Momma I've got two strong hands.
And they're fine as far as hands go.
I can shoulder the future I can face the wind
For the dream that I must follow.
It's a dream that can kill with its beauty,
It's a hurt that can heal with its pain,
And with all of these miles that lie before me
I may never get home again.
-- I'll carry on, song by Rich Mullins
In the Spring of 2002, I remember walking through the campus of the University of North Carolina, at Chapel Hill with my older sister. I was 10-years-old, and preparing to move, with my parents and one of my brothers, to Paris, France. While the move sounded exciting and exotic to many I knew, it sounded more like a punishment to me. I'd lived in North Carolina for half of my life, and as far as I was concerned, I could've spent the rest of it there without issue.
My sister herself had experienced a difficult move at a young age, and while sympathizing with me, tried to convince me to see the ordeal in another light. She reminded me of J. R. R. Tolkien's The Hobbit, of how little Bilbo Baggins was the unwilling subject of an adventure which has chosen him, an adventure for which he had no intention of leaving his comfortable little hobbit hole for. She called me Esbo. More than a couple times, that first year, I wished for my prospective nice hole by the fire and kettle just beginning to sing.
And France was an adventure, and I returned not the same hobbit I had been before. Reverse culture shock was terrible, of course, but even recovering from that, gradually, I discovered a new restlessness that I had not known before. Over the past five years, my dreams have alternated between a number of final destinations far from the Shire (which, conveniently, is now a nickname for my family's homestead). I've dreamed of Europe, and I'm now I'm set on Africa, but Asia was never on the agenda.
True to form, though, after coming back to the Shire not the same hobbit as before, I cannot I stay. I'm setting off again, less discretely than my literary predecessor, at the end of the month. Like any true adventure, Asia chose me, I did not choose it. I chose to help my family, and my oldest brother and his family felt called to the continent. I'm not kicking and screaming now. Now I pack my own bags.
But my attitude towards the change is not the only difference. While I am going with some of family, I am not going with the same company as before. My parents have settled down. I am old enough, now, for my adventures to be my own. I've lived away from home, but I could always visit for the weekends, and I've never had a Christmas without them. My mother is a strong woman, and she has taught me how to work, and how to take care of myself, and now I put it into practice. I don't know if I will be homesick, after so much upheaval throughout my life, it's a strange concept to even have a home to be sick for. But I do have a home. My home is my family.
So I watch autumn creep up on North Carolina. I feed the animals, build fires, and prepare for the winder I will never see. For the past five years my family has been spoiled, it seems, all living within driving distance of eachother. Soon we will be as far away as we can. I'm old enough to take myself, without my parents, but should I be taking care of them?
Sunday Sonnet XXVI
Fall gently greets September rain against
Slate-covered roofs. The promise of a winter
Beacons subtly, repeats, relents.
If leaves don’t fall, the very bark will splinter.
I will not see the snow arrive until
I view the other faces of this world.
And Momma, I’ve got two strong hands that will
Sustain me still where fate has hurled.
I won’t forget this last hiver that I
Missed in my time away. But you have kept
Me safe thus far, so seasons worth a try.
And tired winds may rest where once I slept.
So as the tree must watch her leaves depart
Thus exodus is not the end or start.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Thursday, September 30, 2010
I should be glad of another death.
Signs are taken for wonders. “We would see a sign!”
The word within a word, unable to speak a word,
Swaddled with darkness. In the juvescence of the year
Came Christ the tiger
In depraved May, dogwood and chestnut, flowering judas,
To be eaten, to be divided, to be drunk
Among whispers; by Mr. Silvero
With caressing hands, at Limoges
Who walked all night in the next room;
By Hakagawa, bowing among the Titians;
By Madame de Tornquist, in the dark room
Shifting the candles; Fräulein von Kulp
Who turned in the hall, one hand on the door.
- From Geronition, by T. S. Eliot
A few weeks ago, I accompanied my mother and sister-in-law to the Womens Bible Study at our Church. Though I had not done the homework, my mother has the entire Bible recorded on her iPhone, and I listened to the birth narratives in Matthew and Luke on our 45-minute drive to church.
I have read them many times before. I have heard sermons preached on the tired passages, and a hundred movies and Christmas plays. I used to play with the plastic nativity set my parents bought specifically to be used by the children. Growing up with an advent birthday, these stories were nothing new.
Traditionally we celebrate the birth of Christ in December. I have heard arguments for a Christmas in July. For whatever reason, the women's bible study decided to discuss it here, in the fall. In the hot, North Carolina September, when all my friends are off at their respective universities, I am to turn my mind eastward to the most dysfunctional family. To two fathers with a mother who never knew either, and the smelly audience of strangers.
"Do you think the baby, nursing at His mothers breast knew that He was God?" We were asked. It's a part of the story I am unaccustomed to considering. But in a room full of mothers, the question was pertinent.
"Did Jesus, as a baby, continue crying when His mother shushed Him?" My own mother, to whom disobedience is undoubtable a sin, needed to know. Despite experiencing my nephews Christmas birth two years ago, such questions had never carried particular importance to me.
If that kind of disobedience is (as my mother so adamantly holds) a sin, should we not, as parents, think very carefuly about the commands we give to our young ones? Is not giving constant orders to children who barely have self-awareness, who could barely know if they were the God of the universe, spurring them into sin?
I suppose as someone who requires so much forgiveness myself, I've been over concerned about condemning others. I've long regarded Saint Peter's keys to the kingdom ("I will give you mthe keys of the kingdom of heaven, and nwhatever you bind on earth shall be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven.") as an exciting opportunity to leave a great deal unbound on earth, and, therefore, in Heaven.
To me though, I have always viewed Jesus, as man and child, as Love incarnate. Something important happened when Christ was baptized, to be sure, (He was given the Holy Spirit, whatever that means) but I must believe that the Father spoke to Him before this.
Many women brought up the Anne Rice novel that I have not read, in which the Boychild slowly realized His divinity. But I cannot see it that way. To me it is always God. God Himself, lowly and vulnerable. In need to warm blankets, and a mothers milk, and the muscle memory to form words, and friendship. But of course, as my pastors wife reminded us, in this discussion, we are always on the fringe of heresy.
In the end, though, the conversation dropped back to the horror of the entire situation. Most women in the room knew the terror of labor, but it was more than that. Following His birth, they fled to Egypt. Saint Mary seemingly did not tell Saint Luke much about that trip, only that it happened. What went on in those years in a foreign land? And Saint Joseph labored for the rest of his life for a wife who, according to Catholic theology, he was to take care of without ever taking. Sure, there were angels to instruct them, from time to time, but in the end, if that child had not been Love, could they have sacrificed themselves so completely for Him?
The tune of the conversation turned my mind towards T. S. Eliot's Journey of the Magi . Which you can hear him read here.
And here were my reflections, shamelessly stole from Mr. Eliot, as usual.
Sunday Sonnet XXV
A hard and bitter coming they all had of it:
The evidence of birth, and yet the death.
The baby made adults seem counterfeit
As deity and mortal shared each breath.
And Joseph’s wife, whom he could never touch
Could not refrain from calling herself blessed
Through Egypt’s desert days, and swords, and such
As even thinking, mothers are distressed.
The word within a word Who could not speak
Let angels help the man who was not Dad.
Let angels speak the bitter for the meek
And mild Who took the peace they never had.
And yet we read their tales with jealous eyes
Though blessing breeds her trails in disguise.
The word within a word, unable to speak a word,
Swaddled with darkness. In the juvescence of the year
Came Christ the tiger
In depraved May, dogwood and chestnut, flowering judas,
To be eaten, to be divided, to be drunk
Among whispers; by Mr. Silvero
With caressing hands, at Limoges
Who walked all night in the next room;
By Hakagawa, bowing among the Titians;
By Madame de Tornquist, in the dark room
Shifting the candles; Fräulein von Kulp
Who turned in the hall, one hand on the door.
- From Geronition, by T. S. Eliot
A few weeks ago, I accompanied my mother and sister-in-law to the Womens Bible Study at our Church. Though I had not done the homework, my mother has the entire Bible recorded on her iPhone, and I listened to the birth narratives in Matthew and Luke on our 45-minute drive to church.
I have read them many times before. I have heard sermons preached on the tired passages, and a hundred movies and Christmas plays. I used to play with the plastic nativity set my parents bought specifically to be used by the children. Growing up with an advent birthday, these stories were nothing new.
Traditionally we celebrate the birth of Christ in December. I have heard arguments for a Christmas in July. For whatever reason, the women's bible study decided to discuss it here, in the fall. In the hot, North Carolina September, when all my friends are off at their respective universities, I am to turn my mind eastward to the most dysfunctional family. To two fathers with a mother who never knew either, and the smelly audience of strangers.
"Do you think the baby, nursing at His mothers breast knew that He was God?" We were asked. It's a part of the story I am unaccustomed to considering. But in a room full of mothers, the question was pertinent.
"Did Jesus, as a baby, continue crying when His mother shushed Him?" My own mother, to whom disobedience is undoubtable a sin, needed to know. Despite experiencing my nephews Christmas birth two years ago, such questions had never carried particular importance to me.
If that kind of disobedience is (as my mother so adamantly holds) a sin, should we not, as parents, think very carefuly about the commands we give to our young ones? Is not giving constant orders to children who barely have self-awareness, who could barely know if they were the God of the universe, spurring them into sin?
I suppose as someone who requires so much forgiveness myself, I've been over concerned about condemning others. I've long regarded Saint Peter's keys to the kingdom ("I will give you mthe keys of the kingdom of heaven, and nwhatever you bind on earth shall be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven.") as an exciting opportunity to leave a great deal unbound on earth, and, therefore, in Heaven.
To me though, I have always viewed Jesus, as man and child, as Love incarnate. Something important happened when Christ was baptized, to be sure, (He was given the Holy Spirit, whatever that means) but I must believe that the Father spoke to Him before this.
Many women brought up the Anne Rice novel that I have not read, in which the Boychild slowly realized His divinity. But I cannot see it that way. To me it is always God. God Himself, lowly and vulnerable. In need to warm blankets, and a mothers milk, and the muscle memory to form words, and friendship. But of course, as my pastors wife reminded us, in this discussion, we are always on the fringe of heresy.
In the end, though, the conversation dropped back to the horror of the entire situation. Most women in the room knew the terror of labor, but it was more than that. Following His birth, they fled to Egypt. Saint Mary seemingly did not tell Saint Luke much about that trip, only that it happened. What went on in those years in a foreign land? And Saint Joseph labored for the rest of his life for a wife who, according to Catholic theology, he was to take care of without ever taking. Sure, there were angels to instruct them, from time to time, but in the end, if that child had not been Love, could they have sacrificed themselves so completely for Him?
The tune of the conversation turned my mind towards T. S. Eliot's Journey of the Magi . Which you can hear him read here.
And here were my reflections, shamelessly stole from Mr. Eliot, as usual.
Sunday Sonnet XXV
A hard and bitter coming they all had of it:
The evidence of birth, and yet the death.
The baby made adults seem counterfeit
As deity and mortal shared each breath.
And Joseph’s wife, whom he could never touch
Could not refrain from calling herself blessed
Through Egypt’s desert days, and swords, and such
As even thinking, mothers are distressed.
The word within a word Who could not speak
Let angels help the man who was not Dad.
Let angels speak the bitter for the meek
And mild Who took the peace they never had.
And yet we read their tales with jealous eyes
Though blessing breeds her trails in disguise.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
There be dirt
When I was meandering my way through Orson Scott Card's 'Ender' series, I was warned beforehand that 'Xenocide' was really no good, compared to the others. I should read it, I heard, to continue the story, but should not expect the qualities I had loved in the first two books.
But stumbling my way through the book, little bits and pieces and concepts would stick in my head. One thing, amidst my self-disgust and trouble with forgiveness was the trials of the godspoken. When the concept of the godspoken (which turns out to be a human-created strain of OCD, neutralizing the point that could have been made) was first introduced, the reader was told that "the first message of the Gods was the unspeakable filthiness of the one they spoke to."
The sentence paints a harsher picture than I would have painted with the concept, but the concept itself is the same. We are unwell, we are filthy. We are aware of it because we understand that there is such a thing as well, as clean. Those who hear the voices of the gods would know.
Reading over my high school year book earlier this week, people flattered me with assertions of my free spirit, or of the beauty I see in everything. But if I am free, it is only because I first realized I was a slave. If I see beauty in anything, it is only because I have dug my way through the atrocity that is on the surface.
I still have problems forgiveness. There is a paradox in that we recognize horror only in contrast beauty, and our beauty only through coming to terms with our filth. In the same book Card described "the decency to be appalled by my own brutality." We are not beasts, we are self aware enough to be ashamed. Our shame is not a result of punishment. Our shame is a result of goodness.
All this in mind, last week my sonnet, number XXIV, was on the terrible frustration of both the desire to be pure, and the inability.
Sunday Sonnet XXIV
Because my hands aren’t clean I cannot touch
The broken body of True Purity.
Because my hands aren’t clean I want this much
The body broken for scum such as me.
Because a beauty beats amidst this bone
I will not end this battle with defeat.
Because a beauty beats but isn’t shown
The twisted glory makes darkness complete.
And I am wrought with half hope, half despair
United both with Christ and prostitute.
Yet even shadows light in open air
And we are fully saved, but destitute.
Yet once God claimed that He’d make all things new,
So promptly Christ was born, and prompt withdrew.
But stumbling my way through the book, little bits and pieces and concepts would stick in my head. One thing, amidst my self-disgust and trouble with forgiveness was the trials of the godspoken. When the concept of the godspoken (which turns out to be a human-created strain of OCD, neutralizing the point that could have been made) was first introduced, the reader was told that "the first message of the Gods was the unspeakable filthiness of the one they spoke to."
The sentence paints a harsher picture than I would have painted with the concept, but the concept itself is the same. We are unwell, we are filthy. We are aware of it because we understand that there is such a thing as well, as clean. Those who hear the voices of the gods would know.
Reading over my high school year book earlier this week, people flattered me with assertions of my free spirit, or of the beauty I see in everything. But if I am free, it is only because I first realized I was a slave. If I see beauty in anything, it is only because I have dug my way through the atrocity that is on the surface.
I still have problems forgiveness. There is a paradox in that we recognize horror only in contrast beauty, and our beauty only through coming to terms with our filth. In the same book Card described "the decency to be appalled by my own brutality." We are not beasts, we are self aware enough to be ashamed. Our shame is not a result of punishment. Our shame is a result of goodness.
All this in mind, last week my sonnet, number XXIV, was on the terrible frustration of both the desire to be pure, and the inability.
Sunday Sonnet XXIV
Because my hands aren’t clean I cannot touch
The broken body of True Purity.
Because my hands aren’t clean I want this much
The body broken for scum such as me.
Because a beauty beats amidst this bone
I will not end this battle with defeat.
Because a beauty beats but isn’t shown
The twisted glory makes darkness complete.
And I am wrought with half hope, half despair
United both with Christ and prostitute.
Yet even shadows light in open air
And we are fully saved, but destitute.
Yet once God claimed that He’d make all things new,
So promptly Christ was born, and prompt withdrew.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Sunday Sonnets Part II
I'm still not so good at posting these every week, as implied by my last post, months ago. However, I had another installment of several. Really, I'd like to post them every week, as poetry binges can be exhausting to read, but we do what needs must.
Sunday Sonnet XIV
This is but the beginning of the nights
Which were never lonely till he came and
Went again. Yet with no end in sight,
It's worth the nights to fin'ly understand
That wer were never meant to be alone.
Like crim'nals fin'ly comprehending crime
Who'd not know mercy without horror done -
So I endure the drought for harvest time.
Even in our mortal ways of being
Whole, there is an echo of the feast to
Come, when marriage takes a truer meaning
And love is always fresher and more new.
So I'll love the night in all her terror
Because she shows the truth behind her error.
----------------
Sunday Sonnet XV
Theres some forgotten Latin mys’try
Which I might humbly enter in to share
Yet reaching out t’interact with his’try
I find my grasping hands but clasp the air.
“It’s not about you.” They will interject
“We come to worship wholly through but one.”
Yet then behind the scenes I might suspect
My presence but a candle in the sun.
Yet burn we all a fire just the same.
And candles find their use when earth is turned
Away from light, like lovers in their shame.
And we receive the lack of faith we earned.
So come together as you break your bread
But know we do the same through song instead.
----------------
Sunday Sonnet XVI
WE are the broken, sickly world who beg
A doctor of our fellow invalids.
We see them hobble and request a leg,
Like parents leaning wholly on their kids.
For we fulfill love by its own destruction,
Creating Superman out of the ants
Who were not made for lonely production
But to hobble, where e’er the Master grants.
We might find moments wholeness exhaled
Like the air, then fall again through time and
Atmosphere, and all else we ever hailed
Before we turn, like seashells into sand.
So let me be a patient now, at last
And lead not forever towards the past.
----------------
Sunday Sonnet XVII
We’re building up our castles in the sand
With crushed up bones of shells from years before
Whose very fall’s the reason why they stand.
The final tide’s the glory of the shore.
Our beauty is no less for breaking down
With every wave that laps against our walls.
That foam which wounds us makes for us a crown
When bodies finally bend to ocean’s calls.
For there is something moving in the blue
That smooths us with a soft brutality
And something half forgotten but full true
Will make our very death a victory.
And so we’ll fall again, though we’re afraid
For we, like sand, unravel as we’re made.
----------------
Sunday Sonnet XVIII
“Lord, heal me of the pain,” we say with hearts
Still shattered, still ripping the binding from
Our wounds. Addicted to the poison darts
Until the poison’s all we have become.
For if we lost an arm it’d n’er grow back
(Though some might argue that perhaps it would)
And we’d define ourselves as handicap
(Though some might argue that perhaps it could).
And should it? Maybe some not distant day
When scars are a flash of decoration –
If they are there at all (I cannot say).
Though One let fingers trace His laceration.
So take not from me pain, but sorrows jive.
Which names the pain as proof that I survive.
----------------
Sunday Sonnet XIX
And when you hear the voice of God speaking
Turn not your tearing tender heart to stone.
For though you’ve all you need you’re still seeking
Some small solution that might build those bones.
Be not as faithless as your fathers were
Demanding answers when they couldn’t see
The way. For He who makes a stone thirts cure
Fulfils his spoken word eventually.
Call not his voice imagination’s sway
And claim a doubt of God a doubt of self.
For magic does exist in wide array –
Physics, faith, hope and love – it’s called instead.
You’ll hear the ordination in your head
Call not the Word insanity instead.
----------------
Sunday Sonnet XX
So He who bade us not sew mixed-seed fields
Still bade young Esther leave her native breed
And Ruth converted despite pagan yield,
So even Joseph bore a tainted seed.
So those who kick against a weighted yolk
May yet redeem a less-than righteous spouse.
For it was he who’d never marry spoke
The inconsistency, he with no house
To warm his feet, or soothe his sun-sore eyes.
And yet, young Esther might argue his case.
Necessity can still torment the wise
And even back bruised cattle keep some grace.
So Love is like the Irish with this rule
Who wills it break before He’s made a fool.
----------------
Sunday Sonnet XXI
There is a land that’s void of shopping malls
Where women balance water on their heads
Because the wild is the way, not call,
Their diamonds build the suburbs here, instead.
There is a place where straw and mud keep out
The rain, they say, though hunger still seeps through,
Yet there’s a wholesomeness in dirt. Without
A safety net, it’s God they look unto.
There is a land I’d like to meet, and stay
With for some time. My roots could grow along
The farms it holds in less time-centered days.
We travel far to find where we belong.
Yet lest I call fantasy ordination
I’ll wait until I’m asked to join the nation.
----------------
Sunday Sonnet XXII
I hope to see you ne’r again, for my
Sake and for yours. For old heart-strong grow weak
With strain and snap when played so out awrey.
Because I do not hope. I seek
To satisfy with longing, what longing
Cannot forget. This world is not our home,
So our hearts yet search for some belonging.
It’s chasing wind. Through vanity they roam.
And so I hope you’re warm, and well, and fed,
And find fulfillment in your journey.
I dare to hope you won’t have time ahead
To let your heart linger on memory.
For I could hurt afresh for all your woes
But past is near enough the way it goes.
----------------
Sunday Sonnet XXIII
Because I do not hope to turn again
To memories I’ve over worn in time.
Because I do not hope for foe or friend,
I linger on the or’gin of the rhyme.
Now fantasies have surpassed memory
And you no longer must needs to exist.
If you were ever more than words to me
Then is it man or myth that yet persists?
I do not hope for reconciliation
Because I do not hope, lest I despair.
And through I once grasped dreams of recreation
They over ran the truth behind my err’r.
But I’ve heard echos of a hope someday
When all my false idols will start decay.
Sunday Sonnet XIV
This is but the beginning of the nights
Which were never lonely till he came and
Went again. Yet with no end in sight,
It's worth the nights to fin'ly understand
That wer were never meant to be alone.
Like crim'nals fin'ly comprehending crime
Who'd not know mercy without horror done -
So I endure the drought for harvest time.
Even in our mortal ways of being
Whole, there is an echo of the feast to
Come, when marriage takes a truer meaning
And love is always fresher and more new.
So I'll love the night in all her terror
Because she shows the truth behind her error.
----------------
Sunday Sonnet XV
Theres some forgotten Latin mys’try
Which I might humbly enter in to share
Yet reaching out t’interact with his’try
I find my grasping hands but clasp the air.
“It’s not about you.” They will interject
“We come to worship wholly through but one.”
Yet then behind the scenes I might suspect
My presence but a candle in the sun.
Yet burn we all a fire just the same.
And candles find their use when earth is turned
Away from light, like lovers in their shame.
And we receive the lack of faith we earned.
So come together as you break your bread
But know we do the same through song instead.
----------------
Sunday Sonnet XVI
WE are the broken, sickly world who beg
A doctor of our fellow invalids.
We see them hobble and request a leg,
Like parents leaning wholly on their kids.
For we fulfill love by its own destruction,
Creating Superman out of the ants
Who were not made for lonely production
But to hobble, where e’er the Master grants.
We might find moments wholeness exhaled
Like the air, then fall again through time and
Atmosphere, and all else we ever hailed
Before we turn, like seashells into sand.
So let me be a patient now, at last
And lead not forever towards the past.
----------------
Sunday Sonnet XVII
We’re building up our castles in the sand
With crushed up bones of shells from years before
Whose very fall’s the reason why they stand.
The final tide’s the glory of the shore.
Our beauty is no less for breaking down
With every wave that laps against our walls.
That foam which wounds us makes for us a crown
When bodies finally bend to ocean’s calls.
For there is something moving in the blue
That smooths us with a soft brutality
And something half forgotten but full true
Will make our very death a victory.
And so we’ll fall again, though we’re afraid
For we, like sand, unravel as we’re made.
----------------
Sunday Sonnet XVIII
“Lord, heal me of the pain,” we say with hearts
Still shattered, still ripping the binding from
Our wounds. Addicted to the poison darts
Until the poison’s all we have become.
For if we lost an arm it’d n’er grow back
(Though some might argue that perhaps it would)
And we’d define ourselves as handicap
(Though some might argue that perhaps it could).
And should it? Maybe some not distant day
When scars are a flash of decoration –
If they are there at all (I cannot say).
Though One let fingers trace His laceration.
So take not from me pain, but sorrows jive.
Which names the pain as proof that I survive.
----------------
Sunday Sonnet XIX
And when you hear the voice of God speaking
Turn not your tearing tender heart to stone.
For though you’ve all you need you’re still seeking
Some small solution that might build those bones.
Be not as faithless as your fathers were
Demanding answers when they couldn’t see
The way. For He who makes a stone thirts cure
Fulfils his spoken word eventually.
Call not his voice imagination’s sway
And claim a doubt of God a doubt of self.
For magic does exist in wide array –
Physics, faith, hope and love – it’s called instead.
You’ll hear the ordination in your head
Call not the Word insanity instead.
----------------
Sunday Sonnet XX
So He who bade us not sew mixed-seed fields
Still bade young Esther leave her native breed
And Ruth converted despite pagan yield,
So even Joseph bore a tainted seed.
So those who kick against a weighted yolk
May yet redeem a less-than righteous spouse.
For it was he who’d never marry spoke
The inconsistency, he with no house
To warm his feet, or soothe his sun-sore eyes.
And yet, young Esther might argue his case.
Necessity can still torment the wise
And even back bruised cattle keep some grace.
So Love is like the Irish with this rule
Who wills it break before He’s made a fool.
----------------
Sunday Sonnet XXI
There is a land that’s void of shopping malls
Where women balance water on their heads
Because the wild is the way, not call,
Their diamonds build the suburbs here, instead.
There is a place where straw and mud keep out
The rain, they say, though hunger still seeps through,
Yet there’s a wholesomeness in dirt. Without
A safety net, it’s God they look unto.
There is a land I’d like to meet, and stay
With for some time. My roots could grow along
The farms it holds in less time-centered days.
We travel far to find where we belong.
Yet lest I call fantasy ordination
I’ll wait until I’m asked to join the nation.
----------------
Sunday Sonnet XXII
I hope to see you ne’r again, for my
Sake and for yours. For old heart-strong grow weak
With strain and snap when played so out awrey.
Because I do not hope. I seek
To satisfy with longing, what longing
Cannot forget. This world is not our home,
So our hearts yet search for some belonging.
It’s chasing wind. Through vanity they roam.
And so I hope you’re warm, and well, and fed,
And find fulfillment in your journey.
I dare to hope you won’t have time ahead
To let your heart linger on memory.
For I could hurt afresh for all your woes
But past is near enough the way it goes.
----------------
Sunday Sonnet XXIII
Because I do not hope to turn again
To memories I’ve over worn in time.
Because I do not hope for foe or friend,
I linger on the or’gin of the rhyme.
Now fantasies have surpassed memory
And you no longer must needs to exist.
If you were ever more than words to me
Then is it man or myth that yet persists?
I do not hope for reconciliation
Because I do not hope, lest I despair.
And through I once grasped dreams of recreation
They over ran the truth behind my err’r.
But I’ve heard echos of a hope someday
When all my false idols will start decay.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
The Sunday Sonnets
I once heard that, as Christians, if we are to give something up for Lent, we should also pick something up for Easter. As someone who has only barely ever even done one Lent fast, I probably wasn't the best candidate for such a task. This Easter I didn't do that, precisely. Instead I decided to pick something up for the whole year after Easter: one Easter to the next. While during Lent I fasted during the weak and feasted on Sunday, so for this Easter celebration I have celebrated only on Sundays.
As an amateur poet (in the truest sense, as I do it for love) I've always loved composing poetry, but a good deal of my initial poetry was throughly pierced with teen angst and disappointed love. Most of that is nothing I would call good. The older I get, I find myself taking a sort of romantic turn and more and more I am about some Truth hidden in Nature. The Sunday Sonnets intentionally have a religious tinge. As such, this is no doubt the only place they will ever be published.
While I have neglected my blog for sometime now (during Lent I gave up non-academic computer use, and I never seemed to pick this site in particular back up afterwards) I thought it time to revive it at the very least for this sonnet series. I'll divulge all I have since Easter now, and then update every Monday or so until it is impossible for me to do so.
Sunday Sonnet I
Here’s my first unrighteous sonnet,
Official sonnet of self-righteousness,
Where virtue’s greater had my pen not drawn it
But swollen hands could argue little less.
For worked upon a heap of self are ash,
Or else, are termites to infest and rot.
And westward Easters elongate the gash
Which mutilated love songs first begot.
Let me arch back towards the highway where
Depths of oceans trip on their own crests.
Let humble, selfish lines betray my care
Of wading through the shorelines where I rest.
Where ten beats scrape to pardon seven days
And fourteen lines pay in’fite virtue praise.
Sunday Sonnet II
When Mary grappled with Your open tomb
Heaven itself did not delay Your voice.
And You bid peace while dishing out the doom
Of these, Your fish, who falter in their choice.
Yet I seek not Your grave, I search Your feet
For fear of my reflection in Your eyes.
I’d like to travel footworn trails, and meet
You coming home to newly foreign skies.
But while I’d get a blessing for my doubt
And justice for my restless persistence
My bread seems rather firm to me, without.
And I still crumble in a wayward glance.
Lord, be not silent, and be ever near
For prayers, unlike a scar, won’t disappear.
Sunday Sonnet III
Perhaps it is appropriate that I
Should blunder now. I won’t deny – forget.
For fish do not mend memory, but a lie,
And mem’ry falters more than I’d admit.
For we who vomit, laugh and cry and sweat
May seem quite large in our patheticness
And as we etch our epics in regret
We think divinely love must be but less.
But there’s a rumor of a splinter cross
And I have heard a dwarfing of the stars,
A sort of moral gain and mortal loss
And watery grace against these prison bars.
When floods make mountains kneel, a voice will say
A sonnet may be writ on any day.
Sunday Sonnet IV
Did the forest speak to thee, when thou walked
The earth? And the winds disrupts thy hair
Some years ago, when even oceans talked?
Or was it thou who bid’st the shaking air?
And did’st thou bless the first light bulb? Was
It thy intent? Dos’t thou speak through the internet?
I cannot rest until I ask because
This tool can’t be quite what thou meant.
See, we who grasp and get and guess grow dull
Of stringing lives like beads upon a plug.
And microchips don’t grow like trees, and pull
Our heartstring roots, yet there is still a tug.
I cannot fathom answers to binary tests
And I can fathom Truth but little less.
Sunday Sonnet V
In the end, that most bold beginning
When twelve men welcome, and twelve more uphold,
Is there refuge, at last for the sinning?
Or is such adamant mercy too bold?
Are our bodies spread out like a city
When Jerusalem is finally your bride?
Is condemnation a form of pity
For those who’d bar the walls of cities wide?
Though it’s within your ability
To wipe the tears from tears. To save all you
Desire to free – all, quite objectively.
He said: “Behold I’m making all things new.”
Confirm your will for yet the least of these
And then, they who will not surrender – seize.
Sunday Sonnet VI
Two roads did not diverge, no, they converged
Where it became clear they were never separate.
And all that duality’s fin’lly purged
When we enter a physical gate.
And the connections we make are like nerves
In the skin of a self we are only
A part of. Let’s give each the value deserved.
For a fingertip is never lonely.
So may my feet still know the ground when I
Return. And may the trees always bear more.
May my inklings never even scrape the sky
Which curtains always covered up before.
And so we’ll meet when forks become a knife
And I will enter in my one, but only life.
Sunday Sonnet VII
Here’s to something physical, the human
In the heart of God. Here’s to the bone and
Flesh. For clouds may lead where ever they can.
Sometimes we need, instead, a helping hand.
Here’s to the Spirit that remains, as we
Would seek to understand. Here’s to a Guide.
For though our eyes may wither we shall see
Him leading strangely, entering inside.
Here’s to a gentle breeze and ruffling leaf
Who’s coded in a million willow cells.
Who cannot yet forsake, despite His grief,
A nation full of frightened rebels.
And here’s to something else, I cannot quite
Perceive, who beckons louder every night.
Sunday Sonnet VIII
He said, “it’s better that I now should go,”
To leave 12 friends and countless broken bones.
With so much warning, flew away. And so
Bacteria penetrates deeper stones.
Like raindrops falling on a startled skin
We might hear battle ravaging the skies.
‘Tis better,’ He knew, ‘to enter within,’
To bind our hearts to Him like tired eyes.
For He shed blood to quench our therapy
To block the moon from a heart race of waves
And calm poor Suna’s ever-bitter sea.
What kind of Truth, by sacrificing, saves?
‘Tis better,’ He though, knowing winters fruit.
For his’try runs like veins in an Oaks root.
Sunday Sonnet IX
I’ve grasped my courage here to reconcile,
To spout my faceless ramblings to the dark,
To you, whose voice grows softer all the while
To tempt electrons with a sudden spark.
I’ve heard the sacrament when they confess
Is that repentance finally is true.
But I’m no Cath’lic, so is mine the less,
With promises to heal that never do?
If I could have one gift in all of space
It’d be for this to be the gift that I
Would ask. That maybe change could come apace.
And I would never make deny.
For sorry as I am, as I repent,
There’s still a piece to see her penny spent.
Sunday Sonnet X
And so twelve years have come to this, have come
To tired eyes and promises of love.
An maybe now my journey has begun,
Or maybe I but barely rise above
The she I was five years ago. Any yet,
I’ve overgrown those fences I once climbed,
Of history to reconcile regret.
And I’ve re-sought what I can’t hope to find.
Yet here’s my new diploma, and here’s my
Mortarboard – a little more than dress-down
Clothes. They are the secret passcode, and I
Am little apt to resist such a crown.
And perhaps now my real life, at last, will start:
Adulthood like a hatching of the heart.
Sunday Sonnet XI
Grant me a spirit like an Irish folk song,
That I may be cheerful in my distress,
Ad a happy sorrow for ages long
May, at last, redeem that spirit once depressed.
And if my heart must beat beyond my chest
May it drum to the rhythm of their pipes
With something like a reckless hobbit, blest.
Growing clover where were sown the stripes.
May I turn highways into dusty roads
That hide beneath a canopy of green
And find the rain refreshes, not erodes.
And see, at last, in mud, a somethin’ clean.
And grant me only half the joys they claim
And a jig that boasts both pride and shame.
Sunday Sonnet XII
When we’re finally rid of our legions
And worthy just enough to beg to go
Sacrifice our lives for new allegiance
With purity barely budding through the glow,
Then restless hearts may find a peaceful calling
Like clear skies slowing down the pace of days.
And though our instincts onward charging,
There is a mission some less “sexy” way.
So would I follow even to the suburbs,
Where ease is yet a harder burden borne?
Like Abraham, it may be testing, absurd,
But relativity breeds varied storms.
So even if my trek abroad’s begun,
Enforce that not my will, but Yours be done.
Sunday Sonnet XIII
Wash over all our Bloody Sundays with
The blood and water You so freely gave.
And if our aims or temperance should then shift
We beg, remind us what we might have saved.
A war-torn city and some painted walls
May serve as a “P.S. Remember me.”
So new youth grow t’inherit parents’ cause
As child Joseph learned of slavery.
And May, at least, we learn from our mistakes
When we can’t learn from them who went before.
Let’s not nail abstract “freedom” to our stakes,
At least allow our broken “Nevermore!”
And may our Sunday’s be called days of rest
When we can’t find the heart to call them blessed.
As an amateur poet (in the truest sense, as I do it for love) I've always loved composing poetry, but a good deal of my initial poetry was throughly pierced with teen angst and disappointed love. Most of that is nothing I would call good. The older I get, I find myself taking a sort of romantic turn and more and more I am about some Truth hidden in Nature. The Sunday Sonnets intentionally have a religious tinge. As such, this is no doubt the only place they will ever be published.
While I have neglected my blog for sometime now (during Lent I gave up non-academic computer use, and I never seemed to pick this site in particular back up afterwards) I thought it time to revive it at the very least for this sonnet series. I'll divulge all I have since Easter now, and then update every Monday or so until it is impossible for me to do so.
Sunday Sonnet I
Here’s my first unrighteous sonnet,
Official sonnet of self-righteousness,
Where virtue’s greater had my pen not drawn it
But swollen hands could argue little less.
For worked upon a heap of self are ash,
Or else, are termites to infest and rot.
And westward Easters elongate the gash
Which mutilated love songs first begot.
Let me arch back towards the highway where
Depths of oceans trip on their own crests.
Let humble, selfish lines betray my care
Of wading through the shorelines where I rest.
Where ten beats scrape to pardon seven days
And fourteen lines pay in’fite virtue praise.
Sunday Sonnet II
When Mary grappled with Your open tomb
Heaven itself did not delay Your voice.
And You bid peace while dishing out the doom
Of these, Your fish, who falter in their choice.
Yet I seek not Your grave, I search Your feet
For fear of my reflection in Your eyes.
I’d like to travel footworn trails, and meet
You coming home to newly foreign skies.
But while I’d get a blessing for my doubt
And justice for my restless persistence
My bread seems rather firm to me, without.
And I still crumble in a wayward glance.
Lord, be not silent, and be ever near
For prayers, unlike a scar, won’t disappear.
Sunday Sonnet III
Perhaps it is appropriate that I
Should blunder now. I won’t deny – forget.
For fish do not mend memory, but a lie,
And mem’ry falters more than I’d admit.
For we who vomit, laugh and cry and sweat
May seem quite large in our patheticness
And as we etch our epics in regret
We think divinely love must be but less.
But there’s a rumor of a splinter cross
And I have heard a dwarfing of the stars,
A sort of moral gain and mortal loss
And watery grace against these prison bars.
When floods make mountains kneel, a voice will say
A sonnet may be writ on any day.
Sunday Sonnet IV
Did the forest speak to thee, when thou walked
The earth? And the winds disrupts thy hair
Some years ago, when even oceans talked?
Or was it thou who bid’st the shaking air?
And did’st thou bless the first light bulb? Was
It thy intent? Dos’t thou speak through the internet?
I cannot rest until I ask because
This tool can’t be quite what thou meant.
See, we who grasp and get and guess grow dull
Of stringing lives like beads upon a plug.
And microchips don’t grow like trees, and pull
Our heartstring roots, yet there is still a tug.
I cannot fathom answers to binary tests
And I can fathom Truth but little less.
Sunday Sonnet V
In the end, that most bold beginning
When twelve men welcome, and twelve more uphold,
Is there refuge, at last for the sinning?
Or is such adamant mercy too bold?
Are our bodies spread out like a city
When Jerusalem is finally your bride?
Is condemnation a form of pity
For those who’d bar the walls of cities wide?
Though it’s within your ability
To wipe the tears from tears. To save all you
Desire to free – all, quite objectively.
He said: “Behold I’m making all things new.”
Confirm your will for yet the least of these
And then, they who will not surrender – seize.
Sunday Sonnet VI
Two roads did not diverge, no, they converged
Where it became clear they were never separate.
And all that duality’s fin’lly purged
When we enter a physical gate.
And the connections we make are like nerves
In the skin of a self we are only
A part of. Let’s give each the value deserved.
For a fingertip is never lonely.
So may my feet still know the ground when I
Return. And may the trees always bear more.
May my inklings never even scrape the sky
Which curtains always covered up before.
And so we’ll meet when forks become a knife
And I will enter in my one, but only life.
Sunday Sonnet VII
Here’s to something physical, the human
In the heart of God. Here’s to the bone and
Flesh. For clouds may lead where ever they can.
Sometimes we need, instead, a helping hand.
Here’s to the Spirit that remains, as we
Would seek to understand. Here’s to a Guide.
For though our eyes may wither we shall see
Him leading strangely, entering inside.
Here’s to a gentle breeze and ruffling leaf
Who’s coded in a million willow cells.
Who cannot yet forsake, despite His grief,
A nation full of frightened rebels.
And here’s to something else, I cannot quite
Perceive, who beckons louder every night.
Sunday Sonnet VIII
He said, “it’s better that I now should go,”
To leave 12 friends and countless broken bones.
With so much warning, flew away. And so
Bacteria penetrates deeper stones.
Like raindrops falling on a startled skin
We might hear battle ravaging the skies.
‘Tis better,’ He knew, ‘to enter within,’
To bind our hearts to Him like tired eyes.
For He shed blood to quench our therapy
To block the moon from a heart race of waves
And calm poor Suna’s ever-bitter sea.
What kind of Truth, by sacrificing, saves?
‘Tis better,’ He though, knowing winters fruit.
For his’try runs like veins in an Oaks root.
Sunday Sonnet IX
I’ve grasped my courage here to reconcile,
To spout my faceless ramblings to the dark,
To you, whose voice grows softer all the while
To tempt electrons with a sudden spark.
I’ve heard the sacrament when they confess
Is that repentance finally is true.
But I’m no Cath’lic, so is mine the less,
With promises to heal that never do?
If I could have one gift in all of space
It’d be for this to be the gift that I
Would ask. That maybe change could come apace.
And I would never make deny.
For sorry as I am, as I repent,
There’s still a piece to see her penny spent.
Sunday Sonnet X
And so twelve years have come to this, have come
To tired eyes and promises of love.
An maybe now my journey has begun,
Or maybe I but barely rise above
The she I was five years ago. Any yet,
I’ve overgrown those fences I once climbed,
Of history to reconcile regret.
And I’ve re-sought what I can’t hope to find.
Yet here’s my new diploma, and here’s my
Mortarboard – a little more than dress-down
Clothes. They are the secret passcode, and I
Am little apt to resist such a crown.
And perhaps now my real life, at last, will start:
Adulthood like a hatching of the heart.
Sunday Sonnet XI
Grant me a spirit like an Irish folk song,
That I may be cheerful in my distress,
Ad a happy sorrow for ages long
May, at last, redeem that spirit once depressed.
And if my heart must beat beyond my chest
May it drum to the rhythm of their pipes
With something like a reckless hobbit, blest.
Growing clover where were sown the stripes.
May I turn highways into dusty roads
That hide beneath a canopy of green
And find the rain refreshes, not erodes.
And see, at last, in mud, a somethin’ clean.
And grant me only half the joys they claim
And a jig that boasts both pride and shame.
Sunday Sonnet XII
When we’re finally rid of our legions
And worthy just enough to beg to go
Sacrifice our lives for new allegiance
With purity barely budding through the glow,
Then restless hearts may find a peaceful calling
Like clear skies slowing down the pace of days.
And though our instincts onward charging,
There is a mission some less “sexy” way.
So would I follow even to the suburbs,
Where ease is yet a harder burden borne?
Like Abraham, it may be testing, absurd,
But relativity breeds varied storms.
So even if my trek abroad’s begun,
Enforce that not my will, but Yours be done.
Sunday Sonnet XIII
Wash over all our Bloody Sundays with
The blood and water You so freely gave.
And if our aims or temperance should then shift
We beg, remind us what we might have saved.
A war-torn city and some painted walls
May serve as a “P.S. Remember me.”
So new youth grow t’inherit parents’ cause
As child Joseph learned of slavery.
And May, at least, we learn from our mistakes
When we can’t learn from them who went before.
Let’s not nail abstract “freedom” to our stakes,
At least allow our broken “Nevermore!”
And may our Sunday’s be called days of rest
When we can’t find the heart to call them blessed.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
"The Kingdom of Heaven is like..."
I once read somewhere that, statistically speaking, there are more suicides in winter than any other time of the year. It's cold, it's barren. Nature goes from being a declaration of life to that of destruction. The caress of the sun, Summer's fire, Springs vivacity, Fall into emptiness. They are replace by frost in your lungs. Your bones freeze overnight.
Death is everywhere. Most anything annual dies with first frost, and even the perennials seem to be mere skeletons of what they once were. If we are to take Winter as an image of Life, of God, we have much to fear indeed. For even when Spring is inevitable, those flowers will also meet their winters. Sure, Spring comes after ever winter, but it's the Spring for different flowers, the heirs live on, but the parents must die. I have all but fallen in love with Spring, Winter seems almost to be a necessary evil, exciting only in that in drives me more often than ordinary to my fireplace. Winter makes a moth of me.
But, Oh! The snow! How could I have missed the gospel story? How much more blatant could it be tha tin the midst of senescence, the sky itself would clothe the world in white; for lingering nights to become the Blanche Nuit? For white is the color of purity. So, the flowers, the young and the lovely, in dying, yield to purity. The old, the strong, well rooted tree attains purity losing it's temporary garments, but containing on it the world. The exchange is having to undergo purification again. Sound familiar?
Shall we have further justification for white snow? What is more visually noticeable en l'hiver than the lack of color? Spring sets a thousand colors against the backdrop of a hundred greens. Even Autumn provides every color of a flame upon her dying members, emebers of the Great Fall. But Winter? Oh the monotone! Oh the dull neutrality! But wait! White! Have you forgotten white light? White light - every color in the spectrum combined! White light, the light, has come into the world...
But even snow can be tainted, can it not? Has pollution not played her part? Have we diluted and mutilated our redemption?
Hating to end upon a doubtful note an experience that was wonderful in general (wonderful -- filled with wonder, what else could the reaction to such beautiful white flakes be?), what shall I say? The snow falls, regardless of what we try to do to it. Perhaps it turns brown, and perhaps mothers tell their children it's no longer safe to eat, but Spring still comes, does it not?
Death is everywhere. Most anything annual dies with first frost, and even the perennials seem to be mere skeletons of what they once were. If we are to take Winter as an image of Life, of God, we have much to fear indeed. For even when Spring is inevitable, those flowers will also meet their winters. Sure, Spring comes after ever winter, but it's the Spring for different flowers, the heirs live on, but the parents must die. I have all but fallen in love with Spring, Winter seems almost to be a necessary evil, exciting only in that in drives me more often than ordinary to my fireplace. Winter makes a moth of me.
But, Oh! The snow! How could I have missed the gospel story? How much more blatant could it be tha tin the midst of senescence, the sky itself would clothe the world in white; for lingering nights to become the Blanche Nuit? For white is the color of purity. So, the flowers, the young and the lovely, in dying, yield to purity. The old, the strong, well rooted tree attains purity losing it's temporary garments, but containing on it the world. The exchange is having to undergo purification again. Sound familiar?
Shall we have further justification for white snow? What is more visually noticeable en l'hiver than the lack of color? Spring sets a thousand colors against the backdrop of a hundred greens. Even Autumn provides every color of a flame upon her dying members, emebers of the Great Fall. But Winter? Oh the monotone! Oh the dull neutrality! But wait! White! Have you forgotten white light? White light - every color in the spectrum combined! White light, the light, has come into the world...
But even snow can be tainted, can it not? Has pollution not played her part? Have we diluted and mutilated our redemption?
Hating to end upon a doubtful note an experience that was wonderful in general (wonderful -- filled with wonder, what else could the reaction to such beautiful white flakes be?), what shall I say? The snow falls, regardless of what we try to do to it. Perhaps it turns brown, and perhaps mothers tell their children it's no longer safe to eat, but Spring still comes, does it not?
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Walking the Weak
This fall has reminded me so much of fire. We built fires, the fall leaves resemble fire, I've even been more apt to smoke from time to time. Sometimes the fire makes more sense than anything. Somewhere, beneath its burning sweet addiction and the way it melts our eyes.
And so I go to it, the fire. I crave it. I arch the back of my tongue to it. I breathe.
I breathe, and so does the fire.
Samantha liked fire too, you could tell. You could tell by the odor of smoke that hung about her after the service. It might have been there before the service too, I had never been close enough to tell, then. Em had invited her to sit with us after she finished her Bo-Jangles, and Samantha had accepted. She didn't sit through the service, more than a couple times she ducked out and returned a few minutes later. But she stayed. I didn't know why at first, even when she was in the service, she seemed to be nodding off.
Afterwards I knew why. She needed a ride to north Durham. I couldn't give her one, I didn't have a car. I stood with her as she tried to find one though. I learned some things about her, bits an pieces. Obviously she was fond if cigarettes, but there was more. She loved Prince, and her family didn't want her...
Her family didn't want her, and neither did we, it seems. What has the church come to? Is Jesus crying up in Heaven? Has the father turned his face away? It is merely stuck in our direction like the smiles on people's faces when they're eager to help the soul, but not the body? Everyone was eager to ask about how she liked the service, but then she mentioned that she needed a ride, and they'd say "Hm.. I can't think of anyone going that direction.." never thinking that they might deviate from their path a little to show compassion on this woman. That didn't seem to really acknowledge her need, really. It made them uncomfortable.
But in America we're supposed to treat everyone equal right?
No, I finally understand. At some point, treating people equally is an insult.
And then my mind switches back to fire.
Perhaps the fire burns all, but it treats everything with distinction. It devours newspaper. Wood takes some time to catch. It squeezes the moisture out of wet logs.
Separate is not equal, no, but, hell, sometimes equal is not even equal.
But the Church, our mission is to love. God is love, right? We're the manifestation of God on earth, right?
Even without that, Jesus gave us the parable rather directly: Matthew 25:42-45
"For I was hungry and you gave me no food, I was thirsty and you gave me no drink, I was a stranger and you did not welcome me, naked and you did not clothe me, sick and in prison and you did not visit me.' Then they also will answer, saying, 'Lord, when did we see you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or naked or sick or in prison, and did not minister to you?' Then he will answer them, saying, 'Truly, I say to you, as you did not do it to one of the least of these, you did not do it to me."
So what's the problem, are we just too damn afraid of being taken advantage of?
Perhaps it's a relevant fear, but I feel as though it's putting the focus in the wrong place. Maybe they'll use all the money for drugs, or alcohol or cigarettes. Maybe we're just giving them a ride to their dealer or pimp. Maybe every bit of assistance we give won't directly save their soul, or even their body, but shouldn't the charity be the focus, not the fear? I'd prefer to take the risk of not being completely helpful, than not helping when I could.
And so I go to it, the fire. I crave it. I arch the back of my tongue to it. I breathe.
I breathe, and so does the fire.
Samantha liked fire too, you could tell. You could tell by the odor of smoke that hung about her after the service. It might have been there before the service too, I had never been close enough to tell, then. Em had invited her to sit with us after she finished her Bo-Jangles, and Samantha had accepted. She didn't sit through the service, more than a couple times she ducked out and returned a few minutes later. But she stayed. I didn't know why at first, even when she was in the service, she seemed to be nodding off.
Afterwards I knew why. She needed a ride to north Durham. I couldn't give her one, I didn't have a car. I stood with her as she tried to find one though. I learned some things about her, bits an pieces. Obviously she was fond if cigarettes, but there was more. She loved Prince, and her family didn't want her...
Her family didn't want her, and neither did we, it seems. What has the church come to? Is Jesus crying up in Heaven? Has the father turned his face away? It is merely stuck in our direction like the smiles on people's faces when they're eager to help the soul, but not the body? Everyone was eager to ask about how she liked the service, but then she mentioned that she needed a ride, and they'd say "Hm.. I can't think of anyone going that direction.." never thinking that they might deviate from their path a little to show compassion on this woman. That didn't seem to really acknowledge her need, really. It made them uncomfortable.
But in America we're supposed to treat everyone equal right?
No, I finally understand. At some point, treating people equally is an insult.
And then my mind switches back to fire.
Perhaps the fire burns all, but it treats everything with distinction. It devours newspaper. Wood takes some time to catch. It squeezes the moisture out of wet logs.
Separate is not equal, no, but, hell, sometimes equal is not even equal.
But the Church, our mission is to love. God is love, right? We're the manifestation of God on earth, right?
Even without that, Jesus gave us the parable rather directly: Matthew 25:42-45
"For I was hungry and you gave me no food, I was thirsty and you gave me no drink, I was a stranger and you did not welcome me, naked and you did not clothe me, sick and in prison and you did not visit me.' Then they also will answer, saying, 'Lord, when did we see you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or naked or sick or in prison, and did not minister to you?' Then he will answer them, saying, 'Truly, I say to you, as you did not do it to one of the least of these, you did not do it to me."
So what's the problem, are we just too damn afraid of being taken advantage of?
Perhaps it's a relevant fear, but I feel as though it's putting the focus in the wrong place. Maybe they'll use all the money for drugs, or alcohol or cigarettes. Maybe we're just giving them a ride to their dealer or pimp. Maybe every bit of assistance we give won't directly save their soul, or even their body, but shouldn't the charity be the focus, not the fear? I'd prefer to take the risk of not being completely helpful, than not helping when I could.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
The End of the Walk
Today began grave. I woke with the sun, and a world bathed in light, but hard thoughts found me soon after.
At church this morning there was a homeless woman. She came early, and was sitting in the lobby when my family, also early, came in. My mother was the first to speak to her. She quickly mentioned that she was looking for a meal, and my sister quickly ran to Bo-jangles to get at least something to fill her stomach. A simple gesture. The least you would expect from folks at a church, right?
I won't tell the whole story. It deserves to be told, but there's something else more fresh on my mind. I will say, though, that in the end I was shocked at how little people were willing to help. Perhaps she was only coming to the church to get a meal, and a ride across town. Perhaps she was taking advantage of anyone who would help her. Perhaps she was really, as it appeared, a man dressed in woman's clothes. Should it matter? Aren't the people of God called to care for even the ones who would strike us down? Aren't we a religion based on love?
Everyone thinks someone should do something. No one ever thinks: and that someone is me.
My Grandmother had been visiting my parents for the past week. We took her to the airport this morning, on the way to church. At 90-years old, she still lives by herself, and doesn't seem too bad heath-wise. Nevertheless, her goodbyes seemed more final. She spoke to me last night in a way suggesting last bits of advice. Ninety years old: is that a decent senescence?
My father received a call from the wife of an old boss this evening. The man just died of cancer, his wife was asking for my father's email address to send him details about the memorial service.
I'm still young, young enough that I rarely think too seriously about death. This man my father knew was only a few years older than my father himself. It's not a rare thing. Men die older than women on average, and my parents are slowly greying, active as they are.
But I'm not ready to have those thoughts in relation to my parents. I'm not even legally an adult for another month. Even after that, I'd like my children to meet their grandparents, and marriage is nowhere on the horizon for me. Being the youngest of four children, I feel more fearful of losing them, perhaps. I barely independent, if I am at all. As a Christian, I'm told not to fear death. I don't think I fear my own.
I suppose none of my thoughts are truly coherent enough at the moment to say anything much else here. I really just wanted to post Mr. Thomas' thoughts on death, as related to his father. The little bits of literary knowledge I have collected brought it to mind tonight.
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
At church this morning there was a homeless woman. She came early, and was sitting in the lobby when my family, also early, came in. My mother was the first to speak to her. She quickly mentioned that she was looking for a meal, and my sister quickly ran to Bo-jangles to get at least something to fill her stomach. A simple gesture. The least you would expect from folks at a church, right?
I won't tell the whole story. It deserves to be told, but there's something else more fresh on my mind. I will say, though, that in the end I was shocked at how little people were willing to help. Perhaps she was only coming to the church to get a meal, and a ride across town. Perhaps she was taking advantage of anyone who would help her. Perhaps she was really, as it appeared, a man dressed in woman's clothes. Should it matter? Aren't the people of God called to care for even the ones who would strike us down? Aren't we a religion based on love?
Everyone thinks someone should do something. No one ever thinks: and that someone is me.
My Grandmother had been visiting my parents for the past week. We took her to the airport this morning, on the way to church. At 90-years old, she still lives by herself, and doesn't seem too bad heath-wise. Nevertheless, her goodbyes seemed more final. She spoke to me last night in a way suggesting last bits of advice. Ninety years old: is that a decent senescence?
My father received a call from the wife of an old boss this evening. The man just died of cancer, his wife was asking for my father's email address to send him details about the memorial service.
I'm still young, young enough that I rarely think too seriously about death. This man my father knew was only a few years older than my father himself. It's not a rare thing. Men die older than women on average, and my parents are slowly greying, active as they are.
But I'm not ready to have those thoughts in relation to my parents. I'm not even legally an adult for another month. Even after that, I'd like my children to meet their grandparents, and marriage is nowhere on the horizon for me. Being the youngest of four children, I feel more fearful of losing them, perhaps. I barely independent, if I am at all. As a Christian, I'm told not to fear death. I don't think I fear my own.
I suppose none of my thoughts are truly coherent enough at the moment to say anything much else here. I really just wanted to post Mr. Thomas' thoughts on death, as related to his father. The little bits of literary knowledge I have collected brought it to mind tonight.
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Friday, November 6, 2009
Walking to a Beat
Mr. Frost is the kind of poet whose individual lines will sometimes invade my thoughts. Sometimes I'll have the pleasure of remembering these lines wrongly, and discover that his actual words were even more delightful than I had supposed. One such line is that in a poem call 'Choose something like a Star' in which case the line about the star saying merely "I ----." But I always had trouble remembering just what that word was. I do remembering being awed at the simplicity, yet absolution of the statement.
My dear friend Mr. M and I are the kinds of folks who do not do things like go to dances on Halloween. My school assumes that most people are though, and indeed, most are. As such, on Halloween, we had the pleasure of a rather quiet campus to walk about, while everyone else was smashing their bodies against one another in a noisy gymnasium (don't ask me why this phenomenon is popular). Anyhow, October 31st found us sitting on a bench looking up at what would be stars in a sky filled with light pollution. Mr. M finally settled on the moon, who was teasing the idea of being full that night. I, on the other hand, found that the cold of the night was disturbing my moon-gazing abilities. I decided bodyheat was my best bet, and rested my head on his chest.
"I can hear your heart" I realized.
"Oh?" Mr. M said, looking down at last from our other lady friend.
Remembering Mr. Frost, I added, "Yes, it says: 'I beat.'"
The beat of a heart is a wonderful thing. Without a heart that beats, we do not live. The beat of a heart separates life from not life. The beat of a heart is perhaps the significant sound in the world, if you consider it a representation of life.
Before I get ahead of myself, I'm going to go ahead and include that poem by Mr. Frost, so that you may fully appreciate how shamelessly I steal from it later on. Here you are:
'Choose Something Like A Star'
O Star (the fairest one in sight),
We grant your loftiness the right
To some obscurity of cloud --
It will not do to say of night,
Since dark is what brings out your light.
Some mystery becomes the proud.
But to be wholly taciturn
In your reserve is not allowed.
Say something to us we can learn
By heart and when alone repeat.
Say something! And it says "I burn."
But say with what degree of heat.
Talk Fahrenheit, talk Centigrade.
Use language we can comprehend.
Tell us what elements you blend.
It gives us strangely little aid,
But does tell something in the end.
And steadfast as Keats' Eremite,
Not even stooping from its sphere,
It asks a little of us here.
It asks of us a certain height,
So when at times the mob is swayed
To carry praise or blame too far,
We may choose something like a star
To stay our minds on and be staid.
Mr. Frost, no doubt, has a point, and one worth making. In a world a chaos that is ever changing, was comfort must lie in something so constant, something that says only "I burn" (Oh! there's the Word!). Mr. Frost had a point, but I'd like to think that I did also, when I translated Mr. M's heart for him.
I only somewhat knew it at the time, but this meant, of course, I'd have to write a poem defending my theory. To give credit where credit is due, I must admit that Mr. Frost is not the only one who inspired this work. Obviously Mr. M's cardiac organ was not either. I could be convinced to concede that my percussionist, floral friend, Magnolia also had some part, in our conversations, with her arguing the beauty of the mortal, and me the glory of the divine, and her percussion in general. Also, I stole some writing techniques from Mr. Keats (though less shamelessly than I did from poor Mr. Frost).
'Something Like A Man'
I'd call the muse of percussion, if she
Would stay her music but to hear my sounds.
For she whose constant rhythm tides the sea
Is echoed any place where life is found.
In past, I placed my hope in something like a star,
Perceiving only beauty with no end,
Forever burning, and forever far,
Too warm to be strange, too distant t'be friend.
Now I'd put hope in something like a man
Accustomed to death and imperfection.
For man is not mortal if he understands
His tune as both pulse and resurrection.
For though a single stroke could spark defeat,
I asked the heart to speak, it said "I beat."
My dear friend Mr. M and I are the kinds of folks who do not do things like go to dances on Halloween. My school assumes that most people are though, and indeed, most are. As such, on Halloween, we had the pleasure of a rather quiet campus to walk about, while everyone else was smashing their bodies against one another in a noisy gymnasium (don't ask me why this phenomenon is popular). Anyhow, October 31st found us sitting on a bench looking up at what would be stars in a sky filled with light pollution. Mr. M finally settled on the moon, who was teasing the idea of being full that night. I, on the other hand, found that the cold of the night was disturbing my moon-gazing abilities. I decided bodyheat was my best bet, and rested my head on his chest.
"I can hear your heart" I realized.
"Oh?" Mr. M said, looking down at last from our other lady friend.
Remembering Mr. Frost, I added, "Yes, it says: 'I beat.'"
The beat of a heart is a wonderful thing. Without a heart that beats, we do not live. The beat of a heart separates life from not life. The beat of a heart is perhaps the significant sound in the world, if you consider it a representation of life.
Before I get ahead of myself, I'm going to go ahead and include that poem by Mr. Frost, so that you may fully appreciate how shamelessly I steal from it later on. Here you are:
'Choose Something Like A Star'
O Star (the fairest one in sight),
We grant your loftiness the right
To some obscurity of cloud --
It will not do to say of night,
Since dark is what brings out your light.
Some mystery becomes the proud.
But to be wholly taciturn
In your reserve is not allowed.
Say something to us we can learn
By heart and when alone repeat.
Say something! And it says "I burn."
But say with what degree of heat.
Talk Fahrenheit, talk Centigrade.
Use language we can comprehend.
Tell us what elements you blend.
It gives us strangely little aid,
But does tell something in the end.
And steadfast as Keats' Eremite,
Not even stooping from its sphere,
It asks a little of us here.
It asks of us a certain height,
So when at times the mob is swayed
To carry praise or blame too far,
We may choose something like a star
To stay our minds on and be staid.
Mr. Frost, no doubt, has a point, and one worth making. In a world a chaos that is ever changing, was comfort must lie in something so constant, something that says only "I burn" (Oh! there's the Word!). Mr. Frost had a point, but I'd like to think that I did also, when I translated Mr. M's heart for him.
I only somewhat knew it at the time, but this meant, of course, I'd have to write a poem defending my theory. To give credit where credit is due, I must admit that Mr. Frost is not the only one who inspired this work. Obviously Mr. M's cardiac organ was not either. I could be convinced to concede that my percussionist, floral friend, Magnolia also had some part, in our conversations, with her arguing the beauty of the mortal, and me the glory of the divine, and her percussion in general. Also, I stole some writing techniques from Mr. Keats (though less shamelessly than I did from poor Mr. Frost).
'Something Like A Man'
I'd call the muse of percussion, if she
Would stay her music but to hear my sounds.
For she whose constant rhythm tides the sea
Is echoed any place where life is found.
In past, I placed my hope in something like a star,
Perceiving only beauty with no end,
Forever burning, and forever far,
Too warm to be strange, too distant t'be friend.
Now I'd put hope in something like a man
Accustomed to death and imperfection.
For man is not mortal if he understands
His tune as both pulse and resurrection.
For though a single stroke could spark defeat,
I asked the heart to speak, it said "I beat."
Monday, October 12, 2009
Only A Short Walk
I came across a curious sight yesterday. It was late at night, I had just come back to school after a day filled with the faces of people I deeply love. I expected that I was smiled-out. How much joy can one person expect out of a single twenty-four hours?
I stepped into my room, put down my bag, and heard my phone vibrate. There was a single message from my friend, Mr. M. The message was simple, and certainly strange:
“You should look at the water fountain when you get the chance. There is something simplistically beautiful that made me think of you.”
What was on the fountain? Paint? Graffiti? People at my school seem to be fond of scribbling obscure metaphysical messages in a particular staircase, perhaps they were expanding their efforts. I walked out of my hall, not bothering to re-shoe my feet. If an administrator saw me, I would get in trouble. Self-Endangerment, they call it. Punishment for hurting yourself. Kind of a funny concept.
Approaching the fountain, it looked normal enough, I almost turned back, thinking that whatever Mr. M had spotted was no longer there. Then, since I had come all this way already, I padded up to it nonetheless.
Then I saw it.
The seed never stood a chance. It wasn’t just that it lacked the nutrients of the soil. It was in a spot too frequented. A seed in the water fountain? The first person to come by for a drink would snatch it up, disgusted. It would no doubt get thrown onto the ground and trampled. But it grew nonetheless. It grew because the water was good, and it grew because it didn’t know how to do anything else.
I wished desperately for my camera, but even if I ran back to my room to get it, it hadn’t been charged in days, and wouldn’t document the little miracle. It was something I was privileged to see for a minute, and was gone the next time I walked by, this morning.
I don’t have a picture for the plant. But maybe I don’t need one. Maybe life is a picture for it. How often to we sent out a shoot because the water is good, and sending out shoots is all we know how to do? How often is the situation really as hopeless as a plant trying to grow in a water fountain?
Or perhaps I get too much out of the simplistically beautiful in life.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Walking In Love
Often, when my mind has nothing better to do, it will return to the subject of love.
I say such things in jest, or passing, but it's been something I've wrestled with for years. It should be though. I'm one of those ridiculous people who think that to love is the purpose of life. That's not particularly romantic love, of course.
Romantic love is a hard one to start on. I'd really rather take an almost chauvenistic approach, and point out that Eve was created with the specific purpose of keeping Adam company. As a woman, I may try to find my own way in life, be in trying to change the world, or just trying to keep my head above the masses. I can try. But theres that nagging feeling that at any point I may decide what I really should do in life is devote myself wholly and entirely to one person, and be completely satisfied with it. And I don't know that that's wrong, either.
Since I am one of those friends most people would rather not have, and discuss abstract things like love, or forgiveness, or freedom with mine often, I've had a few other opinions. What it comes down to, is that my opinions of love, my expectations, I suppose, are unrealistic. They are sky high. Worse than that, they left the atmosphere light-years ago. I don't expect to recieve a perfect love, not from a fellow human, at any rate, but I cannot be contented with myself without giving it. It creates frustration, I'm constantly falling short. I'm disappointed.
I have to keep trying.
I have to keep grasping a rushing stream, instead of just getting my hand wet. It's impossible, I know. That can't stop me. It can't, and it shouldn't.
Because I am a wordy girl, who talks abstractly most of the time, a good deal of my poetry (which yes, as a wordy abstract girl, I do write) can be passed up without a thought. This is one of my better ones, I think, but it's still silly and demonstrates my [lack of] age. Forgive me? I'm still just learning to walk.
"Ants Across a Michealangleo"
I've thought that every candels moth
Was, perchance, better for his place.
Though ecstasy was short for death
He was inflamed consumed in grace.
Now candles all but styled out
At least, or aren't outside at all.
That is why the outer lights
Are rapt with moth to crash and crawl.
And I have heard the passionate
Who sing that love is like a fire,
If that is the truth of it
Perhaps our tale is moth-inspired.
For many soar to capture love
And only find a bulb to catch.
I'd like to think I'd leave the porch
Pursue a lighter, or a match.
Yet each these fires last but a time
Until they're blown, or dwindle out.
Should virtue likewise follow suit?
A tool for time to fool about?
No. Let me be unsatisfied.
If I'm a moth, a moth am I.
I will not linger through each loss
But chase the fires in the sky.
Though physics binds me ever far
What is love, but chasing stars?
[on a side note, the title of the poem was stolen from a poem of my sister's, so, while it is brilliant, I can take no credit. As Eliot said though, immature poets imitate, mature poets steal. Which would be relevant, if I were a mature poet.]
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Walking By Inquiry
The school I attend would never admit to having lower level courses. We don't rarely put with introductory classes, and seldom is anything save foreign language beginners. Grades bellow 'D' do not exist, and obtaining a 'D' will see you sent home. In a school so concerned about greatness and prestige, our lower courses receive the suffix of 'by Inquiry'.
When I was a girl, or at least, a younger girl, I often walk, or ran, or skipped, through the 70 acres my parents owned. I picked wild flowers in frumpy garbage bags, scrambled up trees, and splashed about our small creek in midwinter. As a child one can do such things, and not consider themselves any kind of naturalist.
As I got older, and grew into those nostalgic middle school years, it seemed the very world was my enemy, and my fields and creeks were no longer available anyhow. But as I age, and with every year, I grow back into that young girl. It takes more effort now, its a conscious decision, but its coming home.
This is my blog, this is my walking journal. This is me strolling back through the woods, following the echo of a child's laughter, that still reverberates off the trees. This is Walking, by Inquiry.
Would you care to join me?
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