New Shoes and Clicking Heels - I'm Home.

A rather shoddily shot picture of my parent's backyard. Yeah, we live in a forest. The maples look positively gorgeous in the late afternoon sunlight. We also live in a valley (which makes running tricky, since I have to go somewhere so I'm not constantly running at 30 degrees up) I'd blame the camera for this shot, but it was actually my fault. I got excited and took the picture as I walked under a fir and quickly scrambled to capture the moment. I did not capture the moment, but at least I captured - for me anyway - something. The apple trees are looking splendid, the pines, firs, maples, birches, all the trees in the backyard are so amazingly beautiful. I needed this vacation. I went and bought running shoes with the mother, had dinner with the family, and then we started playing bananagrams. Turns out, my dad is a secret champ, mother is a bit slow, Sam makes up words, and Phil gets to be a combination of Sam and mother. I think my dad is also siphoning me terrible letters every game (or just not mixing them). Then we played quiddler (rummy with words), and Mother won the first game, Phil the second. It's so good to be home, almost moves me to poetry. I can wait until sunny-tomorrow for that, though. I really wish I had come home earlier in the summer season for more of this. I miss the Redmond (Carnation) country-scape so very much: the valleys, the mountains, the rich greens, the smells of pine and rich soil, the bears trampling our apple trees (just once I think. But he knocked over the whole tree to get apples. Gluttonous bear), the windy hills leading home, the waterfalls and mountains less than an hour away, the half-price books. I admit, the first place I went to was not home, but in fact the bookstore. And half-price books was having a 20% off sale! (2/5's price books?)

It all makes me want to weep with joy, write stories all night long, drink all the apple juice and chips and salsa and oatmeal raisin cookies that my parents treated me. And I want to climb that mountain. I also have a strong desire to see mount rainier.

http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/e/eb/Mount_Rainier_from_west.jpg

I have a feeling the clouds are rolling in. By Wednesday (my mid-week fun day), I think it might even be too rainy for a good view of the mountain. We'll see.

Several summers ago, when I worked at camp, I was not given much warning or information on what to bring (I only knew I was working at camp for a day before I flew out). One of the (many) things I forgot was a good pair of shoes. I brought old shoes that were almost worn out, and camp destroyed them. Because I did not have time for a lifeguard certification, I did only field activities for the kids: baseball, archery, soccer, running around, and so on. My shoes almost immediately fell apart. Especially since at the start of summer there was still quite a bit of snow (7000 feet up in the mountains?), and it shortly switched to over 100 degree days, I'm fairly certain my shoes just gave up on life. Shoes falling apart was a big deal. The second biggest problem I faced was that there was no cell service for an hour in any direction. Everyone brought calling cards with them so they could use the camp phone. I didn't know about the calling card setup, and had no calling card. I thought about writing a letter - no stamps. That was the easier of the problems, but writing a letter to ask the parents to ship you shoes? (because it was 3 hours to a location that sold shoes as far as I could find out. I had no car). The turn-around time on that is intimidating.

Instead, I borrowed a calling card, and quickly called my parents and asked them to send me shoes. This is where I made another mistake. I forgot to tell them my shoe size. I simply stated, as quickly as possible, that basketball shoes should work just fine. Apparently my parents believe me a clown, and they bought me 10.5 men's shoes. I'm not a short person, but I'm a bit below the national average for males (a little over 5'9"). My foot size, however, is not 10.5. When I got home, I bought some 9.5 sambas, which turned out to be too big also, but lasted me almost 4 years. Two years ago, I bought my current pair of shoes, another pair of sambas that are 8.5s. Today, I finally bought the first pair of shoes that I think truly fits my feet. They are 8s. Yep, 2.5 sizes smaller than my parents believed. I even have some extra wiggle room at the end for my toes.

Homeward Bound

We played soccer tonight, and I managed to hit a girl in the face almost immediately. I felt TERRIBLE. So I played defense for half the game. Following the game, Peter and I raced for the swings and the ginger beer (no alcohol content, thankfully), and discussed our weeks. It was, perhaps, the hardest day of work I've had in some time. I had such a simple task, but could not seem to get anything to work. I basically had 10 hours of poor excuses for my boss today, because I may as well have been not working.
And tomorrow I'm going home (family's home).
I think I spent an hour thinking about what books I wanted to bring with me before I realized I should probably pack other things, too. Hopefully labor-day weekend traffic isn't abysmal. Anyway, when we finished soccer and swinging, Peter and I walked back to our respective vehicles, and Peter asked if he could have his keys back from my tote bag. However, his keys were not in there. It was getting dark (8:15? 8:30?) and was nearing nautical twilight. We scampered back out to the field and carefully perused the grass. I even took off my shirt and rolled through the grass, because we couldn't see anymore, hoping I might roll across his keys. I just got incredibly itchy. Frantic, we called D and asked if anyone else had picked up keys, and he said no, so we checked the cars again. D mentioned that sometimes smart phones have flashlight apps, so we could try that. I found a flashlight in my car and we used one of our phone's flashlight apps and began searching in earnest once more. It was astronomical twilight at this time. Without the flashlights, we saw nothing. We strafed across the field and eventually, on my way back, we found the keys.

We were both, in a sense, at the edge of our faith. We shared an extra ginger beer and prayer of thanksgiving before each driving home. It was near 10. Still, I'm thankful so much for friends that will roll about in the grass with you to find keys, and friends who will pray and share their deepest fears with you while swinging and drinking ginger "beer" while sitting on the backs of cars. It was a gentle reminder of rest and a difficult week finally finished. And now, in the morning, I'll be homeward bound.

Edge of the World Thursdays

It may have taken a year, a season, it may have taken only minutes, but the boy decided, eventually, the string was to be pulled. It was not fear that stayed his hands, not precisely, but the mysticism. Was it better imagining what might happen? If the stars might fall behind a curtain of night, or the sky itself collapse; or if the earth would become the heavens, the heavens the earth, and they might all traipse along island clouds. Would the angels corral in chorus to this world on the rings of a bell, or demons rise from the gaping maws of hell?  Would the world curl into a ball, like a giant rolypoly? Or would the world's edge be drawn back, and whole new lands unveiled to explore? What stayed the boy's hand equally was the disappointing outcomes he conjured in his imagination. What if nothing happened? Or what if the string itself fell, and disappeared off the edge of the world, and he could no longer gaze upon its illustrious glamour? What if it crumbled to ash in his hands? Perhaps it was a fear of a sort, but not of his fellow's punishment.

-----

Today was an odd day. Working at home invites a certain freedom, and a certain punishment. If you have roommates, they immediately assume you are free for discussions, for chores, for having your workspace waltzed in upon - today, a general house-cleaning took place while I worked, and my work environ was encompassed by sweeping, a roommate walking in and boasting at having cleaned another room, with each room cleaned, bathrooms that had to be used between-cleans. I alternated between music and audio-books, and, thankfully, today was not filled with difficult problem-solving (put-out-fires-thursdays). I did get some good reading and writing in (are all my friends gone this week?) after work until I was passively booted from the house when that same roommate invited a girl over for dinner.
Needless to say, I'm thankful it's nearly Friday. I'm visiting the family soon, and I could not be more excited.

The Most Telling Move

Late. On a day of complete freedom, with few predetermined appointments, I still failed in running until far too late into the evening, and thus haven't started writing, reading, or preparing for work tomorrow as yet. I went to a games store (and bought a card game - I haven't done that in some time), went to a used bookstore (and bought only 3 books. What restraint!), played some disc golf, read a bit of Everything is Illuminated, skyped the guys, ate dinner, played a board game that lasted all night, and only just now finished running in the light drizzle for a while.
In other bright news, I fixed my desktop drivers and wireless such that I can use it again (I can work on dual screens instead of lappy386 all the time). A pleasant day. As I was running and listening to my audio book (best way to run ever), I was contemplating subtlety and cunning. When I compete, I often pick what I deem the most effective strategy. I know some people who always play aggressive, always play sneaky, always play through knowledge. I pick the most effective strategy, whatever it happens to be, and mold my tendencies into that strategy. Yet, if I had to select my favorite, cunning was always my preferred method of conquest - winning through intelligent process and careful analysis.
I enjoy games, but I enjoy them far less than people, now. This was not always so. And in the games today, as I lost and my opponents asked me how my horrible game felt (they are competitive sometimes in a bad way. I was there once), I simply smiled and said, "It's good to be outside with friends." They had no response. In the greater game, I made a move they could not counter with their existing strategies, and it captured their hearts a bit. Sneaky? Perhaps. But a good move, I'd like to think. I've made another move today, the most telling one, perhaps. Now we just have to wait and see whom it heals, and whom it breaks.

A friend of mine's mother may be dying soon. Pray for them, and her. And everyone else. I've a tough decision to make here soon, so pray I make the wise one. Lord, please help me make the right one.

Precipice

Before the strength of man's conviction twisted the earth into a sphere, there was a village at the end of the world. Built into the basalt cliffs on the shores of earth's edge, it sat and watched and waited until such time as it was needed no more. The village had long past been named Rope, for that is what it guarded and waited upon.

Waves still washed up against the shore from an ocean only paces wide, and a blackness lay beyond, deep and dark as before-time. At the furthest point of the beach against the precipice of the world, an arm's length over the water into the great void, there was a rope, or perhaps a string. It hung from the heavens, falling between the stars, and in neither night nor day could you see its end, but it shimmered as gossamer in the daylight, and as opals in the night, an ever-shifting glimmer of light. It was a single strand, and none in the village knew its purpose, many thinking it was simply a portion of the frayed edge of the world. Beneath the rope, on the barest edge of the shore, sat a boy. He was from the village, though it had been some time since he was of the village. He was forbidden to approach the string, but no matter the punishment or the confinement, the next morning he was always discovered on the beach once more, staring up at the gossamer thread.

Well, that needs some editing. I shouldn't have written stream of consciousness when I'm this sleepy. Shikata ga nai. Today was an odd day, and one whose conclusion has left me more exhausted than feels warranted. There are some days where, when working, you simply do not know what to do. No projects are given, no direction is pointed out, no tasks are available, but you cannot go anywhere. I read a graphic novel (Endless Nights) and a little bit of Everything is Illuminated and wrote some journal while hours of uneasy nothingness teetered on by. Less than a week until I visit...home? Whatever it is, I'm excited to see my parents and siblings. It's been too long.

I also wrote a crazy essay on feminism after loving Scalzi's post, and agonized over whether I can be Christ's hands of healing. Not always, it seems. Not always, I'm afraid.

Belief

Amid other deep or casual conversations yesterday, I was asked at one point, "Do you ever find it difficult to believe in God?" I responded no, with a little explanation, but it's actually quite a difficult question. There are a couple of ways this can be interpreted, even, so I'll start with how I responded. (These are my answers, and not indicative of actual apologetic arguments. I'd have to write a book to explain everything, not a paragraph)

1. Do you have trouble believing that God exists?

No. I've read numerous essays and books on apologetics, from Christian, Jewish, and Muslim writers. From ontological arguments to arguments of design and existential arguments and arguments from morality and meaning - all of these and more I've delved into, searching for various proofs. I've been moved by each, and I certainly have been affected by some more than others. I've even read their counter arguments, and arguments from the problem of evil or chaos or arguments on why there does not have to be a being beyond existence, beyond time, beyond space for such things to exist.  But at the end of the day, my experience and my belief and the things I've seen and heard and felt propel me deep into the heart of God and knowing. I don't have any trouble believing that God exists, but that does lead me directly into the next question.

2. Do you ever have trouble having faith in God?

I think one of the biggest cultural blows to religion was at our nation's foundation, when our nation spurred our culture in a very individualistic, deistic direction. I remember a story I was told, about a missionary who went into a small third-world country devastated by famine, war, and sickness. When he was helping at the church, he struggled every day with the hardship, the pain he saw, and asked the priest, "How do you stay faithful when you see such pain? How do you endure when surrounded by such trials?"

The priest was a bit surprised, but responded, "How do you have faith when you want nothing? And culture tells you happiness is simply another toy easily within your grasp? How do you have faith when it is harder to see what you are being saved from?" Sometimes I do have trouble having faith. Not often, but it happens. I heard once that if you do not doubt, you are not asking enough questions. Sometimes, doubting can spurn you into greater wisdom or into seeking more fervently after answers. Yet if doubting turns you bitter, perhaps you are more angry than curious.

If Christ spent an anguished night in prayer, if He burst out from the Cross, 'My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?' then surely we are also permitted doubt. But we must move on. To choose doubt as a philosophy of life is akin to choosing immobility as a means of transportation.

~Yann Martel Life of Pi

3. Do you believe that God cares? Or believe in God's interaction in your life?

This comes back to the topic of deism. Yes, I do believe God interacts with me on a personal basis. I have some different perspectives than many American Christians, but I very fervently believe that God loves ME and died so that I could be sanctified by his blood unto salvation. So do I believe that God interacts with me and my life? Everyday. Do I believe that God cares? Absolutely. Do I always feel comfortable in that belief? Certainly not in the most difficult circumstances.


There are difficult times, and there are less difficult times. Sometimes it is like when I have a runny nose or stomach aches. Whenever I suffer such symptoms, I regret not being thankful when I am in good health. You only remember how difficult times are when they are difficult, and how much of a struggle doubt is when you are doubting. The wider view is the tougher one.

Expectations, Dreams

This week has been a smashing of expectations with a dash of adventure, a modicum of thought, a zealous smattering of joy and friendship: the recipe of my days. I'm sipping mint tea and contemplating my lack of desired success in writing, resting, exploring the world, hiking, playing soccer, all replaced with intimate discussions with friends over dinner, a sharing of hearts, and the blessing of listening ears.

I dreamt, last night, of an airport visit. All my friends were there, even a few surprises from far off places, from locales beyond the oceans. I remember sitting there, realizing I hadn't slept in the airport for days, just waiting for everyone to arrive and celebrate, and all I wanted was ice cream. As I reclined in an uncomfortable position along several airport seats, my friends arrived, each one carrying different varieties of ice cream of all my favorite flavors. I was overjoyed, but claimed I could not blithely accept their kindness. No, I must serve them instead. So I leaped to my feet and began serving everyone ice cream, even those around who were not my friends, until the ice cream was all eaten, and none remained for me, and I smiled, though I still was hungry.
Then, a friend I've not seen for many moons brought me a slice of cake, and I joined in the celebration. I remember thinking that I could not eat the cake, however, for it would be insensitive before my gluten free friends. So I gave it to a hungry child waiting for his parents to come out of the bathroom. For some reason, I was in a giant kitchen, and not an airport, and I remember waking and thinking, "how crafty am I, sneaking that cake to that child so clandestinely."

Such was, I suppose, the nature of this week. Seeing people I've missed so dearly (for they've been busy in other states and places or just being married), discussing lives and the dreams that drive us, and praying for each other.

Comme ci comme ça

The more I see of people's lives, the more I'm dazzled by each person's fantastic defiance of expectations.  I see a couple people who are, at first glance, so similar: sporting, outdoorsy, lovers of good books, outgoing, competitive, *swedish*.  I think, "those two are like twins! They are so similar!" Then, as I interact with each, alone and in tandem, I realize they are so different as to be beyond belief. He likes soccer and running sports, she all sports, especially football, soccer, and ultimate frisbee; he enjoys day-hiking, and she prefers backpacking and long hikes; he endeavors to understand all the rules in games so he can compete with authority and knowledge, while she tends toward sneaky strategy and feisty competition. He's a hopeless romantic and she owns no jewelry, wears no makeup, dislikes receiving gifts and is ambivalent about dating.

What did I see at first that was so similar? It's mind boggling the difference I see now! Perhaps I'm simply unobservant, or perhaps this is simply the nature of persons, the marvel of creation. At the atomic level of being, God made us unique. I think this is why the tragedy in Death of a Salesman always breaks my heart. It is the tragic lie we swallow so heartily: "you are not important; you are a dime a dozen." It is the most malicious of lies, that which (thank you Obi-Wan Kenobi) is true, from a certain point of view.

But it is not true. The more I see, the more I realize that if I knew all God knew about each one of us, I could not but love everyone with all my heart. I would sacrifice myself for any one of them, knowing the trials and obstacles each has faced, bringing them to this point of life, and knowing their thoughts and reasons. It places things into perspective if I get angry or short with anyone (hopefully I don't). "What was life like in their shoes, today?" Or this past week, or year. 

Well, that was a series of thoughts that might be long essays if I spent more than a couple sentences on each.

I was planning on a Sabbath day, a rest from activity at home. "Introvert time" if you will. Of course my hopes were stymied. That's fine though, I still had a good (if not the most restful) day. I did have the whole morning to myself and I got to read a book (Fellowship of the Ring). It has been weeks (June 26th I think, waiting in line to have my book signed) since I've read a book in one sitting, so I'm thankful I got that opportunity, finally. I did not have time for writing that short story. I wrote a little more of the Jak "Ragnorak" story, and perhaps detailed a little for myself of the Harold the Walrus story, but I wrote no stories about clouds or not-people. Sorry, P. Next time.

A person who won't read has no advantage over one who can't read.
~ Mark Twain

With that, I think I'm going to surrender writing, and go do some reading. Maybe I can read two books in one day. How magical would that be? So much for writing a short story tonight. Shikata ga nai.

Peace I leave with you

Soccer was quiet, tonight, and not full field. But the people were just as fulfilling. Next week I'll return to full field soccer. Still, afterwards P came over and we lazed around on couches and discussed magic and stories, rest and birthdays, love and silence. He asked me what I was going to do on my Sabbath, since I'd mentioned recently that I hadn't had a day to myself for a week and a half, and Saturday was my day. I told him I'd like to read a book and maybe write a story and P said, "Can you write a story about clouds? And not-people?"

Immediately this popped into my head: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-a6Pe1ovKHg

We were both sleepy at this point, and usually my stories don't stem from such, but I think it may be fun writing with a vague, dreamy prompt. Perhaps there will be a cloud story tomorrow, perhaps not. Either way, I'm excited to write about "persons and the death of a salesman" which I've got all stored up in my head. I almost wrote it in my journal, but I've got to save that for the writing that doesn't make me groan - it is harder to edit journal pen, so it has to be marvelous the first time. Blog entries can be terrible for a while, and that's fine. It is super casual writing anyway.

Well, it's bedtime, so peace I leave with you. Grace and peace be with you. 

So begins my Sabbath.

Little Mount on the Prairie

It's been a while, little mount, but I'm coming soon. Matthew? (Don't make me solo climb! Phil, you may join, also, if you so desire. I suspect you'll be working)

Tilikum - Canoeing

The sky was sunny Sunday noon
Three friends we went to Tilikum
Alongside fields and vineyards still
Green forests bright and rivers full
Came we at last upon a glade
Where sunlight on lake's mirror played

Canoes soon drifting over blue
The trees sweet singing anthems true
The birds high trilling good af'ernoon
Our boat and paddles swish in tune
Moored we our boat onto the bridge
Consumed our bread and climbed the ridge

To giant swings between the trees
Swing through the breeze and brush the leaves
stare to the sky, pines canopy
The wind, the earth, hea'ens panoply
Then down the path along the shores
Unhitch the boat on twilight's doors

The sunset's gaze determined face
In crimson rays the even's grace
A silver moon above our heads
sweet stars goodnight twilight descends


The sunlight stared askance through the trees, bright but not overbearing. It gleamed across the lake's gentle mirror, a sheet sheen, reflecting upside-down firs, pines, maples, and birch in every shade of green surrounding the lake. We paddled slowly, lethargically, watching the newts slither lazily through the gentle ripples and the minnows racing away in our wake. We swam in the golden gleam of afternoon, the water glistening beneath us as a dragon's hoard, and we gliding over its treasure.  The air was still, then breathed, and was still again, sending wafts of pine across the lake. Mooring our boat onto the docks, we vaulted the railing and ate a swift meal of bread, and drank sugary sweet drinks, speaking little as we listened to the world of birds and ripples, wind and faith.
Then we split for the swings. Along a skinny trail, with near invisible gossamer strands of spider silk crossing at intervals (and P swatting them grumpily from his path), we scampered up a hill of roots and packed earth, towards the hill overlooking the lake. Behind some trees, and betwixt two, a giant swing rests, and we took turns on the swing, alternately marveling at the canopy of needles on toothpick trees clambering into the sky, or gazing out over the lake, or peering into the depths of the forest.
Then, when even drew nigh, we scampered back towards our canoe to catch the sunset over the firs and hillsides, and watch as the stars salted the twilight and the moon rose in the east, all silver smiles and patient light. Our canoe dipped slightly, bouncing on the buoyant waves as we simply sat, waiting on nothing, captivated in the dawn of night.

Betwixt the Paths

I used to be tragically shy, the kind of child hiding behind his mother's legs, whimpering and crying to go home. During these times, I harbored within all my thoughts. When asked about my day, I explained, perfunctorily, each of the necessary events without associated thoughts. In high school, the limited pool of students in the preppy school meant that I was swiftly relegated into the unpopular sphere of social strata. I did not climb clear of that then, for my relationships in-school were kept at careful distance. I said enough to prevent my abuse, for bullies found my small size easy pickings. Sometimes I succeeded, sometimes I did not.

But as I changed the rules; the game changed me. In college, I eventually learned (through persistent roommates and friends) to shed my skin, entire. I rarely did, but occasionally, when it suited me, I unloaded my heart unto those willing listeners, asking for assistance and guidance. I valued their opinions in lieu of my own. I'd not yet understood the golden means, the Aristotelian balance of valuing my own experience in measure with that of others.

Then, the most recent game, the game that stretched my everything, the trial of tears, triumph, and terror. With every day, the game's parameters changed, the strategy and purposes changed, all in dicey whimsy. Everything was in a flux, and I rolled through my experience in a regressive fashion: telling no one anything, telling everyone everything and following their rules, trying a balance, and cycling around again and again. I listened to advice even though it was my game, and as I changed, bent, broke, remade, burned through rules and transformed the game in a chaotic evolution, I realized I was defeating myself. It was my game, and the only true opponent I faced was myself. I've long assumed the belief that the only person I struggle to beat, given enough persistence and motivation, is myself. No matter how advanced my strategy, I always find ways to foil my own stratagem. 

I've re-learned much in this game. I've learned and relearned these things all my life, and I suspect I will never stop learning them.  I've learned to listen and to sequester my feelings in their appropriate times and places. I've learned to fail, and stand back up. I've learned to hope and believe when in a dark valley. I've learned to pray for others when I'm suffering. I've learned to love others all the more, knowing that we are all humans here. I've learned how necessary praise is in the brightest of places and in the darkest. I've learned thankfulness and kindness. I've relearned all these things and more, betwixt the paths.

This actually is not where I was originally going.... pending...

Destiny

Walk any path in Destiny's garden, and you will be forced to choose, not once but many times.  The paths fork and divide. With each step you take through Destiny's garden, you make a choice; and every choice determines future paths.  However, at the end of a lifetime of walking you might look back, and see only one path stretching out behind you; or look ahead, and see only darkness.
Sometimes you dream about the paths of destiny, and speculate, to no purpose. Dream about the paths you took and the paths you didn't take... The paths diverge and branch and reconnect; some say not even Destiny himself truly knows where any way will take you, where each twist and turn will lead.
But even if Destiny could tell you, he will not. Destiny holds his secrets. The garden of Destiny. You would know it if you saw it. After all, you will wander it until you die. Or beyond. For the paths are long, and even in death there is no ending to them.
~ Season of Mists - Neil Gaiman

This is one of my favorite beginnings to any story, though the beginning of Season of Mists holds a special place in my heart. It is certainly one of my favorite Sandman novels, which makes it one of my favorite books overall. Choices are an interesting quandary, in retrospect. With an omniscient God, sometimes I have difficulty reconciling predestination and free will, though that's a philosophical topic too deep, perhaps, for this setting. But I can't not believe in a semblance of free will, for without free will, I'm not responsible for my misdeeds nor, even, for my righteous ones.
So, assuming I must claim responsibility for my actions, and the consequences of such actions carry me along a lane in Destiny's garden that cannot be unwound, I often deliberate overlong about meaningful decisions or happenstance in my life. This is not always detrimental. However, I'm also something of a personal perfectionist. It may matter little whether my friends  live perfectly, choose perfectly, behave ideally, but this is my life. With careful choices and faithful movements, should I not be able to live perfectly? Write perfectly? Be perfectly kind or loving? If the possibility exists, with enough rigor and rigid control, surely perfection is not out of reach for the rest of my life, right?
I don't actually think these things. But sometimes, in the aftermath of foolish choices, I wallow. I read a particularly insightful blog post the other day on this topic, and I'm going to shamelessly quote it here: (on the topic of a spiraling downward of shame)
...And you’re not allowed to shame spiral, either.
Why? We both have a life to live. Words of wisdom to offer. Gifts God has given us. And once you and I allow ourselves to be shut down and chained by guilt or mistakes, we are rendered ineffective.
And we both know who does that.
So let’s not let that happen to us, okay? I’ll make you a deal: If you don’t let it happen to you, I won’t let it happen to me.
Let nothing silence you. You have things to say.
And God still likes you.
(Thank you asparaguslane. I appreciate your words and the tactfully blunt way in which they are spoken. I wish I had your talent. For now, I'll just borrow your words)

No one is perfect. Sometimes I feel like I just see my foibles too clearly, like muddy palm prints on crystal-clear windows, or droplets of blood dripping into a glass of clean water (that was a bit gruesome.. make it blue dye). Now that water is undrinkable. Spread it around in 10 gallons so the blood is so diffuse you could not dream of tasting it, and still I'd know it was there, polluting. And it is in these times that I'm thankful for my friends. I often mistrust their kindness, misinterpret it as lying on my behalf, as flattery. Friends don't flatter, they compliment.
But, the reminder is there. I do have things to say, and God (and my friends) still likes me, loves me, even when I make mistakes, and then more mistakes, and even when I make the same mistakes again. While I've not shame spiraled recently, I remember times of having done so. Thankfully, my friends are wise, gentle, and knowing. What I want more than anything is to be there for them when their shame spirals begin, preventing that slippery slope and catching them when they fall. I want to do more than just pray, though sometimes the distance is too great. I want to be there for my friends on every branching path their walk through the garden of fate takes them. Then, when we reach the other side, I want to celebrate at our faith and faithfulness to each other.

Mostly Harmless Days - Don't Panic

Work has been crazy this week. My boss asked me to finish something before work finished yesterday at 4:30, expecting me to finish before 5. He said it was pivotal. I worked until 6:30. Today, while scraping the internet (parsing: my job has me writing internet crawlers that nibble information from school websites), a whole series of schools banned us for hammering their sites. Needless to say, my boss was displeased in the same way bees dislike having their hive punched in the face. Not my fault, but there wasn't anyone else to blame, either.
On top of that, several schools broke unaccountably, and fingers are pointed. But, strangely enough, I'm feeling pretty good. I think I have the best of all possible friends. Last night, a couple of my best friends made me dinner (since I got off work so late, I didn't have time to make it), watched a movie with me (Sherlock Holmes), loved on me etc. I'm incredibly grateful for their care. Matthew tried calling me 3 times in a row to find out how I've been doing - though I ignored all three calls because he tends to call me at the busiest times... suspicious, Matthew, suspicious. Skype with A tonight, with Ben soon (Wednesday? Remind me), dinner with C and M on Wednesday and a morning with P on Wednesday morning. Thursday, dinner with AH, Friday soccer. I definitely have the best of friends.
I'm not certain why I'm reminded of Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy on such days, but I am. Perhaps it is because the levity can be so valuable when your boss is miffed. Plus, I don't work Wednesdays, and know I've only hours to go until a fabulous tomorrow (and a fabulous tonight skyping A)

Gunshot Robbery of Spring

Thunder exploded in the deep distance, the gunshot robbery of spring.

Only later, sometimes, can we see the faults within ourselves.  From a distance, that image on the television looks real, real people living their diverse lives. It looks perfect, ideal, these perfect people walking as heroes in their worlds. Even the villains can look statuesque, as marble figures stern and cruel. But you take that step closer, and you see pixels, the atoms of digital expression, and realize these are not platonic forms. We are not the shadows of these images, nor are these images we see on the wall perfect. But sometimes, in the moment, it's easy to consider ourselves chiseled specimens of mankind when evaluating our own beliefs and arguments.

Not that we always do, oh no. Humanity bites and growls when threatened with classification. Some never build the self-esteem requisite in deeming oneself the exemplar of humanity. But the point is that often, in the heat of the moment, we believe our viewpoint valuable, more valuable, perhaps, than it warrants on later introspection.  We think our theories, our philosophies, our faith and creativity and experience as the experience and it is difficult to listen. There are times when it is difficult to stop and pay attention to other's viewpoints, difficult to imagine that this wall of shadows we've set before ourselves is not all reality contains.

Even in simple examples like writing a story, I believed my piece elegant and worthy of merit. Glancing back at it now, I wished I'd put it aside longer for revision, as each paragraph is rife with cracks and flawed expression. This is how it is, isn't it? But if we make mistakes, so, too, can we learn from them. In my life, sometimes I feel like spiritual, emotional, physical seasons come and go as surely as natural seasons. I'm passing, perhaps, from spring to summer, or summer to fall, and I can hear the thunder in the distance, I can smell the storm on the wind. 

And there are more important things than my issues, my conceit, my problems. I have friends whose mothers are dying; whose newborn babies cannot swallow food, and they've been in the hospital for days, trying to discover ways of feeding their child; friends running from or enduring painful relationships; friends starting new relationships; friends struggling with money and jobs and anxiety and despair and stress; friends who are lonely or tired or aimless and despairing at finding any direction to their lives. And there are friends just in transitions, frightened of the change.
It is humbling to think of these things and to consider, what have I, really, to compare to these in my life? The worst thing that happened to me this week was getting stepped on with cleats because I foolishly enjoy playing soccer without shoes. Or maybe missing friends in distant places. Humbling. Sure, I'm not certain where my life is going, or where God is taking me, but that friend is losing her mother to cancer, and that friend over there is fighting panic attacks, and that friend over there is suffering from x and y and z, and so on. 

Soul Tea

I've gleaned much this weekend, from restorative fields. Friday stretched on into forever, work demanding concentration I thought long dissipated throughout the week's hectic tumbling. And finally I burst into the clear. I felt like my submarine had imploded beneath the sea. I swam with all my might towards the surface, and the going became tougher and tougher until finally I broke free, the water tension of the surface breaking around me. It was none so difficult, nor so deadly or anxious, but the weekend was a breath of fresh air.

And once it arrived, it arrived with panache. Grey clouds covered the sky, but the sun cracked its way through and a light show danced towards earth, illuminating the cottonwood seeds floating about the sky like pixie dust or summer snow. I ran and ran for soccer, and grew tired and ran some more, through a beautiful sunset of cotton-candy clouds and into the early twilight. Arriving home, I collapsed in bed and wrote and read until I fell asleep. I woke bright and early and skyped with A and S for several hours, smiling and ponderously engaging in the diamonds and coals of life. Then P and guest came over and we explored Newberg, eating burritos and cilantro salsa and kicking around a soccer ball on the turf fields.

Finally, I rested half an hour before heading out to the lake for a bit of canoeing, picnicking, swinging on a giant swing between the trees, wire-walking, sunset canoeing, archery, and, eventually, goodbye hugs. I drove back beneath stars just peeping into being in the heavens. As a child, I remember books like "Chicken Soup for the Soul", and I think this was my chicken soup for my soul. A perfect Sabbath.

One thing I heard about Sabbath once was that God rested on the 7th day, and not the first. God did not rest to prepare for the upcoming week, but to celebrate a week that was good. It is a tiny difference, but one I really appreciate. I had a most excellent week, and celebrating it on the river with cider (they had beer) and bread was the perfect end to a week. Thank you, Lord, for the Soul Tea. I know I'm going to need it.

Hook, Line, Sinker

I've been thinking lately about beginnings, and endings. Many of my favorite books I remember via their beginnings and endings, and I picked up more than a few of them sheerly through becoming hooked on the first line.


The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend. Legend fades to myth, and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave it birth comes again. In one Age, called the Third Age by some, an Age yet to come, an Age long past, a wind rose in the Mountains of Mist. The wind was not the beginning. There are neither beginnings nor endings to the turning of the Wheel of Time. But it was a beginning.

The wheel of time has always held a special place in my heart. I remember once, during the peak of my reading prowess, I read two in one night in high school (slightly over 2100 pages) before going to school the next morning (biology lab, 7:30). Despite this beginning being slightly overdone - Jordan does not alter it throughout the series beginnings - it has still stuck with me as a moving entrance into an epic saga. It was also one of the first high fantasy series that I read.

This is a tale of a meeting of two lonesome, skinny, fairly old white men on a planet which was dying fast.

I've always had a little soft spot for Vonnegut, even though he's a tad vulgar at times. Though I may enjoy the beginning of Cad's Cradle even more than this one.

In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth.

I've always really loved this introduction as something truly mythical. It is a mystical entrance into a divine work of art - our world.

There was a hand in the darkness, and it held a knife.

I love Neil Gaiman, so it comes as no surprise that the beginning of Graveyard Book (one of my favorites of his novels) has a chill and incredible beginning. 

Far out in the uncharted backwaters of the unfashionable end of the western spiral arm of the Galaxy lies a small, unregarded yellow sun.

Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy is a fantastic satire and comedy, and the beginning certainly did not let me down. I still read sections of this book when I see it lying on my shelf, forlornly, and it never gets old.

I am a sick man… I am a spiteful man. I am an unpleasant man. I think my liver is diseased.

Notes from Underground by Dostoevsky is not his best work, but I do still think the beginning immediately captures your attention. He knows how to develop characters like no other author I've ever read, though I've not even read all his stuff, someday I hope to.

Once upon a midnight dreary, as I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

This one is cheating, since it is a poem and not quite a story. Though perhaps it is a story after all... 

The story so far: In the beginning, the universe was created. This has made a lot of people very angry and been widely regarded as a bad move.

However irreverent, Douglas Adams never fails to amuse me.

There was a boy called Eustace Clarence Scrubb, and he almost deserved it.

Oh, CS Lewis.

Walk any path in Destiny's Garden, and you will be forced to choose, not once but many times. The paths fork and divide. With each step you take through Destiny's Garden, you make a choice; and every choice determines future paths. However, at the end of a lifetime of walking you might look back, and see only one path stretching out behind you; or look ahead, and see only darkness.

Season of Mists have one of my favorite beginnings of any of the Sandman graphic novels. This section continues further, and it is splendidly crafted.



I've been contemplating beginnings quite a bit, in stories and life. Sometimes, we fear them, though perhaps not so much as endings. Many endings are just beginnings in disguise, though the unknowing can be frightening. I'm walking my way through Destiny's Garden right now, making choices and turning along the hedges and vines - sometimes there seems not to be a path at all that I follow, just an imagined destination. Who knows where I will end up. 
I contemplate beginnings because I'm seeing endings, though they frighten me not. I've read some interesting books, lately, and many have had their own interesting hooks and I've swallowed line, sinker, pole on others. I also really like the beginning to Going Postal by Terry Pratchett, though that book is hilarious in its entirety. And the beginning of Name of the Wind, but that takes an entire prologue.

The Road I've Traveled By

Nostalgic Mornings: Friday Edition - The Road I've Traveled By - by Benjamin
In a former post, I discussed my slow start into writing. I believe my first incursion into purposeful writing and reading began in my early senior year, when A decided art what was he truly loved, and disappeared into the art studio for a year. I was in a unique stage in life, with some close friends trickling out of life and some new friends stampeding in, and I'd much on my mind worth considering. I still have all my journals, and I can still see my original, first journal piece that I ever wrote on this train into now. I wrote a poem titled "The Oasis Divine" and a small piece on roads. I did not expect I might be still writing today, or that the journaling would continue at that time, and did not date my entries for some time. Everything started out slow, and I believe my journaling probably did not truly pick up speed until late 2009. That 2009 through early 2010 journal was far more utilitarian: a sequence of diary notes.

What is fascinating is glancing backwards and seeing these journals now. Most of my journaling was done through poetic prose, story, essays, and vague dialectics. Rarely did I discuss actual events occurring in my life. Yet, I can see as I walk through each life segment the tragedy of each time, the triumphs. In the end of 2009 where my writing dives into sadness at the loss of a great friend; in the hopeful, early seasons of 2010 where I was realizing dreams; in the mid-seasons of 2010 when I lost the same friend, again, and the crushing of dreams; in late 2010 with A's difficult time where his brother was sick; in 2011, when A found S and I started my first nanowrimo. In 2012 when A disappeared into California, Matthew had some interesting relationships, P got out of the house, a family friend died, new house with new people, a graduation of my best friend, Matthew (was that really just 2012? 7 years of school... hehehe) - so much changed in 2012. And now, this year with its own crazy ride. I look back at the prayers I wrote, the fasts I followed, the stories I wrote, the pain I battled, the joys I praised through over and over, the friends I pleaded for and love so dearly, the poetry of a soul living.

There are some motifs, it seems.  Two favorite recurring phrases in the darker times: Dum Spiro Spero and "Time Inexorable" which is something that comforted me when high school was miserable. During blessed, joyful times, motifs such as different Psalms of joy, more poetry, paeans, a bright fable or myth.  I did not get my story into the anthology (only twenty people got in out of over a thousand entries). I'm a bit disappointed, but the publishing is creative commons, which means I get to see who did end up winning once it's published. I actually suspect that I could have been denied because my story was a tad... odd. It leaned towards the urban, weird genre rather than traditional fantasy or sci-fi. The experience was by no means a loss, and I actually do enjoy the story I wrote (at least a bit). Hopefully another anthology opportunity stumbles on by soon enough.

Words

Every now and again, I stumble across words whose sounds and associated meanings surprise me. Pulchritudinous is an easy favorite, but recently I stumbled across the word crepuscular again. I've used the word, myself, but in the context I saw it in, the author meant it as a beautiful palette of colors - I always imagined it when describing a shadowy, creepy setting. It sounds creepy, cavernous, like the maw of a mountain seeking to devour you whole once the sun fully crawls beneath the horizon.

I'm excited, as I suspect that these next few weeks will prove more than interesting. I've pulchritudinous paths prepared before me, if you will. How is it already mid-August? Wanderlust August.

Some difficult circumstantiae have wandered past, and some blessings. Standard fare for the inexorability of time. It is a shifting season, but the crepuscular tides of even summon me to sleep.

-- this had a point.. but I got back home about 2 hours later than I was willing to fight with it. So I truncated the ending and slapped a disclaimer on the end. Victory. --

Jig is up

Sometimes you pray for a window, hope for a door, and receive a concrete wall. Glancing right and left, you pace alongside its flat façade, and no cracks are found.  Desperate, you lean close, pressing your ear against the cold surface, knuckling the wall in a silent supplication for a hollow echo, a whisper of direction from opposite this obstacle unjustly impeding your earned, deserved path. It says nothing; it's a wall.
Shortly, you discover your tantrum solves nothing, your whining echoes irritatingly off that haughty wall. You settle your back against a door opposite the wall, fixating your gaze on that inconsiderate slab - if it moves, you'll know. Why is it there? Won't you please move it, Lord?
If walls could smirk, especially plain grey walls, this one's smugly blank expression was enough to drive one mad. The wind sighs through the door at your back, the autumnal smell bringing to mind thoughts of fallen leaves, golden, orange and crimson, and mountain pines with a trickling burn meandering down in a gully, joyful fish leaping out and catching water-skippers. You hear a blue-jay whistling the song of the hills. What is with this abysmal wall? Just. Let. Me. Through. This is my dream!
The sound behind assumes a dull ambiance, and the fragrance melts into the backdrop of your mind. The jig is up. Is that a ram caught in the thicket on that mountainside?


I have an old, old, yellow-leaved copy of a Kierkegaard book that contains two distinct essays he wrote: Fear and Trembling and That Sickness Unto Death. The latter is an assay into the contemplation of despair, beginning with a reference to the story about Lazarus. It discusses different forms despair may take, three in particular, with the conclusion that faith is the opposite of despair. The other story is, to me in concept, more intriguing. Fear and Trembling embarks on a journey into the mentality of Abraham on his journey of sacrifice and faith. Kierkegaard travels through the stages of Abraham's resignation and hope and inner dilemma. It is a fascinating question. What was Abraham thinking as he climbed the mountain towards the sacrifice of his beloved son. There's a metaphorical connection to Christ's own sacrifice, and the faith requisite of the son. I remember a sermon that I heard as a child where the pastor discussed how Abraham had faith, despite the grim outlook, and what he never knew was that a ram climbed the other side of the mountain, a ram destined for a thicket. Seems a grim end for a ram - I'm uncomfortable with the death of anything - but the ramifications are worthy of contemplation (I made that pun un-sheepishly. I apologize to ewe).
Now I'm bashing my head into walls, and maybe I'm not seeing the mountainside, maybe I'm not seeing the Autumn, maybe this obstacle is still too concrete in my tunnel-vision. You have to back away, sometimes, from your tunnel-vision or microscope vision, where a tiny fiasco looks like the whole of things.

Cinderella

I've always loved fairy tales and fables. Stories where the clever rabbit fools the vexed fox; or where the jack tricks the giant and scampers away with the golden hen; or stories when a simple maiden is blessed by her fairy godmother and allowed to attend a ball and dance with the prince.  Something has always endeared me to underdog stories. I think that I've always cherished these characters as akin to myself. Many of my favorite, nostalgic, childhood reads contain characters that exhibit depths of courage and heroism despite inhibitions, whether social, physical, or temporal. Ender (only because he was the third child - otherwise, he was quite gifted); Taran Wanderer, the pig-keeper hero; Cinderella, a maid stuck cleaning while her sisters attended the ball; the cobbler in the Thief and the Cobbler (possibly my favorite childhood movie); Benny in the Boxcar Children (only because he was youngest and had a splendid name and broken cup).

There is a yearning in my heart for a hero who, facing impossible adversity, rises to the challenge in faith and courage, and triumphs. Cinderella comes from nowhere and captures the eyes of a prince. She's poor, but she has a beautiful heart, and great courage. One of my favorite Miyazaki movies (and movies in general) is Spirited Away where a little girl's parents are transformed into pigs, and she braves a strange, spirit world full of kami and oddities in order to restore them. It is when the hero surpasses the mentality of weakness before overcoming what before seemed impossible - I love these stories.

The other thing I always liked about fables and fairy tales was their allegorical nature. Stories like Narnia, various mythologies, The Remarkable Journey of Prince Jen - stories where the characters are more than just pictures and facades, but archetypal exemplars of humanity. Even exquisitely crafted stories like East of Eden or Lord of the Rings contain pieces wherein characters transcend into substantive symbols. These stories, too, I love. It is why I shall always enjoy the Silmarillion and Gaiman's varied mythologies.

I think in my heart there is another reason I like these stories so much. I always felt like I empathized with the characters in broken circumstances whose mountains seemed without summit, trials without end. Everything I gained, I always felt like I had to fight for, nail and tooth, until beaten and wearied. Nothing came easily unless I struggled and fought my way through things in a blind scramble. Sure, I learned to read quickly, write passing fair, compete, win. But all I really ever wanted was to win my very own Cinderella story and, overcoming impossible obstacles in faith and fight, have a chance to go to the ball (or defeat that Horned King. What a monster!). In the end, I think I have, multiple times, but instead of living happily ever after, I crave my next encounter with impossible adversity, for what can surpass God's power? The wanderlust of adventure is upon me.

Celebration and Sleep Lions.

Since the first week on the dawn of creation, God initiated days of rest and celebration. After working, creating, mythically transforming nothingness into existence (whether in 7 days or 7 aeons, I will not discuss now. That's for another time), God saw his creation as good, and rested.

God saw all that he had made, and it was very good. And there was evening, and there was morning—the sixth day. Thus the heavens and the earth were completed in all their vast array.

By the seventh day God had finished the work he had been doing; so on the seventh day he rested from all his work. Then God blessed the seventh day and made it holy, because on it he rested from all the work of creating that he had done.

The word mo'edim used in Leviticus to discuss the holy days means appointed times. I've discussed before the interesting choice of words, here, so I'll skip it this time (lucky you!). The point is, that God realized that we need rest from work, and appointed times of rest and celebration: seasons of praise.  Just today, a friend of mine whose mother the doctors said would die by the end of the week was sent home, seemingly on the road towards remarkable healing. This is a cause for celebration. I think there it is more difficult, sometimes, to notice the praiseworthy things extant in our day-to-day than the painful things. Sometimes it is hard to rejoice in the Lord always. And sometimes, you look up at the stars and celebrate; listen to the breeze shifting the pines and maples and pour out blessings; feast with friends, for today is a day the Lord has made, and we should be glad to share it.

I was going to write more, tonight, but the lion of sleep is devouring me. I feel like the cogs of life are turning a titanic wheel, a big-ben-timepiece with a chaotic cuckoo chanting the time, a tiny train racing around the base, a symphonic piece played on the quarter hours in hollow chimes. My life is like the daytime version of the clock in Night Circus, enigmatic and somehow intrinsically a piece of the greater circus surround. Come, sleep, devour me. Let the dreaming begin, Sandman. 

It's a Dangerous Business

The more he looked inside the more Piglet wasn't there.

Why must the fire die?

When hope is frail and twilight nigh

Why must now we say goodbye,

The night still young with fireflies

One boon I ask if you may tell

What hope you passed yon wishing well?

I pray it not to end this spell,

forced to face what the toll doth bell.

There are many goodbyes, these days, and feared goodbyes.  Just this past week, I hugged and whispered goodbyes to A and S. Two other friends are terrified of goodbyes to family members suffering from cancer - and prayer is, seemingly, the last bastion. It is hardest to say these goodbyes.  I find myself constantly praying for these, and others: friends abroad, suffering, disappearing from my life, friends getting married and settling into new and adventurous lives, friends anxious and burdened by life.  In these times, where I’m feeling like the center of a giant web with strands stretching on the corners of the wind, my prayers are uncertain. Am I being selfish? I do not even know what to pray for at all. Do I pray for healing? Ease of passage? A happy new life? It is difficult to pray unselfishly. 

It is as times like these that I continually remember these verses from Romans:

For in hope we have been saved, but hope that is seen is not hope; for who hopes for what he already sees? But if we hope for what we do not see, with perseverance we wait eagerly for it. In the same way the Spirit also helps our weakness; for we do not know how to pray as we should, but the Spirit Himself intercedes for us with groanings too deep for words; and He who searches the hearts knows what the mind of the Spirit is, because He intercedes for the saints according to the will of God.

The Spirit intercedes for me with groanings too deep for words. Too deep for words. There is something powerful in the mysticism of those words, and reassuring.  “It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept off to.” It is dangerous, Bilbo, but I wouldn't trade it for the world. I've the best of friends, and I'd pray and love on them if I had to sacrifice everything to do so. Sometimes you must.

I think the last time I got some alone time was almost two weeks ago.  I have read less than 300 pages in the last two weeks; missed writing on numerous nights due to busyness, though a good busyness. It’s been an exhausting run, but somehow restorative.

Stay on target...

I was doing so well with blog posts for a time, and time, or lack thereof, is killing me. I always try prioritizing journal, anyway, so I suppose as long as I get journaling time in, I'm not completely at a loss. There are always choices, I suppose. I can either play soccer in the rain with the best of people, or not; I can enjoy delicious food with friends I will not see again this year, or not; I can enjoy the company of friends for tea and swedish pancakes and books and entertainment and long conversations into the night, or not; I can tell stories to friends that take three hours, delaying the inevitable tragedy in a rising storm of climactic peril, torturing them in Arabian Night's fashion, or not. These choices are not difficult. But sometimes the things I miss are equally pleasant, in their time: reading, writing, introvert time (scarce, these days), listening-to-the-rain-time.

There are always opportunities missed in either direction. The drizzling rain created the most dazzling of rainbows over the grassy park, shooting out from the pines and firs in a glorious array of colors that arced against the sky. Then, when the sun set, the sky assumed a rare pinkish hue, almost fuchsia, that sparked the clouds alight like a pillar of flame. It brought to mind the Exodus of the Israelites: what would that have been like, a pillar of flame by night? As a child, I always imagined a tornado of flame - how cool is that? Digressions. If I had stayed home and read, I might have been recharged, but surely would not have enjoyed the exquisite sunset, the chance to run in the rain, the delightful squish of grass between my toes, the holler of happy voices playing soccer, the joy of being with friends and telling stories, the love of praying, holding hands, and asking God for a glorious game.

I also had to say goodbyes this week, which is bittersweet.

Rain

There is something satisfying in rain, in watching behind the window-screen, hands underneath my chin, as droplets plop into the grass and trees, gravel and streets. and against the eaves and tiles. And going outside into those tiny streams, drops collecting into damp sections and dampness into puddles, and puddles into tiny rivulets that pour downhill along streets towards grates or channels. The soggy grass yields beneath my feet and the puddles soak my shoes. It's easier to write in the rain, easier to think and dream and sleep and breathe, sometimes. I feel like the moisture pulls the the smells of life right into the air, and the sweetness of earth and vines, wood and pines.
I like the rain, though many may not. I love the sun as well, and snow - hail and sleet less so, though they are a novelty, sometimes. But rains at night are one of my most favorite things, a beautiful musical prelude to sleep. If only rain combined with stars, I believe I'd be in heaven's arms.

to be continued.

Losing Battles and Joyous Reminders

Some wars cannot be won, no matter how the battles are fought. Countless times, I've come across these: Pyrrhic victories, where every battle is won, but the cost is too great, or the loss inevitable. These are the worst. More than ever, these drive my competitive spirit, rekindle that flame of conquest I've denied. Why can I not win? Surely I just need more motivation, more study, more understanding... Perhaps that is true, or perhaps another force exists beyond what I can compete with, and impedes my victory no matter the invested effort. Whatever the case, I know I'm not the only soldier in these battles.

I see that others also engage in inevitable defeat, and strive until the bitter end for a lost cause. When I see others endure these losing battles, my empathy cries out. I shudder and cry for them, I pray desperately that theirs will be different - can I help? Can I shift the inexorable tides?  And here I sit, suffering that same generational weakness of the pharisees and Israel, asking for a sign, a miracle, a prayer of a chance for the sufferer. My eyes are fixated on the fact that a particular door is closed, and I cannot deign to see whether any other doors might be closing and opening, for myself or them. So I and they continue fighting, keep on winning battles in a losing war, or not, and the outcome appears an injustice forced upon us, when, if only we'd had faith, we might walk the water away from a sea in storm. Sometimes, there is more than life to gain, more than pride to lose, more than selfishness at stake.
So how can I help?

I'm an empathetic person, mostly. When my closest of friends suffer, I suffer also. I've endured fevers and sleepless nights, nausea and visceral agony (mostly all at once) for friends in hurtful scenarios, and they'll never know. I would not add to their pain. I cry out all night for their anguish - oh, may it cease, may it cease - and when it does, or if, I praise the Lord as in the most triumphant of Psalms. In fact, I believe I suffer more for other's angst than my own, for I know that God will get ME through. He always has, however much through the threshing (and the threshing often comes). Would that I had that same faith all the time.

But I read some comforting words in Psalms, today, chapter 46:

God is our refuge and strength,
A very present help in trouble.
Therefore we will not fear, though the earth should change
And though the mountains slip into the heart of the sea;
Though its waters roar and foam,
Though the mountains quake at its swelling pride.
...
Come, behold the works of the Lord,
Who has wrought desolations in the earth.
He makes wars to cease to the end of the earth;
He breaks the bow and cuts the spear in two;
He burns the chariots with fire.
“Cease striving and know that I am God;
I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth.”
The Lord of hosts is with us;
The God of Jacob is our stronghold. Selah.

Beautiful and important words. He makes wars to cease to the end of the earth, even wars in me. Break the bow and cut the spear in twain. My God is a consuming fire, and full of loving grace. Have faith.
I'm praying for you all.

(And this is the victory that has overcome the world, even our faith)
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I was reading one of my favorite poems tonight, and was just jarred by its lyric:

LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats      
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question….      
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.

---

I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall

TS Eliot - The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

Such a master of verse, rhythm and rhyme.

Ragnorak Part Trois

The incessant sound of a doorbell ringing in his flat awakened Jak into a grumpy stupor. He tumbled a while, willing the noise to disappear through neglect, burrowing deeper into his blankets and covering his head with a pillow. Dingdingdingding. What manner of cruelty brought visitors at this ungodly hour?
    "Go away!" he attempted, though his voice was greatly muffled beneath the blankets. The ruckus persevered, undeterred. For a few minutes longer, Jak, through sheer force of will, pulled all the blankets over his head, trying to drown out the invasive noise. It didn't seem to help any, but Jak refused to let this doorbell ruin his morning.
   Two minutes more, the doorbell chimed, and finally he could stand it no longer, sitting up in bed, fully awake and angry. And the doorbell stopped. Now, fully awake, Jak realized two things almost simultaneously. First, he possessed no doorbell; second, his flat had no door.
   This realization was punctuated with a loud crash erupting behind Jak, showering him with plaster, insulation, and splinters of wood. He leapt out of bed and turned to see the gaping hole in the wall behind his bed.
   "Jak! Why Did You Not Come Out To Greet Us!" bellowed a booming bass. The bed frame was still in the way, and Jak could not see the owner of the voice through the cloud of dusty white from the imploded wall.
   "I was resting! Can't a man get some-"
   Another series of thunderclap smashes, and Jak's bed was reduced to a smoldering pile of scraps smelling vaguely of ozone.  Jak winced. "Well? Aren't you going to invite us in?" said another voice, this one hard and cold.
   "Before you what? Break the rest of my home? Come in, come in. Make yourselves at home," Jak said with a sigh. "Or what's left of it...." he grumbled under his breath.
   Two figures poked their way through the hole in the wall, stepping across the smoldering remains of Jak's bed, and into the flat. The first was enormous, giant as a bear and heavily muscled. His hair was golden, and flowing down his back like a mane, and his beard was braided with beads and he smelled of mead and meat. In his left hand, he held a hammer that easily fit his palm - a carpenter's hammer, though Jak suspected a mere carpenter's hammer could not have broken into his apartment so easily.
   The second was taller, thinner, and he wore a large, wide-brimmed hat. An eyepatch covered one eye, though Jak later could not recall which eye, and his gnarled, grey beard looked like a nest against his chest. He held a staff, a twisted branch of oak, and the intensity of his gaze caused Jak to shudder involuntarily.

edit me please.
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This morning, I was reading Psalms and stumbled again across Psalm 42. I could wish that I was alive, then, listening to the Sons of Korah composing, or David passionately strumming out his anguish and angst in plaintive string movements. Yet, even without knowing the tune, this Psalm, I feel it.

First, the writer sings (in King James, because it's prettier today):
As the hart panteth after the water brooks, so panteth my soul after thee, O God.
My soul thirsteth for God, for the living God: when shall I come and appear before God?

Later he/she sings:
Deep calleth unto deep at the noise of thy waterspouts: all thy waves and thy billows are gone over me.
Yet the Lord will command his lovingkindness in the day time, and in the night his song shall be with me, and my prayer unto the God of my life.

These are a little out of context, as they make this Psalm seem like a seeking, when it is a Psalm of lament, of weeping for God's presence in time of trouble and trial. I'm not currently suffering from painful trials (my time will come, I'm certain), but I wonder if my soul pants for God as a thirsty deer? I pray it be so.

Other  Notes:
- need to plot out ragnorak (saying it that way sounds epic)
- finish harold's story
- update eternity story
- make list of all currently open stories

Narrative - myths and frogs (snippets)

Two different characters at different points of existential angst. In one of the stories, the character may or may not be somewhat... magical? The first character is a bit unsettled, and oscillating between... well... ideas.

(written in a stream of consciousness style - apologies for typos. I was house-sitting and enjoying the air-conditioned house and just kept typing. Both are, of course, unfinished)

Story #1 Excerpt:
It could not have been worse for me, had she died. No. Dying is closure: an comprehensible finality. Death is easier. The reason I surrendered my comfortable existence grew from that nervous uncertainty, that fear stranger yet than the afterlife.
There is a land, they say, worse by far than death. A place to where a person once removed is forgotten. They become holes within the memories of lovers and friends and family. Like phantom limb itches, those fleeting memories cannot be dredged to the surface, yet eternally yearn to be remembered. Within this deathly limbo of pale fog, those taken wander aimlessly, screaming to be remembered, until they no longer know even themselves. They begin to lose their faces, turning grey and transparent, indistinguishable from ashes and mists swirling in that misty region. I could not bear the thought of her ending there.
Sometimes, I wish – no, believe, that life revolves around miracles like punch lines. The divine weaves elaborate victories from traumatic, climactic swellings. Life always seems to involve treacherous climbs up impossible and unlikely hills or mountains, a trying task, to find saving grace caught in the thicket at the summit, and the most gorgeous panorama of sky and trees and rivers and the journey taken: a journey worth the ending. I argue life without climbing through trials and tribulations towards heaven is like living in grey rooms with grey cushioned walls: safe, yet slowly suicidal.
For these very reasons and stranger subconscious beckonings, I sold my serenity for a battlefield. You’ll never find an oasis without a desert, or a summit without a mountain. And you’ll certainly never find true love in only introspection.

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-- following story would be 60% better with pictures. Matthew: draw some on paint and send them my way --

In the middle of a vast forest sat a walrus, and he was lost. So lost, in fact, was this walrus that he knew it not, but it itched behind his whiskers something fierce. As he sat beside his frog-filled pond, he couldn't but imagine this was not his lot. Harold's Pond, he called it, for he was Harold, and it was his pond. As the sun belly-crawled its way into the sky, Harold still couldn't divest the feeling that he belonged elsewhere.
Croaakck the frogs and toads garbled, hopping on their lily-pads and puffing out their chests in morning greeting.
"Good Morning, Fellows," bellowed Harold in his bluskery voice. Peering at his face in the pond, he brushed back his whiskers and wrinkled his nose, staring wistfully at the rippling sky.
"Top of the morning, Harold," the frogs ribbitted in reply.
They sat quietly, slowly contemplating the sun flickering through the breezy trees. Harold felt a new feeling surging through him, a movement, and even his whiskers hummed in expectation.
"Has Any Of You Ever Believed In Anything... More?" Harold rumbled, his voice echoing across the waters.
The frogs kvakked, berping in confusing.
"Thought Not," Harold grumbled. But Harold knew, in his ample gut, there was more, and today, he wanted to see it. And so, with considerable girth, Harold gathered a sack of his things and set off for the sage of the forest. If anyone knew what life was missing, surely the sage would know.
Harold had never seen the sage. Harold had never even left his glade. But everyone in the forest knew the sage had answers, and answers were what Harold needed.

(continued tomorrow?)

zen and not-zen words. mostly not.
don't walk when you should run
or jog when laying down
sometimes close your eyes to remember
the color of the sun
shut the blinds and realize the beauty outside home
stomp through puddles, 
or barefoot through muddy meadows
and cleanse your heart anon
fall in love, it may only offer once
dance the dares of distant dreams
until your end, the adventure's ne'er done
follow me, truly we are better two than one
and listen, closely dear, 
to the waves of a life begun



I missed two days of blog-writing on this most hectic of weekends. Thankfully my journal suffered not. On Thursday night, I was notified that a bachelor party would be taking place at my house, and one of my roommates was hosting. J was already leaving for Idaho with his girlfriend, so that meant I was stuck entertaining myself. Thankfully, soccer exists. Even then, arriving home at ten meant that I was arriving just as the roommates decided to step it up a notch in alcohol. I said my hellos and then sequestered myself away in my room. I did steal some pico de gallo and chips first. The revelry on the other side of my door was vaguely obnoxious, and managed to make both reading and writing difficult. I don't know how I managed sleep; I suspect it was divine providence.
The next morning, I picked blackberries and then scampered to a wedding, and another, and then returned home to bake a swift cobbler before crashing. Sunday I enjoyed a leisurely morning, went to church, and then went to A's Oregon reception. The wedding reception lasted from 1-3 according to the invite. I got back home at 10pm. I love those people.

Blackberry Season

(Ignore the tea, even though the birthday mug is delightful. Also, ignore the waterbottle and the computer cords, and the "everything-that-is-not-a-bowl-of-blackberries")




One of my favorite times of summer is fruit season. Just outside my doors, ripe plums hang from darkly violet (plum-colored, if you will) trees; grapes dangle from vines laced around wires; pear and apple trees lining the streets and in the fields sag under the weight of their ripening loads; figs, blueberries, raspberries, strawberries, each bush or tree laden with juicy antioxidants and vitamins (I mean fruit!) bundled in the sweetest of packages. And now blackberries.
Blackberries are my favorite. I think it is the competition with the brier requisite in retrieving the fruit. This morning, sunlight barely peaking over Rex Hill, I snatched the largest bowls I could find (optimistic), and wandered around town to find blackberry plants. First, I tried near the North Valley Friend's Church. Not much luck. The location I'd tried last year was mostly poisoned down (why, Newberg, why?) and after hopping my way between islands of thorny vines, I eventually find myself trapped in a prison of angry blackberries with berries tantalizingly out of grasp. And even the berries I found were dried out, or laced with angry spiders. I managed my escape with only a few handfuls of berries and some bloody ankles. Worth it. I ate most of these.
Next, I tried the river. The entire valley is fertile, but the river region is more so, for obvious reasons. These berries were by no means short on water. The best part was, a private, fenced off region with a barbed wire fence bordered some land, and the blackberries blithely climbed over the fence, allowing for a large quantity of freely given berries that did not require platemail and a broadsword to collect (which is good, because they don't make broadswords like they used to: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gwibf6t7Scc)

Ta-da, blackberries! I then made a cobbler, went to a wedding, and another. Now, of course, I'm ready to see A and S tomorrow, with gluten free dessert (the cobbler used magic not-flour flour).

Blackberry Poetry Section:
Sylvia Plath: (she always has a... dark side to her poetry. I appreciate it, but if I had been friends with her, I think I would have been worried. Still, it is about blackberries. You're welcome)
I cut off the last portion of the poem because Sylvia Plath got sidetracked from blackberries, and it just would not do. Next time, Plath, stay on the topic of delicious berries. Though, it is actually an interesting end to the poem. So I suggest you go read it anyway (I think here they have it: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/178965)

Blackberrying

Nobody in the lane, and nothing, nothing but blackberries,
Blackberries on either side, though on the right mainly,
A blackberry alley, going down in hooks, and a sea
Somewhere at the end of it, heaving. Blackberries
Big as the ball of my thumb, and dumb as eyes
Ebon in the hedges, fat
With blue-red juices. These they squander on my fingers.
I had not asked for such a blood sisterhood; they must love me.
They accommodate themselves to my milkbottle, flattening their sides.

Overhead go the choughs in black, cacophonous flocks—
Bits of burnt paper wheeling in a blown sky.
Theirs is the only voice, protesting, protesting.
I do not think the sea will appear at all.
The high, green meadows are glowing, as if lit from within.
I come to one bush of berries so ripe it is a bush of flies,
Hanging their bluegreen bellies and their wing panes in a Chinese screen.
The honey-feast of the berries has stunned them; they believe in heaven.
One more hook, and the berries and bushes end.

Legos

Many days, the outdoors captivated my attention: sweet smells of pine, maple and wet earth in the darker seasons; sunlight, hills, and fields of green in the sunny seasons. But, of course, some days were too cold, wintry and with a bone-chilling wind that sliced through any jacket. "Cat in the Hat" days, these were, though the insides of houses contain their own expeditions and adventures: building extravagant blanket forts or racing cars with epic gear-shifting noises, multi-floor golf with ping-pong balls and duplos goals, spider soccer, cards, and, of course, legos.

Downstairs, in a crotchety closet, board games are stacked from floor to ceiling, and, even better, building toys. Linkin logs, duplos, knex, legos, all labelled in their respective bins, bulging with colorful happiness awaiting design. Phil and I would clear space, a great, empty expanse in the floor, and lug out the giant plastic bin of legos, grunting with the effort. Then, all gleeful smiles and excitement, rain pattering at the windows and glupping from the eaves and gutters, we tipped over the bin, dumping all the legos into the clear. Phil would start constructing a racecar, all giant wheels and aerodynamic prospect. I'd daydream a castle, a spaceship, an underwater cavern, or a raid on a dragon's lair - a short story captured in a still of legos, beginning in the heat of battle before broiling to a swift, possibly bloody, resolution.

Today, I would think to myself, I'll build a spaceship. Oh, it would be magnificent! Sharp wings angling backwards like a fly, giving a sleek and speedy design, countless lasers arrayed in a deadly composition, a chaotic design making it difficult to disable all these neon weapons. It would have a glassy pilots den, a steering wheel driving system with several strange joysticks nearby, four giant, metallic engines in the rear, like an x-wing, only closer together, escape pods along the side, dangerous looking pirate-astronauts piloting the ship like true rebels, scoundrels each one.

Then, scarcely as I'd begun imagining, I'd dive into the pile, picking out every piece matching some ideal struct in my spaceship daydream.  This silver triangle might make a magnificent wing or this underwater piece might serve as an excellent escape-pod front-cover, and on and on. The problem was, this didn't stop. I'd find another piece that made the wing design more fantastic, a sleek-black piece more acutely angled and ideal for the shape of my wings, or a different color scheme of lasers that might make an excellent addition to the ship's underbelly, or 5 more possible designs for the escape pods, some with magnets or spinning parts, so the pirate-astronauts might man an escape pod and shoot lasers to ward off enemy fighters, or launch the escape pods as short-term ships in a small dog-fight. And, wow, this piece allows me to swivel my cockpit open in case I want a parachute-escape in space, or in an atmosphere - totally useful! I definitely want that piece. 

This continued until I'd developed quite a stockpile of pieces, all intrinsic portions of a tree of daydreams, branching out into the most epic of spaceships. So what if I built it it would have 10 wings, 50 lasers, a command center, two cockpits, seven engines, and a small fleet of escape pods. It was magnificent. Once I'd gathered all my prospective pieces, I'd glance over them with pride, a happy creator of the greatest spaceship of all time. Magnificent.

Then, I'd calmly place all my pieces back into the pile and be finished, having never built, nor even started, the spaceship at all. Often I might build a racecar with Phil and race away, never once looking back or considering my time wasted or my endeavor a failure. Why would I? I'd constructed the greatest spaceship of all time, even if it only existed within my head.

It was a long time until I discovered I've the same process with writing.  When I was a child, I read everything I could. When we were not playing games as a family, I was holing myself up in a corner under some blankets, listening to the rain and journeying into the worlds of imagination.  As a child, whenever I could, I constructed my own little worlds created from words, and invented phrases different characters might say, or clever plot twists. While every other child wanted to be a sports legend, an astronaut, a mad scientist, I wanted to be an author, right from the beginning. 

My greatest obstacle, which I found out later, was my legos mentality. I imagined all these great worlds, these deep, clever personas, fantastic settings of all types and colors, and even some crazy, unique stories, but I never wrote them down. I didn't have to, right? I knew what the story was, full of surprises and twists and witty repartee. Wrong.

Throughout high school, I wrote almost nothing of creative merit. I wrote my essays, lousy though they were, and never even bothered listening to teacher's criticism on my work. I got A's, didn't I? What could be wrong with my homework if I was still managing A's? It is a common mistake of teachers not granting the grades deserved, or marking down more for consistent errors not fixed, perhaps, but really it was my fault for not trying to improve. I disliked high school, because my preppy, tiny school contained cliques of friendships where I never felt I belonged. I had a few friends, but none I felt strongly attached to on leaving home for college. In fact, I maintained contact with almost none of them save through the barest of technological means. That's a rabbit hole.

So when I got to college, I received a rude awakening: I didn't know how to write. I had a magnificent vocabulary and enough credit from my SAT scores and AP scores to cover all of my general education classes, so I dove right into upper level courses. And got slaughtered on my first essays. "Where is your thesis?" "What is this paragraph structure?" "Where is the constancy in this philosophical assay?"  I had to start from scratch. Fortunately, I had a wealth of knowledge built up, so I wasn't dead in the water, but I was far behind expectations, and already suffering a brutal series of essay grades (B's - grades in this world are ridiculous.. do some professors feel bad about failing students?)

It took some time, but I harnessed my competitive nature and started collecting knowledge. I read every essay I could find, from celebrated authors like Orwell and Twain, or Swift and Nietzche, or Lewis and Thoreau. I read essays from my fellow students, asking them to share with me if they'd received stellar grades, and learning from their styles and patterns of thoughts. I consumed knowledge, and, before long, it paid off. All my essays began receiving exquisite marks, no longer suffering from significant grammar mistakes or syntactic and semantic holes.
Once again, I returned into my legos mentality, this time with a wealth of production knowledge backing it up - now it was useful. Not only could I imagine all the fantastic conceptions I might place into a story, but I could nurture my ideas into fruition. A seed of thought blossomed into a flowering essay, simple and effective. I've a lot of learning to go; I didn't learn everything there was to know in that short period, but at least I was no longer producing literary failures. I still have a long way to go, but I'm learning so many fantastic ways of arranging lego tiles that every new day is enlightening.

Time to invent some spaceships.