The cogs of the Universe

Sometimes I approach God like a machine or a math problem.
"How does this work? What determines how it behaves?"
In many ways, God is pretty polite to me when I do this. He isn't a machine, but he is logical.
But then He'll throw me for a loop.

"It would make so much sense for God to give me this internship." I say, "It's exactly what I need. So WHY didn't He give it to me?"

He doesn't answer. And that's VERY FRUSTRATING because I want to know. I want to know.

However, let's think. What exactly am I asking? Why didn't the Creator and Sustainer of the bloody universe give it to me?

Possible Answers

*Perhaps He had a better internship planned for me.
*Perhaps another person needed it more than me.
*Perhaps it wasn't perfect for me at all.
*Perhaps the supervisor was a psychopathic serial killer who pickled his interns in huge jars.
*Perhaps He was leading to me to a totally different profession.
*Perhaps He needed me to be walking down main street at 10:16am in order to trip an Unsaved person who would then think about the eternal state of their soul.
*Perhaps He desired me to be in the administration office when it exploded, so that I could go be with Him.
*Perhaps He wanted me to accept a different, less perfect internship, with a supervisor who was considering dedicating their life to Christ but needed me to help them understand who God was.
*Perhaps this was only the beginning, and God would cause everything in my life to collapse into miserable oblivion so that I would see how much I need Him and become so much closer to Him that I wouldn't give a rip about any stupid internship.

In order to understand everything that happens to me, I need to comprehend the entire vastness of God's plan for the world.
Or, perhaps, I need remember all the times that He has proven himself faithful, understanding, and GOOD in the past.

Perhaps I will trust Him.

Dryad

There once was a young girl who lived in a house alongside a forest.

Her parents were very busy. They would always have “business” to attend to and would often forget to attend to their daughter.

Whenever this girl was lonely, she would open the rusty screen door leading to her backyard and step out onto her old wooden porch. From there she could see the towering monoliths of the forest just beyond her fence. The great limbs of these trees bent over the fence and vines crept through the boards. She could play within the confines of her yard. She would make little hideouts from fallen limbs and lay in the curls of tree roots to watch the clouds. When she danced in the wind, the trees would run their slender fingers through her long dark hair. In summer, she would eat the berries from the branches that reached over the fence to her. In autumn she would wrap herself in gold and scarlet and sleep, warm in the embrace.

Many, many times, she would gaze into the thick forest beyond her fence-posts and her imagination would soar.

At night, after tucking herself in and reading herself a story, she would doze to the lullaby of the trees singing for her on the wind.

* * *

It was an unusually cold day, just near the start of autumn, when fall gusts first begin to sharpen with chill. The young girl returned home from an unusually long day at school. She had spent most of class time gazing out the window at the first brightly dressed trapeze artists flipping and twirling from their branches.

She plopped her backpack and coat on the sofa. (Her mother hated that, and she knew it.) She skipped into the kitchen and ate some crackers on the counter. (This was something else her mother hated.) Her mother was in the study working, and her father had not yet returned from the office. This was usually the case, so the girl continued on towards her goal. She left the kitchen in disrepair and turned her attention towards her backyard.

She put her coat back on. This was not the fluffy white coat which her mother had spent a great deal of money on, but her brown coat which her mother considered obscene. It was rugged and had flannel lining. Though a bit too large, it was as warm as her grandmother’s embrace. Grandmother was the one who had supplied it. It had been Grandfather’s. The girl hid it behind the snowsuits, so that her mother would not discover it and throw it away.

She held the soft lining to her face and breathed, long and slow. It forever smelled of Grandmother. Grandmother was not like the other adults that the girl knew; there was no empty look in her eyes or dry command on her lips. Grandmother listened, and when she did, her wrinkled face was smooth with understanding. She never darted away while you were speaking or interrupted to answer a call. When she spoke, her soft voice always flowed like a creek and rose and fell like a song. When she held her granddaughter, she ran her slender fingers through her beloved’s long dark hair.

It was Grandmother who had taught the girl how to deal with mean kids at school and how to carry numbers in addition and how to put her hair in a French braid. Grandmother was always there when she needed her with a knowing smile and gentle laugh. Sometimes when the girl was braiding her hair or doing homework on the floor, she would see Grandmother gazing at her with an anxious sadness in her eyes. The girl would distract Grandmother at those times. She did not like seeing Grandmother so sad.

Zipping the coat up to her chin, the girl gathered her dirty boots and red gloves. Her crocheted hat was still in her hands when she kicked open the rusty screen door and stepped into the rush of autumn.

The trees welcomed her. They reached out their tender branches to her. The girl clamored down the steps of the porch and skipped across the backyard. She wandered towards the fence that held the trees at bay. She found herself a pedestal atop a tree root which had grown up out of the soil. It seemed to lift her higher, away from the ground, the yard, and the fence. She turned her face towards the high branches of the forest, shut her eyes, and opened her arms wide.

The girl felt a tiny gust of air against her face. It was only a small breeze; hardly enough to notice. However, this breeze carried with it a banquet of delightful smells: pure water, excitement, and a hint of fear.

The girl turned her face towards this enticing breeze and opened her eyes. Straight ahead, hardly visible at the corner of the yard, was a small opening in the fence. The underbrush of the forest had pushed through this small segment of fence at its weakest point. The opening these plants had created was the perfect size for an adventurous child to crawl through.

The girl scrambled across the yard. When she reached the corner where the plants had pushed through, she stopped and breathed deeply. Yes, truly, this was the source of the breeze. The air that rushed through this opening was a delight to her senses.

She didn’t look back towards her house before she crawled through. She did not hesitate or question her actions. She pushed her way through the fence and was welcomed into the forest.

Something

Their backs are bent

Like cello players out of work

So they recite their songs

Long remembered or simply imagined

And played

Without instruments

(19 Nov 09)

White Fuller

Secret of Kells = New favorite movie

So, naturally, I am reading up on my Irish mythology now.

The white cat in the movie, Pangur Bán, is named after an Irish poem.

The poem compares the work of the Irish monk writing it and his cat.

I love this poem, not just because it is delightful to read, but because I often find myself in the same circumstance. (Though, I suppose my cat just plays with my toes instead of with mice.)

Oh, and by the way, the cat's name means "White Fuller". "Fulling" is something people did while making wool. It is the step during which you remove impurities (like dirt) from the material.


Pangur Bán

I and Pangur Bán, my cat
'Tis a like task we are at;
Hunting mice is his delight
Hunting words I sit all night.

Better far than praise of men
'Tis to sit with book and pen;
Pangur bears me no ill will,
He too plies his simple skill.

'Tis a merry thing to see
At our tasks how glad are we,
When at home we sit and find
Entertainment to our mind.

Oftentimes a mouse will stray
In the hero Pangur's way:
Oftentimes my keen thought set
Takes a meaning in its net.

'Gainst the wall he sets his eye
Full and fierce and sharp and sly;
'Gainst the wall of knowledge I
All my little wisdom try.

When a mouse darts from its den,
O how glad is Pangur then!
O what gladness do I prove
When I solve the doubts I love!

So in peace our tasks we ply,
Pangur Bán, my cat, and I;
In our arts we find our bliss,
I have mine and he has his.

Practice every day has made
Pangur perfect in his trade;
I get wisdom day and night
Turning darkness into light.

The Silver Pen

Writing this story is doing wonders for my self-confidence.

What story, you ask? Why, if you're out of the loop, then stay that way!

The point is, whenever I'm overwhelmed or upset with myself for being... me,

I can just remember my story.

The characters, the events, the world I've created.

It's not just comfort; I glean confidence from my creation.

If I can create, then I could be competent.

And it is such a joy to create.

It's practically real in my mind.

NO, it's more than real.

I can see feel touch taste hear every inch of it.

Every time I go there, I discover something new.

Every time I go there, it has grown and so have I

The clearer it becomes, the more the fog is pulled back from my real life.

It may be fiction, but there is truth in it.


Conclusion: Writing a story is an amazing experience.
You should try it some time.

The Lady Of Shalott

I was recently enchanted by this poem, which I ran across accidentally.
I discovered the next day that the book my wife had been reading, "A Mirror Crack'd" by Agatha Christie, had been inspired by it.
The only served to enrich my enchantment, and I will soon begin exploring said book.
Until then, here is the poem itself.
...


The Lady of Shalott

On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And thro' the field the road runs by
To many-tower'd Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Through the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four grey walls, and four grey towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.

By the margin, willow veil'd,
Slide the heavy barges trail'd
By slow horses; and unhail'd
The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd
Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shalott?

Only reapers, reaping early,
In among the bearded barley
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly;
Down to tower'd Camelot;
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers, " 'Tis the fairy
Lady of Shalott."

There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.

And moving through a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
Winding down to Camelot;
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the surly village churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls
Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd lad,
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad
Goes by to tower'd Camelot;
And sometimes through the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two.
She hath no loyal Knight and true,
The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror's magic sights,
For often through the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, went to Camelot;
Or when the Moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed.
"I am half sick of shadows," said
The Lady of Shalott.

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shalott.

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle bells rang merrily
As he rode down to Camelot:
And from his blazon'd baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armor rung
Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burn'd like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to Camelot.
As often thro' the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, burning bright,
Moves over still Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow'd
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flashed into the crystal mirror,
"Tirra lirra," by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces through the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She look'd down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack'd from side to side;
"The curse is come upon me," cried
The Lady of Shalott.

In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining.
Heavily the low sky raining
Over tower'd Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And around about the prow she wrote
The Lady of Shalott.

And down the river's dim expanse
Like some bold seer in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance --
With a glassy countenance
Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.

Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right --
The leaves upon her falling light --
Thro' the noises of the night,
She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shalott.

Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darkened wholly,
Turn'd to tower'd Camelot.
For ere she reach'd upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
Dead-pale between the houses high,
Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and Burgher, Lord and Dame,
And around the prow they read her name,
The Lady of Shalott.

Who is this? And what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they crossed themselves for fear,
All the Knights at Camelot;
But Lancelot mused a little space
He said, "She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott.

Alfred Lord Tenneyson

Grow Up

Far side of the desk
Cold hand on shoulder
No one else there
But the man with the folder

He’s taking my name
He’ll smile with a frown
I had never known
I had so far to fall down

The world lures you out
With a promise or two
Once you’re out in the open
The facades all fall through

A place is revealed
That’s cold to the touch
Full of suits and long meetings
About taxes and such

My coat’s not as thick
As it seemed before
He’s leaning forward
I glance towards the door

“Where you are now
Is where you once were
But where will you go?
Now that you can’t return?”

I leap from my chair
Several icicles break
The door’s frozen shut
This was a mistake


(((POST SCRIPT)))

Being alone in the ice
Buried under demands
Maybe I never wanted
The world in my hands

How to be Alive

Writer- Brice James
Title- How to be Alive

I’m paying attention
But my ears I hold shut
You’re asking me questions
That are twisting my gut

It’s the light in the bathroom
At a quarter past five
Shining much to much brightly
On my dark morning eyes

It seems my nice pants
Can’t hide my black fears
My hands tightly folded
While face paint, it smears

My folks are all waiting
In the back of my mind
And I know they’re embarrassed
‘cause I’m falling behind

So I’ll say something funny
And I’ll swallow the truth
I’m less likely to fail you
If you think, “he’s a goof”

Now you might think I’m souring
But I’m under the ground
You all smile when you see me
My scream
Won’t make
A
Sound


(((POST SCRIPT)))

I’ll take my hands off my ears
I won’t be a slave
My eyes have adjusted
I think it’s time that I shaved