Tuesday, September 29, 2009

Her and Me

Last night I saw her across the room. I made my way over to this child, and being a child asked her how she was. Her response was uninvolved and scripted. But, as I stood looking into her eyes those two bright lights became somehow brighter as they, as if fed my some sacred spring, welled up and overflowed with holy water.

And today for the first time in months I missed you. That wave of yearning washed over me again and I almost cried aloud with the ache that was a part of me. This miss welled up from some forgotten part and I sat wondering at my sanity and the endurance of my heart. All I remember is the unbearable burn of your presence and yet the cold ache of your absence is too much for me.

Thursday, September 24, 2009

Forgive me.

What if He never speaks back?
If no prophetic words are spoken into my soul and no healing is experienced?
What if that audible voice that I so desperately long to hear is never heard?
How long will this shaky faith stand?
How long will this grace filled hypocrisy hold?
Where will I turn if this Love I seek so desperately to hold is never reassured?
How long can I fall on my knees, open my mouth and cry "I give up! I love you! Please let me hear your voice" without answer?

"God is telling us 'I want to speak to you in a way that you don't have to go searching for, that won't scare you, and that you understand.'"

Becky Jo, I believe you but what, for the love of God, do I understand?

"I had someone tell me that he knew God hadn't forgotten me. And I knew at that moment that God never forgets us."

Becky Jo, I hear you but what if I never receive a prophetic word? How will I know God is even there?

"I want to speak to you in a way that you don't have to go searching for, that won't scare you, and that you understand. Because I never forget you."

Is that you?
Are you there?
Yes, that makes sense.
Maybe I will never hear You in your voice
But maybe I will hear you in people
Who I can understand
Who I am not afraid of
Who I do not have to search for

And maybe my prayers need not be of things that reek of hypocrisy.
No "Father"s or "Where are you"s or "Please bless so and so"s
Maybe something simpler will do
"Oh my God, you make it hard not to pick the apple and Lord I long to give it back.
Forgive me."
Forgive me.

Tuesday, September 22, 2009


"I feel like a hypocrite so I can't pray."

Yes, this is what I wrote about today. Don't be judging.

I will always mince my own garlic. Yes, I do know that pulling pre-crushed pre-minced garlic out of the refrigerator and scooping it out of it’s glass bottle is in fact, easier, more timely, and cleaner. And yet, I am going to mince garlic. Yes, my hands will smell like garlic after this process. I do realize that many people might find garlic a slightly offensive odor. If someone were to come up to me and say “you, friend, smell slightly of garlic” I might apologetically reply “yes, it is a very strong smell.” I would scrunch up my nose and raise my eyebrows in the correct look of disgust and apology. But I would walk away thinking, “Yes, it is a very strong smell, it reminds me of home. Though you may find my garlic scented hands a bothersome presence they are one of the things that tie me strongly to this world. I will not give up the cutting of garlic.” You see, hands that smell like garlic are Saturday mornings with mom and dad in the kitchen making four pots of spaghetti sauce for our church potluck, dancing that crazy beautiful dance that two people know after years of cooking together. Both of them talking about kids and church and family. Garlic, onions, mushrooms, olive oil, sauté them all together and you have the smell of my house when it is the most that my home can be. Garlic hands are my mom’s hands, my dad’s hands, my grandma’s hands, my grandpa’s hands and now my hands. And I would not give that up for anything. So, when the recipe calls for it, I will buy garlic, unwrap it from its papery shell, take a large flat blade and crush the clove, then cut it into very fine pieces. And yes, my hands will smell like garlic for a few hours. But we are human and scent ties us not only to object and people we love but to our humanity as well. I will not give that up.

Monday, September 14, 2009

In an attempt to clear my vision

Standing at the bus stop with Rilo Kiley on repeat I looked down at my feet and realized I was standing on something. A metal plate trapped in the sidewalk read:
~Buried Capsule~
~Indian Plum~
~Contains Indigenous Seeds~
I stood and stared at this odd sight and then looked up the side walk to see an additional four identical plates. The only exception to their uniformity was the name of the seed contained within. It struck me as odd that these seeds had been entombed in metal and cement with no thought to their purpose. Whoever had buried these seeds had believed not in the power of growth but instead entrusted this source of life to stone and metal, giving the seeds a stunted existence in the name of protection and preservation. I wonder what would happen if these seeds were excised and planted in good soil. I wonder, given the opportunity, if they might grow and produce more seeds? And, if nurtured and kept clear of weeds might not those seeds grow? And so on and on. If the process was continued the possibility would be a garden, full up with not only the seeds, but the stalk, and the leaves and the fruit of these native plants. But, I guess it’s easier to bury them, TIME, DEPTH. Let some other resurrect the seeds and take the trouble to cultivate them. We did our part by preserving them. At least we did something. That should be enough. Someone else will spend the time and have the courage to let them grow. Right?

A broken and disjointed Psalm

Fuck you
Fuck you and your invocation of a name
That you know nothing about
That I know nothing about
A triune that is separate but never apart
Fuck this invocation of yours

A Father who does not speak to a blind child
A Son who does not illuminate the room he stands in
A Spirit whose actions cannot be felt
This divided person and single nature
Whose very presence I have not experienced
And still I wish with all my heart to know

I had forgotten
A summer of fires and argument
Has made me forget that You and I
Have never truly met
That I cannot love You, nor follow You
Until I see Your face and experience this grace

So, I pick up this task: I wish to love You
Please know that (in all persons and in one)
It will not do for me to know of You
I will not be a friend of a friend
I would rather give You nothing
Then give You a part and settle for acquaintance

If You are there
If everything that screams inside of me is right
If the sound of this invocation is important
Then this doubt that I’m about to slam against
is more then it has been before
It crakes louder and cuts deeper

This fog that has settled over my eyes
This haziness that has clouded my senses
Is getting the better of me
And I must find my own way through this one
Please be where I look.
God, please be where I look

Tuesday, September 8, 2009

Playdough or Plato?

So, I’ve thought about these ideas and now talked about them (thank you Rani Ban) and am ready to write them down. I’ve decided not to give a flying rip about whether or not I sound intelligent...this is a blog.

I’ve been reading The Republic, maybe reading isn’t the right verb, masticating…yes, I’ve been masticating The Republic. It’s a good word for this reading Plato business because it looks a lot like masochism and masturbation, both of which could also describe my experience with Plato thus far. It’s good for my brain to spend hours and hours understanding something and it’s a pretty wonderful feeling to know that I am getting Plato enough to form opinions. But, at the same time, I can’t help but feel like it’s wrong to spend a painful hour reading ten pages...and to enjoy it. This man/his teacher has/have (I’m going to stop /’ing and just refer to Plato. Do understand however that I speak of Plato and Socrates) a very interesting philosophy. I’m not sure if I agree with some crucial parts of it. I’m not sure if that is due to the fact that I am new at this philosophy thing and just don’t understand, or if my concerns are valid. So, here we go.

Probably the one thing that has been bugging me the most about Plato is his Forms. This is a central thing for Plato. It might even be THE thing for Plato and it kinda scares me that I disagree. Even more concerning is that I am not sure how to go about disagreeing. We’ll see where this ends up. So, from how I understand this thing, Plato believed that there is the world, which is merely a reflection of something more perfect. More specifically, the world and everything in it are reflections of perfect ‘forms.’ Among these forms are things such as “Beauty” “Just” “Truth” and “Good.” Plato argues that nothing in this world is beauty, just that things that are beautiful reflect the perfect form of Beauty. Same goes with things that are just and good-they are just reflections. ....................... Oh fuck

I just talked myself out of some of the problems I have with Forms...

My problem with Forms was that they somehow cheapen the physical world. Forms make this world less because they are the thing to be strived for and looked for beneath everything else. That somehow seemed wrong to me a second ago. However, now, I’m not too sure. That’s annoying. If I believe in Truth I believe in a form, something not physical that is to be strived for and is. And, I think I have to believe in Truth. If I don’t then why the hell do I care about anything other than the physical? If there is not something to be found then why read Plato or study philosophy or think in the first place? Something rather odd has been occurring recently. I’ve looked at physical objects and not just seen those physical objects but seen ‘truths’ hidden in them. It might be a house or a road or a child but within these I am seeing metaphors of meaning. It seems like that almost could take me into a belief in forms. So, why see those if there is nothing to anything? Because I have to believe there is Truth or Goodness and we can know it. I must believe in Forms. Right?

I still have problems with Plato and his Forms. My disagreements are just not as simple as I thought they would be.

Moral of the story: Don't write things down. You will change your mind before you're done and confuse the poor people that read to the end.

Saturday, September 5, 2009

Four miles without shoes and THIS is what I came up with?

I recently started to read my Bible again. When I was younger I was a Bible maniac and could recite half of it by memory. However, that was then. In the last few years my Bible has fallen by the way side. Put away and shunned like tricycles and dolls when you believe you are far too old for such things. However, just as I have gone digging in the garage to find the old red tricycle I use to ride or have been found rifling around in boxes trying to find a long gone doll that comforted me on dark nights, I have pulled out my Bible. Not, mind you, for school, or for such obligating reasons as ‘study’ but for …. A story. A beautiful, tragic, meaningful (or rather full of meaning) and important story. Each section of this book was written and chosen because it needed to convey something. When taken in this form the Bible is no longer an archaic book meant for an ancient religion but alive in the things that it must convey to us. And, even more personally, Jesus becomes even more interesting when forced to stand on the scriptures as they are with cultural context and without the dogma. Maybe I am just looking for an old forgotten sense of security against the dark night that ‘adulthood’ seems to be. Or maybe I’m just looking to reclaim the freedom and comfort that only comes from knowledge that you are supported by three wheels. But, I think not. There is something to this Bible that begs to be examined on its own. Without the constraints of the labels I have given it over the years. But, that is neither here nor there. The point is, is that I am reading this cool book. I'm enjoying it. We shall see where it takes me.