Monday, June 23, 2014


that late afternoon shadow.
 lean into it.
it’s grown long,
but mirrors your every movement.
it haunts your steps.
as an echo of a ghost you used to know.

grasping at phantoms in the air
you’re unstable
just barely there.
but dancing,
dancing upon ashes of memories
that are fossilized in their impermanence
leading to a harvest of sweet remembrances
to collections of recollections of what was not
creating a most piercing fiction
of all those things not forgot.

maybe if you just keep climbing?
keep moving?
keep away from stillness?
race away from yourself?
from the maddening quiet
where your thoughts sing their laments
and usher you to a cognitive blindness
that you can’t leave alone...

when did you fall asleep?
time moves too fast
and also too slow
and you wonder how that can possibly be?
you are trapped inside it
you think you think beyond it
but it is your routine
your predictable rhythm:
time time time
in a runic sort of rhyme.
time time time
time time time time

when did the sound of your own voice
become a sound so unfamiliar?
a white noise?
a falling tree in a forest
with no one to hear?
an all the time foggy
and unclear?
when did you stop singing?
when did you lose the tune?

there are no “justs” with you
everything has weight
everything is heavier than it should be
you think too much
about thinking too much
and then think too much
about thinking,
and your suitcase heart
is fraying at the edges
too full
of too many good things
and the paralysis of indecision.

you are unsure.
you were never sure.
your steps wander unwilling
and then turn around
but are never motionless:
tip-toeing out to an invisible horizon.

there is a stillness,
married to an upwelling,
a subtle swelling
of something you can’t name.
like a whisper.
like a day dream.
like a shadow.

lean into it.

Saturday, June 7, 2014


because children have abounding vitality, because they are in spirit fierce and free, therefore they want things repeated and unchanged. they always say, 'do it again'; and the grown-up person does it again until he is nearly dead. for grown-up people are not strong enough to exult in monotony. but perhaps God is strong enough to exult in monotony. it is possible that God says every morning, 'do it again' to the sun; and every evening, 'do it again' to the moon. it may not be automatic necessity that makes all daisies alike; it may be that God makes every daisy separately, but has never got tired of making them. it may be that He has the eternal appetite of infancy; for we have sinned and grown old, and our Father is younger than we." 
-g.k. chesterton

a friend of mine posted this quote, and­ it sent me to pensivity, which in turn sent me to writing - the best and only cure for pensivity in the strain i am susceptible to.

anyways, this quote brought me to a conviction of how i have grown callus to the wonder of God’s fingerprints.  His fingerprints on the way my life’s journey has evolved and continues to evolve, His fingerprints accenting my daily routine, and, most of all, His fingerprints on the natural world around me.

there is a glorious monotony around us that we very rarely, if ever, take pause to celebrate, let alone take notice of at all.  take the first example in the quote : the rising of the sun and the moon.  they rise and replace one another in a delicate passing of the guard without our notice. every. day. every day!  when was the last time i took pause at this wonder, at the beautiful exchange of darkness and light, the curtain of shadow that covers the sky, announcing the arrival of the stars?  

take the second example – daisies, and how God makes them all alike.  when we see a field to daisies, even just a few in a clump, we most often give them little beyond a sweeping glance.  if instead, we take a brief pause to truly consider a daisy in comparison to his neighbors…it is a marvel that such delicate things could be made in identical replication to one another - fragile pedals tenuously attached to their pollen center, all affixed on a top of a surprisingly resilient green stem.  and, taking it further, they broke their way out of a seed shell, pushed up through soil, green at first and then blooming into a vibrant blossom – and this all occurs on a regular basis (and not just with daisies, an overwhelming number of plant species do a similar song and dance routine) and we never notice.  before, i would have thought it rather drab that all daisies are the same, but, in exercising a different perspective, it now seems a wonder that God continues to make such lovely things, over and over again, and does not grow tired of the work.

as the quote describes, only children seem to revel in such wonders.  when do we lose the “eternal appetite of infancy”? why do we lose it? who tells us or instructs us to do so? why don’t we try to return back to it?  why do we stifle and apologize for our sense of awe and breathlessness at the endearing monotony that God’s creation provides us?  what if we decided to notice and exult in it?

of late, i have discovered my inner nature-nerd is emerging with reckless abandon. i am not sorry for it. i have found a growing fascination with the wide variety of leaf structures, a desire to stop and listen to bird songs, a longing to examine tree branches dancing in the wind, and enjoyment in smelling damp earth after rain.  i didn’t used to notice these things, i used to suffocate all such ‘childish’ glee in simple things because it didn’t seem so sophisticated to admit my discovered thrill even to myself.  but, i now choose to have no shame - the quote above has reminded me to give glory to God’s fingerprints and celebrate monotony.

hopefully this inspires you to dauntlessly celebrate monotony too.

Wednesday, June 4, 2014


i never let the balloon go
i held the string firmly in hand
and took it back inside
to wait for tomorrow
to wait for a later when i'd be ready
and i let it deflate a prisoner.

you proved time to be a quality
not a quantity to be counted
something of relative weight
because a short time
has become a lifetime of influence
an eternally evolving gift.

you were a parting of paths
a fork in the road
that put me on a road less traveled.
you changed my course
and i travel for you
so - we travel together.

you were my first befriending with sorrow
making it into something serene
and surprisingly beautiful
a part of my soul-speak
a forgotten, avoided thing
that's become a native language now.

you are a memory i don't shake
you are a ghost i invite to haunting
you are lost thing i think upon
from time to time
but mostly when
i see a balloon that was let go.