Good Night.

I'm usually exhausted by this time of night, my mental state reduced to a lump of melting wax. I thought my transitory insomnia had dissipated for good, but it strikes again, playing its hand in spades. The mountains of my dreams are skull-capped in white, the trees garlanded with carnation lays, the birds decorating each with the wreaths, singing sweetly. The pond frogs hum the cadence of the morning, bagpipes, yes, that will do nicely. The grey sky drizzles its tears over the valley bowl, tears washing the feet of God, gently perfumed with the redolence of pine and floral exuberance.
Drink in this incense prayer, for mine are none so pretty, none so pretty indeed.
Singing, strumming at this guitar, staring down the flickering candle, wishing my voice wasn't drier than chalky beef jerky with a side of desert sand, raspy as those frogs might be, not in dreams. Ah, my idealism says my flats are just sharps from below, a piquancy of music, perhaps. Judge not my music, prithee, lay your hardness aside and your hearts before, and let's sing. Sing the songs of mountains, hills, deer, love, breeze between the leaves, dewdrops on flower petals, snowflakes on the rabbit's nose, hibernating bear, leaping fish in sunset's last green explosion, lunar eclipse on a night of naked joy, racing faster than every heartbeat. Let's sing, and remember what's good, and what's good night.



Discussions were good, this night. Enneagram conversations; psychology and competition discussions; dialogues over whether pumpkin, nutmeg, cinnamon, cloves, and apple-cider might mix into something tasty, or disastrous; people discussions. I think I'm fairly consistently learning how full of holes my psyche is. We walked through some patterns of psychological taxonomy, and I found myself nailed on almost every parameter, consistent even to the disregard of classification, the grave weakness shared by this psychological collection, the triumphs and hopes of this diagnosed individual. Yes, stuff me in a box, staple it closed, lock me in an attic, neat and disposed. But while I understood most of these things concerning myself, I have gleaned a few tidbits that were interesting. I'd explain what these were, but, unfortunately, my classification tends to secrete this sort of information away, and I cannot break free of this box...

Yom Kippur

Blessed are you, Lord our God, King of the universe, who sanctified us with His commandments, and commanded us to kindle the sabbath and Yom Kippur Candles

Blessed are you, Lord our God, King of the universe, who has kept us alive and sustained us and has brought us to this special time.


I've noticed through studies and reading and different interactions that each culture views God in a different manner. Almost every Jewish prayer begins like these two for Yom Kippur: baruch atah hashem, eloheinu melech ha'olam - Blessed are you, oh Lord our God, King of the universe. In fact, when writing out these prayers, the Jewish people often write out "ha shem" which means "the name" instead of the word for Lord, for fear of taking the Lord's name in vain. If you've ever seen G-d before, you know a Jewish writer is writing such to avoid actually spelling out the name of God. There is a lot of fearful respect there that I've always found a bit fascinating.
Anyway, it is Yom Kippur. The Day of Atonement for Christians is strange, as we don't receive our sanctification and redemption through priestly sacrifices (though the Jews do not either at this point).

Leviticus 16: Day of Atonement Text

Many of the traditional activities current Jews avoid are not found in that chapter, but in the Talmud and later writings. Wikipedia lists these as traditional, though I'll probably stay relatively Biblical:

No eating and drinking

No wearing of leather shoes

No bathing or washing

No anointing oneself with perfumes or lotions

No marital relations

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yom_Kippur

It is the one Biblical holy day that is a fast. Later, the celebration of Purim (Esther) includes a fast as well, though it was not an original holy day. I was sitting here and playing guitar, lighting candles (Jewish holy days all have candles. Light is a very important motif of Judaism), praying, thinking, and singing, and wondering what this day actually means for me. Is it like an Easter or Pesach? Thankfulness for God's sacrifice as our passover lamb? Or is it praise and thanks for the blessing of sanctification? I honestly cannot say quite what it means to me, and I've honestly never succeeded in keeping Yom Kippur. Last year, I was walking and praying and doing a fantastic job, when a whole row of blackberries tempted me when I was spacing out. I ate handfuls before realizing how stupidly I'd broken my fast.
Another traditional piece of Yom Kippur is the remembrance of those lost to us. This is another thing I'll be remembering.

Lyrique

Thunderstorms rage outside as I listen to melancholy musique, tearing up at the somber poetry and its symmetric outpour. Do not decry those tears; rain seeped through the window into my soul. I pen, in the silence that is the storm.
Where I stay up all night / And all that I write is a grey grey tune
Even the dim light of this laptop screen draws moths towards the window - night creatures eager for light. The bats soon swoop in for the feast. A great silk moth latches onto the window, and in my fright, I thought it a bat. Are they here for the light or the shelter beneath the eaves?
Are you looking for answers / to questions under the stars?
Dimly, the street lamps flicker through the valley beneath, illuminating needles of heavenly weeping falling onto unyielding asphalt. The souls of a thousand faces, spread across countless spaces, struggling, fighting, praying. I imagine a web of intersecting colors, illuminated by the cracks of lightning splitting this sky, a network of all our spiritual supplications. I read the Genesis, I read Psalms 23, I read Philippians 4, and I read Revelations 22. Listen, the storm is a song.
Oh I'll never know what makes this man
With all the love that his heart can stand
Dream of ways to throw it all away
Dreams collide, dreams of balloons and skies and transparent goodbyes, but distant, distant, as though a painting of a photograph of someone else's lives. It is a speculum of silver and stained glass, showing clearly nothing of love and hope and love, and the drums of the stormy night rage unending, though it is not rage, but the humming of bass strings.
All I ever learned from love / Was how to shoot somebody who outdrew you.
Small rivulets burn their whispering paths down the hills into the valley, into the creek in the hammock of the hills. I suspect the salmon leaping upstream to love and death, inextricably bound, mind this not. I can hear their splashes, a counterpoint. A coyote howls, an owl shrieks, the creatures stand still. But not the rain. I smile, and wonder what whispers the wind to comfort the clouds. May those words be carried far and fair this night.
Won't you come away with me tonight? /  We can fly past the moon and the starlight
What the water wants is hurricanes,  / and sailboats to ride on its back
And I ride the storm into slumber to swim with the salmon, gallop astride the lightning, and follow these rivers unto the vastness of the ocean, so I may gaze in its reflection and witness the sky.

And then, there are no words. Only the weeping of violins as bows breathe across silver strings.

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.

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.

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.

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. 

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.

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.