far away and all too near,
my thoughts dress a thousand shipwrecks -
shattered stained-glass windows
collected into a graveyard
of a colored cathedral smashed in our laps;
and through this pastel mass
I dance on magic toes that float
above every little death the sea holds.
an apology to the wind, I deny
its grasp on me, no one my master be,
I'm over the clouds the ocean breathes.
how silver and august the marine waves -
don't chastise me for flying defiantly
through a beautiful world whose spirit
comforts me, and carries me ever home
Summer’s ever so busy. People bustling like bees, believing
this to be the season of flowers, nectar, and dreams. And I’m behind where I
thought I’d be, and ahead. Every day breathes so carefully, like a child behind
a late-night couch where their parent watches tv, knowing they should be in bed,
but needing, feeding on the closeness and love of unknown proximity. Life is
tilting, and every time I shift my feet, everything else shifts. But I’m
thankful.
Everything is a balancing act, and I’m trying to decide how
to best navigate the things in life I need, want, and provide. And which should
be first? I always consider my giftings as the most important, but that should
not always be so. Perhaps never so, over my own needs. But what do I actually need? Most things are just wants. Other
than food, water, sleep, warmth, and hope, what do I actually require for
survival? My hope is in Christ, I’m well fed, sleep is iffy lately, but I’m
certainly getting almost a REM cycle a day (maybe), and summer keeps me very
warm. Everything after that is wants, cravings, and it feels greedy and selfish
to ever expect those over provision for other’s wants. But perhaps this, too,
is even not always so.
There is too little that is black and white that we try conforming
into that dualistic picture. When we see greys and colors, we mentally try to
collect them into black and white boxes for easier compartmentalization. Ems
and I discussed this for a moment after watching Les Mis, when contemplating
the suicide of Javert. When black and white justice acquires some semblance of
grey, when Jean Valjean displays kindness, mercy, and humanity, Javert loses
his pedestal of righteous judgment. His divine purpose is twisted, and his
entire life’s compartmentalization is unboxed, and like the Greek story of
Pandora, all his fears and nightmares are released.
Little is actually black or white, but that’s still what we
pretend to see. I, in particular, want a simple trigger clause for activity and
love, though such things cannot be applied. If so-and-so situation is this,
follow this list of directions; if so-and-so does this, reply with these exact
words. I don’t want to be a machine, but I sometimes internally fancy a set of
machine instructions. What a silly world I’ve constructed for myself.
And summer is ever so busy with the musings on such topics,
and the movements of life. Life is dancing, running away, and flirting with my
consciousness in such a way that I’m ever confused, bemused, and craving more.
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