25 May 2009
14 May 2009
more love and rain
Writing out of freedom and not bondage is kind of like perfection.
Springtime rains do not make me miserable. Water falls from the sky in little drops, lots, all over, and it touches everything. There is nothing it does not find. Sometimes you can trick the rain by making it fall on something else before it gets to you, and you stay dry. But it takes so much effort to be completely not wet when it rains. It takes a lot of staying and covering. There is something beautiful about being the same person whether the rain has full access to you or not.
The ice storm ravaged us. It took limb from tree and dashed it to the ground. It thrashed the weak and bent the strong. It was grievous and tragic. Little did it know that life and love are stronger than death--the rain falls on everything, and there is so much green. Green is everywhere; new hope springs from the scars of the ruined.
It seems that being a person is a full-time job until others depend on you full-time. Then you work overflowing-time, and there is no way to do it unless lives are the same, twine together, love together, abide in the same Vine. There is no choosing your family, past nor future, but there is choosing to bend and live with them. There is no choosing whom, but there is choosing how. It takes so much dying to self, so much cutting off of those directions of self-will that try to sprout and grow--and it would be admirable and glittery to allow them and follow them, but so, so lonely. (Not killing those dreams of your heart that are true and right and divine, but trusting that they will come about in due time.) That is why love is so earthy and organic and gardeny. It hurts so good.
Sometimes the birds get at the strawberries even though you made chicken-wire covers for your pots. i know from experience. There is a lot that i write that i don't know from experience, i just look and see, and then think i have known. i hope there is some truth in it somewhere--how else am i to live? Living takes faith, i suppose. And writing does.
Where are you, voice?
Springtime rains do not make me miserable. Water falls from the sky in little drops, lots, all over, and it touches everything. There is nothing it does not find. Sometimes you can trick the rain by making it fall on something else before it gets to you, and you stay dry. But it takes so much effort to be completely not wet when it rains. It takes a lot of staying and covering. There is something beautiful about being the same person whether the rain has full access to you or not.
The ice storm ravaged us. It took limb from tree and dashed it to the ground. It thrashed the weak and bent the strong. It was grievous and tragic. Little did it know that life and love are stronger than death--the rain falls on everything, and there is so much green. Green is everywhere; new hope springs from the scars of the ruined.
It seems that being a person is a full-time job until others depend on you full-time. Then you work overflowing-time, and there is no way to do it unless lives are the same, twine together, love together, abide in the same Vine. There is no choosing your family, past nor future, but there is choosing to bend and live with them. There is no choosing whom, but there is choosing how. It takes so much dying to self, so much cutting off of those directions of self-will that try to sprout and grow--and it would be admirable and glittery to allow them and follow them, but so, so lonely. (Not killing those dreams of your heart that are true and right and divine, but trusting that they will come about in due time.) That is why love is so earthy and organic and gardeny. It hurts so good.
Sometimes the birds get at the strawberries even though you made chicken-wire covers for your pots. i know from experience. There is a lot that i write that i don't know from experience, i just look and see, and then think i have known. i hope there is some truth in it somewhere--how else am i to live? Living takes faith, i suppose. And writing does.
Where are you, voice?
08 May 2009
jolene
Some days i can't do anything right except stand in the rain and welcome the wet and welcome the wet. i'm sorry when it stops.
i still don't know what love means.
01 May 2009
human things: love and rain
Love is a real-life kind of thing. It's messy and difficult and involved and embarrassing and indescribably wonderful. It goes back to our roots, our trueness, our real selves, before there was any wrong or hurt in the world. It is the spiritual power of life--from organelles to ecosystems, from birth until death, we move by its currents. It is like many things in our conscious human world: not what we imagine, not the ideal, but better--natural, rough-edged, real-life. It's like finding an umbrella that was lost.
Rain falls on the just and the unjust. The best-laid sidewalks and landscaped beds and sculptures and picnic tables of men lie open-faced to the same deluge that untouched rocks and trees and woodland burrows know so well. A human-thing mystery. No man is not subject to the elements, even those who remain inside. The whole reason we have buildings is because of weather.
Anyone want to go puddle-splashing?
Rain falls on the just and the unjust. The best-laid sidewalks and landscaped beds and sculptures and picnic tables of men lie open-faced to the same deluge that untouched rocks and trees and woodland burrows know so well. A human-thing mystery. No man is not subject to the elements, even those who remain inside. The whole reason we have buildings is because of weather.
Anyone want to go puddle-splashing?
26 April 2009
no not one
There's not a friend like the lowly Jesus. It's wonderful to know that solitude doesn't have to be lonely. How often i live there in spite of this, believing the lie that one more thing will allow me to truly rejoice--companion, possession, situation, attitude, accomplishment, adventure--when, truly, these things will be added when i'm not seeking them, but the Kingdom. I feel so dense that this comes alive to me just now, when i've been reciting Matthew 6:33 and expounding upon this principle for many years. But isn't that the point of life: to go on learning and toiling and discovering? And that keeps us humble and mutually teachable if we're willing. There is no human being alive who does not have more to learn--if only we would look at each face we encounter through that lens!
Speaking of learning, i have to have an opinion about who is to blame for the Holocaust within the next two hours (one reason why i'm writing here instead of the Word document that's right behind). I don't want to talk about it, i want to weep about it! I want to weep and weep. I'm not good at weeping. My heart gets detatched sometimes--many times that i wish it was pained enough for tears to flow. Most of my sadness is selfish and vain.
But for now, the beginning of the last week of the last semester of Junior year. All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.
Speaking of learning, i have to have an opinion about who is to blame for the Holocaust within the next two hours (one reason why i'm writing here instead of the Word document that's right behind). I don't want to talk about it, i want to weep about it! I want to weep and weep. I'm not good at weeping. My heart gets detatched sometimes--many times that i wish it was pained enough for tears to flow. Most of my sadness is selfish and vain.
But for now, the beginning of the last week of the last semester of Junior year. All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.
30 March 2009
human things: independence and tragedy
Rigoberta Menchu won the 1992 Nobel Peace Prize because she lived with her eyes open and then did something about it.
Sometimes, when we least expect it, we are given the freedom we've been waiting for.
i didn't realize how important it was to hear affirming words from people in authority over me. The turning point to my week--and probably to my semester--was my professor's "you are a good student" and "you're motivated," because i didn't think i was. Not truly in my bones i didn't. But now i know, and everything that was a struggle before--just stuff like studying and getting homework done--is so much easier now.
The other day i put my three herb-sprouted pots outside before the overnight rain. When i looked out the window after business of a day, the realization hit--there were only two in that cardboard on that rail. i ran down the deck stairs and to the ruins of basil-dirt.. the pot was intact, but i had no idea where the baby seeds were. i didn't hold back tears because i wasn't crying but i felt like i should. It was one of those moments where the depravity of the world, of accidental mishap that has life-quenching consequences, created a beautiful sorrow in me like tragedy in real life. I know it was just a few seeds, but doesn't everything feel that way that isn't how it Should be?
Rainy days make me a little bit tragic and a lot pensive. Sunny days make me joyful with a hint of longing. It seems that most people i talk to are affected by the weather in some pattern like that.
Days come and go and keep coming and going. There's an unknown number of them.
Adding to the list:
-the need to be affirmed
-tragedy
-mood changes based on weather
-finity of life
Sometimes, when we least expect it, we are given the freedom we've been waiting for.
i didn't realize how important it was to hear affirming words from people in authority over me. The turning point to my week--and probably to my semester--was my professor's "you are a good student" and "you're motivated," because i didn't think i was. Not truly in my bones i didn't. But now i know, and everything that was a struggle before--just stuff like studying and getting homework done--is so much easier now.
The other day i put my three herb-sprouted pots outside before the overnight rain. When i looked out the window after business of a day, the realization hit--there were only two in that cardboard on that rail. i ran down the deck stairs and to the ruins of basil-dirt.. the pot was intact, but i had no idea where the baby seeds were. i didn't hold back tears because i wasn't crying but i felt like i should. It was one of those moments where the depravity of the world, of accidental mishap that has life-quenching consequences, created a beautiful sorrow in me like tragedy in real life. I know it was just a few seeds, but doesn't everything feel that way that isn't how it Should be?
Rainy days make me a little bit tragic and a lot pensive. Sunny days make me joyful with a hint of longing. It seems that most people i talk to are affected by the weather in some pattern like that.
Days come and go and keep coming and going. There's an unknown number of them.
Adding to the list:
-the need to be affirmed
-tragedy
-mood changes based on weather
-finity of life
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)