This seems to be important enough to put it somewhere where it won't get lost:

When reading about God—even in nitty sort of systematic theology—I feel like a child looking at Christmas lights. After all, I’ve been waiting all stinking year with the egging-on of nostalgia from the previous six years of my life. I walk like I own the town because I’m seven whole years old now and I've seen these before—but I have them memorized because I know I will never see them enough. 

My eyes dart from one cluster to another, overwhelmed to take it all in. As I begin a grand exposition to describe one set of lights to my mother (who’s wants nothing more than to strap me into a harness to keep me from running in front of on-coming traffic again), I interrupt myself just before reaching my final point—I’m zinged with excitement as I see the next array coming up. I am so utterly caught up that I am hardly capable of offering a coherent logical description of what’s going on. Much less, a description of the theory used to properly put lights on a house or the handiwork involved in hanging the lights so they don’t fall. 

Since I so benefit from both theory and handiwork, I feel obligated to grow up—to grow out of being seven years old—so that maybe I could do for another seven year-old what these theological adults have done for me. The problem is that every time I read about the doctrine of the Trinity, I’m a kid and have to grow up all over again. Drag.

In Lieu Of Sitting Down to Pray...

In Lieu Of Sitting Down to Pray...

What is the verb for prayer? In our entreating,

is it really the words? Or is it the eyes--the gazing,

their absent minded closing thus losing of our sense

of time. Is it desiring--but how do we know what we're

honestly wanting? With the perpetually--in this life--

unreached deep, it is for now the losing, the silencing

of ourselves and all we think we know--and finally the lingering,

the something to be late for left rudely waiting, still waiting.

The words, we always knew, were far from good enough, but

they serve. A shanty twine-tied raft--tied by broken fingers--

to cross this wrath of holy Ocean. Surely, somewhere

hiding under the supplies, there is a sleeping Christ. 

And as we set our words, ourselves, to water, He will arise,

set His words to the tide, or take us on foot to the other side.

Setting Out

I figured out that one of my favorite things to write is that little bloggy blurb you see at the top there (hence why I've changed it so many times). So I suppose that means I like writing prose poems. I'm not sure what a prose poem is supposed to be or what any of the rules are, but I wrote one here. Perhaps it could be split into lines. I'll play with it, but for now, here it is(and, once again, a cartographer is one who makes maps).  I suppose, as well, that I'll mention that I'm leaving for seminary soon.

[EDIT] I chickened out and broke this up into lines. I like it better.

A Cartographer, Setting Out

With the landscape so open, so ready, it's easy to wander 

aloof--to get lost among sage-like rocks and within luscious foliage 

to brush. But I've come to find the river and chart its course; 

here I am, to follow the eddy to the Ocean and never to return. 

Not to worry, I'll leave the maps I've drawn behind in the sand 

once that's abandoned. And though I'll have loved this lifetime of journey, 

there comes time to lay walking sticks aside: once soil bed and beach 

are behind—when the only thing between my deep and His is either 

myself or the cliff. As of yet, I'm not sure which. All I have to go on is 

this fragment of inscription: "Take up your cliff, and say yes as I did." 

_________

And here is the original:

A Cartographer, Setting Out

With the landscape so open, so ready, it's easy to wander aloof--to get lost among sage-like rocks and within luscious foliage soothing my skin. But I've come to find the river and chart its course; here I am, to follow the eddy to the Ocean and never to return. Not to worry, I'll leave the maps I've drawn behind in the sand once abandoned. And though I'll have loved this lifetime of journey, there comes time to lay walking sticks aside: once soil bed and beach are behind—when the only thing between my deep and His is either myself or the cliff. As of yet, I'm not sure which. All I have to go on is this fragment of inscription: "Take up your cliff, and say yes as I did." 

Order Up: A Moment's Eye Contact At the Cafe Counter

[Edit: I cleaned this up a bit since last week. Also, I should mention that this is an ideal I hope to meet. I feel that I was much better at it a year or two ago. I'm happiest when I am wasting myself for the person in front of me. As of late, I've been more of a whiner. So I wrote this in response to the sort of person I'd rather be. Ah, the perks of dreaming...]

I heard you say thank-you, I heard you.

Excuse my sweat, my smile that meets you and melts

like smelted stained glass once you're done looking at it. 

Your thank-you went, instead, to my chest,

to the generator that drives the machine.

You are feed--for the workhorse who lives for

that someone to pull. I manifest myself in deft hands

and obsession with pedantic efficiencies.

You will never know it, you will never see me;

I don't have a moment to tell you now

but you were worth it--my last drop of vitality,

a piece of me you will never know you have

on your plate and in your mouth and subject

to your teeth. Others wait, hungry, like me. 
And repeat.

Cartographer

This is an unnecessarily long way to talk about why I wanted to study theology. Why? Because it's fun. FYI: a cartographer is one who makes maps.

Cartographer

From sailboat to sea, neatly drowning,

to harbor, hanging off the dock

waiting for something--I didn't know what.

And now to dirt, to the land

to streets, rust, to chipped concrete:

Here I've been studying maps--all kinds

from different Lewises, Clarks, especially Magellans.

I look for the ones that smell of salt,

pages graced with sea stains: of mystics--

Athanasius, Bonhoeffer, Francis, Patrick--

who weathered the sea while on land--for us

now stuck in sand. I linger late nights, 

wide awake, to study maps with this at stake.

Awake late, I can't shake the burn in my throat--

and that craving. Now acquainted with splinters in my hands

broken ribs now fusing again--still in love with salty smells

the careless clatter of sea shells my soul remembers,

younger, when my Father took me sailing.

In searching for sea, I've been left to streets,

city, to dusty water an inch deep--enough 

for the antic bathing birds, then why,

why not deep enough for me? 

My Father, here, He takes care of me.

Here is the land, the broken guard rails

missing hubcaps, Christ plays in unlovely places.

I am waking to smells of dried sea on ancient maps 

at my desk during morning dusk after 

scanning through the night. I scan in hope

to gain life so graced with sight--eyes for this

sacramental, stop-sign, holy-rhythm life.

My eyes still long for deep sea;

I've threatened to leave, to find You in the far away

across oceans, fighting sea monsters bravely.

Years later now, I've learned to live on land--

I study maps in hopes to smell the sea again.

Even here, I find you in the near--in the provincial

the seemingly plain. In the simple joys of morning tea

reminding me a bit of the sea--the waves as I sip.

You are in both feasts and ordinary time

the rhythms of  birth and midlife, 

the cadence of sabbath and sweat

the song of sunrise and city sunset. 

In steps together--even here on land--

I can find what I wanted in childhood ecstasy 

a blinding glimpse of eternity—

as it was in the beginning, is, and always shall be

in this sacramental life. 

Drawing maps--I'll leave them in the streets

perchance they care to join me.

An Old One, but Hey...

I, for some reason, love the courier new font. What a wonderful nod to the sound of a type writer.

In the Balance

Life can seem obvious until we start to live it.

Most times it leaves us hanging,

And it’s in the hanging that we live,

Because the answer never stays

On a particular side, but is

Where we find the top

Spinning.

Conversion of a Five-Year-Old Poet

Perhaps it was the way the word 'soul'

echoed and 'heart' clapped back to my ear

that made me picture You there--an unearthed 

giant white playground bound sewer pipe I would hide in,

that there was a place deep within me where sounds like this

happen--because of the shape and form

of my inner little-woman heart and soul,

five-year-old thunder rolling, cracking, and ceasing.

Before I knew anything of phonetics, semantics,

I understood You through the sound of 'soul,' 

through the sound of echo--that's all I understood, 

that You would sit with me there, calm the storm. 

That You would send me forth from 'soul' to 'city street'?

from my sabbatical sewer pipe to hearing rumbles of hunger,

the groan of hidden agony? I couldn't dream of,

for instance, a daily commute from introverted retreat

to all types of hunger pains and back only to sleep.  But neither 

did I dream of that same sewer pipe now echoing 

the crash of living waterfalls and serene whisper 
of heavy April rain--right here in my sewer-pipe hiding place.

All I understood was the echo of 'soul,' 

that You would sit with me there.

Notebook and Paper Lenses

 I was traipsing around in Target about six months ago--you know, walking slowly past the pen and paper isle like I do. I was ready to purchase another book to write in that I probably won't finish.  I'm not all that good at finishing things--I usually need a flame or a blade or a threat. But, since I'm very good at starting things, I thought a frivolous purchase was in order. Other than the typical criteria--small so I can carry it with me, paper that I like--I was looking for something I could keep and, when I look at it, would inspire me to write. Typical. The book that caught my eye had a quote on the front: "We write to taste life twice." $7.49--receipt in the bag? I'll take it, thanks.  Ah, the breeze greets me and tells me that I'm going home to write.      


We write to taste life twice. Oh boy--indigestion. So now I'm a cow (were they calling me fat?).  If you ask me, we write and create, we read and learn, we eat and drink, we risk adventure outside of the living room--whether we know it or not--to avoid living the rest of our lives with this terrible lingering indigestion. Memories don't just float away, they only get buried and cause problems later after a life spent reacting to the things that happened decades ago.     


For me it's writing. I can't just let stuff happen; I have to think about it--put it together the best I know how; I have to know what I think about it; I must measure every stupid little thing (that everyone else has long forgotten about by now) against my labored-for rose and green colored glasses through which I see the world. The lens is rimmed with jade which fades into a light sapphire with pink rose in the center. There's some gray spots here and there, but that's pretty much what I see. They say (or so I was at least musing) that as we get older, the gray spots on our lenses get bigger--while when we were young, we were always so sure. Perhaps this will be the case for me--we'll see when I get there. In my few years, despite the lingering gray spots, things tend to get clearer. Perhaps it's because I'm okay with the things I will never understand--I grow content with my created limits.   


My glasses keep acquiring new and more nuanced colors because I keep reading and living and learning new things. People who I thought I had figured out surprise me with the fact that they are individuals and can be whomever they wish despite my hasty analyses of them. I have trouble forgetting things that most people didn't even notice--like someone who did something selfish yesterday but today shows a tender-heartedness that makes me look gristly and cruel when yesterday I was the nice one. It keeps changing--I have to take it up again, and roll it around in my mouth and pen what, now, it tastes like.      


For me it's writing. All put their hands to something. Not all have paint or paper or craft, but all have glasses. How can it be enough to see just one color--to taste each day in the life once? Maybe it is enough, or should be enough; but I can't quiet my mind. So I write. Some days I'll never want to taste again, but they still come up as indigestion. As I pop a Tums and let the chalk make my mouth all gritty--even then I must write about what Tums taste like. The words help flavor my glasses further.     


I even get to re-flavor the things I thought I knew. Scripture is supposed to be my world view, but even my view of that is tainted. As I engage in spiritual discipline, as I allow my soul to be shaped by prayer, even the lenses through which I'm supposed to see look clearer. The lens inside my eye gets an adjustment to its curvature. When this happens, I also must write. I am attacked by flashbacks and distant memories that now look different. I find myself no longer bewildered by things I didn't--couldn't--understand at the age of five. And while childhood brings many stressful memories of wanting to understand, I can lay them to rest now that I do.      Writing itself can be an act of forgiveness. How will I portray my characters? Even though they are real people who no doubt would want to defend themselves, I only have my eyes through which to write. Will I be gentle or exact subtle revenge? Will I write something I hope they will never read? Or will I take my opportunity to taste what happened through renewed vision--through life tasted twice?


There are other ways to taste life twice. I'm just one who writes. Most folks benefit  plainly from getting older--from dealing with screaming kids and eventually the same arthritis pain that made their mother crabby for the last ten years. Now she can rest easy in forgiveness--or more so the ones who have the pleasure of forgiving her. A man will get to set his hand to a task that will writhe his muscles so that he will see what his father did for him; a woman understand the grind of a thousand menial tasks a day chipping away at peace of mind. Pieces of advice that were useless years ago suddenly turn to gold in a time of need. There are legions of opportunities to taste life twice--even three, even four times. And who knows, after all this buffet style eating, maybe by the end it will taste sweet.

Often times, in the end, whether it tasted sweet or bitter will depend upon these series of lens adjustments. Perhaps I make this sound easy. Maybe I'm naive enough to believe that the purchase of a notebook I won't finish can make the wear and tear dissolve into who-knows where. I used to be. But during the course of living at times without anything even to re-taste because I didn't get to taste it the first time, I've had quite a few lens adjustments. Without the things that a nice guy wouldn't forget to give his dog or without any emotional fresh air, who could see anything? Because of this, I hold close a piece of advice a friend lent me from a friend that lent it to her: "Live first, then write." We can't taste life twice if we didn't taste it the first time.     

Crumbs

Here's a few crumbs or anyone who might like them. They are neither deep nor that engaging, but they're something. You see, since I waited so long to post, I figured I should come up with something good--which then led me to further put it off. Well, here's what I got. There's more in the works. I think the difficulty is that I'm learning more of what good poetry is, but I can't seem to do that--like someone who loves colors but is still learning how to mix paint. Van Gogh obsessed about his colors until he found the one that stood off the canvas of his sunflower painting with an eerie, beautiful glow. While I wouldn't exactly want to end up like him, I understand his restlessness a bit. Poetry and art for me is both a place of repose and wrestling--much like prayer can be. It's the place we come to with our lives, yet the place that exposes the lack in our lives. All of this then, leaves us searching for more--for that something--we ultimately, finally, find in the un-stymied presence of our marvelous living God.  And then, art will consist, rather than with wrestling, with freedom and exploration of what it's like to be fully alive. I can't wait.


St. Valentine

Please, all this sugar hurts my teeth.

Leave it for the kids who've yet to have

cavities. Me? I've had many now just in my

twenties, but no abscesses or root canals. 

So pass the semi-sweet, just no more syrup

please--let true love be tastefully sweet so while

growing old together we'll still have our teeth.

The Rich Man

I relax

counting money not mine

to protect. I walk home

with peace in my pocket

instead.

No Ma'am, Not Yet Me

An excellent woman, who can she be?

The say she laughs at the future;

are you sure she's not just laughing at me?

Because I'm worried again

worried about nothing

about what storms aren't really coming.

An excellent woman, who is she?

Excuse me, ma'am; yes, you

the one with well-worked hands

to myself, the one with the college degree.

Do you have an elixir for me?

More...Stuff

Okay, here's a few things I've been working on. It's slow going, but it's something. Although, after reading some Langston Hughes poems as of late, I think I'm making poetry way too complicated. I tend to do that with things. Hehe, I'm a work in progress.

In and Out of Place

Finally, the Earl Grey seeps 

down to my bones, a buffer to

the crispy fall air as leaves complain

underfoot. The herpetologist feels rather 

out of place--Accented British--there 

are none of his subjects here;

The sun, although he knows it well,

even that seems strangely unfamiliar.

Life Expectancy
We may be living longer lives,
but let's be sure we're living
until we die.
Let's be sure we're giving,
pouting out the water jar
until dry.


Theology

I wonder what place there'll be

for us--for those of our kind who've

poured out life and given limb to speak

a word about the Trinity--once no more words

should be said but 'holy'? I mean, there'll be

nothing more to be seen or heard--nothing more

to search for. But if kept to our pursuit in light--

that we are extravagant libations--we won't be offering

another listless thought of it in midst

of perpetual universal worship, now will we?

We'll just keep swimming,
swimming.