Imagine

I believe that a person must always hold on to her imagination. No matter where she goes or when she gets there, she must always see beauty in the things around her and be reminded that her world is, at least in part, what she would make of it. I think one is blessed with a better imagination if she believes that the Creator is the source of all of these beautiful things. And with faith in Him, she may also see and acknowledge that this beauty has been tainted. Imagination encompasses more than beauty. Indeed the fear and pain and sorry of the world contriute to its greatness as well as does the majesty of life. May we ever lok with both eyes open.

autobiography, of sorts

“I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
your works are wonderful,
I know that full well.” Psalm 139:14

She has had a direction without realizing it,
or rather, articulating it.
For years,
a purpose, a motivation.
Humbly she seeks to capture that,
to shape it before her eyes so that you can see too,
so that she knows where she’s going.
“Fearfully and wonderfully made,” she says to herself,
and the words “full well” swell up on her tongue,
spilling over gracefully as she writes them down.
The words on the page draw her in
and push her out—
in asking questions,
out with new ideas—
She is intrigued by the concept of concrete words
representing abstract thought...
To do with myself what is right for such a creation.
To do with myself what is right.

Like an old film reel clicking away on a screen before an empty room
so her memories come.
Full of glad faces,
a wholesome childhood,
good feet to walk and stand upon.
“Do you regret?” you wonder.
“No, I cannot,” she replies.
“Sometimes, it hurts…
But so does the sand that rubs against me when I swim in the ocean.”
Her voice is soft—not quiet, soft.
One has had a successful journey when she can look back and see
she would not have gone any other way.

“I will instruct you and teach you in the way you should go;
I will counsel you and watch over you.” Psalm 32:8

She learned from Christian teachers
to put one foot in front of the other
to move forward,
never sideways.
To appreciate beauty,
and to create it.
She did well, which bothered her at times.
Not quite good enough…
but by whose standards?
Finally, “It is not how you are doing,” someone seemed to say,
“but what you are doing.”
And a tattered road sign appeared to her right:
Keep Going.

“I guide you in the way of wisdom and lead you along straight paths.
When you walk, your steps will not be hampered;
when you run, you will not stumble.” Proverbs 4:11-12

A dream awoke her:
“Do not be afraid,” she heard him say.
She cannot shake it, and she is not afraid.
What is it to be wise, she wondered.
Wisdom is not the mere absence of fear,
but the practice of discretion and compassion.
With a spark of this, she took the bend in the road,
which led her away from home
toward another one…
Crossing borders internal and external,
invisible and plain,
the lines of the road formed one solid streak as they passed by…

“Be wise in the way you act toward outsiders; make the most of every opportunity. Let your conversation be always full of grace, seasoned with salt, so that you may know how to answer everyone.” Colossians 4:5-6

Here, we catch up with her.
It is strange, but she has felt like the outsider
looking in, attempting to find words to fit where she is,
to ask and answer the questions.
She has always wanted to give words
and her love for them—
not simply the letters, but the way they form a partnership,
a definition.
“Do you see how they connect us?” She is excited.
You can see her chewing on your words,
absorbing your inquisition and throwing back strings of thought.
You challenge her,
and you watch the edges of her eyes settle into a squint
as though she’s trying to cradle the thoughts just a little longer.
They’re not ready,
but they will be.
“Make the most of every opportunity…”
This means the journey is slow,
but to take it faster would be a mistake.

On the way, the way home,
she sees their faces,
those talented minds between youth and adulthood.
She calls them to come along for a year—
maybe less, maybe more—
Where? Where are we going?

If you have to ask, I can tell you only this:
“Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light for my path”
On our way home.

silent night

she has been thinking many things,

many kinds of thoughts,

like the face of the moon--

some illuminated, some forever in darkness

or like snow falling--

in seemingly slow motion,

gentle, careful...

(but given wind it is fierce, 
it is powerful)

like holding your breath under water--

survival. and you hear the sounds around you, muffled.

you see the light and shadows.

you are immersed in almostwarmth

and it fills you with solitary pleasure

and panic

all at once.

you want to hold on, to stay under,

just a little longer...

like looking at your hands in the dishwater--

feeling decades older,

feeling like you're looking back at a full and happy life...

i want you to burst through the door right now

and look in my eyes.

i want you to read this in my eyes.

somehow, they are written there,

the years that have not yet been.

every real thing,

every beautiful thing...

this is why she stays in silence for so long--

all this going on...

all this going on...

please hold

i see the side of his face best now,

his conversation drawn elsewhere,

and i listen to the low murmur of the crowd,

the mingling of people,

their voices echoing distantly.

i see the smiles,

greeting and bidding farewell--

kind, genuine, and beautiful.

i am at his side, on his arm, in his company

while he exchanges words and laughter with those he knows and loves,

those who are quickly filling my heart as well.

i smile too, glistening like a jewel on his crown...

but he knows i am more,

and he looks at me knowingly.

we are surrounded by lights and sound,

moving in slow motion

past mouths hindered by some invisible force.

a golden thread frames his figure as he stands against the light,

his own mouth moving slowly.

i am the silent audience of this inexplicable and pleasant upheaval of reality...

--in an instant it enveloped me,

and in an instant it was gone.--

i hear the click,

and his voice comes back across the line,

apologizing for the interruption.

i let escape a joyful grin

whose origin he can only nearly guess--

the picture in the silence.

evening poem

the sky is vibrant pink-purple-blue,

a cold color saturating colder air.

the tree branches form intricate patterns of black lace—

all i can see through the window—

alarming, alluring, alive…

sweet chords fill my ears,

and a familiar voice

gently proclaiming love, pain, reality…

it is more potent, more understandable through music…

these words i’ve been thinking,

these notes i’ve been living

without knowing it till now…

the blue seeps into the purple,

more defined, overpowering;

but purple gives way willingly,

and with a placid sigh…

“the evening is yours now,

the evening is yours…”

blue rises and deepens,

like looking back into my own eyes,

in recognition of something more beautiful still

in the dim light that makes me squint

and yet sets everything aglow

as with all the energy stored up from day.

in between.

i want to say it’s soft, comforting,

but this evening is oppressive.

in all its beauty, it is cruel.

i cannot judge it because it is inevitable.

i cannot hold a grudge against what must be.

but this day was ours,

and i do not want to let it go…

you remind me of the light of tomorrow,

and with that thought,

we accept that the black lace has disappeared.

the window has disappeared,

so that all that remains is within.

reading and writing of writing

"... passion to proclaim the truth..."

don't try too hard, or you'll just dance around it. the search for profundity often ends in nothing. the exercise of one's God-given gifts to search, to communicate, to articulate, to feel, to reason--these combine to form the knowledge, even the wisdom, others may marvel at. these are the things that connect us to each other. passion is necessary. passion to proclaim the truth more vital still. if truth is relative, there is no end. since truth is not relative, the end is in sight, though still perhaps unclear. we write to it.

library

the first books on the shelf are never read,

though 'never' is an exaggeration.

someone whose goal it is to devour all 

might see them,

but 'devour' is an over-statement.

you want to look to the inside, to the next shelf,

and the next one.

who stops at the beginning?

i say, my friend, 

who starts?

i see you in the third row, the fourth row,

covers open, pages falling under your thirsty eyes.

but oh for a thirsty mind...

i am distracted by chatter and natural sounds that seem unnatural in this place. awkward conversation--she doesn't know that man, and all she can think of is her safety, her smile. 'please, someone, come to my small rescue...'

cart wheels

a courteous farewell, and then the laughter. 

"what a weird man..." lies under friendly laughter.

a place of income for those who can see past the shelves.

a heavier helping for those who cannot.

what does seem natural in this place?

the smell...

the smell of pages, lives, minds...

has it always been this way?

i can imagine it no other.

i suppose that is why i'm here...

the fear

i wish that element would leave,

or perhaps it resides only in me.

it is outweighed by my interest,

but it is still there.

the fear of seeing

and being

seen.

this is not my place,

but it is a place for me.