Monday, July 30, 2007
Not Yet
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
bumble bee
There is so much that still hurts in many parts. Some, I don't know how or why it does. And probably you feel the same too. Your frustrations, growing pain, trying to fit into shoes that are still painfully uncomfortable. It falls out, one way or another, flaming arrows, shield, dodge, darts and scarecrows, begging questions to
answers we both don't know, try as we might.
I have my unexplainable hunger and cancer. You have your aggressive instinct and banter.
For this has to be another one of those difficult mornings to get through and I am barely passing the storm. I know you don't mean to spill the hot soup all over me on the couch. I know the paws marks that sit clumsily on these delicate handles. But the burn is still real and I don't blame it on you.
If you poke me, do I not hurt? If you push me, does it not shove? If you set it off, do I not implode?
The smell of burning flesh still stinging my nose and little wonder that it started to actually bleed an hour into this headbang. I walked away in the cold, almost angry, almost dejected, almost abandoned. Somewhere under this hoodie, something out of the ordinary happened. I did not find the restroom door closing. I did not find crystal glands searing through my cheeks, though the pain was eating away at the edge
of my soul. Can this poison be the calm that cradles me from the elements?
Or maybe I just haven't hit home yet.
answers we both don't know, try as we might.
I have my unexplainable hunger and cancer. You have your aggressive instinct and banter.
For this has to be another one of those difficult mornings to get through and I am barely passing the storm. I know you don't mean to spill the hot soup all over me on the couch. I know the paws marks that sit clumsily on these delicate handles. But the burn is still real and I don't blame it on you.
If you poke me, do I not hurt? If you push me, does it not shove? If you set it off, do I not implode?
The smell of burning flesh still stinging my nose and little wonder that it started to actually bleed an hour into this headbang. I walked away in the cold, almost angry, almost dejected, almost abandoned. Somewhere under this hoodie, something out of the ordinary happened. I did not find the restroom door closing. I did not find crystal glands searing through my cheeks, though the pain was eating away at the edge
of my soul. Can this poison be the calm that cradles me from the elements?
Or maybe I just haven't hit home yet.
Monday, July 23, 2007
collect your things
Stuff lying around, sporadic hopes and dreams all scattered like a brain on a tumor surgery. Why is it so hard to be confident in the currency of opinions and big ideas? Which begs the question - what's the big fucking idea? Are we just too caught up in naively trying to frame everything and hope for a movement to get us started, turned on or are we just plain lazy hiding behind these excuses of a grandiose LCD screen?
For I tell you, some of us are still too young to handle it. So why is my generation plagued with horns and bulls too fast, too furious?
But I guess if they don't, the sum of the passing showers would not have the energy and stamina to endure. For I find, I just endure even though it seems they all say, all they ever say cos they don't get it, that it is over, that your time has passed.
That I am just peter pan stuck in a moment I can't get out of. So, come now, reasonably speaking, this big fat idea, is it really just a moment?
For I remember my brother once said to me, in the most unlikely heat of our cabin fever, people misunderstand what they do not comprehend. And I for one keeps falling prey to my own devices and such common misunderstanding often pulls out the gun and click goes the barrel. It was bitter sweet as much as I can remember that he was crying in front of the kitchen sink, belting out my frustrations and for the first time I realized how much benefit of his doubt was the warm protective blanket surrounding me, guarding my back like a bullet proof vest. For the kindred of me, I found grace and a common confidence that quietly and stubbornly refuses to stop. To respect and honor. To stay loyal and steadfast. What God has given us, we do not diss. What He has blessed our beings with, we use it to do good for our humanity.
But I guess we haven't yet come to the fold in the light of this is the season to grow, grow strong, just simply, grow up, get your act together.
Good will come as we prepare our hands and feet and our immature minds to do what this instinct and blue print directs. Follow the rabbit hole ride and to this day I still see my constant second chance grace to let my fingers train and my feet shuffle and trace the steps of the Master's rhythm.
For what good is it to know and be strong if we cannot believe we will do and want to do good?
This is too much a futurist to stomach and perhaps that is my discontent. Always three steps ahead of everyone else. A gift is a curse as a curse that turns mourning into dancing.
For I tell you, some of us are still too young to handle it. So why is my generation plagued with horns and bulls too fast, too furious?
But I guess if they don't, the sum of the passing showers would not have the energy and stamina to endure. For I find, I just endure even though it seems they all say, all they ever say cos they don't get it, that it is over, that your time has passed.
That I am just peter pan stuck in a moment I can't get out of. So, come now, reasonably speaking, this big fat idea, is it really just a moment?
For I remember my brother once said to me, in the most unlikely heat of our cabin fever, people misunderstand what they do not comprehend. And I for one keeps falling prey to my own devices and such common misunderstanding often pulls out the gun and click goes the barrel. It was bitter sweet as much as I can remember that he was crying in front of the kitchen sink, belting out my frustrations and for the first time I realized how much benefit of his doubt was the warm protective blanket surrounding me, guarding my back like a bullet proof vest. For the kindred of me, I found grace and a common confidence that quietly and stubbornly refuses to stop. To respect and honor. To stay loyal and steadfast. What God has given us, we do not diss. What He has blessed our beings with, we use it to do good for our humanity.
But I guess we haven't yet come to the fold in the light of this is the season to grow, grow strong, just simply, grow up, get your act together.
Good will come as we prepare our hands and feet and our immature minds to do what this instinct and blue print directs. Follow the rabbit hole ride and to this day I still see my constant second chance grace to let my fingers train and my feet shuffle and trace the steps of the Master's rhythm.
For what good is it to know and be strong if we cannot believe we will do and want to do good?
This is too much a futurist to stomach and perhaps that is my discontent. Always three steps ahead of everyone else. A gift is a curse as a curse that turns mourning into dancing.
Saturday, July 21, 2007
the morning after
the line was long and the night was young. the air was filled a a bite that was bent to party. i must have gone back in time to those days of smoke filled dark rooms, cushions and dancing lights. here, some dress to kill, some kill to dress and others get killed in even trying. run a google in the room and find yourself reading an encyclopedic spectrum of gamers, nerds, red blood cells and those lacking. somewhere between all that, i found a sliver of humanity. of boys who wore uncomfortable shoes but find themselves basking in the kind attention of the ladies. men who stood by even though the socks were well worn out and conversations would never happen.
I watched as initiation took place between the 2s and 4s. everyone wore an even number on their heads and for some split seconds i could almost duck outside for an emotional breather. bravery found its way into a lion's heart and bumble bee was putting on his tap dance shoes. I marveled at the sight and how much heart was slipping out on his sleeve. there was a sense of peace, like the tranquility Maximus Decimus Meridias must have found in heat of the battle.
like ice and fire, this is the morning after.
I watched as initiation took place between the 2s and 4s. everyone wore an even number on their heads and for some split seconds i could almost duck outside for an emotional breather. bravery found its way into a lion's heart and bumble bee was putting on his tap dance shoes. I marveled at the sight and how much heart was slipping out on his sleeve. there was a sense of peace, like the tranquility Maximus Decimus Meridias must have found in heat of the battle.
like ice and fire, this is the morning after.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Charity
Like the old nursery story, Rapunzel stuck inside a cathedral tower, locked away, dependent on social graces. Why do you bring me here only for me to cripple at the head of the bridge? A foreigner in a foreign land. When quiet is just too damn quiet. There is only the overworked dryer keeping me company. They say don't go to sleep for when you do, you die. Pain is your friend. When you have pain, you know you are alive. What is the meaning of all this pain and solitary cell number on my door?
I miss the scent, the music in the other room, the morning wake. I can't help it. I am fading away in this missing search. These boundaries and lines so easy to cross and all I want to do is to forget this was ever my possible blessing and walk the other way. Perhaps forgetfulness will flood it all, fill you up and I would just be another blimp on your radar that was never meant to exist. Hope removed is hope meaningless. I don't know how to negotiate this anymore. I'm waiting for the next change to make this a better offer.
I stare at the screen waiting for you to go to sleep so i can turn out my lights and say goodnight. This is not cold turkey for something I did. Why does it feel like punishment and judgement? Give me back my safe haven, my home, my words and phrases to live on, my warm day in the sun and my journey yardstick and companion.
My exhaustion is setting in and my spirit is way past weary. If it's a journey better doing it together then why is this so fucking hard to get through? Why is this a living hell? And no, I know it's not going to stop. But I plead with you, God, please stop this bleeding. I have had enough. I'm losing my grip.
I miss the scent, the music in the other room, the morning wake. I can't help it. I am fading away in this missing search. These boundaries and lines so easy to cross and all I want to do is to forget this was ever my possible blessing and walk the other way. Perhaps forgetfulness will flood it all, fill you up and I would just be another blimp on your radar that was never meant to exist. Hope removed is hope meaningless. I don't know how to negotiate this anymore. I'm waiting for the next change to make this a better offer.
I stare at the screen waiting for you to go to sleep so i can turn out my lights and say goodnight. This is not cold turkey for something I did. Why does it feel like punishment and judgement? Give me back my safe haven, my home, my words and phrases to live on, my warm day in the sun and my journey yardstick and companion.
My exhaustion is setting in and my spirit is way past weary. If it's a journey better doing it together then why is this so fucking hard to get through? Why is this a living hell? And no, I know it's not going to stop. But I plead with you, God, please stop this bleeding. I have had enough. I'm losing my grip.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Cold Feet
That the cold is a bitch is hardly justifying the brutal reality. I found it daunting to walk out past the sliding doors, for all I heard while in the lift, were the haunting notes of the singing wind. It seemed to beckon an ominous prospect. A possible snow storm, hail stones raining down on the ones without shelter. It must be 4 degrees this morning. For my fingers felt the grip of pain. Like the time I was out in the cold, trying to open up a christmas tree outside the chapel in a small california town. Even hiding them in my jumper pockets didn't help.
I ducked under the hoodie, looking for the familiar warm scent to keep me breathing, all four layers.
Even now, sitting on my bed, under the sheets, my bones are still aching from the chill. Cold hands and feet. Toes that turn blue from all that walking. Hands frozen trying to hang on to the the frozen food packs from the local asian grocer. Time of the year to dive into the simplicity of noodles and good old mono-sodium-glutamate soup. Fishballs, tofu, dumplings, miso and all things hearty. Which is supposed to remind me of my hometown, yet it feels still so foreign.
I got down on my knees and faced the carpet and let the gamut of tears and exhaustion weigh me in and try me out. Does it have to be this cold, I found myself asking. The sword felt heavier with the dip of the cold. And the chill factor made the training even tougher. Every moment I pray that it does not hail, even though sometime soon I wish to slide out in the snow. As I drifted in and out of my insanity, trying to choose life instead of throwing up into the oncoming traffic, my eyes got heavy and the frost bite made it numb.
All I could think of was the warm sunset in the distant horizon and the voices still trying to bring it all down. Go, this cold is too much, much too much to bear alone.
I ducked under the hoodie, looking for the familiar warm scent to keep me breathing, all four layers.
Even now, sitting on my bed, under the sheets, my bones are still aching from the chill. Cold hands and feet. Toes that turn blue from all that walking. Hands frozen trying to hang on to the the frozen food packs from the local asian grocer. Time of the year to dive into the simplicity of noodles and good old mono-sodium-glutamate soup. Fishballs, tofu, dumplings, miso and all things hearty. Which is supposed to remind me of my hometown, yet it feels still so foreign.
I got down on my knees and faced the carpet and let the gamut of tears and exhaustion weigh me in and try me out. Does it have to be this cold, I found myself asking. The sword felt heavier with the dip of the cold. And the chill factor made the training even tougher. Every moment I pray that it does not hail, even though sometime soon I wish to slide out in the snow. As I drifted in and out of my insanity, trying to choose life instead of throwing up into the oncoming traffic, my eyes got heavy and the frost bite made it numb.
All I could think of was the warm sunset in the distant horizon and the voices still trying to bring it all down. Go, this cold is too much, much too much to bear alone.
Saturday, July 14, 2007
this absence
why is it so hard to get through a day like this? you don't have to be lonely when you are alone, i seem to hear the molecules of the air whisper these faint positive messages. i turned up some random familiar album and drowned out the condescension. why is it that a series of momentous absence be so hard to garner and live out? is there really something wrong with me? Yes, so it seems I am so fucked up inside. And some clinical label will be attached to it yet.
perhaps that is why there are so many movies made about people who fade away as they spend their waking hours and dreams missing the ones they have grown to love, trust and fear. we are the sum of our family ties.
And begs that question why God would bring my feet to this place to love and let me heart be tagged with another breathing fellow when the love that left my father's heart froze my summer and lead me to a place of seeming peace and serenity? It's the kind of love I never knew existed in my personal definition.
And when I found it, how it warmed and melted the cold cold heart and gave birth to an infant boy who can't wait to grow up into cowboy, warrior, father. How this heart leaped onto it's feet and for the first time actually wanted to grow up to be someone strong and confident. I woke up this morning and half between consciousness and uncertainty found myself wanting to grow up to be half the man my brother is. Like bumblebee, not completely with the streetwise, but strong enough, grounded and fathered.
I want to be able to go show my friends my new soccer boots, bat for some football club, passionate in the grandstand to the cheer of 30,000 fans and just... play ball.
And yet it still feels incomplete. The little stolen hugs to heal haven't quite delivered past the crevices and cracks. The absence in the air often brings me to my knees wanting just one more, just one more moment to usher me to equilibrium. It's like walking across a bridge with many missing planks and who can blame for this inconfidence and a soul not quite complete.
home does not feel like home anymore. like a hotel without a concierge, a backpackers stand without a night switch, a bed without a mattress or blanket. i cry too much and i don't like it. my fond heart is growing too old and grey and I don't like it.
In my teenage years, I found my home in the alcohol street corners. I found my dysfunctional family through the restless peddlers selling fast food fixes to hungry kids like me. I found safety. A home. I had a life. How did I get here to know this much and yet be so far from it? To know how incomplete you are is the gravest situation one can arrive at. One only God can, in His mercy, save and rescue.
Where, Oh God, is your rescue mission? Where Oh mighty saviour, is my safety harness to haul me out of this whirlpool swallowing me? Don't let me wait for more than 48 hours in this cold. You know this forming pneumonia is a bitch to cure and I want to be healed, I want to be well.
Well enough to play with my boys when they are learning to wield their toy swords and protect and subdue the earth as the mighty men you will have them grow up to be.
So give me this day my daily yeast.
perhaps that is why there are so many movies made about people who fade away as they spend their waking hours and dreams missing the ones they have grown to love, trust and fear. we are the sum of our family ties.
And begs that question why God would bring my feet to this place to love and let me heart be tagged with another breathing fellow when the love that left my father's heart froze my summer and lead me to a place of seeming peace and serenity? It's the kind of love I never knew existed in my personal definition.
And when I found it, how it warmed and melted the cold cold heart and gave birth to an infant boy who can't wait to grow up into cowboy, warrior, father. How this heart leaped onto it's feet and for the first time actually wanted to grow up to be someone strong and confident. I woke up this morning and half between consciousness and uncertainty found myself wanting to grow up to be half the man my brother is. Like bumblebee, not completely with the streetwise, but strong enough, grounded and fathered.
I want to be able to go show my friends my new soccer boots, bat for some football club, passionate in the grandstand to the cheer of 30,000 fans and just... play ball.
And yet it still feels incomplete. The little stolen hugs to heal haven't quite delivered past the crevices and cracks. The absence in the air often brings me to my knees wanting just one more, just one more moment to usher me to equilibrium. It's like walking across a bridge with many missing planks and who can blame for this inconfidence and a soul not quite complete.
home does not feel like home anymore. like a hotel without a concierge, a backpackers stand without a night switch, a bed without a mattress or blanket. i cry too much and i don't like it. my fond heart is growing too old and grey and I don't like it.
In my teenage years, I found my home in the alcohol street corners. I found my dysfunctional family through the restless peddlers selling fast food fixes to hungry kids like me. I found safety. A home. I had a life. How did I get here to know this much and yet be so far from it? To know how incomplete you are is the gravest situation one can arrive at. One only God can, in His mercy, save and rescue.
Where, Oh God, is your rescue mission? Where Oh mighty saviour, is my safety harness to haul me out of this whirlpool swallowing me? Don't let me wait for more than 48 hours in this cold. You know this forming pneumonia is a bitch to cure and I want to be healed, I want to be well.
Well enough to play with my boys when they are learning to wield their toy swords and protect and subdue the earth as the mighty men you will have them grow up to be.
So give me this day my daily yeast.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Credit Refresh
The air is light, although still smoked from the overworked oven trying to rush out the crispy cornflour and sesame chicken for my brother and I to fill the protein part of our tummy. Many cardio minutes earlier, we had found ourselves suffocating for space and decided to pull the stop button and call it a short night. This is rush hour free gym membership at it's best. Folks from the neighbourhood who obviously have no paying part in the building but have access to take up the parking lots.
It takes very little to keep my feet and heart on solid ground. Just a few hours of doing life together, working out, food, anime, passion DVD, david crowder and discovering that matt redman is quite the bulk. To just hang, warm up the cold living room and to just be present. To the spirit that binds hearts together. To the presence of Jesus in the room and a quiet confidence lingering in the air.
Sitting here now, on my own, listening to the crema sessions recorded from several months ago, trying to remember how I was missing out on the nuances given the distracting, rude and rowdy crowd. Lord have your mercy, make me a steward of your talents and gifts, don't let them take me away from this place. How that now rings so true. Whoever "them" may be. Lift me high above this refrain, teach me to live and be the warrior within. So light up my way when darkness precedes, over my shadow, over my cradle. For You, You cradle me, in my darkest of hours, in my breathless gasp for air in-between sobs and pangs of pain.
So I have my credit refreshed. 30 for 120. Turbo. It ran out two weeks ago when an intentional long phone call was made in the midst of a raging heart rescue mission. I have depended on the fixed home line and online free messaging services to keep in touch with the ones I love and send out reminders to my team. Feels good that my repentance day is but one day closer. I actually survived 2 weeks with just under a hundred quid. A lot of pasta, chicken, bacon, cream, kaya and cheese toast and the ocassional lunch fast all because i forgot to bring the lunchbox.
I am blessed. Some son of God I am. Some days I miss the plot and vertigo takes over. But from this day forth, my feet forward, I know He is taking me from the former glory to a renewed strength. Through broken pieces of a contrite heart, the bruising of the ego and the frequent acquaintance with the carpet, all blood, tears and sweat. For He has given me voice to sing, notes to reach and heights to scale. My help, my strength comes from the maker of heaven and earth. He has set my feet upon a rock.
He has made me glad.
It takes very little to keep my feet and heart on solid ground. Just a few hours of doing life together, working out, food, anime, passion DVD, david crowder and discovering that matt redman is quite the bulk. To just hang, warm up the cold living room and to just be present. To the spirit that binds hearts together. To the presence of Jesus in the room and a quiet confidence lingering in the air.
Sitting here now, on my own, listening to the crema sessions recorded from several months ago, trying to remember how I was missing out on the nuances given the distracting, rude and rowdy crowd. Lord have your mercy, make me a steward of your talents and gifts, don't let them take me away from this place. How that now rings so true. Whoever "them" may be. Lift me high above this refrain, teach me to live and be the warrior within. So light up my way when darkness precedes, over my shadow, over my cradle. For You, You cradle me, in my darkest of hours, in my breathless gasp for air in-between sobs and pangs of pain.
So I have my credit refreshed. 30 for 120. Turbo. It ran out two weeks ago when an intentional long phone call was made in the midst of a raging heart rescue mission. I have depended on the fixed home line and online free messaging services to keep in touch with the ones I love and send out reminders to my team. Feels good that my repentance day is but one day closer. I actually survived 2 weeks with just under a hundred quid. A lot of pasta, chicken, bacon, cream, kaya and cheese toast and the ocassional lunch fast all because i forgot to bring the lunchbox.
I am blessed. Some son of God I am. Some days I miss the plot and vertigo takes over. But from this day forth, my feet forward, I know He is taking me from the former glory to a renewed strength. Through broken pieces of a contrite heart, the bruising of the ego and the frequent acquaintance with the carpet, all blood, tears and sweat. For He has given me voice to sing, notes to reach and heights to scale. My help, my strength comes from the maker of heaven and earth. He has set my feet upon a rock.
He has made me glad.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
spinning head and a broken yard stick...
it hasn't stopped and i want it to stop. this blood, tears and unreleased crutches bearing witness to my broken wings, scratching at the crust of my strength. these nooks and crannies and imaginary relations hiding under the quilt where I lay my longing to sleep not enough to keep the nights from waking with choking and gasping for oxygen and salvation.
the head hanging low at the gut of my soul, the weight of an unanswered quest, an unrested search for healing, for physical elements to restore this temple. do I have to limp my way till i sleep till eternity to resurface this promised perfection? or is there someone who can put the pieces of my crushed spirit together, hold my thoughts till the morning light and feed me with assurance when I wake?
God, why are you only found in words, light, sound and the abstract when You created us as physical emotional beings to flourish under the abundance of these same elements? And when a dire state of a severe lack undernourishes, the damage finds itself a brainchild of science and research clinical faculties that does nothing but make it worse. for simply, it is very simple.
an abuse locked in a secret coffin.
a subversion of love morphed into various forms of fear.
dark is the alley for the boy who walks alone, naked, broken, used, bruised and abused.
it's like the dough without yeast, a cake without bi-carbonate soda, a blanket without cotton or wool. a kid with an invisible imaginary father. you cannot replace the physical with just words and text on a light reflective screen. or anti-biotics that kill the immune system. for simply, it is very simple.
and so, i waddle on like a duck, clumsily, not knowing why I am stuck in this middle class pond of swans and koi. trying to look the part while everyone else's chronograph watch beeps and sings a happy yappy tune.
fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, lovers, sinners and prodigal beggars - my overused line for i have found no constant home to rest my head. where oh God do you want me to go? why, oh saviour do you toy with me in this sea of toil and trouble?
it is simply, very simple. give yeast to the dough to make bread. give wool to the blanket to keep us all warm. give the boy a father, a brother and a host of unquenchable courage, if he is to grow from boy to man, teaching him, patiently, side by side, starting with his hands and his feet, one step by one, sweat, stench, brutal, all things primal.
just don't try to tread too carefully. find forester with me, my brother.
the head hanging low at the gut of my soul, the weight of an unanswered quest, an unrested search for healing, for physical elements to restore this temple. do I have to limp my way till i sleep till eternity to resurface this promised perfection? or is there someone who can put the pieces of my crushed spirit together, hold my thoughts till the morning light and feed me with assurance when I wake?
God, why are you only found in words, light, sound and the abstract when You created us as physical emotional beings to flourish under the abundance of these same elements? And when a dire state of a severe lack undernourishes, the damage finds itself a brainchild of science and research clinical faculties that does nothing but make it worse. for simply, it is very simple.
an abuse locked in a secret coffin.
a subversion of love morphed into various forms of fear.
dark is the alley for the boy who walks alone, naked, broken, used, bruised and abused.
it's like the dough without yeast, a cake without bi-carbonate soda, a blanket without cotton or wool. a kid with an invisible imaginary father. you cannot replace the physical with just words and text on a light reflective screen. or anti-biotics that kill the immune system. for simply, it is very simple.
and so, i waddle on like a duck, clumsily, not knowing why I am stuck in this middle class pond of swans and koi. trying to look the part while everyone else's chronograph watch beeps and sings a happy yappy tune.
fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, lovers, sinners and prodigal beggars - my overused line for i have found no constant home to rest my head. where oh God do you want me to go? why, oh saviour do you toy with me in this sea of toil and trouble?
it is simply, very simple. give yeast to the dough to make bread. give wool to the blanket to keep us all warm. give the boy a father, a brother and a host of unquenchable courage, if he is to grow from boy to man, teaching him, patiently, side by side, starting with his hands and his feet, one step by one, sweat, stench, brutal, all things primal.
just don't try to tread too carefully. find forester with me, my brother.
Monday, July 9, 2007
Encounter No. 245
My arms still aching from the shivers. My body still brooding from all the rush. But my head clears a blue-er sky than it did an hour ago. How did it fly by so fast that I had not noticed the time passing?
The brew was still simmering in the pot while it broke out, all the pieces of glass shattered on the floor, in the kitchen where my tears once lay. I stood back, leaned against the warm oven door and watched as I let it all spill out, blood, angst and self defense mechanism, the works. He went inside his room and closed the door behind him. I ducked into my closet space, sat on the toilet bowl and cried in the safety of my own four walls holding all my frustration and anger in. Condemnation, echoes of my father's words, my own lack of control over loose words and emotions running the gamut of my weaknesses.
The door opened and he yanked me out of my closet, kicking and crying and still quivering from the aftermath. I was afraid to sit and I don't understand why after all these years, the chronicles of the old man's wrath still bears his shadow over my life. I know there is nothing I can do to change the past. And this is no fault of my brother, the one I call upon with trust and trembling. My preconceptions getting the better of me and my skeletons falling clumsily all over the couch. As I sat there, the confessions of my fear rang loud and clear. I curdled up under the thin blue blanket barely covering the wounds showing.
"Stop running into your closet every time it hurts if you are serious about growing strong!" he said with tears and the firm resolve I was familiar with. The grip left a bruise on my arm. The voices swimming in my head attempted to drown out the concern forming around me. I stared out into the green field outside and tried to avert my eyes. My thoughts lost in the words that interjected about the external reflecting the condition of my heart, our hearts, his heart and what all this mess meant. How could a simple comment about dishes in the sink land us in this kind of conviction? Yet it is this very simple thing that shapes who we are inside.
"If anyone wants to provide leadership in the church, good! But there are preconditions: A leader must be well-thought-of, committed to his wife, cool and collected, accessible, and hospitable. He must know what he's talking about, not overfond of wine, not pushy but gentle, not thin-skinned, not money hungry. He must handle his own affairs well, attentive to his own children and having their respect. For if someone is unable to handle his own affairs, how can he take care of God's church?" Paul's First Letter to Timothy (3:1-6)
How can I lead the ones I love if I do not know where I am going? How can I know where I am going if I do not clear out vision clouding me? How can I clear out the vision clouding me if all I am living with is this mess I cannot deal with? How can I protect the ones I love if this mess is but taking over me, drowning me? How can I stand and be strong if I do not handle my own affairs well, in the private sanctuary of my being?
So this day, I start with my sink. Scrubbing them clean, before I move on to take out the trash every night, one day at a time.
And here's to you for not walking away.
The brew was still simmering in the pot while it broke out, all the pieces of glass shattered on the floor, in the kitchen where my tears once lay. I stood back, leaned against the warm oven door and watched as I let it all spill out, blood, angst and self defense mechanism, the works. He went inside his room and closed the door behind him. I ducked into my closet space, sat on the toilet bowl and cried in the safety of my own four walls holding all my frustration and anger in. Condemnation, echoes of my father's words, my own lack of control over loose words and emotions running the gamut of my weaknesses.
The door opened and he yanked me out of my closet, kicking and crying and still quivering from the aftermath. I was afraid to sit and I don't understand why after all these years, the chronicles of the old man's wrath still bears his shadow over my life. I know there is nothing I can do to change the past. And this is no fault of my brother, the one I call upon with trust and trembling. My preconceptions getting the better of me and my skeletons falling clumsily all over the couch. As I sat there, the confessions of my fear rang loud and clear. I curdled up under the thin blue blanket barely covering the wounds showing.
"Stop running into your closet every time it hurts if you are serious about growing strong!" he said with tears and the firm resolve I was familiar with. The grip left a bruise on my arm. The voices swimming in my head attempted to drown out the concern forming around me. I stared out into the green field outside and tried to avert my eyes. My thoughts lost in the words that interjected about the external reflecting the condition of my heart, our hearts, his heart and what all this mess meant. How could a simple comment about dishes in the sink land us in this kind of conviction? Yet it is this very simple thing that shapes who we are inside.
"If anyone wants to provide leadership in the church, good! But there are preconditions: A leader must be well-thought-of, committed to his wife, cool and collected, accessible, and hospitable. He must know what he's talking about, not overfond of wine, not pushy but gentle, not thin-skinned, not money hungry. He must handle his own affairs well, attentive to his own children and having their respect. For if someone is unable to handle his own affairs, how can he take care of God's church?" Paul's First Letter to Timothy (3:1-6)
How can I lead the ones I love if I do not know where I am going? How can I know where I am going if I do not clear out vision clouding me? How can I clear out the vision clouding me if all I am living with is this mess I cannot deal with? How can I protect the ones I love if this mess is but taking over me, drowning me? How can I stand and be strong if I do not handle my own affairs well, in the private sanctuary of my being?
So this day, I start with my sink. Scrubbing them clean, before I move on to take out the trash every night, one day at a time.
And here's to you for not walking away.
Thursday, July 5, 2007
understanding pain
It's a concept plaguing my sense of humanity for ages. It's like trying to contain fire and reduce it to it's simplest form in a laboratory. Truth is, you just can't do it. you don't know what fire is made of. you can certainly find it's source, how it started, how to put it out within permeters of science. But you don't know what fire is made of. In the elementary periodic table of classification, is it gas? Is it a solid state, or molten? Wikipedia informs us that it is an exothermic. Huh? Yup. Exo-thermic. As opposed to endothermic. Some kind of thermodynamic study.
Pain, really, is a cousin of passion. How do you explain passion? It goes against all logic, rationale and principle. Against all of our wisdom of good and bad, right and wrong. It either drives you to achieve things people normally don't end up getting. Or paralyses you beyond reason and the resolve of the mind is not enough. Passion fueled by some form of love and hope.
So the reminder came up again. Pain hit the core with fear wrapped around the bullet. Why do i seem to tread this with so much trembling? Love and fear, love and fear, as Leunig says. When you love, you fear hurting the one you love. Or is it so two dimensional? I am for one, an easy pushover. Doesn't take a lot to get what you want from me and I may even end up serving it on a silver platter. Indulgence, as my special friend calls it. You just need to win my trust, my respect and my love and you can have everything. Seriously. The hardest part is winning, though. After that, you can bully me into anything and I will willingly mop it all up. I am probably the kind of father who would spoil his kids and the thought of it made me shudder. This, I guess, is the part where God train my fingers for war. A big part of me just wants to sweep it under the carpet. Because it carries with it so much at stake.
The weight of so many images and people walking away still plays in the memory of my movies. And being cornered to my sense makes it much worse than I can handle. I can try and tell myself not to let it consume me. But it is burning inside. It's like sitting inside a slow burning building and trying to put it out the fire with my bare hands. People are telling me, angry with me, ridiculing me, shouting out my name to leave and abandon ship but I know I made a promise to hold the fort. I will perish with the fire and if war breaks and the shrapnel fly and slit my wrists and throat, I will go down willingly. For I know fire will test the integrity of the heart and I am standing too near and underestimating what its doing to eat me up inside. I'm still unwilling to open my mouth and testify and bare this bleeding heart trying to hold the grenade pieces together.
And it pushes me to a very strange place. I refuse to tip the toe and as such become unable to connect with the common people to avoid having to lie, having to outright deny in defense of love and honor. All because I know i will at the drop of a hat. And on the other side of the coin, I keep a distance to guard the temple stone and the maiden protected within its walls and risk disappointing, time and again, the hopeful friends who are reaching out with a helping hand. And so my weekends, Saturdays and Sundays become my living hell, my cold turkey, my cell tucked away from light. My community is tugged from under my feet as I willingly lay my life down and take the high road. For what do you do when the blood between brothers is thicker than water? It pushes my instinct to hide and walk into a crowded lonely alley unknown to strangers, and on the surface, looking like I'm in a constant clinical state of depression. What do you do when you hold love more important than food and fun? To protect and serve.
You only understand pain when you pray for weekends to pass quickly and for Mondays to arrive. If this fire and brimstone is going to continue, let it burn away meaninglessness and leave only the integrity stones intact for His holy life to germinate and break out from within us. Give me wisdom to take ownership with the ones I name with honor and affection. Give us grace enough to sustain life void of meaninglessness. Give us this day your daily instructions, food the soul, clues to follow and love enough to grow old. Jesus come save us.
The past is a nasty reminder of what the scary future could look like. So teach me to be present and do what I know, say what I mean and let the pioneers collect the deluge.
Pain, really, is a cousin of passion. How do you explain passion? It goes against all logic, rationale and principle. Against all of our wisdom of good and bad, right and wrong. It either drives you to achieve things people normally don't end up getting. Or paralyses you beyond reason and the resolve of the mind is not enough. Passion fueled by some form of love and hope.
So the reminder came up again. Pain hit the core with fear wrapped around the bullet. Why do i seem to tread this with so much trembling? Love and fear, love and fear, as Leunig says. When you love, you fear hurting the one you love. Or is it so two dimensional? I am for one, an easy pushover. Doesn't take a lot to get what you want from me and I may even end up serving it on a silver platter. Indulgence, as my special friend calls it. You just need to win my trust, my respect and my love and you can have everything. Seriously. The hardest part is winning, though. After that, you can bully me into anything and I will willingly mop it all up. I am probably the kind of father who would spoil his kids and the thought of it made me shudder. This, I guess, is the part where God train my fingers for war. A big part of me just wants to sweep it under the carpet. Because it carries with it so much at stake.
The weight of so many images and people walking away still plays in the memory of my movies. And being cornered to my sense makes it much worse than I can handle. I can try and tell myself not to let it consume me. But it is burning inside. It's like sitting inside a slow burning building and trying to put it out the fire with my bare hands. People are telling me, angry with me, ridiculing me, shouting out my name to leave and abandon ship but I know I made a promise to hold the fort. I will perish with the fire and if war breaks and the shrapnel fly and slit my wrists and throat, I will go down willingly. For I know fire will test the integrity of the heart and I am standing too near and underestimating what its doing to eat me up inside. I'm still unwilling to open my mouth and testify and bare this bleeding heart trying to hold the grenade pieces together.
And it pushes me to a very strange place. I refuse to tip the toe and as such become unable to connect with the common people to avoid having to lie, having to outright deny in defense of love and honor. All because I know i will at the drop of a hat. And on the other side of the coin, I keep a distance to guard the temple stone and the maiden protected within its walls and risk disappointing, time and again, the hopeful friends who are reaching out with a helping hand. And so my weekends, Saturdays and Sundays become my living hell, my cold turkey, my cell tucked away from light. My community is tugged from under my feet as I willingly lay my life down and take the high road. For what do you do when the blood between brothers is thicker than water? It pushes my instinct to hide and walk into a crowded lonely alley unknown to strangers, and on the surface, looking like I'm in a constant clinical state of depression. What do you do when you hold love more important than food and fun? To protect and serve.
You only understand pain when you pray for weekends to pass quickly and for Mondays to arrive. If this fire and brimstone is going to continue, let it burn away meaninglessness and leave only the integrity stones intact for His holy life to germinate and break out from within us. Give me wisdom to take ownership with the ones I name with honor and affection. Give us grace enough to sustain life void of meaninglessness. Give us this day your daily instructions, food the soul, clues to follow and love enough to grow old. Jesus come save us.
The past is a nasty reminder of what the scary future could look like. So teach me to be present and do what I know, say what I mean and let the pioneers collect the deluge.
Monday, July 2, 2007
when the movie ends
the lights come on and the credits roll
the warm crowded seats empty, the music rise
with each string and orchestra painting
a picture lining the disappearing street lamps
the trucks roll in, the workers get to work
sweeping up every dreamers and lovers' debris
sandboxes and wrappers and leftover ice cream
private conversations left unheard, undone.
i stay on till the credits roll to the soundtrack
learning to pronounce every difficult russian name on screen
till my dad walks back in and hoddles me away
unwilling, kicking, screaming like a brat
leaving a trail of imaginary popcorn dusted to the ground
and only memories of the distant sound
beckons me to leave by the side door
out here in the comfort of my four walls
with the oven working overtime
only the sound of the whirring wind
and my reliable couch keeping me in
with another movie right on cue
my learning curve starting to soothe
disappearing into another world
the music rises and descends with every note
every blackout fade in and out in my head
recounted regrets and regress,
reminders, dejavu, all too close to the moon
there is no pause button
no pit stops or toilet breaks
just one big epic in between these aches
the scent still lingers in the air
as i sit and wait for the dough to rise
in front of this light the warmth is nice
baking and burning something inside
my muffins will keep me company
till they find another home to call family
when the movie ends
the lights come on and the credits roll
the warm crowded seats empty, the music rise
with each string and orchestra painting
a picture lining the disappearing street lamps
the trucks roll in, the workers get to work
sweeping up every dreamers and lovers' debris
sandboxes and wrappers and leftover ice cream
private conversations left unheard, undone.
i stay on till the credits roll to the soundtrack
learning to pronounce every difficult russian name on screen
till my dad walks back in and hoddles me away
unwilling, kicking, screaming like a brat
leaving a trail of imaginary popcorn dusted to the ground
and only memories of the distant sound
beckons me to leave by the side door
out here in the comfort of my four walls
with the oven working overtime
only the sound of the whirring wind
and my reliable couch keeping me in
with another movie right on cue
my learning curve starting to soothe
disappearing into another world
the music rises and descends with every note
every blackout fade in and out in my head
recounted regrets and regress,
reminders, dejavu, all too close to the moon
there is no pause button
no pit stops or toilet breaks
just one big epic in between these aches
the scent still lingers in the air
as i sit and wait for the dough to rise
in front of this light the warmth is nice
baking and burning something inside
my muffins will keep me company
till they find another home to call family
when the movie ends
the lights come on and the credits roll
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