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.