We were birthed from Strife, and Love followed us into a cycle of never-end; the coming together, the pulling apart, these are the seasons of infinity.
For if the very nature of Strife and Love, existing in every part of the Cosmos, is infinite, then is not everything created within the infinite cycle forever bound within its seasons and without the ability to be separate or destroyed?
Therefore if I stand like a volcano who gives off smoke as a signal of natural strife, am I not still subject to the season of rest, the love that must follow? For each season passes and gives balance to the precedent set before it.
Societal standards, set for success
We set our stories properly, but
Is there life in artifical happiness?
If life is turning chaos to tranquility,
What, as a whole, have we perfected?
Was it anything more than the astounding ability
To be miserable and get paid for it?
When we conform our dreams to man’s image,
Do we miss out on God’s perfect story?
Are they always at war or a playful scrimmage?
To know, do we have to wait til we’re forty?
I’m not a monk, nor a psychic or Shaman,
I don’t know if truth or personal destiny
Has a road or an open forum,
All I can suppose is that no one who knows
Follows formulas from those left before them.
A snow-covered hill,
Fat mugs of hot, sweet tea,
Warm faces, full hearts,
Nothing between you and me…
Cold feet and freezing fingers,
Slow walking or a mindless trot,
A journey, so didactic,
We’ll never reach the top.
The conversation lingers between
quick wits and bold haze
Admittedly, we’re dilettantes
of the machine, and all its ways.
Time seems more like space
When you are by my side,
I don’t notice its passing,
I don’t recall life’s diatribe.
We were cut from the same stained cloth,
It’s all the same, we’re the esoteric,
The original never-looked-for,
but the I’m-never-lost.
Living in opposite corners of the same brain, freed
We frolic in snow past the tall, white trees,
Remaining through trials and seasons,
The very best dichotomies.
We were falling
Past space and other places
The worn-out identities of
everywhere we’d been
Burnt out on bars and bathrooms
Faulty lighting, hallways of never-end.
We got to spend our youth
Racing through the motions
As if things would stop, pause
or slow us
Sometimes the realization of being alive
Hit like clocks clapping together
But we never saw how time and weather
made any difference at all
Life was like a movie,
We lived like we were dying
Until we saw you, dead.
Caskets change everything.
And death really messes with your head.
On this particular day, I was late to church for prayer or maybe I was early. I walked in and sat in a chair that faced the wall opposite from the one I entered. I noted the familiar faces. There were probably 5-10 other people already deep in prayer and meditation. I faced the wall, put my feet on top of the floor heater and slouched into a ball. I began talking to God about my day, trying really hard to emulate the way I would talk to a friend. I hadn’t really done this before. My prayers are, for the most part, very structured, reverent and formal. I had finally summed up my day and really wanted to tell God how nature had affected me that day. I wanted Him to know my gratitude, to express an awe for the majesty of creation in a manner that expressed familiarity and comfort versus separation and reverence. I kind of just started shaking my head slowly back and forth, ignorant to what was about to come out… and I spoke:
“I really love what You’ve done with the place.”
I couldn’t control the giggling until I noticed my madness affecting all the other silent conversations with God.
This, I feel, marked a very special transition in how I began to identify with the creator of the universe.
Posted in Prose
Tagged art, life, love, writing
Often when I see the sky, a really piercingly beautiful sky, I think to myself that such a scene belongs in a painting. I find this very telling about the human nature, or perhaps only my nature. When I see something too beautiful to describe, my mind can only process it as being fake or synthetic. A copy, even. Surely not the prototype. Reality is ugly, so anything I perceive to be beautiful is often mistaken to be a charade. It’s the cause for much of the failings of my faith. To think of a G-d so beautiful, so loving, so merciful and giving, to behold him in the framework of my mind even for a second brings me to the logical conclusion that He is not real, and loveliness on such a grand scale is not possible.
But the G-d who created the stars and the skies, every sunset and every natural landscape is a G-d whose beauty surpasses all of these things. I believe that.
How long did David cry before his tears became words and words became joy?
How long did Jesus pray before His fear became love and love became sacrifice?
How long was Jonah alone before hatredbecame obedience and obedience saved many?
How long did Moses hide before his guilt became acceptance and acceptance became blessing?
How long did God miss man before He sacrificed the best part of Himself for the worst part of us?
How long will I go wrong before God sets me right, again?