now on this path and as the relaxed posture of the flowers show, it is hot outside and so it is not surprising that a drop or two of sweat slowly slides down my brow. To return to the theme, perhaps I am a bit too self centered in my musings so I consider that all I see is concerned with me when in reality I know that this cannot be. For true, if I were the center of this world’s play then would not I perhaps inhabit a more prominent role? Or am I just doomed to be the bit character, the one with a single line in the third act that perhaps isn’t even heard over the shrill whistling of the birds perched overhead on the balcony. Perhaps so. Yet if I have a line and if this line must be said, should I not practice the all important art of elocution to ensure that at least there is a chance the few words I have fall gracefully upon the ears of those still perked towards the stage? That is my attitude and hopefully it is not arrogant to assume such, especially if I have manfully resigned the expectation that the central part is mine. In fact it never was. Grateful for that I am for it means I can rest in the shadow of another.
In fact all my hope for a better life lies not in what I can do for myself for all my own strivings show is – in proven fact – how inept I am at bettering myself in the attributes that have that certain something – oh you know what I mean – that aspect of the infinite, that piercing rhythm of eternity. So my ineptitude points to the fact that I cannot in and of myself contribute anything of lasting value to the novel whose pages so rapidly are flicking flicking towards its close. But why yet does my finite sluggish mind grasp so much for the beauty that it cannot in itself define? If I cannot so define, how do I know that there is such a possibility? This concept has stubbornly embedded itself in my mind and perhaps is an original feature of my soul, that idea that the infinite exists and that it is beautiful beyond compare. Where is this treasure, where is this pearl of great price? Perhaps oh if the infinite would bend down and say a word or two to give me that glimpse for which my soul longs. Oh for this word to come down and in itself give me such life that in comparison to it all else is merely grinning death. Oh for this word to stretch forth a hand and say that which my soul aches to hear. Where is this treasure, where this pearl of great price? Perhaps it truly is found in that song of grace and truth which I so casually dismissed so long ago. Perhaps it truly is found in that old worn story that says that man or god or perhaps both came to bring peace to earth. Where is this treasure, this pearl of great price? I shiver as I say aloud that name that rings redemption in divine majesty. I weep as I sit at the foot of the cross and ponder he who is called Jesus Christ.
Understory
See back and forth swings this pendulum above this weary earth. I wish that I could write now of all the things I’ve dreamed yet for some reason – as seems common to most – my dreams are so hazy now that to write them would be fun for only one person – me. I see them still with my inner eye yet to put them to paper would just bore my readers. Is that not true? How often have you told your dream to friends and been oh so excited to share the mystical reality of your sleep state and yet their eyes glaze over for…well, for some reason dreams lose the power in the telling for the majority of their power is in the gauzy visuals which cannot easily be communicated in words. Most dreams, of course. Sometimes though, a dream is vivid enough and one’s command of language is enough to communicate in entirety the luscious richness of the realities of your mind as it trawls the depths of deep subconscious. This is rare though. I have never quite accomplished it, as much as I wish I could. Speaking of dreams. I oft wonder why it is that we so often dream the same dream again and again. Do we all have a dream unique to us yet somehow we are dense enough it must be repeated? Or is that just me? Or another question. Do you have a dream you remember from childhood, one that happened again and again and yet at some point it stopped and you now feel its absence and it makes you weep for nostalgic loss. Our minds are odd to be sure.
I remember a dream of long ago and though I can’t recall having it in oh so many years, its tracing is still fresh and I still feel the rhythm of its lilt in my mind. I am afraid to try and type the bones of this dream here for I fear it will dry up its verdant wonder, yet I will at least say a few words. This dream that haunted my childhood is one of beauty and motion, adventure and gratitude. Gratitude? Why do I use that word. It springs to my mind when I recall this dream, yet I do not know why. The dream itself is tinged in yellow. Yellow grass, the trees on the leaves tend towards yellow and even the air has a golden tint. The path that lies before me is of course made of dirt that seems less brown and more yellow. But though the predominant color of this dream is determined, the destination is not. In the dream my body is less a body and more a disembodied soul. I rush forward quickly and effortlessly, bouncing. There is such a feeling of bouncing and swaying and unstoppable forward momentum. Ever onward I go, along this path, seeing the yellowed grass bend and sway to my side as the trees laugh in my face as I cruise past. I cannot stop even if I wanted to. Onwards I go. I mentioned the leaves, I will mention again. They are yellow but not just a mass of yellow on the tree. Each leaf leaps forward distinctly, the veins bright brown atop the yellow backdrop. I see the leaves vividly even as I soar past. I suppose I don’t have legs, though if I do they must possess marvelous springs for I do bounce wonderfully. Ever on I go through this yellowed wood. There is perhaps a cabin ahead? At least that is the faint thought in my mind as I rush through this forest, but I do not see the cabin. I do hear the stream nearby and now and again catch a flash that must be the sun off the water. The sun’s light is yellow which I feel I must mention because it fits the theme, yet I cannot in honesty say I noticed the sun in this dream. I only look straight in front of me, all else is peripheral. Onward I go. Why is the light so yellow, why is the air so silent? It is a beautiful dream and though I cannot quite tell you why, I can in confidence say that. It is a beautiful dream.
I do not think I have quite captured the beauty of this dream, which hopefully my hints early on in this essay prepared you for. Alas. I suppose I have only my own lacking literary talent to blame. But I am also secretly happy – selfishly so, of course. This dream will forever be mine. It will not be shared and so diluted. The nostalgic spark that flares within me shall not die. I feel joy as I roll this dream around inside my head. But oh! How I wish I could share the beauty now. Beauty unshared tends to turn a little cold, does it not? I have changed my mind. I wish you could see what I see. I wish you could feel what I feel. I wish the truths that spring to my mind unbidden could also flame into life in your very soul. Maybe that is possible. Maybe you will also dream of spring. Tell me if you do. Or if your mind seems to be too much dry tinder and not enough bright fire, tell me that too. We must meet up over a coffee and discuss. We shall discuss the dying thoughts of winter and the yearnings of the west they stir up. And then yes. We shall talk of spring.
Louisa
lightly she galloped up the mountain
her feet barely touching the rich green grass
instead she soared and leaped and yes
even flew
as her eyes focused on the still higher
quickly moving stream
for if she dared to cross it
and win the alpine meadow for her own
there’d plenty of wildflowers to pick and treasure
perhaps even a wild mountain rose
and then when she had a full and hearty bouquet
then she would be happy to descend at pace slightly
more leisurely
but wonder do you what she did when all a sudden
clouds sprang upon the scene
and thunder bellowed and lightning struck
and rain soaked her head to toe
perhaps her fortitude would be sorely tested
and her spirit promptly damped
but instead her eyes shone all the greater
and still up the mountain she danced
for a little rain was not enough to thwart her
and into the teeth of the storm she laughed!
and soon enough the clouds gave up the onslaught
and the drenched young maiden continued on
her hair wet and dripping down her back
but who cares for that when again
shone the sun!
and finally near dry she crossed the little streamlet
and let her feet feel all nice and cool
but not to be too distracted
she kept her gaze pointed at the wind tossed rainbow hue
her flowers were here and hers alone and enough for an armful
and many more to spare
oh but what is that whistle that sounds from the hut on the horizon
is it another little girl now coming out to play?
perhaps they can gather flowers now together
and sing and dance and laugh and pray
and then a hearty supper of stew and boiled potatoes
and lots of berries black and sweet
for though flowers are nice to look at and truly very lovely
a bouquet is not at all for one to eat!
so now the maidens tired at last from all their toils
sit around a little fire and look at their flowers dear
and eat their fill and a little more still
and whisper of things they fear
for the night has come and dark has fallen
and ghost stories are fun to share
yet the girls hearts are full
and their feet are warm
and they have flowers in their hair.
Something Weird 