I'll love you always

How can you say, “I’ll love you always,” without crying? What instance of life must such words be used, with what persuasion, that tears are not implied? And the floodwaters rise, tonight, as I whisper these goodbyes. I’ll love you always.

Is someone dying, or leaving for a distant place, or hurting in unfathomable ways? I’ll love you always.

Is someone furious and threatening departure, or foreign to such words and ways, or depressed? I’ll love you always.

These are the words of Christ, dying for us, the words of Stephen as he’s stoned, the words of the father stolen away from his son, or the boy going to war, or friends setting sail for the new world, or two friends estranged by the beliefs of their fathers, or the tragic tale of two lovers in warring factions – I’ll love you always.

And these are the words on my life, as friends never forgotten set their weary feet upon far-reaching trails and step away, into the horizon, into the rising sun, into the wandering deserts and a promised land – I’ll love you always.

http://benjaminwblog.com/2014/07/ill-love-you-always/

Goodbyes, Deadlines

(http://benjaminwblog.com/2014/05/goodbyes-deadlines/)

I'm still recovering from people weekend. I had a fantastic time, I enjoyed every minute, and still at the end of the weekend, I'm left exhausted for days. Last night, I fell asleep at eight, and slept straight until 5am. The sun hadn't even set yet, nor yet for half an hour, and already I was collapsing in a heap, desperate for sleep. And as bad as that sounds, I really enjoy the peace of the morning. There is something sanctified about the silence of dawn and pre-dawn.

The moon hasn't fallen beneath the horizon and the stars are glittering still in the heavens, like an eye and freckles of the sky. Walking in such a morning is perfect prayer time, and I think, of late, there are plenty of things to pray about - maybe there always are. 

Today I did plenty of thinking on a number of topics. I'm moving soon, likely to just another portion of the same town. When I was checking out in Fred Meyer, I asked the cashier what his plans for the day were, and he said he was packing up and moving to McMinnville, and he was already exhausted from the moving process. It can be difficult packing up and moving, because we tend to accumulate. 

Glancing over my life today, I asked myself: what would break my heart to lose? What things would I not want to live without? 

I'm the present owner of a couple hundred books (maybe up to 600), and I admit to a certain sadness of losing those. My computer? There are millions of replacements. Clothes? Meh. I don't even own more than 5 shirts I regularly wear, and I think I have four pairs of pants, three of which look exactly the same. The only thing I'd actually really lament losing would be my journals. Everything else is replaceable, but those are history. 

It's like what Clooney said in the monuments men:

Lt. Frank Stokes: You can wipe out an entire generation, you can burn their homes to the ground, and somehow they’ll still find their way back. But if you destroy their history, you destroy their achievements, then it’s as if they never existed. That’s what Hitler wants, and that’s exactly what we’re fighting for. (Monuments Men - Movie)

Wiping out my writings over the past years would be removing my history, and that's the only thing I wouldn't want to live without. Even though I don't often pore over those notebooks, I like knowing they are there. I enjoy glancing back at my bookshelf and seeing  my section of journals, and knowing that my past heart is bled out on those pages.

It's like the legend of how a man arrived at a large expanse of water, and knowing of no way to cross it with his treasures in tow, he set out to build a raft. Upon building his raft, he set his possessions on the raft and rowed out into the waters. Through various storms and hard waters, by the time the man reaches his destination, he's had to jettison every last possession he'd originally placed on the raft. But that's the truth of nirvana, of heaven, anyway. Everything but who you are cannot be taken into eternity.

I'm reading Iron John, and Bly digs into what it means to be a holistic man in our present culture which diminishes the masculine.  As I read it, I can't help but imagine living as a pastoralist or a nomad - of remember what the wildman living is like in actuality. The mere thought is tranquil, reminiscent of Tehillim 23, lying beside still waters or roaming the abundant grasses of the hillsides. Even wandering through the shadows of the valley of death I imagine as more fulfilling than getting stuck in a life of stuff.

I've been thinking about all of these things because I'm reaching a deadline. A similar deadline has forced me to consider goodbyes. As I was drawing, today, I was contemplating the receding hills and imagining them as the crests and troughs of life.

Mountains should be climbed with as little effort as possible and without desire. The reality of your own nature should determine the speed. If you become restless, speed up. If you become winded, slow down. You climb the mountain in an equilibrium between restlessness and exhaustion. Then, when you are no longer thinking ahead, each footstep isn't just a means to an an end but a unique event in itself. This leaf has jagged edges. This rock looks loose. From this place the snow is less visible, even though closer. These are things you should notice anyway. To live only for some future goal is shallow. It’s the sides of the mountain that sustain life, not the top. Here's where things grow.

(Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance - Robert Pirsig)

I'm seeing my own walks among the mountains and the travelers I meet. I hate wandering around the edges of hills and losing sight of people; I hate knowing I might be saying goodbye to everyone I see - but I will. The things that I hate leaving behind, along every stage of life, are people, not materials. Every goodbye breaks my heart, because I know every bird must fly - I just wish it didn't have to always be so far.

I have amazing news for you. Man is not alone on this planet. He is part of a community, upon which he depends absolutely. (Daniel Quinn - Ishmael)

I love the idea of community, though we've manufactured, assembly-lined, overproduced, and made a mcdonalds of our community until there is nothing left, the original idea appeals to me. But we live in a world where it's easier to leave a community than to invest in one for a long period of time. We develop these communities that last only a couple of years, and expect to be filled and then pushed out of that nest into our next. Life is one bird's nest to the next, never learning how to fly because we never stay long enough to earn our wings. 

Truly, Mr. Hughes:

Hold fast to dreams

For if dreams die

Life is a broken-winged bird

That cannot fly.

Hold fast to dreams

For when dreams go

Life is a barren field

Frozen with snow. 

(Langston Hughes - Dreams)

soon goodbyes crucify but spring belief redeems
cottonseed blowing and even with
the grasses and tiny trees green,
I've forgotten spring, for the worries
lay heavy on my heart, more
than I let the light relieve,
and as the hills recede beneath
the clouds and setting evening -
I remember

http://benjaminwblog.com/?p=313

Stories and pieces

There's an art to it: letting go.
Or perhaps that's what art is. 
I'm a monkey, hand in jar, and craving
every candy, but I'm trapped
with full hands and an empty heart.
where every one is a child,
smiling, vested in filthy rags and hungry,
let them, too, find the world and love -
peace without me, or pieces
crushed in my unyielding clasp.
there is always a choice
there is often a goodbye
hello, mon ami, farewell.



I'm appreciating Ted Kooser more with each poem I read. He captures moments of time as exquisite pictures, as though he's frozen moments of ordinary and, by radically shifting our lens, transforms them into the extraordinary and the beautiful.  A female figure-skating into the future; an overweight fisherman becoming weightless in the moment of reverie, casting into the lake of peace; a poem within a poem on morning rushing over the hilltops.
I felt the need to cry and soak my tears into the moments of incredible joy, melding my experience into those poem-graphed. As Ted Kooser sends me skating, dreaming, trembling at the dawn soaring in like swooping hawks, and Robert Bly reminds me of the Virgin and her candles, and how a starfish is more than it seems, and how to unearth the mystery of the night. Poetry gently soothes me and I wish I could fly on these words and lift others off the earth with mine.
What a magic these poets possess - what pulchritudinous prowess.


-- I invented the word poem-graphed
-- I had to use the word pulchritudinous. It's the lumpiest word for beauty ever imagined. Like if I was writing a story from the perspective of toads, they wouldn't consider each other beautiful, but pulchritudinous.

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.

Trashy Tuesdays, Goodbyes, Veni Vici, Poem Ending

As a joke, I invented a day called `Trashy Tuesdays` wherein the roommates and I (at least a few) watch silly shows, eat lazy food, and stay up too late. Today was perhaps the last `Trashy Tuesday` as the roommate who cherishes Trashy Tuesdays the most will be getting married three weekends from now, and is moving into his new apartment tomorrow.
Despite his short term as roommate, he carved his place into the group as both a gentleman and scholar. I'm not good with goodbyes, so I hope it is not one.

In sophomore year, our spiritual motif was fourfold: men of devotion, men of healing, men of purity, men of conquest. For each of us, A picked a piece. Mine was "men of conquest". Odd, it seemed, at the time. While both D and I could claim to be introverts, J and A tended more towards the extroverted side of the spectrum (A claims he's an introvert - puh). Honestly, the rest of the group mattered little in A's choices; it only mattered that he got healing.
However, mine may have turned into a more accurate statement than he could have imagined at the time. I'm a fairly competitive person. It used to be much worse. Some of my parent's favorite stories are when, as a child, I wouldn't play games with the other children until I knew how to win, and then they wouldn't play games with me because I won so easily.
In high school, I always managed to be better than anyone else at whatever competitive game I chose to excel at. If I craved success at a game, I made sure I was the best at it before long. This extended beyond games into academics as well. A particularly prideful girl always got the top grades in our preppy high school, and flaunted her superiority. So I started studying. Before long, I had her beat in all the classes we shared. Conquest. In college, A invited me to play a new game with him. At the beginning of the semester, I was getting trounced. By the end, my skills were beyond his.
When my blood was raised, the bait was laid, I threw everything of me in until victory was assured. Not just winning, but clearly conquering. Once I won, I no longer recognized the need to win anymore - I knew I could do it, why continue proving myself? I maintained this sentiment until easily my junior year of college. Living with A certainly tempered my competition. He nurtured my love for community, for enjoying competing with those I loved dearly. (my normal conquest invited far less camaraderie, let me tell you. People hate losing over and over) A was always the wiser, the lover not the fighter.
There are different types of competitors. First, there is the angry type: those who, on losing, start throwing controllers, raging, hitting people, and taking vengeance in ways external to the game (likely after realizing their in game vengeance is not forthcoming). There is the natural, a person who appears to excel at all activities.  Third are those who excel due to a love of excellence at a particular activity. These characteristics can certainly carry over, and are by no means mutually exclusive. Then there is my brand of competition: the patient, the scholar.
I was not a natural, nor an angry gamer, nor even necessarily a lover of the competition I chose. I generally thrived on the competition more than the activity that drove it. When I discovered whatever it was I was to compete at next, I dove into the deep end of research immediately. What did I need to know? What were all the rules? Could the rules be bent? What ruts were current players stuck in that were irrelevant? Could I alter the meta-game? What was the psychology of each of the players, and how could I take advantage of that? Theory-crafting was my game, in the most opaque of ways.


---- I don't remember how I was going to end this. So I'll duck out.



Last poem before bed - an almost devotional poem, though I suspect it could be used romantically, I've never had the occasion:

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with a passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, --- I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! --- and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
~Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Now I'll go to sleep.