There is something in me that yearns
no
burns
for the limelight
That longs for glory and renown
Something that gasps for air as it's suffocated and silenced
by better judgment
personality
and the weight of Eternity
13 December, 2013
09 November, 2013
Hunger
And then there are nights.
Nights when everything echoes in a sort of reverberating keen.
When the inner space is deeper, darker - a black hole that absorbs all.
When it's just too much.
And still there is nothing.
No rallying cry
No great resurgence
Nothing.
No one.
None.
Nights when everything echoes in a sort of reverberating keen.
When the inner space is deeper, darker - a black hole that absorbs all.
When it's just too much.
And still there is nothing.
No rallying cry
No great resurgence
Nothing.
No one.
None.
13 October, 2013
didn't know I was lost
It looks cold out.
"So wake me up when it's all over..."
The stubborn Midwest temperatures have finally, slowly sunk into something resembling an October. But in here, it's easy to pretend the spicy tea is a ward against the thermometer and not a balm for a weary heart.
In here, the accents are all different.
The group in front, having politely borrowed my spare chair, cluster around a square meter table- after all there is always room for one more- their quiet voices and gestures signaling their home.
Their familiarity makes my same-sized table feel far too big and far too empty.
"All this time I was finding myself..."
The loud electronica blaring in my headphones provides a remixed soundtrack to the images playing through my mind.
Young and old treading familiar steps together, whirling around; The large room made small by their joy and exuberance. A man, quietly dancing around the outside circle, is unable to contain himself any longer and explodes into doubletime expression - his limbs coiled in energy and power.
"Hope I get the chance to travel the world..."
There's the table with seats too tall to touch the floor filled with the result of a melting pot nation. "Give me your tired, your poor. Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free" indeed. Having just come from work, it's easier to see what they share than to list their differences. One's husband shows up, and there's familiar greetings and embraces around the table.
"...not afraid to close my eyes."
He is startled. I wonder if he's doubting his English comprehension. We settle that, yes I did go celebrate and dance with his people group. And I did it because I thought it was interesting and important.
I find myself with a dinner invitation I'm not sure how seriously to take.
There are three ages of globalization, the script reads. Really I should be watching the videos, but I'm far too behind to take the time. Each age is the product of that which came before it and the current climate. But all - for better or worse - are birthed when something "shakes us forward and shakes us free," as Rich said all those years ago.
"All this time I was finding myself and I didn't know I was lost."
"So wake me up when it's all over..."
The stubborn Midwest temperatures have finally, slowly sunk into something resembling an October. But in here, it's easy to pretend the spicy tea is a ward against the thermometer and not a balm for a weary heart.
In here, the accents are all different.
The group in front, having politely borrowed my spare chair, cluster around a square meter table- after all there is always room for one more- their quiet voices and gestures signaling their home.
Their familiarity makes my same-sized table feel far too big and far too empty.
"All this time I was finding myself..."
The loud electronica blaring in my headphones provides a remixed soundtrack to the images playing through my mind.
Young and old treading familiar steps together, whirling around; The large room made small by their joy and exuberance. A man, quietly dancing around the outside circle, is unable to contain himself any longer and explodes into doubletime expression - his limbs coiled in energy and power.
"Hope I get the chance to travel the world..."
There's the table with seats too tall to touch the floor filled with the result of a melting pot nation. "Give me your tired, your poor. Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free" indeed. Having just come from work, it's easier to see what they share than to list their differences. One's husband shows up, and there's familiar greetings and embraces around the table.
"...not afraid to close my eyes."
He is startled. I wonder if he's doubting his English comprehension. We settle that, yes I did go celebrate and dance with his people group. And I did it because I thought it was interesting and important.
I find myself with a dinner invitation I'm not sure how seriously to take.
There are three ages of globalization, the script reads. Really I should be watching the videos, but I'm far too behind to take the time. Each age is the product of that which came before it and the current climate. But all - for better or worse - are birthed when something "shakes us forward and shakes us free," as Rich said all those years ago.
"All this time I was finding myself and I didn't know I was lost."
27 September, 2013
Untitled
Courage, Dear Heart.
You don't know the story I'm telling - breathed out in golden shimmers and the faint scent of sandalwood.
Can you hear it? The resonant whispers of something great to come?
I know it aches.
I know it echoes from the emptiness.
I know.
And I see.
Oh, Dear Heart.
Courage.
You don't know the story I'm telling - breathed out in golden shimmers and the faint scent of sandalwood.
Can you hear it? The resonant whispers of something great to come?
I know it aches.
I know it echoes from the emptiness.
I know.
And I see.
Oh, Dear Heart.
Courage.
11 September, 2013
Infestation
In retrospect, I should have known.
I should have been changing my tune the moment I saw him stroll across my living room floor, with his troglodytic face melted into an emotion approximating happiness.
He was well-kept- nattily attired even - in a linen suit and straw derby. But it only made him appear more incongruous with his surroundings. There was no hope of him proving to be a fantasm once the odiferous stench that accompanied his promenade wafted over to the couch.
In retrospect, I really should have known.
The garden gnomes had returned.
I should have been changing my tune the moment I saw him stroll across my living room floor, with his troglodytic face melted into an emotion approximating happiness.
He was well-kept- nattily attired even - in a linen suit and straw derby. But it only made him appear more incongruous with his surroundings. There was no hope of him proving to be a fantasm once the odiferous stench that accompanied his promenade wafted over to the couch.
In retrospect, I really should have known.
The garden gnomes had returned.
12 July, 2013
SK
The snap of the tent seemed to echo louder in the lit-skin dark behind my eyes. It was met and matched with the opening, aching strains of Taps.
It rose- the notes becoming the world all around - until there was only the wind, the bugle and grief.
Sorrow for a man who grew up on a farm with many siblings, became a man, served in the Korean War, came back and fell in love with a woman. Who married her, raised five strong sons and two beautiful daughters. Children who grew up straight and tall, a little rough, but a good sort. A man who did the right things, the hard things, because they were his to do. Who worked, and then worked some more. He applied his brilliance to his projects, his passions and his people. A man who unswervingly loved his wife with excellence and allowed her to shine. He provided the backbone and the muscle for those he loved to confidently explore and embrace who they were.
And I wonder that I barely knew him. I knew him mostly as the quiet constant, the solid unchanging. He was the one who was always there, coffee cup in hand, making sure everyone and everything was ok. He waited for hours on back country roads somewhere in Kansas, with the windows rolled down in a truck who's birth predated air conditioning, and read the paper while he waited for his wife and nearly a dozen small ones to come trailing by like so many ducklings after their mother. He'd water and feed and air tires and bandage scrapes. Or more often than not, just be ready to in case he was needed. He was the one who'd smile a little and ask about school, having chosen to study fatherhood over a degree, and nod and encourage you to continue. He'd wink and pull out the penny jar so we could play our first clumsy attempts at poker, our hands just big enough to hold the cards.
Who even in his twilight years recognized that he and his resources were needed and opened his home to his aging aunt. Who shared his home, his strength and his fixed income with her for seven years, spreading his and Grandma's reserve for themselves thin.
He was the one who after a lifetime of working and supporting still had enough left to give to a whole collection of grandchildren; barely a year apart each. Who still had enough left to give to me.
He has my admiration for the man I knew by his actions, if not his words, and the man I always suspected him to be. And I grieved and grieve his passing.
The honor guard pushed the last fold into the crease and- ritual completed- turned on his heel and marched smartly to the front. He knelt by the woman who sat straight as her back would let her, pride and grief in equal measure on her face.
"This flag is presented on behalf of a grateful nation and the United States Army as a token of appreciation for your loved one's honorable and faithful service."
"Thank you."
And I wonder that I barely knew him.
73 W0EKZ SK.
Oh how we will miss you, Poppa.
It rose- the notes becoming the world all around - until there was only the wind, the bugle and grief.
Sorrow for a man who grew up on a farm with many siblings, became a man, served in the Korean War, came back and fell in love with a woman. Who married her, raised five strong sons and two beautiful daughters. Children who grew up straight and tall, a little rough, but a good sort. A man who did the right things, the hard things, because they were his to do. Who worked, and then worked some more. He applied his brilliance to his projects, his passions and his people. A man who unswervingly loved his wife with excellence and allowed her to shine. He provided the backbone and the muscle for those he loved to confidently explore and embrace who they were.
And I wonder that I barely knew him. I knew him mostly as the quiet constant, the solid unchanging. He was the one who was always there, coffee cup in hand, making sure everyone and everything was ok. He waited for hours on back country roads somewhere in Kansas, with the windows rolled down in a truck who's birth predated air conditioning, and read the paper while he waited for his wife and nearly a dozen small ones to come trailing by like so many ducklings after their mother. He'd water and feed and air tires and bandage scrapes. Or more often than not, just be ready to in case he was needed. He was the one who'd smile a little and ask about school, having chosen to study fatherhood over a degree, and nod and encourage you to continue. He'd wink and pull out the penny jar so we could play our first clumsy attempts at poker, our hands just big enough to hold the cards.
Who even in his twilight years recognized that he and his resources were needed and opened his home to his aging aunt. Who shared his home, his strength and his fixed income with her for seven years, spreading his and Grandma's reserve for themselves thin.
He was the one who after a lifetime of working and supporting still had enough left to give to a whole collection of grandchildren; barely a year apart each. Who still had enough left to give to me.
He has my admiration for the man I knew by his actions, if not his words, and the man I always suspected him to be. And I grieved and grieve his passing.
The honor guard pushed the last fold into the crease and- ritual completed- turned on his heel and marched smartly to the front. He knelt by the woman who sat straight as her back would let her, pride and grief in equal measure on her face.
"This flag is presented on behalf of a grateful nation and the United States Army as a token of appreciation for your loved one's honorable and faithful service."
"Thank you."
And I wonder that I barely knew him.
73 W0EKZ SK.
Oh how we will miss you, Poppa.
28 March, 2013
Keepers of the Holy Eucharist
A little too late and yet far too early, I found myself driving westward, hungry for a patch of sky.
I had driven nearly to the edge, distracted by the grime shining from a suddenly-dirty windshield and the continued loop of a song I craved to experience, before I realized where my soul was taking me.
I tried to distract it with shoes and wafted the thought past, experimenting with the satisfaction of brand names and bargains. But a soul is not sated with such things and it pushed the gas further.
As the traffic began to thin, I started to look for the turn. Some end in pastures, others at homes. The only real navigation point for an infrequent visitor is the steeple that's visible above the farmhouses and sparse trees.
The gravel road was loud beneath my truck's tires and the music - finally - faded as I savored the sound.
The small lot was fuller than I had ever seen it; vehicles spilling out to Main Street and against the first row of headstones. I had the zipper on my jacket nearly done as I walked when the bells began, calling to the few stragglers jaywalking across the road.
I remembered with a Protestant start, that it was a Holy Day.
With the canter of the politely hurried, I mumbled to the greeter and tucked myself behind a column, suddenly uncertain.
The motions are familiar - stand, sit, prayers and sing - and yet foreign. It seems almost too ornamental for my inarticulate soul and my thoughts and senses wander.
He chants the men and women of centuries past as they look with icon stares from alcoves above. There's a quiet creak as weathered benches and pews settle, accept and support the faithful as they move through the rhythms of this observance. The faint hiss from the back coalesces into the sound of an oxygen tank, and I half-catch with my eyes the elderly man in the wheelchair laboring to breathe as he arranges the small plaid blanket over his legs. His suit speaks to the traditions of this evening and brings my focus back to the front.
Incense rises, curling as it swings, its scent not reaching back behind the pillar. His homily begins to the sounds of a crying baby and the rustle of its harried mother hurrying to the back in exhaustion. The couple in the pew in front of me smile in silent understanding, not missing a beat in their part of this service.
His voice is somewhat formal and modulated and in that too I am surprised, far more used to the voice of a friend.
"Priesthood is defined by the idea of sacrifice," he reads.
"What differs is what is being offered as sacrifice."
Jesus offers himself.
And though the language is foreign and the rhythms too formal for familiarity, it connects with the intimacy of a breath.
At the altar, the centuries are rolled back and we are present at the first Holy Thursday again, he says. What are missing are the apostles, but what is present is Jesus.
And with his name, I breathe what I know of the Carpenter. How does his perfect life, his compassion and justice, and his full humanity fit here? I am unsure, but there is a settledness that it does and with it, bringing practicality and muscles to these rhythms.
I leave, slipping out during a rite that's not quite mine. There's an aching in my knees as I drive away. They aren't used to that position. The wet blessing on my forehead is chilled by the air from the lowered window and my stomach growls, begging me to remember that it too needs fed.
David sings louder as the twilight road deepens and ancient rites fall into new rhythms.
Kyrie elesion.
Christe eleison
I had driven nearly to the edge, distracted by the grime shining from a suddenly-dirty windshield and the continued loop of a song I craved to experience, before I realized where my soul was taking me.
I tried to distract it with shoes and wafted the thought past, experimenting with the satisfaction of brand names and bargains. But a soul is not sated with such things and it pushed the gas further.
As the traffic began to thin, I started to look for the turn. Some end in pastures, others at homes. The only real navigation point for an infrequent visitor is the steeple that's visible above the farmhouses and sparse trees.
The gravel road was loud beneath my truck's tires and the music - finally - faded as I savored the sound.
The small lot was fuller than I had ever seen it; vehicles spilling out to Main Street and against the first row of headstones. I had the zipper on my jacket nearly done as I walked when the bells began, calling to the few stragglers jaywalking across the road.
I remembered with a Protestant start, that it was a Holy Day.
With the canter of the politely hurried, I mumbled to the greeter and tucked myself behind a column, suddenly uncertain.
The motions are familiar - stand, sit, prayers and sing - and yet foreign. It seems almost too ornamental for my inarticulate soul and my thoughts and senses wander.
He chants the men and women of centuries past as they look with icon stares from alcoves above. There's a quiet creak as weathered benches and pews settle, accept and support the faithful as they move through the rhythms of this observance. The faint hiss from the back coalesces into the sound of an oxygen tank, and I half-catch with my eyes the elderly man in the wheelchair laboring to breathe as he arranges the small plaid blanket over his legs. His suit speaks to the traditions of this evening and brings my focus back to the front.
Incense rises, curling as it swings, its scent not reaching back behind the pillar. His homily begins to the sounds of a crying baby and the rustle of its harried mother hurrying to the back in exhaustion. The couple in the pew in front of me smile in silent understanding, not missing a beat in their part of this service.
His voice is somewhat formal and modulated and in that too I am surprised, far more used to the voice of a friend.
"Priesthood is defined by the idea of sacrifice," he reads.
"What differs is what is being offered as sacrifice."
Jesus offers himself.
And though the language is foreign and the rhythms too formal for familiarity, it connects with the intimacy of a breath.
At the altar, the centuries are rolled back and we are present at the first Holy Thursday again, he says. What are missing are the apostles, but what is present is Jesus.
And with his name, I breathe what I know of the Carpenter. How does his perfect life, his compassion and justice, and his full humanity fit here? I am unsure, but there is a settledness that it does and with it, bringing practicality and muscles to these rhythms.
I leave, slipping out during a rite that's not quite mine. There's an aching in my knees as I drive away. They aren't used to that position. The wet blessing on my forehead is chilled by the air from the lowered window and my stomach growls, begging me to remember that it too needs fed.
David sings louder as the twilight road deepens and ancient rites fall into new rhythms.
Kyrie elesion.
Christe eleison
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