Introvert Sabbath

http://benjaminwblog.com/2014/07/introvert-sabbath/

Life has a way of sneaking up on you. You can either be a predator, or the prey, and you are not locked into the food chain of being. I think I’m woolgathering much, of late. I feel as though I’m one of those tribesmen mentioned in the Golden Compass who drill holes in the roofs of their skulls to collect dust. The magic-manna is falling from the heavens, and I’m gathering it where I must. It’s all very surreal, where I am. The skies are so elegant blueblueblue, and as I drove up Rex Hill, I marveled at the magnificent range of greens supplied by all the different trees. The darker pines and firs, the spring-bright verdancy of the maples and poplars, the darker edge of the oaks, the almost yellow hint on the aspens, the silver underbellies or the leaves on the bushes at the base of the mighty trees – greens arrayed all before me, side-by-side all reaching for the sky-lights.

But I’m woolgathering, as the world is beautiful and bright, and I’m spinning in circles as life shark-swims around me, preparing its strike, though I believe that I am the predator here. And in this time of new relationship, house, people, places, busyness, summer, Oregon, sunshine, earth, friends, books, thoughts, I’m discovering so many difficult and beautiful things.

I’m learning that relationships have a seemingly selfish component. That is, that relationship means I have to share my feelings, opinions, and desires, instead of merely seeking to fulfill the wishes of those I love. Not that that is a lousy tendency, and it is one that relationships in general tend to enjoy, but that a healthy relationship requires a certain reciprocity of giving and reception. You cannot simply give, but must receive and share also.

Because of this, I’m learning what it means to explain, carry, and examine feelings. I’m such an individualistic person that I’m quite capable of hiding these things so deeply inside of me that I only ever bless others, and never expect anything in return. I grew up lying so that I didn’t have to share these feelings, and though I stopped doing so in college, understanding that lies are not a firm foundation for honest friendships, I’m still playing my cards so close to my chest that it’s difficult to remember what showing them is like.

I’ve learned, again, how little things can be important, and even if I don’t value them, others might. Isn’t that the nature of reality? One man’s trash is another’s treasure?

Life is sneaking up on me, but I think I see it coming. It’s none so stealthy as it believes, and it never leaves, truly, only schemes another angle of assault. And I’m learning, living, loving, and laughing through life, and every day the Spirit intercedes for me in my weakness (with groanings too deep to utter).

But that’s enough babbling for one evening. I’m exhausted, but pleased. Sabbath Sunday: success. Even if much of it was cleaning, it was still sufficiently introverted in all the necessary ways.

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.

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.

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.

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. 

My Hope is in the Lord

Zephaniah 3:17 The LORD your God is in your midst, a mighty one who will save; he will rejoice over you with gladness; he will quiet you by his love; he will exult over you with loud singing.

Shabbat Shalom, everyone. I admit that, sometimes, the busyness of life prevents me from taking needed Sabbath breaks. "The Sabbath was made for man, not man for the Sabbath." I used to believe this meant that as long as we *could* keep going, Sabbath wasn't requisite. This is true, in some sense. But if you ask any authentic Jewish man what the most sacred of holidays is, he won't answer Pesach (Passover) or Yom Kippur (the day of Atonement), or Rosh Hashanah (feast of trumpets), but the Sabbath.  It was the first holy day, set apart from the dawn of creation.

Another interesting point is that "holy day" and the word for "festivals" in the Bible can be translated appointment. I was reading an interesting book on Messianics (Jewish Christians), and it mentioned how the festivals and holy days were greater than simply vacations from work, they were, and are for many Jews still, appointments with God. And the Sabbath is the greatest of these. I wouldn't miss a dentist appointment, or a doctor's appointment, or even an appointment for a phone call, but, many weeks, I so blithely ignore an appointment with God? I go to Church, I read my Bible, I philosophize about theoretical Christianity, and, when possible, I try to share my beliefs, but there is something intrinsically fantastic about an appointment with God.

I'll explain it this way. I'm something of an introvert.  5 years ago, when taking the Meyer Briggs test, I scored over 90% in all my categories, one of which was introversion. Years later, my score has dropped more towards the median point, a bit, but suffice it to say that shyness understates my original introversion. I was downright petrified of group situations. So in Church, the times I most feared were greeting times. A whole bunch of smiling faces mingling and sharing tiny tidbits of their lives - not my favored activity. It was almost a nightmare. (this has all changed to some degree) Once I started talking to any individual, I immediately felt more comfortable, as if I'd entered into a zone of communication, and fenced off outside elements. So yes, stamp me an introvert and ship me into a corner with a book. 

In the same way, giant group Bible studies and open-speaking scenarios frighten me. I'd rather talk to individuals, small groups (small = 2-3). I'd rather interact with people on a personal level, so why not God? I like the idea of Sabbath because I can choose a personal appointment with God, I can meet with God with friends, I can rest in a meditative contemplation of a divine who has tucked me under his wings, congratulating me for a week well done.

There aren't many weeks where I'm destroyed by the end. My job is gentle, and I've time in my life on the side for writing, reading, playing in the great outdoors, friends, and so on. But I still desire a specific time where I can rest, Sabbath, in the Lord. I can appoint a time where it's Yeshua and I. And when the week is tough, and there appears to be no path of escape, no solution for problems, no winning an intractable situation, God speaks those words from Zephaniah into my ear. And then I always hear my favorite verse: "Let your gentle spirit be known to all men. The Lord is near." (NASB)

Let your hope rest on the Lord, He is near. Shabbat Shalom.

Muse and Music

Etymology is a secret passion of mine. Super secret. I admit that I never liked taking Latin in my preppy middle school life, and only later realized how efficacious Latin can be in "guessing" meanings or deriving understanding with knowledge of roots. One of the recent words I glanced into was music. The obvious root word here is the same as that for muse: "Mousa", or even "Musa" (Greek and Latin respectively).
The muses were the 9 Goddesses of literature, art, and sciences.
The suffix -ic generally just means "of" or "about" or even "pertaining to". If you use the word "acerbic"(root word acerbus: bitter, sour), adding the suffix means "pertaining to sour" or "of sour taste", if you will. It might be easier to see with alcoholic: pertaining to alcohol. Music, therefore, is pertaining to the muses. The most well known example of muse was perhaps in Homer's Odyssey.
"Tell me, O muse, of that ingenious hero who traveled far and wide after he had sacked the famous town of Troy."
Music, then, pertains to those domains of the goddesses aforementioned: literature, art, sciences. There was a belief, or a mythos, that literature, art, and the sciences stemmed from these nine goddesses. Homer was being inspired into his musical rendition of Odysseus' travels. I love music, but it is not where I'm inspired. I delight in violin compositions, classical orchestras, folk traditions and the many and varied forms music assumes in our diverse cultures. Every now and again, when no one is home and the sky's turned dark and speckled with stars, I retreat into my room and light some scented candles, unpack my guitar from its casket, and pluck at the strings until I imagine I'm singing with the heavens.
My artistry regarding music is limited, but I see it everywhere. I see it in the stars as I approach the valley: twinkling, celestial lights spanning the twilight sky; I see it in summer trees, spring rains, winter fireplaces and blankets while charcoal clouds sprinkle outside; and in the autumn colors. I think that's why I appreciate the Silmarillion, and its metaphorical beginnings.
But certain nights exist, certain times, when the original music seems... closer. When the harp strings of heaven and the fluting of earth assemble in ensemble, and walking outside you forget that your bones are tired from running around - a long week. When you forget, even, those trivial worries that plague our everyday, and live. I can imagine myself anywhere in the world, with these stars, staring up and seeing nothing besides. On the cliffs of Scotland, waves breaking against stone beneath; in the heights of South America, among the ruins of Machu Pichu as an anachronism stuck between the ancient and the now; in the steppe of Mongolia, endless grassy fields and hills; in the desert dunes, cooling sands on all sides.
I'm everywhere, I'm nowhere, I'm between sleeping and waking, and the Sabbath rest begins.