One time I had this dream about you. Or you were in it at least.
We were spending time together, I remember, which was as wonderful as it is rare. We were laughing as we always do, whenever chance happens that we’re in similar geography at the same time. Even as I write this I can hear your laugh. It’s a deeper, more mature version of the laugh I knew you to have when we were kids. The way you scrunch up your nose a bit and slap your leg and lean forward....I love it.
For some reason, I believe it was a Sunday and I was headed to church that evening. At least I believe it was in the evening because as I recall we had spent that day together and it was dark outside--that moment when it’s just enough past dusk for the street lights to illuminate.
I remember you--being the “people person” that you are and always setting aside whatever else for them--of course said you’d go with me to church. I really don’t even remember asking but maybe I did.
You and I were raised very much the same. And for years, very much together as well. Something happened, it hurt so bad. I think I’ll probably never know as long as we’re here exactly what occurred, but it certainly rendered our paths increasingly diverged. It wasn’t until much later, both trying to accomplish a similar goal that those paths, albeit briefly, wove back together again momentarily. I knew the fabric from which you were cut and fashioned; the fabric of your family. I knew it well, I knew as I do still so well what it was like in the home where you grew up. I was close to another member of the family and I always looked at you as another brother. I wish now that you and I had spent more time together in those days just the two of us.
So, I knew what church-going once meant for both of us, coming from such a melded and congruous background. And I wondered then, once again about your present lifestyle and what circumstances and choices had brought you to where you were at. A place where you weren’t truly happy anymore. The joy I remember exploding from your talented self when we were kids wasn’t there anymore. The laugh, as I mentioned, was. But it was different. If anybody knew how you’d changed, I did. I was such a fixture in your family in a way--whether it was healthy or not. I knew you weren’t happy anymore and it made me ache ineffably. I wondered too, how you were able to mesh your current place in life with your past to which in many ways you still ideologically adhered. And I wondered what going to church with you would be like. It wasn’t a “wonder” in any way except “curious”; and knowing myself, I was probably even in my dream thinking ahead to conversations that I could foresee based on the experience.
We walked. The church met in a school. I think we were in Portland. I don’t know what church it was either. I’m not even sure I had ever been to the church before. I don’t remember. I remember, though, arriving there on foot. Laughing, we were enjoying each other’s company and as we were approaching the building you stopped for a moment. We were still a bit of a ways from the edifice itself, but we were strolling through the courtyard. I’m not sure if this building in my mind’s eye even exists except in this dream of mine, but the courtyard was a bit of a modern sculpture (used in the loosest of terms) garden. When I finally noticed your halt, I was mid-chuckle and I turned around to see what could have detained your usually lanky (and lengthy) stride....I also remember hearing faint singing coming from inside the school building. It was chilly, and I wanted to get inside.
I’ll never forget this in my dream, the expression of fear on your face. I was kind of shocked, I remember. I didn’t see this coming. You were staring at the entrance to the church, stricken. And shaking your head. I think I was still recovering from laughing when I asked whatever could the matter be, coaxing you to come on in the same sentence. You began to utter “no” to me while still assuming a posture of terror. I didn’t understand. I did but I didn’t. My lingering mirth quickly melted, naturally. I felt as if I were getting a glimpse into....
I don’t remember the end of the dream. I don’t remember if I left you and went to "church" or if I stayed with you and we both “played hooky” or what. I’m sure if we had, there would have been coffee involved. Or something. I don’t remember how it ended. I do remember eventually waking up, with that same ineffable ache that reminds me that I love you very much, that you’re not truly happy, and that I do want, so very very much something inexorably better for you in your life. I woke up feeling this. And wondering....
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Friday, October 30, 2009
Prologue & Maybe
Maybe....Yeah. Maybe. I talked to my sister today about some drama in which I somehow unwillingly ended up recently. The saga seemed to drone on and then it was said: “Maybe it’s for such a time as this.”
Hm. Maybe. It’s true, it really is. It could very well be that this situation in which I find myself is one of the reasons that I was supposed to be in Alaska this winter. It probably is. If anything, I need to be learning from it what I can and that of course is a “reason” to be up here--if not a repercussion of my current geography. Who knows at the moment. Choose growth, right?
I guess I’m at the place where I want to try living my life in such situations with the attitude that, really, who knows at any given moment why I go through what I’m go through--good or not. He knows. And that’s cool. My dad once said that if he’s learned anything in life, it’s that just about everything in life is a “prologue” for something else. In my short 25 years, I’ve already seen a bit of that.
Even in these last two weeks, I’ve realized more definitely how a few experiences I’ve had were prologues for where I’m at now, or where I hope to be.
I’ve been surprised at how my last two years’ experiences being a consist manager have informed my substitute teaching and classroom “skills” or whatever you want to call it. Really surprised. Surprised in a good way, but I can now see why I wasn’t supposed to be up here subbing last year when I wanted to be: I wasn’t ready. My maturity level wasn’t there. I hadn’t any idea at that point. But He knew better. Thankfully.
Also, maybe (there’s that word again) my experience here as a substitute teacher is a prologue for teaching in France. Maybe, though, only maybe. If not that, it’s surely a prologue for something else. And I’m OK with that, because I’m learning that this whole “prologue” idea can be exciting because it gives me a perspective that says that everything that I do is worthwhile if I’m listening and paying attention to Whom I should be.
Everyone needs to feel significant. We’re wired that way. I guess this prologue hypothesis is beginning to fit into and become a piece of this puzzle I pass my existence trying to fit together called my significance. Maybe....I’ll probably be chewing on it for a while. Maybe.
Hm. Maybe. It’s true, it really is. It could very well be that this situation in which I find myself is one of the reasons that I was supposed to be in Alaska this winter. It probably is. If anything, I need to be learning from it what I can and that of course is a “reason” to be up here--if not a repercussion of my current geography. Who knows at the moment. Choose growth, right?
I guess I’m at the place where I want to try living my life in such situations with the attitude that, really, who knows at any given moment why I go through what I’m go through--good or not. He knows. And that’s cool. My dad once said that if he’s learned anything in life, it’s that just about everything in life is a “prologue” for something else. In my short 25 years, I’ve already seen a bit of that.
Even in these last two weeks, I’ve realized more definitely how a few experiences I’ve had were prologues for where I’m at now, or where I hope to be.
I’ve been surprised at how my last two years’ experiences being a consist manager have informed my substitute teaching and classroom “skills” or whatever you want to call it. Really surprised. Surprised in a good way, but I can now see why I wasn’t supposed to be up here subbing last year when I wanted to be: I wasn’t ready. My maturity level wasn’t there. I hadn’t any idea at that point. But He knew better. Thankfully.
Also, maybe (there’s that word again) my experience here as a substitute teacher is a prologue for teaching in France. Maybe, though, only maybe. If not that, it’s surely a prologue for something else. And I’m OK with that, because I’m learning that this whole “prologue” idea can be exciting because it gives me a perspective that says that everything that I do is worthwhile if I’m listening and paying attention to Whom I should be.
Everyone needs to feel significant. We’re wired that way. I guess this prologue hypothesis is beginning to fit into and become a piece of this puzzle I pass my existence trying to fit together called my significance. Maybe....I’ll probably be chewing on it for a while. Maybe.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Sometimes
Sometimes, maybe you just have beauty to offer. Or something like that. Sometimes, maybe you’re just in somebody’s life to prove to them something that you have no idea about.
Sometimes, people get jaded. Especially by other jaded souls. Sometimes you might just cross somebody’s path to prove to them or even just remind them that “jaded” doesn’t have to be a lifestyle, but that He is what it’s about.
Sometimes just a little bit of different is all people need to see in you. You have no idea why, but things happen for a reason, and there’s always a reason somebody crosses you’re path. Though, this fact is not always deserving of too much (over)analyzation. Just choose Him daily and wait....
Hang in there. It'll make sense someday. It might not be here, but just choose Him daily and wait. It'll be worth it. I promise.
Sometimes, people get jaded. Especially by other jaded souls. Sometimes you might just cross somebody’s path to prove to them or even just remind them that “jaded” doesn’t have to be a lifestyle, but that He is what it’s about.
Sometimes just a little bit of different is all people need to see in you. You have no idea why, but things happen for a reason, and there’s always a reason somebody crosses you’re path. Though, this fact is not always deserving of too much (over)analyzation. Just choose Him daily and wait....
Hang in there. It'll make sense someday. It might not be here, but just choose Him daily and wait. It'll be worth it. I promise.
Friday, September 25, 2009
To Moses.
Dear Moses,
I can’t get you out of my head. I keep reading about you, and your life blows my mind. I imagine it probably blew your own at times.
I just wonder sometimes. I wonder a lot, but I wonder what was going on in your head and between the brief lines that I read. I know that it’s partly due to the fact that brevity is token of the Hebrew language, but I find myself scratching my head and struggling to take the account of your life found in the Pentateuch at solely face value. What went on between those beautiful and all too clipped lines? What crossed your mind when you saw that burning bush? Did God ever just make you want to cuss? How often did He frustrate you and blow your mind? What rage did you truly feel right before you heard those infamous stones crack? What was it like to be frustrated about and for an entire nation? What was it like to bear Israel on your shoulders so much as you did? Did you ever get so tired of everything that you just wanted to curl up and take a nap and forget about it for a while?
Did you have any idea, growing up, that you would end up being such an instrument of such great things? Any idea at all? Your brother Aaron and your sister Miriam, what did they see in you? What did they think of all the turns that your life took, and theirs too, as a result? Did they know that you were great? Were you great? Or did you just let God do great things with you? How does that work, anyway?
One of the things that has struck me reading about you this time around is the part of the story when your father-in-law comes back into play. He’s impressed with you and God's accomplishments through you, but he also offers some wisdom: that you needed to find some help within Israel to bear the burdens of the people. I guess it’s one of the early foreshadows in the Old Testament of how the Church was one day supposed to function. Interesting how that wisdom came from an apparent “gentile”. But anyway, that moment demonstrates that the responsibility which you were born to carry wore on you from time to time. Your father-in-law was able to pick up on it. I know you were human. It just hard to believe sometimes when I look at the feats accomplished in your lifetime.
I guess when I read your story, one thing that I lose sight of is the lapse of time between the lines and between point A and point B. Over a century passes in the story and after the Exodus and the construction of the Tabernacle, nothing happens with haste--with exception of that Tabernacle itself. That first year out of Egypt was quick and huge, but after that things intensely slow down. But, is that because Israel as a people did not seek His Best and settled for Good?
Those Israelites seem so short-sighted, anyway you read it. I know you knew that better than anyone except Yahweh. But then, is that just human? Or, was there something particular about their impulsiveness that attracted God and made Him choose them? Or did He fashion them that way from the beginning on purpose? Did you ever even wonder that and ponder questions like that? I don’t get it, that’s for sure. But it’s beautiful--because He makes it so, since that's His way. Hm.
I’ve learned a lot of things from your story. But I’ve come away with a couple of major things. First, I want to know Him like you did. You knew a God more emotional and intimate than I can even imagine at this point. I keep thinking of a molten bush that wasn’t really burning and a torrent of wind flying by a mountain--and you hidden in a strategic crevice so as not to die....Death by contact with holiness, would that the most truly painful of all?
I keep thinking of that moment you put your foot down, in the desert sand, with God and told Him that you might as well perish right on that spot before you’d go anywhere without Him. You and/or His people. A moment amazing and awful, in the truest sense of the word. And He listened, and changed His mind. Did I mention that this all blows my mind? I feel I have no other terms in which to couch my nearly speechless awe regarding my literary observations of the relationship that you shared with my--our God.
This intimacy demonstrated also brings me to that other thing I’ve come away with from your story. I’ve learned that God is an emotional God. And it’s not a weakness. He’s a God who can know the outcome of everything, that is, the end of everything--but He still chooses to experience and feel every last facet of the means. And He still thinks it’s all worth it. We are still worth it to Him. I can’t shake growing realization in my soul of the ramifications of such an aspect of His character. Process is such a part of Him. Scary and, once again, beautiful.
But, this has been brought to my attention more than once because of your story and because of the nature of your relationship with Him. Thank you for that. Thank you for living your life so that you could get there with Him. It proves, in a way, that it can be done and that we just don't. This said, our priorities these days are sorrowfully out of whack. But then, when in the history of humanity haven't they been, I suppose?
You’ve taught me much, Moses. I hope I can keep gleaning more from your profound and difficult story every last time I come back to it. Thank you for the life you lived and I’m sorry to you and every one whose lives lived deeply for our Creator have been taken for granted over the centuries and millennium. It’s so trite and naive to even say, but maybe I’ll “get it” one day. I guess it just probably won’t be here when that happens, hey? Well, anyway, I can’t wait to meet you.
So, with barefoot respect and until one day--
T. Emerson
I can’t get you out of my head. I keep reading about you, and your life blows my mind. I imagine it probably blew your own at times.
I just wonder sometimes. I wonder a lot, but I wonder what was going on in your head and between the brief lines that I read. I know that it’s partly due to the fact that brevity is token of the Hebrew language, but I find myself scratching my head and struggling to take the account of your life found in the Pentateuch at solely face value. What went on between those beautiful and all too clipped lines? What crossed your mind when you saw that burning bush? Did God ever just make you want to cuss? How often did He frustrate you and blow your mind? What rage did you truly feel right before you heard those infamous stones crack? What was it like to be frustrated about and for an entire nation? What was it like to bear Israel on your shoulders so much as you did? Did you ever get so tired of everything that you just wanted to curl up and take a nap and forget about it for a while?
Did you have any idea, growing up, that you would end up being such an instrument of such great things? Any idea at all? Your brother Aaron and your sister Miriam, what did they see in you? What did they think of all the turns that your life took, and theirs too, as a result? Did they know that you were great? Were you great? Or did you just let God do great things with you? How does that work, anyway?
One of the things that has struck me reading about you this time around is the part of the story when your father-in-law comes back into play. He’s impressed with you and God's accomplishments through you, but he also offers some wisdom: that you needed to find some help within Israel to bear the burdens of the people. I guess it’s one of the early foreshadows in the Old Testament of how the Church was one day supposed to function. Interesting how that wisdom came from an apparent “gentile”. But anyway, that moment demonstrates that the responsibility which you were born to carry wore on you from time to time. Your father-in-law was able to pick up on it. I know you were human. It just hard to believe sometimes when I look at the feats accomplished in your lifetime.
I guess when I read your story, one thing that I lose sight of is the lapse of time between the lines and between point A and point B. Over a century passes in the story and after the Exodus and the construction of the Tabernacle, nothing happens with haste--with exception of that Tabernacle itself. That first year out of Egypt was quick and huge, but after that things intensely slow down. But, is that because Israel as a people did not seek His Best and settled for Good?
Those Israelites seem so short-sighted, anyway you read it. I know you knew that better than anyone except Yahweh. But then, is that just human? Or, was there something particular about their impulsiveness that attracted God and made Him choose them? Or did He fashion them that way from the beginning on purpose? Did you ever even wonder that and ponder questions like that? I don’t get it, that’s for sure. But it’s beautiful--because He makes it so, since that's His way. Hm.
I’ve learned a lot of things from your story. But I’ve come away with a couple of major things. First, I want to know Him like you did. You knew a God more emotional and intimate than I can even imagine at this point. I keep thinking of a molten bush that wasn’t really burning and a torrent of wind flying by a mountain--and you hidden in a strategic crevice so as not to die....Death by contact with holiness, would that the most truly painful of all?
I keep thinking of that moment you put your foot down, in the desert sand, with God and told Him that you might as well perish right on that spot before you’d go anywhere without Him. You and/or His people. A moment amazing and awful, in the truest sense of the word. And He listened, and changed His mind. Did I mention that this all blows my mind? I feel I have no other terms in which to couch my nearly speechless awe regarding my literary observations of the relationship that you shared with my--our God.
This intimacy demonstrated also brings me to that other thing I’ve come away with from your story. I’ve learned that God is an emotional God. And it’s not a weakness. He’s a God who can know the outcome of everything, that is, the end of everything--but He still chooses to experience and feel every last facet of the means. And He still thinks it’s all worth it. We are still worth it to Him. I can’t shake growing realization in my soul of the ramifications of such an aspect of His character. Process is such a part of Him. Scary and, once again, beautiful.
But, this has been brought to my attention more than once because of your story and because of the nature of your relationship with Him. Thank you for that. Thank you for living your life so that you could get there with Him. It proves, in a way, that it can be done and that we just don't. This said, our priorities these days are sorrowfully out of whack. But then, when in the history of humanity haven't they been, I suppose?
You’ve taught me much, Moses. I hope I can keep gleaning more from your profound and difficult story every last time I come back to it. Thank you for the life you lived and I’m sorry to you and every one whose lives lived deeply for our Creator have been taken for granted over the centuries and millennium. It’s so trite and naive to even say, but maybe I’ll “get it” one day. I guess it just probably won’t be here when that happens, hey? Well, anyway, I can’t wait to meet you.
So, with barefoot respect and until one day--
T. Emerson
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Autumn. TBC...
As winter hushes all growth enthused,
Same way spring hopes to growth infuse,
And summer basks in growth abounding,
So autumn offers pause resounding.
Contraries make known a vast array
Such contrasting autumn’s artful day--
Between the stance of summer’s verdance
And a whiter, colder winter’s cadence.
Fall further dims summer’s already dusk
Distracting any path to winterlust
Golden to orange to crimson flushing--
Formerly muted hues now boldly blushing....
-T. Emerson
Same way spring hopes to growth infuse,
And summer basks in growth abounding,
So autumn offers pause resounding.
Contraries make known a vast array
Such contrasting autumn’s artful day--
Between the stance of summer’s verdance
And a whiter, colder winter’s cadence.
Fall further dims summer’s already dusk
Distracting any path to winterlust
Golden to orange to crimson flushing--
Formerly muted hues now boldly blushing....
-T. Emerson
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Studio Dialogue II
“I’m getting to the point where I think I’m getting used to it, You know?” The Canvas stretched her little self a bit while opening yet another dialogue with her beloved Artist.
“Used to what, my dear?” He replied.
“Um...used to not knowing what exactly You’re doing on Your side. I guess that’s how you’d put it. But that doesn’t mean I like it. Though I wish it did mean that."
Smiling, the Painter nodded His head, intimating that He understood where she was coming from but still quiet.
“Like, every once in a while I get glimpses of what You’re doing. But really, they’re more like glimpses of what You were doing when a certain color was happening or a texture was being made, like we were talking about before. And then, it’ll make a bit of sense why I needed to go through it and it makes me so grateful that I did.”
She took a little breath and tried to think about her words for a moment before she went on.
“So, I guess what I’m saying is that I love it when You sometimes show me just a little sliver of the image that I am right now. Like You said before, I’ll never know what I’m going to be until I’m on Your side of things or even the whole of the picture that I am now. But, I love it when sometimes You reveal to me a little piece of how I look to You so far. And it just seems like after something hard that we do, I get those moments--like, You let me have them. It’s as if it’s just what I need to get through the next...whatever it is. And thank You so much, by the way, Master. I don’t know if I’ve ever said that before.”
The Painter smiled and his countenance grew more and more creatively pensive. The Canvas was observing the beautiful changes written across His features when He spoke.
“Let me tell you something about yourself. I think you’re ready for me to more fully articulate this to you.” He paused for a moment as if to contemplate how best she would connect with what He was trying to say.
“The way I made you is that you tend to approach the details of a situation via the big picture. In other words, you like to start with the ‘big picture’ and then work your way down through the the details and figure out inventively how to make that bigger image fit together. This is a beautiful quality in relating to those around you--and I gave that gift to you for a reason, but part of your journey with Me is learning that My process with you doesn’t work that way. I am the Master and Prescient of your Greater Picture. It’s hard for you because you want to start at the end and work out your own way in the means--or at the very least be in the loop about all the details of of them. And that’s not possible right now.”
A peaceful awe filled the little Canvas’ heart when she heard her Master’s expression of this principle apparently innate and maybe unique in her. It was her turn to remain a little wordless as she began to try and wrap her consciousness around what He was saying while He continued.
“But it belongs to my character that I do know the End and ends of every last thing and situation--for I am omniscient but I still choose and love to experience every last dimension of the said means. You’ll never be omniscient as I am, little one, but it is my desire that in our relationship you’ll learn to trust Me with all of your ends, and just experience the means in Me, to the fullest. Remember that I painted my Son on the wall over there...”
He paused again as both of their eyes were naturally drawn to the most wholly exquisite of all the paintings in the little studio, and proceeded to complete His thought of the moment: “...so that you might have life and the process that you’re in, and that you might have it, like I said, to the fullest. He made that possible.”
She glanced back toward the marks in the Master's hand and recalled a recent conversation about how that same beautiful painting fit into the story behind His scarring.
“Even more, dear one, just as I am painting you much like the image of my Son--and just as He is the image of Me--in the same manner, I wish for you to emulate the image of My character the way He does in His portrait. This area of My character is no exception and I want You to understand that I give you those moments that you described so that you might remember to trust Me, like you said, when it’s hard. I want you learn to experience the means to an end in a fashion worthy of my Son’s image, and be able to fully relinquish all of your ends to Me.”
This time a slightly deeper breath was due the little Canvas before she could reply to any of the wisdom the Master had just related. Colors shone and reverberated to the onlooker’s eye while she sorted through her thoughts and emotion.
“Well, Master, I thought I was becoming a little more content in this area, but I see now that I’m not quite at the place that You’re talking about. I’m so glad You just told me all that. I’ve got a long way to go, huh?”
The Painter chuckled. “Yes, my dear. But remember that a part of Me being able to experience all the means while knowing the ends like I just explained, is that I really enjoy your process as much as I look forward to your completion. I hope that you can too, one day.”
She sighed. She felt like she was always sighing, but it was a good thing, she supposed. It usually meant she was learning.
“You know, I’m not sure what You’re painting at this very moment, Master, but it’s not as painful at the moment as that last color was.”
“Well, don’t assume that I’m done with that color, love. Like I said, trust Me.”
“Yes, yes, yes. I’m sorry...there I go again. I guess I just meant that some of the techniques that You work out on me are tougher than others. And what You’re doing right now doesn’t hurt as bad as the pain last time, remember?”
She knew He did, because she watched Him hurt as well whenever she was in pain. “Although, I do get pangs of it every once in a while.” She added.
“Yes, honey. A part of my role as your Artist is knowing what you can handle at any point. I’d love you to know and remember always that whatever pain you are going through--I’ve given you every resource you need to get through it the way that you should, and by that I mean the best way. Remember best?”
“Yeah....Most of the time I remember best. Or maybe just some of the time.”
The Painter laughed, communicating to her once again how much he adored her candor.
“I want to so bad, Master!”
“I know You do!” He responded, beaming. “But just appreciate the process.”
“So, Master...?”
“Yes, my dear?”
“So, whatever I’m going through You’ve weighed, and know I can bear it unto best--but is it true that You’ve planned it all in advance?”
“Yes indeed. However, do you remember when we talked about how you have to let Me work My process out in You?”
“Um, yeah. You said that sometimes I may let other things work themselves into my journey that may not be Your best for me.”
“Right.” He nodded. “But also remember that I will still nonetheless work all of those things into your image for the good because you love Me.”
“You’re amazing, Master.”
Emotion flashed across His face and she felt like she couldn’t adore Him any more than she did. But it continuously astounded her, too, that her love for Him grew deeper daily. This then lead her to contemplate for a moment how her Master Artist was the biggest living paradox that she knew. Even though it frustrated her at times, she also loved it and was so glad that He was such a thing.
“I want to spend the rest of my journey and beyond getting to understand this and You, Painter.”
“I’m so glad, my love. That’s what you’re meant for. And that’s what will make you happiest, even though it’s counterintuitive. Keep persevering, I love you.”
“So...when’s the next hard color coming?” She precociously inserted, causing the Painter to roar with laughter.
“Oh, honey! That is not for you to know either! You know that.
It was she who beamed this time. “I know, Master. I just thought I’d try.”
And then, as most of their conversations seemed to end, His eye glimmered just a bit and He almost imperceptibly winked at her, His hand not skipping a beat of His work.
“Used to what, my dear?” He replied.
“Um...used to not knowing what exactly You’re doing on Your side. I guess that’s how you’d put it. But that doesn’t mean I like it. Though I wish it did mean that."
Smiling, the Painter nodded His head, intimating that He understood where she was coming from but still quiet.
“Like, every once in a while I get glimpses of what You’re doing. But really, they’re more like glimpses of what You were doing when a certain color was happening or a texture was being made, like we were talking about before. And then, it’ll make a bit of sense why I needed to go through it and it makes me so grateful that I did.”
She took a little breath and tried to think about her words for a moment before she went on.
“So, I guess what I’m saying is that I love it when You sometimes show me just a little sliver of the image that I am right now. Like You said before, I’ll never know what I’m going to be until I’m on Your side of things or even the whole of the picture that I am now. But, I love it when sometimes You reveal to me a little piece of how I look to You so far. And it just seems like after something hard that we do, I get those moments--like, You let me have them. It’s as if it’s just what I need to get through the next...whatever it is. And thank You so much, by the way, Master. I don’t know if I’ve ever said that before.”
The Painter smiled and his countenance grew more and more creatively pensive. The Canvas was observing the beautiful changes written across His features when He spoke.
“Let me tell you something about yourself. I think you’re ready for me to more fully articulate this to you.” He paused for a moment as if to contemplate how best she would connect with what He was trying to say.
“The way I made you is that you tend to approach the details of a situation via the big picture. In other words, you like to start with the ‘big picture’ and then work your way down through the the details and figure out inventively how to make that bigger image fit together. This is a beautiful quality in relating to those around you--and I gave that gift to you for a reason, but part of your journey with Me is learning that My process with you doesn’t work that way. I am the Master and Prescient of your Greater Picture. It’s hard for you because you want to start at the end and work out your own way in the means--or at the very least be in the loop about all the details of of them. And that’s not possible right now.”
A peaceful awe filled the little Canvas’ heart when she heard her Master’s expression of this principle apparently innate and maybe unique in her. It was her turn to remain a little wordless as she began to try and wrap her consciousness around what He was saying while He continued.
“But it belongs to my character that I do know the End and ends of every last thing and situation--for I am omniscient but I still choose and love to experience every last dimension of the said means. You’ll never be omniscient as I am, little one, but it is my desire that in our relationship you’ll learn to trust Me with all of your ends, and just experience the means in Me, to the fullest. Remember that I painted my Son on the wall over there...”
He paused again as both of their eyes were naturally drawn to the most wholly exquisite of all the paintings in the little studio, and proceeded to complete His thought of the moment: “...so that you might have life and the process that you’re in, and that you might have it, like I said, to the fullest. He made that possible.”
She glanced back toward the marks in the Master's hand and recalled a recent conversation about how that same beautiful painting fit into the story behind His scarring.
“Even more, dear one, just as I am painting you much like the image of my Son--and just as He is the image of Me--in the same manner, I wish for you to emulate the image of My character the way He does in His portrait. This area of My character is no exception and I want You to understand that I give you those moments that you described so that you might remember to trust Me, like you said, when it’s hard. I want you learn to experience the means to an end in a fashion worthy of my Son’s image, and be able to fully relinquish all of your ends to Me.”
This time a slightly deeper breath was due the little Canvas before she could reply to any of the wisdom the Master had just related. Colors shone and reverberated to the onlooker’s eye while she sorted through her thoughts and emotion.
“Well, Master, I thought I was becoming a little more content in this area, but I see now that I’m not quite at the place that You’re talking about. I’m so glad You just told me all that. I’ve got a long way to go, huh?”
The Painter chuckled. “Yes, my dear. But remember that a part of Me being able to experience all the means while knowing the ends like I just explained, is that I really enjoy your process as much as I look forward to your completion. I hope that you can too, one day.”
She sighed. She felt like she was always sighing, but it was a good thing, she supposed. It usually meant she was learning.
“You know, I’m not sure what You’re painting at this very moment, Master, but it’s not as painful at the moment as that last color was.”
“Well, don’t assume that I’m done with that color, love. Like I said, trust Me.”
“Yes, yes, yes. I’m sorry...there I go again. I guess I just meant that some of the techniques that You work out on me are tougher than others. And what You’re doing right now doesn’t hurt as bad as the pain last time, remember?”
She knew He did, because she watched Him hurt as well whenever she was in pain. “Although, I do get pangs of it every once in a while.” She added.
“Yes, honey. A part of my role as your Artist is knowing what you can handle at any point. I’d love you to know and remember always that whatever pain you are going through--I’ve given you every resource you need to get through it the way that you should, and by that I mean the best way. Remember best?”
“Yeah....Most of the time I remember best. Or maybe just some of the time.”
The Painter laughed, communicating to her once again how much he adored her candor.
“I want to so bad, Master!”
“I know You do!” He responded, beaming. “But just appreciate the process.”
“So, Master...?”
“Yes, my dear?”
“So, whatever I’m going through You’ve weighed, and know I can bear it unto best--but is it true that You’ve planned it all in advance?”
“Yes indeed. However, do you remember when we talked about how you have to let Me work My process out in You?”
“Um, yeah. You said that sometimes I may let other things work themselves into my journey that may not be Your best for me.”
“Right.” He nodded. “But also remember that I will still nonetheless work all of those things into your image for the good because you love Me.”
“You’re amazing, Master.”
Emotion flashed across His face and she felt like she couldn’t adore Him any more than she did. But it continuously astounded her, too, that her love for Him grew deeper daily. This then lead her to contemplate for a moment how her Master Artist was the biggest living paradox that she knew. Even though it frustrated her at times, she also loved it and was so glad that He was such a thing.
“I want to spend the rest of my journey and beyond getting to understand this and You, Painter.”
“I’m so glad, my love. That’s what you’re meant for. And that’s what will make you happiest, even though it’s counterintuitive. Keep persevering, I love you.”
“So...when’s the next hard color coming?” She precociously inserted, causing the Painter to roar with laughter.
“Oh, honey! That is not for you to know either! You know that.
It was she who beamed this time. “I know, Master. I just thought I’d try.”
And then, as most of their conversations seemed to end, His eye glimmered just a bit and He almost imperceptibly winked at her, His hand not skipping a beat of His work.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Studio Dialogue
“That color hurts, Master.” Whimpered the little canvas.
“I know it does, my dear. Do you not see my hand cramp up while I paint it on?” responded the Painter.
“You mean it hurts You too?”
“Oh yes. More than you know.”
“Well, anyway I thought You’d already painted that color on me?”
“Well, I have, sort of. You see, what you perceive the color to be is only a shadow and faint representation of what it really is from My perspective. Because actually, what you perceive to be just one color over and over is really many different shades of one category of color. I often layer them to create a new color in the end; and sometimes I use different brushes to create different textures. Also, just because I gave you this color in one area doesn’t mean I won’t ever apply it to another. But to answer your question: in a way I have already done this from your perspective, but I have truly never rendered you this shade.”
“I don’t get it.”
The Painter smiled so wide and so genuinely that the canvas thought His face was going to break, even though it was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.
“Darling, of course you don’t. You won’t until you’re finished and on my side of things.”
“When is that going to be, Master?”
This time the Painter let the laughter out that the conversation had been building in Him.
“When you learn that questions like that have only one answer.” He said, still laughing.
“What’s the answer?”
“In time. In My time.” He stated, more solemnly after a moment.
“Oh Master, Your hand is trembling...and oh! It hurts!” she breathed.
“I know, my dear, I know.”
“Master, what if we save us both the pain and skip this color?!”
“If that’s what you really want. But I just want to remind you....”
“I know, I know...You say it every time.”
“I say what?”
“What You were just going to say.”
“And what’s that? Let’s hear it from you.”
“Well...that...that when I wanted You to be my Master and asked to look like that One over there,” she said, referring to the most beautiful painting in all the room, “You told me it would hurt but also that...”
“That what?”
“That it would be worth it. And I believed You.”
The Painter grinned again.
“That was such a beautiful moment. That was soon after I had made you a white canvas again by bleeding out the picture already there...remember when you first believed that I could do that? That was all it took. And then when you knew it didn’t stop there--”
“Yeah, I do remember that!” She cut in, excitedly. “I also remember that I used to look a lot like some other paintings around me before that day....” And she continued on that note--less excited, “Actually, sometimes I feel like the painting that I used to be was so ugly and strong that it seeps through the white and even the painting of me that You’ve begun.”
“Yes, you did bear some resemblance to those around you. Though you were always unique--just as you are now. And even now in your process you’re still ever so unique and beautiful even if I’m still working on you. Don’t forget that.”
He continued speaking to her so patiently, while she marveled at His voice. It always sounded the same overall, but she also never stopped noticing new qualities about it. This time she remarked the the soothing, innate rhythm of His speech:
“And if you ever feel like what you used to be is showing through My work, it’s because you’re letting it and even clinging to it at times. What you once were has been completely bled from your canvas. And I’ve given you everything you need to not let that old self reign over you. But it’s not easy, I know--as simple as it may sound. I know it might be hard to for you to believe at times, but there really isn’t any temptation or facet of what you go through that I don’t understand.”
“It’s just good to hear you remind me of that every once in a while, Master,” she said, still thoughtful.
“I know, and I want you to just tell me whenever you need to hear it, my dear. But I have a question for you.”
“You do?! Ask me!”
“Do you still believe Me that it’s going to be worth it?”
She paused, wishing she weren’t feeling all the emotions that seemed to be taking her over. The internal war in her seemed to come back way too often. Eventually, almost wincing, she said,
“Yes, Master, with all my heart--well, the larger part of it anyway, just to be honest. Please....”
“Please what?” said the Master with a tear in his eye.
“Oh, it hurts to even say, but please keep painting! No matter how much it hurts. It’s all so true and He’s so beautiful over there--that One I want You to make me look like....”
“He is. And I can’t even express it to you in terms you’ll understand, but I can tell you that if you let me keep going you’ll still be yourself and you’ll be as unique as ever, but you’ll look an awful lot like Him too.”
“How does that work, Master?”
He laughed again and she beamed, not understanding how such an inquiry could have given him mirth, but glad it did.
“That’s what I mean about how I can’t put it terms you’ll understand right now. I guess you’ll just have to trust Me.”
“Ok, if You say so. Oh, I do want to look like Him.”
“Wanna know something?”
“Um, of course. I always do!”
“He looks a lot like Me.” He whispered, in a veritably similar manner that one would divulge a secret--though she knew it wasn’t.
When she looked and once more realized the resemblance she exclaimed in awe, “It’s true! Oh how he does! You’ve told me that before, but how come I forget to see that all the time?!”
“Well, you’ve got a lot of things going on in your process. But by pursuing conversation with Me, you can let Me be the One to remind you. That’s important, because without this dialogue, I can’t really continue to the best of my abilities--which are Ultimate.”
“You mean, if I quit paying attention to You, You can’t paint me anymore?”
“No, that’s not entirely true, for I am the Master Painter, but it’s different and certainly not as beautiful. You’ll always be in process, it just makes a difference whether it’s the process I have for you or not. I can always use whatever other process you let happen in your life, but it may not be what I could have done. But I can tell you this: the colors that get brushed on your canvas without My bidding hurt Me more than the ones that are of My will.”
She let this soak in a moment and then passionately stated, “I don’t want any one to paint me but You, Master!” Then she added, puzzled, “But I always thought that my questions would bother you. I didn’t know that you actually wanted or liked this kind of conversation.”
“On the contrary! It’s the conversations that we have that keep Me in the position of your Master and Artist. You might feel like you’re asking the same questions over and over again--kind of like you feel that you get painted with the same color over and over again--but from My perspective I see so many more nuances and shades to what’s going on than you’ll ever know. And you know what else?”
She squirmed a bit, wondering and trying to predict what was coming--as she was all too often wont to do, “What?”
“What’s amazing is that your honesty with Me shines through in your colors and gives them a brighter quality than anything else can.”
She hadn’t forseen such a response. “My questions shine through?! And that’s good?!”
He laughed again, and she felt relieved that he wasn’t angry with her perpetually inquisitive nature.
“You can only have an inkling! It’s incredible and it reminds Me over and over how much I love you! But more than that, I just love talking to you. That’s why I started you in the first place.”
“Hm. I guess it must just be me, but sometimes I’ve felt like You must just wish I would stop asking questions.”
“Never, my dear. It’s My heart’s desire that you articulate to Me what’s going on inside of you. But I do want you to be content if I don’t answer the way you want Me to sometimes.”
She sighed, “That happens a lot.”
He grinned even bigger than He had before. She never ceased to be amazed that such a thing was even possible.
“Darling one, I know it does. That’s because sometimes, if not often, the answer you want isn’t the best one.”
“But I always think it through!” She began to get a little frustrated, “I examine all of the options and pick the best answer and....”
Once more, laughter from the Master filled the studio.
“No honey, you only examine the options that you see! You cannot see everything from your flat perspective! You have to let it be and let Me be as I am. As hard as it is for you, I promise you that I always have your best interest in mind. And by best, I mean My best. Not what you think or want to be best. I will never harm you.”
“So this pain that I’m feeling isn’t harm?”
“Absolutely not. I know it feels like harm, but in reality it’s your journey to best. Best is a difficult destination. And it’s painful. But like I said, it’s worth it.”
“OK, so--just to clarify, and not to be dramatic--but this excruciating color is a part of my journey to best and to look like Him? And You?” Once more she gazed at the painting that she so wanted to resemble, and then back at the Master’s poised hand.
“Exactly.”
“Wow.” She said quietly.
“Yeah.”
“Master?”
“Yes?”
“I love You.”
“I love You too.” He choked a bit on the lump in His throat that she couldn’t perceive and then breathed,
“Let’s continue with this color, shall we? Once we’re done with this we can move on. But don’t rush it either, OK?”
“OK, but I’m sorry you have to feel my pain too, Master.”
“Oh, but I’m not, my dear! For it means that you are a part of me!”
“What?! I don’t deserve that! You’re so different from me...so...perfect!”
“Yes. I am. But you should also know that it has become a possibility for you to be a part of Me because of that One who hangs on that wall over there--the One you want to look like.”
“OK, I’m gonna say it again: I don’t get it and how does that work?”
“Well, that painting is of My Son. That’s where the resemblance comes in. He became like you and spent His life in process and letting me paint Him perfectly and without blemish so that You could have that opportunity as well. There’s a lot more to the story, but if you look at my hands and the scars that are left from Me painting His journey--and let Me tell you it hurt--you may understand a bit more why I can feel your pain and how it is that you can be a part of Me. And these scars may also help you remember where the blood came from that bled your past image away to make your canvas so clean. Don’t worry, though, if you don’t fully grasp it. It’s something that you may never fully apprehend while you exist as the canvas that you are. But you’ll get it one day when you’re finished and you can jump off that flat thing and into my arms. Until then, just believe. It’s your belief that allowed Me to whitewash you when We started, but it will be your perseverant faith in My abilities as your Artist and belief that it’s worth it that will get you where we both want you to go: I want you to look like Him too.”
“I think I might be starting to get it. But I may need You to tell me again soon after I think about it for a bit. And probably when another color comes that hurts again.”
“Well, my dear creation, I never tire of telling this story.”
“Master?”
“Yes?”
“I love You.”
“I love you too.”
“And I am going to learn to love these...um...colors.”
“OK, but be patient with yourself. That’s attainable, albeit ambitious.”
“I want to see me from Your perspective someday.”
“That, my dear, is a promise. Someday and in My time.”
“There’s that answer again....” She sighed once more, only this time just slightly more contentedly.
And the Painter, knowing that words were not always necessary just smiled and winked at her--His eyes seeming to glisten even more than usual. Indeed, He was beautiful.
This is for Mary: I thought of you while writing this.
-T. Emerson
“I know it does, my dear. Do you not see my hand cramp up while I paint it on?” responded the Painter.
“You mean it hurts You too?”
“Oh yes. More than you know.”
“Well, anyway I thought You’d already painted that color on me?”
“Well, I have, sort of. You see, what you perceive the color to be is only a shadow and faint representation of what it really is from My perspective. Because actually, what you perceive to be just one color over and over is really many different shades of one category of color. I often layer them to create a new color in the end; and sometimes I use different brushes to create different textures. Also, just because I gave you this color in one area doesn’t mean I won’t ever apply it to another. But to answer your question: in a way I have already done this from your perspective, but I have truly never rendered you this shade.”
“I don’t get it.”
The Painter smiled so wide and so genuinely that the canvas thought His face was going to break, even though it was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.
“Darling, of course you don’t. You won’t until you’re finished and on my side of things.”
“When is that going to be, Master?”
This time the Painter let the laughter out that the conversation had been building in Him.
“When you learn that questions like that have only one answer.” He said, still laughing.
“What’s the answer?”
“In time. In My time.” He stated, more solemnly after a moment.
“Oh Master, Your hand is trembling...and oh! It hurts!” she breathed.
“I know, my dear, I know.”
“Master, what if we save us both the pain and skip this color?!”
“If that’s what you really want. But I just want to remind you....”
“I know, I know...You say it every time.”
“I say what?”
“What You were just going to say.”
“And what’s that? Let’s hear it from you.”
“Well...that...that when I wanted You to be my Master and asked to look like that One over there,” she said, referring to the most beautiful painting in all the room, “You told me it would hurt but also that...”
“That what?”
“That it would be worth it. And I believed You.”
The Painter grinned again.
“That was such a beautiful moment. That was soon after I had made you a white canvas again by bleeding out the picture already there...remember when you first believed that I could do that? That was all it took. And then when you knew it didn’t stop there--”
“Yeah, I do remember that!” She cut in, excitedly. “I also remember that I used to look a lot like some other paintings around me before that day....” And she continued on that note--less excited, “Actually, sometimes I feel like the painting that I used to be was so ugly and strong that it seeps through the white and even the painting of me that You’ve begun.”
“Yes, you did bear some resemblance to those around you. Though you were always unique--just as you are now. And even now in your process you’re still ever so unique and beautiful even if I’m still working on you. Don’t forget that.”
He continued speaking to her so patiently, while she marveled at His voice. It always sounded the same overall, but she also never stopped noticing new qualities about it. This time she remarked the the soothing, innate rhythm of His speech:
“And if you ever feel like what you used to be is showing through My work, it’s because you’re letting it and even clinging to it at times. What you once were has been completely bled from your canvas. And I’ve given you everything you need to not let that old self reign over you. But it’s not easy, I know--as simple as it may sound. I know it might be hard to for you to believe at times, but there really isn’t any temptation or facet of what you go through that I don’t understand.”
“It’s just good to hear you remind me of that every once in a while, Master,” she said, still thoughtful.
“I know, and I want you to just tell me whenever you need to hear it, my dear. But I have a question for you.”
“You do?! Ask me!”
“Do you still believe Me that it’s going to be worth it?”
She paused, wishing she weren’t feeling all the emotions that seemed to be taking her over. The internal war in her seemed to come back way too often. Eventually, almost wincing, she said,
“Yes, Master, with all my heart--well, the larger part of it anyway, just to be honest. Please....”
“Please what?” said the Master with a tear in his eye.
“Oh, it hurts to even say, but please keep painting! No matter how much it hurts. It’s all so true and He’s so beautiful over there--that One I want You to make me look like....”
“He is. And I can’t even express it to you in terms you’ll understand, but I can tell you that if you let me keep going you’ll still be yourself and you’ll be as unique as ever, but you’ll look an awful lot like Him too.”
“How does that work, Master?”
He laughed again and she beamed, not understanding how such an inquiry could have given him mirth, but glad it did.
“That’s what I mean about how I can’t put it terms you’ll understand right now. I guess you’ll just have to trust Me.”
“Ok, if You say so. Oh, I do want to look like Him.”
“Wanna know something?”
“Um, of course. I always do!”
“He looks a lot like Me.” He whispered, in a veritably similar manner that one would divulge a secret--though she knew it wasn’t.
When she looked and once more realized the resemblance she exclaimed in awe, “It’s true! Oh how he does! You’ve told me that before, but how come I forget to see that all the time?!”
“Well, you’ve got a lot of things going on in your process. But by pursuing conversation with Me, you can let Me be the One to remind you. That’s important, because without this dialogue, I can’t really continue to the best of my abilities--which are Ultimate.”
“You mean, if I quit paying attention to You, You can’t paint me anymore?”
“No, that’s not entirely true, for I am the Master Painter, but it’s different and certainly not as beautiful. You’ll always be in process, it just makes a difference whether it’s the process I have for you or not. I can always use whatever other process you let happen in your life, but it may not be what I could have done. But I can tell you this: the colors that get brushed on your canvas without My bidding hurt Me more than the ones that are of My will.”
She let this soak in a moment and then passionately stated, “I don’t want any one to paint me but You, Master!” Then she added, puzzled, “But I always thought that my questions would bother you. I didn’t know that you actually wanted or liked this kind of conversation.”
“On the contrary! It’s the conversations that we have that keep Me in the position of your Master and Artist. You might feel like you’re asking the same questions over and over again--kind of like you feel that you get painted with the same color over and over again--but from My perspective I see so many more nuances and shades to what’s going on than you’ll ever know. And you know what else?”
She squirmed a bit, wondering and trying to predict what was coming--as she was all too often wont to do, “What?”
“What’s amazing is that your honesty with Me shines through in your colors and gives them a brighter quality than anything else can.”
She hadn’t forseen such a response. “My questions shine through?! And that’s good?!”
He laughed again, and she felt relieved that he wasn’t angry with her perpetually inquisitive nature.
“You can only have an inkling! It’s incredible and it reminds Me over and over how much I love you! But more than that, I just love talking to you. That’s why I started you in the first place.”
“Hm. I guess it must just be me, but sometimes I’ve felt like You must just wish I would stop asking questions.”
“Never, my dear. It’s My heart’s desire that you articulate to Me what’s going on inside of you. But I do want you to be content if I don’t answer the way you want Me to sometimes.”
She sighed, “That happens a lot.”
He grinned even bigger than He had before. She never ceased to be amazed that such a thing was even possible.
“Darling one, I know it does. That’s because sometimes, if not often, the answer you want isn’t the best one.”
“But I always think it through!” She began to get a little frustrated, “I examine all of the options and pick the best answer and....”
Once more, laughter from the Master filled the studio.
“No honey, you only examine the options that you see! You cannot see everything from your flat perspective! You have to let it be and let Me be as I am. As hard as it is for you, I promise you that I always have your best interest in mind. And by best, I mean My best. Not what you think or want to be best. I will never harm you.”
“So this pain that I’m feeling isn’t harm?”
“Absolutely not. I know it feels like harm, but in reality it’s your journey to best. Best is a difficult destination. And it’s painful. But like I said, it’s worth it.”
“OK, so--just to clarify, and not to be dramatic--but this excruciating color is a part of my journey to best and to look like Him? And You?” Once more she gazed at the painting that she so wanted to resemble, and then back at the Master’s poised hand.
“Exactly.”
“Wow.” She said quietly.
“Yeah.”
“Master?”
“Yes?”
“I love You.”
“I love You too.” He choked a bit on the lump in His throat that she couldn’t perceive and then breathed,
“Let’s continue with this color, shall we? Once we’re done with this we can move on. But don’t rush it either, OK?”
“OK, but I’m sorry you have to feel my pain too, Master.”
“Oh, but I’m not, my dear! For it means that you are a part of me!”
“What?! I don’t deserve that! You’re so different from me...so...perfect!”
“Yes. I am. But you should also know that it has become a possibility for you to be a part of Me because of that One who hangs on that wall over there--the One you want to look like.”
“OK, I’m gonna say it again: I don’t get it and how does that work?”
“Well, that painting is of My Son. That’s where the resemblance comes in. He became like you and spent His life in process and letting me paint Him perfectly and without blemish so that You could have that opportunity as well. There’s a lot more to the story, but if you look at my hands and the scars that are left from Me painting His journey--and let Me tell you it hurt--you may understand a bit more why I can feel your pain and how it is that you can be a part of Me. And these scars may also help you remember where the blood came from that bled your past image away to make your canvas so clean. Don’t worry, though, if you don’t fully grasp it. It’s something that you may never fully apprehend while you exist as the canvas that you are. But you’ll get it one day when you’re finished and you can jump off that flat thing and into my arms. Until then, just believe. It’s your belief that allowed Me to whitewash you when We started, but it will be your perseverant faith in My abilities as your Artist and belief that it’s worth it that will get you where we both want you to go: I want you to look like Him too.”
“I think I might be starting to get it. But I may need You to tell me again soon after I think about it for a bit. And probably when another color comes that hurts again.”
“Well, my dear creation, I never tire of telling this story.”
“Master?”
“Yes?”
“I love You.”
“I love you too.”
“And I am going to learn to love these...um...colors.”
“OK, but be patient with yourself. That’s attainable, albeit ambitious.”
“I want to see me from Your perspective someday.”
“That, my dear, is a promise. Someday and in My time.”
“There’s that answer again....” She sighed once more, only this time just slightly more contentedly.
And the Painter, knowing that words were not always necessary just smiled and winked at her--His eyes seeming to glisten even more than usual. Indeed, He was beautiful.
This is for Mary: I thought of you while writing this.
-T. Emerson
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
[sans titre]
Il y avait une fois, tu te souviens, j’éspère, où nous faisions de la randonné avec nos amis et nous parlions de la littérature--toi et moi. Nous ignorions nos amis et ils nous ignoraient aussi--qui sait ce dont ils parlaient, eux. Il faisait trop beau ce jour-là . Nous étions en Alaska et nous avions peur des ours. Il y en avait, en fait, trop près, je me souviens, mais on ne l’a pas vu, heuresement. Je pense de temps en temps à cette belle journée que nous avons tous passé ensemble.
Je crois que tu me raccontais d’Ernest Hemmingway. Comme tu l’aimais! Et probablement je t’écoutais en te disant que je ne l’ai jamais vraiment lu. Et puis je t’ai regardé pendant que tu as ramassé une petite roche.
Tu m’as dit que tu les collectionnais, ces “roches”. Que, parfois lorsque tu étais en train d’avoir une bonne conversation avec quelqu’un, tu cherchais à trouver une petite chose à garder pour te faire souvenir et non oublier cette conversation dans laquelle tu existais à l’instant. C’était parfois une roche--comme cette fois--et parfois d’autre chose insignificante. C’était une vraiment belle chose...je ne l’ai jamais vraiment oublié.
Je t’aimais, tu sais. Mais pas comme tu voulais ou comme tu m’aimais, toi. Je t'aimais bien. Mais même dans ce moment-là j’étais désolée que je ne pouvais jamais t’aimer comme tu probablement voulais. Il est tant vrai que je n’aurais jamais rien pu changer à propos aux sentiments. Je suis encore désolée que je t’ai blessé. Mais je t’aimais. Ne le doute jamais. Et tu me manques, maintenant, quand-même.
Mais tu n’étais point personne contente ou complète. Je t’aimais, mais pas comme ça. Je ne sais quoi dire.
J’éspère qu’un jour tu trouves ce que tu cherches. Pas même ce que tu crois que tu cherche--mais ce que tu cherches vraiment et profondement. Un jour, je prie que tes questions--par lesquelles ton âme est un peu hanté--soient répondues.
Je t’aime mon ami. Encore. Je pense souvent à toi, et je te donne à Dieu. Et un jour, je vais adorer Hemmingway aussi. Je vais apprendre.
Je crois que tu me raccontais d’Ernest Hemmingway. Comme tu l’aimais! Et probablement je t’écoutais en te disant que je ne l’ai jamais vraiment lu. Et puis je t’ai regardé pendant que tu as ramassé une petite roche.
Tu m’as dit que tu les collectionnais, ces “roches”. Que, parfois lorsque tu étais en train d’avoir une bonne conversation avec quelqu’un, tu cherchais à trouver une petite chose à garder pour te faire souvenir et non oublier cette conversation dans laquelle tu existais à l’instant. C’était parfois une roche--comme cette fois--et parfois d’autre chose insignificante. C’était une vraiment belle chose...je ne l’ai jamais vraiment oublié.
Je t’aimais, tu sais. Mais pas comme tu voulais ou comme tu m’aimais, toi. Je t'aimais bien. Mais même dans ce moment-là j’étais désolée que je ne pouvais jamais t’aimer comme tu probablement voulais. Il est tant vrai que je n’aurais jamais rien pu changer à propos aux sentiments. Je suis encore désolée que je t’ai blessé. Mais je t’aimais. Ne le doute jamais. Et tu me manques, maintenant, quand-même.
Mais tu n’étais point personne contente ou complète. Je t’aimais, mais pas comme ça. Je ne sais quoi dire.
J’éspère qu’un jour tu trouves ce que tu cherches. Pas même ce que tu crois que tu cherche--mais ce que tu cherches vraiment et profondement. Un jour, je prie que tes questions--par lesquelles ton âme est un peu hanté--soient répondues.
Je t’aime mon ami. Encore. Je pense souvent à toi, et je te donne à Dieu. Et un jour, je vais adorer Hemmingway aussi. Je vais apprendre.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Impressionism (Revamped)
'Tis not the time of life
To be merely suffered through
It's rather to be savoured--
Every moment known as true.
The Painter has a vision
To which the Canvas is not privy,
Tis only for the Canvas,
Her postion to go on living.
She wimpers all the while, impatient
Wondering what the Painter sees
He smiles and continues, just pliant
He to has plead with her to be.
He talks her, from time to time,
To remind her that He loves her
This small creation in the making,
Forgets often that she's authored.
Adoring ever is this Painter,
More so than his subject
Who forgets to love the process
And the becoming of the object.
It's not the end that matters
It's the progress that is made,
For truly no stroke is formed
That the Artist has not bade.
-T. Emerson
To be merely suffered through
It's rather to be savoured--
Every moment known as true.
The Painter has a vision
To which the Canvas is not privy,
Tis only for the Canvas,
Her postion to go on living.
She wimpers all the while, impatient
Wondering what the Painter sees
He smiles and continues, just pliant
He to has plead with her to be.
He talks her, from time to time,
To remind her that He loves her
This small creation in the making,
Forgets often that she's authored.
Adoring ever is this Painter,
More so than his subject
Who forgets to love the process
And the becoming of the object.
It's not the end that matters
It's the progress that is made,
For truly no stroke is formed
That the Artist has not bade.
-T. Emerson
Friday, March 20, 2009
Noiseless
Oh for the state of the noiseless soul
To release in me, encompassing and whole
That no static and soundless noise may intrude
On the subtle, mute, waveless interludes
Of a soul so engrossed in a pure existence
Total and aware of true purpose and instance.
I long for the peace of a seeming isolation
That never dispermits any other relation.
A balance--that for which it must be striven
Effort or more must hitherto be given.
-T. Emerson
To release in me, encompassing and whole
That no static and soundless noise may intrude
On the subtle, mute, waveless interludes
Of a soul so engrossed in a pure existence
Total and aware of true purpose and instance.
I long for the peace of a seeming isolation
That never dispermits any other relation.
A balance--that for which it must be striven
Effort or more must hitherto be given.
-T. Emerson
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Once Upon a Time and Someday
I believe in the rest of the story
I believe there's still ink in the pen
I have wasted my very last day
Trying to change what happened way back when
I believe it's the human condition
We all need to have answers to why
More than ever, I'm ready to say that I
Will still sleep peacefully
With answers out of reach from me until?
Someday all that's crazy
All that's unexplained
Will fall into place
And someday all that's hazy
Through a clouded glass
Will be clear at last
And sometimes we're just waiting
For someday
We are born with a lingering hunger
We are born to be unsatisfied
We are strangers who can't help but wander
And dream about the other side of?
Every puzzle's missing piece
Every unsolved mystery
More than half of every whole
Rests in the Hands that hold you for someday?
-Nichole Nordeman
It is mind boggling to think or imagine that even the most beautiful things we experience now are only divorced and compartmentalized facets of what used to perhaps all fit together, and now cannot. Someday it'll once more be as it was once upon a time. And maybe be even more real because Man will know the difference.
I believe there's still ink in the pen
I have wasted my very last day
Trying to change what happened way back when
I believe it's the human condition
We all need to have answers to why
More than ever, I'm ready to say that I
Will still sleep peacefully
With answers out of reach from me until?
Someday all that's crazy
All that's unexplained
Will fall into place
And someday all that's hazy
Through a clouded glass
Will be clear at last
And sometimes we're just waiting
For someday
We are born with a lingering hunger
We are born to be unsatisfied
We are strangers who can't help but wander
And dream about the other side of?
Every puzzle's missing piece
Every unsolved mystery
More than half of every whole
Rests in the Hands that hold you for someday?
-Nichole Nordeman
It is mind boggling to think or imagine that even the most beautiful things we experience now are only divorced and compartmentalized facets of what used to perhaps all fit together, and now cannot. Someday it'll once more be as it was once upon a time. And maybe be even more real because Man will know the difference.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Listening
Invisible and between the lines
Sing shades we may only see sometimes:
When looking beyond the Obvious,
In quest for those things more dubious.
A symphony plays in shades untold,
As Clandestine yearns herself to unfold.
Only regard and no judgment cast--
The two become friends, meeting alast.
The synergy then is so worth the wait,
Understanding now reaches penultimate state.
-T.Emerson
Sing shades we may only see sometimes:
When looking beyond the Obvious,
In quest for those things more dubious.
A symphony plays in shades untold,
As Clandestine yearns herself to unfold.
Only regard and no judgment cast--
The two become friends, meeting alast.
The synergy then is so worth the wait,
Understanding now reaches penultimate state.
-T.Emerson
Thursday, February 26, 2009
So, Funny Story....
I went to get my hair done last week. For me, this means I went to get it cut. I’ve never dyed my hair so this lady got pretty excited about my “virgin hair”. More on her to come. I hadn’t had it cut since June when I (regrettably) chopped it off and I just wanted to get it trimmed again, and whatever.
I just dropped into the place without making an appointment and actually ended up getting the person that my friend Amanda recommended to me, so I was thrilled, I thought. Her name was Michele (pronounced Michael). She was interesting, she made me laugh to be sure. She asked ALL about me, my family, etc. She was pretty excited that somebody had recommended her to me. I’m always struck by the hair salon culture when I go in there. It’s so like how they depict it in the movies: feminine and gossipy. I get a kick out of it, usually.
So, eventually, it came up that I had worked in Alaska for a couple of summers. She asked what I did up there. I paused for a moment to think of how to, once again, explain what my job up there was. She took this pause as an opportunity to ask with a slight smile “were you a dancer?”.
Trying not to laugh and process too much on the spot whether or not I was supposed to be flattered or what, I said that no, and I worked in tourism. Then I realized that I’d better qualify that too. I explained that I had waited tables on the tour train my first summer and then went back as a manager...."Oh, ok "she said, and didn’t really ask much more about it, but did say of course that it seemed really cool. I smiled, still surprised.
The conversation moved on about my family and education and where I was from. She commented that I was very well dressed for a girl from Canby. (I was wearing a skirt?) And she then asked about my ethnicity.
I shrugged, once again trying to determine where she was going with the question and non-chalantly mentioned a small percentage of Native American heritage but mostly that I was “Caucasian”. I felt like I’d just checked a box on a form. Weird. She then said “Huh, I would have thought something else.” I think she saw my puzzled look and then continued, “like, African American or something.” And then she proceeded to say something about my lips or something while I actually thanked her this time, almost reeling. Indeed, it is a compliment. I just didn’t see it coming!
We finished the haircut and she curled my hair. Something I never would have done, but whatever I said. I left and tipped well because, dancer or not, I do live on tips and I understand how it goes. Walking out to my car I was still trying to put it all together. She thinks I look like an African American stripper?! I’m still not sure what to think. At least I marginally like the haircut....
I just dropped into the place without making an appointment and actually ended up getting the person that my friend Amanda recommended to me, so I was thrilled, I thought. Her name was Michele (pronounced Michael). She was interesting, she made me laugh to be sure. She asked ALL about me, my family, etc. She was pretty excited that somebody had recommended her to me. I’m always struck by the hair salon culture when I go in there. It’s so like how they depict it in the movies: feminine and gossipy. I get a kick out of it, usually.
So, eventually, it came up that I had worked in Alaska for a couple of summers. She asked what I did up there. I paused for a moment to think of how to, once again, explain what my job up there was. She took this pause as an opportunity to ask with a slight smile “were you a dancer?”.
Trying not to laugh and process too much on the spot whether or not I was supposed to be flattered or what, I said that no, and I worked in tourism. Then I realized that I’d better qualify that too. I explained that I had waited tables on the tour train my first summer and then went back as a manager...."Oh, ok "she said, and didn’t really ask much more about it, but did say of course that it seemed really cool. I smiled, still surprised.
The conversation moved on about my family and education and where I was from. She commented that I was very well dressed for a girl from Canby. (I was wearing a skirt?) And she then asked about my ethnicity.
I shrugged, once again trying to determine where she was going with the question and non-chalantly mentioned a small percentage of Native American heritage but mostly that I was “Caucasian”. I felt like I’d just checked a box on a form. Weird. She then said “Huh, I would have thought something else.” I think she saw my puzzled look and then continued, “like, African American or something.” And then she proceeded to say something about my lips or something while I actually thanked her this time, almost reeling. Indeed, it is a compliment. I just didn’t see it coming!
We finished the haircut and she curled my hair. Something I never would have done, but whatever I said. I left and tipped well because, dancer or not, I do live on tips and I understand how it goes. Walking out to my car I was still trying to put it all together. She thinks I look like an African American stripper?! I’m still not sure what to think. At least I marginally like the haircut....
Monday, February 9, 2009
25 Things.
So, this started out as a Facebook thing.I didn't intend to participate it, but I actually really enjoyed reading others' stuff and began to actually put thought into the whole thing. So, here's for those that expressed interest in knowing more about me. A list of 25 things that I've been thinking much about:
1. One of my life goals is to learn to like tomatoes.
2. I don't like to run or swim.
3. I didn't carry a purse until I was 18 years old.
4. I was a Level 8 gymnast at one point. To put it in perspective, Olympic level ("Elite") was 11.
5. I hate to wear a watch and most jewelry. My cell phone is my clock.
6. I was supposed to be named after a girl named "Tacy" in the Betsy & Tacy books that my mom read as a little girl and that I in turn read as well (over and over). My dad didn't like it but instead approved "Traci".
7. I always wanted red, curly (ringlets) hair like Tacy did in the books.
8. My first crushes were literally on characters in books: Henry in the Boxcar Children, Ned Nickerson in Nancy Drew, and Joe in the Mandy books.
9. Also as a child, I had three imaginary friends named "We'll see", "Maybe Later" and Julia. Julia was the name of Tacy's older sister in the books.
10. I don't mind eating the heel of a loaf of bread. I've never really had an aversion to the crusts either.
11. I have a small head. I only have a handful of hats because it's hard to find them that fit.
12. I hate "dangling confict". I want to resolve it as soon as I know it exists.
13. I'm an ENTP. Heavy on the N and the T. This explains the former statement and so much more about me.
14. I actually don't mind doing the dishes so much. It's the little finish work afterwards I don't like: sweeping, counter tops, etc. Annoying.
15. I went through a "gardening" phase once. I got into it so much that I even knew many of the latin names of popular (and not so popular) plants. My favorite was "campanula carpactia". I'm going to have it in my garden someday.
16. I am really insecure about my ignorance of pop culture. I was homeschooled and still struggle sometimes with being "different" because of it. I hate it when people look at me like I'm an idiot for not knowing something "everyone should know". It makes me want to hide and cry. I'm not kidding.
17. Ever since I went to Guinea, Africa (this is weird) the smell of body odor and/or tobacco smoke doesn't bother me as much because it reminds me of being there.
18. I'm very bad at managing money. I'm working very hard at it, so don't be surprised when you see me religiously balancing my checkbook. It's the new me.
19. I have a fiery strong sense of injustice that I cannot help. I'll probably spend the rest of my life learning to temper it.
20. One of the highest compliments someone can pay me is that I made them think.
21. That said, my "love language" is words of affirmation. Sometimes I wish I didn't need so much of it, it makes me feel high maintenance. I work so hard to not need it, most people have no idea.
22. I know I'll live overseas one day. Perhaps soon.
23. I never had braces and I tan fairly easily. I could name a ton of things I hate about my body--but it's far more constructive to concentrate on the things I don't.
24. I tend to live in the future more than the present. My mind is a world of possibilities that sometimes causes me to struggle to live every moment to the fullest.
25. I secretly love the way my nails sound when they're tapped against glass or wood or metal. I haven't always had long enough nails, so I enjoy them.
1. One of my life goals is to learn to like tomatoes.
2. I don't like to run or swim.
3. I didn't carry a purse until I was 18 years old.
4. I was a Level 8 gymnast at one point. To put it in perspective, Olympic level ("Elite") was 11.
5. I hate to wear a watch and most jewelry. My cell phone is my clock.
6. I was supposed to be named after a girl named "Tacy" in the Betsy & Tacy books that my mom read as a little girl and that I in turn read as well (over and over). My dad didn't like it but instead approved "Traci".
7. I always wanted red, curly (ringlets) hair like Tacy did in the books.
8. My first crushes were literally on characters in books: Henry in the Boxcar Children, Ned Nickerson in Nancy Drew, and Joe in the Mandy books.
9. Also as a child, I had three imaginary friends named "We'll see", "Maybe Later" and Julia. Julia was the name of Tacy's older sister in the books.
10. I don't mind eating the heel of a loaf of bread. I've never really had an aversion to the crusts either.
11. I have a small head. I only have a handful of hats because it's hard to find them that fit.
12. I hate "dangling confict". I want to resolve it as soon as I know it exists.
13. I'm an ENTP. Heavy on the N and the T. This explains the former statement and so much more about me.
14. I actually don't mind doing the dishes so much. It's the little finish work afterwards I don't like: sweeping, counter tops, etc. Annoying.
15. I went through a "gardening" phase once. I got into it so much that I even knew many of the latin names of popular (and not so popular) plants. My favorite was "campanula carpactia". I'm going to have it in my garden someday.
16. I am really insecure about my ignorance of pop culture. I was homeschooled and still struggle sometimes with being "different" because of it. I hate it when people look at me like I'm an idiot for not knowing something "everyone should know". It makes me want to hide and cry. I'm not kidding.
17. Ever since I went to Guinea, Africa (this is weird) the smell of body odor and/or tobacco smoke doesn't bother me as much because it reminds me of being there.
18. I'm very bad at managing money. I'm working very hard at it, so don't be surprised when you see me religiously balancing my checkbook. It's the new me.
19. I have a fiery strong sense of injustice that I cannot help. I'll probably spend the rest of my life learning to temper it.
20. One of the highest compliments someone can pay me is that I made them think.
21. That said, my "love language" is words of affirmation. Sometimes I wish I didn't need so much of it, it makes me feel high maintenance. I work so hard to not need it, most people have no idea.
22. I know I'll live overseas one day. Perhaps soon.
23. I never had braces and I tan fairly easily. I could name a ton of things I hate about my body--but it's far more constructive to concentrate on the things I don't.
24. I tend to live in the future more than the present. My mind is a world of possibilities that sometimes causes me to struggle to live every moment to the fullest.
25. I secretly love the way my nails sound when they're tapped against glass or wood or metal. I haven't always had long enough nails, so I enjoy them.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Musings on Contraries and Home
I have reading ADD. I've known this for a long time. First, I can't ever just read one thing. I usually am reading some opus of some sort (Dumas awakened a newfound passion in me for LONG books--so rewarding) and then I have to read other shorter things meanwhile. Otherwise I potentially lose interest. The other way this "disorder" manifests itself is in my propensity to want to read whatever other literature is mentioned in what I'm reading.
For example, once, I was reading a biography of Emily Dickinson and the author kept making reference to two of Emily's lifetime favorite pieces of literature. Being the nerd I am, I had to read them (I've read one and a half of these said pieces and still not finished the biography), so I even found these obscure titles on eBay. Oh dear. Someday I'll get to the rest of the biography. To make a long story short, I have the tendency to go on weird and sometimes lengthy reading rabbit trails. It's strange, I know, but...it's awesome!
This same thing happened once when I opened a piece of C.S. Lewis'. This time I actually finished the Lewis piece, probably partly because the literature he referenced was not long: it was William Blake's Marriage of Heaven and Hell. An excellent poem. I loved especially that, as Blake was an artist as well as a poet, this particularly short epic was illustrated. :-)
All of these circumstances came to mind the other day in a conversation with a friend about being "home". We'd both been gone over the summer, and I had been gone on successive adventures for the last two and a half years. I'm home for a bit this time--a larger chunk of time than normal--and a certain line in Blake's Marriage came to mind:
"Without Contraries is no progression. Attraction and Repulsion, Reason and Energy, Love and Hate, are necessary to Human existence." (I find it interesting his choices in capitalization. He capitalizes "contraries" but not "progression", "human" but not "existence". However, I have no conclusions on this, only observations.)
Anyway, the part I like best is the first phrase. I thought of it the other day because of the theory behind it. Contraries offer a lot more than just progression, I believe, and I think Blake knows this. It's just a succinct way of drawing attention to the principle that nothing would be seem to us humans as "good" or as "bad" as it is, perhaps, with out the notion of the opposite. I don't think even "good" and "bad" is the best way of categorizing "everything". I think that's probably why Blake just stuck with "contraries". How fitting.
Anyway, this was brought to memory because of being home, and the conversation I was having about it the other day. I've recently gone on a six week road trip around the US. I saw a total of 30 some states and even made it into Quebec. And what's interesting is, coming home, Oregon has never seemed so green. Every time I leave and come back, home is a little more beautiful. The landscape may not change at all, but my appreciation of it is deeper because I'm more familiar with it's "contraries", that is, just other places that are not Oregon--however beautiful they may be in their own way. And we live in a beautiful country.
And Canby. It's so bittersweet sometimes coming back to the town where I grew up. I love and hate the small town environment. Everybody knows everybody. That fact alone can be beautiful or hideous depending on the character of the individuals involved. It's both here at any given time, I've come to realize. And above all, I guess, it just is what it is. I love and look forward to running into some people and feel blessed to be around so I can do that. But then, I actually dread any serendipitous occasion involving some other individuals in the community. Whatever. I just need to deal with it. I'm beginning to wonder if that's part of the reason why I'm here. I didn't plan on staying here in Oregon until I went back to Alaska. But, here I am. Again bittersweet. Although, I have to say that it's pretty awesome to have a bedroom! And to myself!
And, the in the last two and a half years, I've pretty much gotten my little Christian "bubble" popped. In a good way, certainly. I've learned so much and seen a lot. And all of it--well, most of it--has helped me learn to appreciate where I'm from and what I've got. Geographically and otherwise. But the appreciation of the geographical part is definitely a more recent development.
So these days, the joy that fills my heart on a beautiful Oregon day is incredible! My heart now skips a beat sometimes when I get that perfect view of Mt. Hood rounding the corner. I never tire of it. I get excited when it starts raining after a dry spell, I want to run outside and smell that first scent of fresh fallen rain. Love it. I even love the rain!
The other morning I was walking to my car with a cup of coffee in my hand and I suddenly got that feeling I used to get as a little girl whenever I would wake up in the woods in a tent. The feel, the smell of pine around my parent's semi-country home and even the irritating squawk of a distant crow made the moment perfect. I stopped in my tracks and had to smile. So good. And then it passed, and it was good too. The fact that I don't live in that moment makes it better when it comes.
It's good to be home. And with more appreciation. Not many can say that they're from such a beautiful and diverse place. I'm blessed. I guess I still won't know for a while whether I'll actually end up here, but I'll appreciate the contraries and progression meanwhile--or at least do my best!
And, while I've got so much time on my hands, I think I'm going to keep attending to and feeding my reading ADD! I'm on to The Brothers Karamazov at the moment. And Old Man and the Sea. And a biography of Frank Lloyd Wright. Sigh. This I'll do from my bedroom where, on a clear day, I can see the tip of Mt. Hood from my window. Amazing. And I'm DEFINITELY going to keep enjoying the Oregonian coffee. There's no place like home.
For example, once, I was reading a biography of Emily Dickinson and the author kept making reference to two of Emily's lifetime favorite pieces of literature. Being the nerd I am, I had to read them (I've read one and a half of these said pieces and still not finished the biography), so I even found these obscure titles on eBay. Oh dear. Someday I'll get to the rest of the biography. To make a long story short, I have the tendency to go on weird and sometimes lengthy reading rabbit trails. It's strange, I know, but...it's awesome!
This same thing happened once when I opened a piece of C.S. Lewis'. This time I actually finished the Lewis piece, probably partly because the literature he referenced was not long: it was William Blake's Marriage of Heaven and Hell. An excellent poem. I loved especially that, as Blake was an artist as well as a poet, this particularly short epic was illustrated. :-)
All of these circumstances came to mind the other day in a conversation with a friend about being "home". We'd both been gone over the summer, and I had been gone on successive adventures for the last two and a half years. I'm home for a bit this time--a larger chunk of time than normal--and a certain line in Blake's Marriage came to mind:
"Without Contraries is no progression. Attraction and Repulsion, Reason and Energy, Love and Hate, are necessary to Human existence." (I find it interesting his choices in capitalization. He capitalizes "contraries" but not "progression", "human" but not "existence". However, I have no conclusions on this, only observations.)
Anyway, the part I like best is the first phrase. I thought of it the other day because of the theory behind it. Contraries offer a lot more than just progression, I believe, and I think Blake knows this. It's just a succinct way of drawing attention to the principle that nothing would be seem to us humans as "good" or as "bad" as it is, perhaps, with out the notion of the opposite. I don't think even "good" and "bad" is the best way of categorizing "everything". I think that's probably why Blake just stuck with "contraries". How fitting.
Anyway, this was brought to memory because of being home, and the conversation I was having about it the other day. I've recently gone on a six week road trip around the US. I saw a total of 30 some states and even made it into Quebec. And what's interesting is, coming home, Oregon has never seemed so green. Every time I leave and come back, home is a little more beautiful. The landscape may not change at all, but my appreciation of it is deeper because I'm more familiar with it's "contraries", that is, just other places that are not Oregon--however beautiful they may be in their own way. And we live in a beautiful country.
And Canby. It's so bittersweet sometimes coming back to the town where I grew up. I love and hate the small town environment. Everybody knows everybody. That fact alone can be beautiful or hideous depending on the character of the individuals involved. It's both here at any given time, I've come to realize. And above all, I guess, it just is what it is. I love and look forward to running into some people and feel blessed to be around so I can do that. But then, I actually dread any serendipitous occasion involving some other individuals in the community. Whatever. I just need to deal with it. I'm beginning to wonder if that's part of the reason why I'm here. I didn't plan on staying here in Oregon until I went back to Alaska. But, here I am. Again bittersweet. Although, I have to say that it's pretty awesome to have a bedroom! And to myself!
And, the in the last two and a half years, I've pretty much gotten my little Christian "bubble" popped. In a good way, certainly. I've learned so much and seen a lot. And all of it--well, most of it--has helped me learn to appreciate where I'm from and what I've got. Geographically and otherwise. But the appreciation of the geographical part is definitely a more recent development.
So these days, the joy that fills my heart on a beautiful Oregon day is incredible! My heart now skips a beat sometimes when I get that perfect view of Mt. Hood rounding the corner. I never tire of it. I get excited when it starts raining after a dry spell, I want to run outside and smell that first scent of fresh fallen rain. Love it. I even love the rain!
The other morning I was walking to my car with a cup of coffee in my hand and I suddenly got that feeling I used to get as a little girl whenever I would wake up in the woods in a tent. The feel, the smell of pine around my parent's semi-country home and even the irritating squawk of a distant crow made the moment perfect. I stopped in my tracks and had to smile. So good. And then it passed, and it was good too. The fact that I don't live in that moment makes it better when it comes.
It's good to be home. And with more appreciation. Not many can say that they're from such a beautiful and diverse place. I'm blessed. I guess I still won't know for a while whether I'll actually end up here, but I'll appreciate the contraries and progression meanwhile--or at least do my best!
And, while I've got so much time on my hands, I think I'm going to keep attending to and feeding my reading ADD! I'm on to The Brothers Karamazov at the moment. And Old Man and the Sea. And a biography of Frank Lloyd Wright. Sigh. This I'll do from my bedroom where, on a clear day, I can see the tip of Mt. Hood from my window. Amazing. And I'm DEFINITELY going to keep enjoying the Oregonian coffee. There's no place like home.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Humility?
My mind has been dwelling often lately on the subject of "humility". That's, I guess, a way to say I've been thinking about it a lot that sounds like I'm not taking personal responsibility, though I do. Whatever.
I'm sort of struggling to define it. It's funny because it's one of those things that everyone knows when they see it, and they know when it's not there, but it's hard to articulate. And it's something that I deeply desire to attain in my life. I want to "know" it in the butterfly way. The way that it works itself out into my life. So, here is my "humble" (couldn't resist) attempt to but the idea into words:
I think that true humility is being able to be open, honest, and vulnerable about one's faults. It's also being confident and secure in one's strengths in such a way that doesn't draw undue attention to them.
Still brewing and thinking on this one. Maybe more to come.
I'm sort of struggling to define it. It's funny because it's one of those things that everyone knows when they see it, and they know when it's not there, but it's hard to articulate. And it's something that I deeply desire to attain in my life. I want to "know" it in the butterfly way. The way that it works itself out into my life. So, here is my "humble" (couldn't resist) attempt to but the idea into words:
I think that true humility is being able to be open, honest, and vulnerable about one's faults. It's also being confident and secure in one's strengths in such a way that doesn't draw undue attention to them.
Still brewing and thinking on this one. Maybe more to come.
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