a restful reflection

ThAnk You for this tiMe, this Rest, this quiEt. PerFectly beAutifuL CreATor let you comPrehensiVe gRace falL oVer me—CovEr me, dRench me. MAy my enTire eXistence be bAthed—let me eMerge drippinG with your GrAce. CorrEct what is wronGed—MeNd what is frAgmented. Fill eVery hollOw left by HAte, SiN, AnGEr and DepreSsioN—FilL it wiTh yoUr un-exchangable Mercy and RedemPtivE loVe.

ImPart me wiTh yOur ComPasSioN –PasSiOn, a fAster ReAction, tO ThosE wHo neEd to gRasp a GlimpS of HopE – LiVing HoPe …fRom a LiVing God. StEp aWay frOm YoUr tRadiTion of disReGarding tRadiTion. He is ReaL, yoU are Real—LiVing, bReaThing, loVinG sTronGer toDay than YesterDAy. FoRgiVing moRE thAn my forGiveN paSt. oH if I couLd but tOuCh a PoRtion of wHat is You. ThanK yoU for wHo yOU arE—WhaT You hAVe dOne—whAT you wilL dO.

FoLd me iNside of you. coVer, guaRd, proTect and coMfort. I liVe my liFe as a bliNd lOst sOuL, wHo knoWs not my right haNd from my leFT. So LoSt, so unAble, selF-deClaRed hlePless. bUt God! But God! I PRaise yOu beCuase you ARe inConcieVable! Unimaginable, unFathomalbe, unStoppable—My BAstion of hoPe, my poRtion of liFE –my dAily bRead, my eVery breath—My reAson—my pUrpose—my deFinition. JESUS CHRIST

This restless pioneer soul within me...a heritage

I too with my soul and body,

We, a curious trio, picking, wandering on our way,

Through these shores, amid the shadows, with the apparitations pressing,

Pioneers, Oh Pioneers

It is easy to know what you are against, an honor to know what you stand for

Upon returning home a few weeks ago, my better half declared that he had just “upgraded our lives”. Being the complex individual he is, this statement could have meant anything; and in this particular case it meant that we were now Netflix customers.

I have to interject here for a moment to let you know that we are not the people who spend our evenings being anesthetized by “Paul Blart: Mall Cop” or “Sex in the City: The movie”. I have to admit that I did feel a slight reservation towards the Netflix purchase due to a minimal fear that we would find ourselves watching the very films we declared we never would.

Such has not been the case fortunately, and recently, our film tour has included ones I have never heard of; films that place their settings in a Turkish Prison, Native American burial grounds and most recently, the Irish countryside circa 1920.

In recent conversation with a friend, we were discussing the need for a creative individual to live amongst inspiration. Being the avid activist for literature that I am, I rarely admit to finding such inspiration in a film, but I have to make an exception for this one.

“The Wind that Shakes the Barley” portrays the difficulties faced by the Irish in the beginnings of the twentieth century. No I wouldn’t start handing out the awards for best cinematography or costume design, the film presents a robustly simple visual. Then again, maybe I would, because neither the filming technique nor the costumes distracted from the story the characters so excellently delivered.

I periodically found myself in a genuine debate with my conscious over the question “what would I do?” given I were presented with a comparable situation. A Debate that continued afterwards with my better half about “what might we have to do?” in a comparable situation.

Not to ruin the story, because I strongly suggest you all spend an evening with it sometime soon, but there is a letter towards the end of the film that enthralled me, written by a character that survived perhaps one of the greatest personal evolutions since Edmond Dantes.

That letter and this phrase stayed with me: “It is easy to know what you are against, an honor to know what you stand for".

Feeling that the statement is true to the core, I wonder why so many of my sainted brothers and sisters turn that honor into shame.

Why I love Russian Authors (besides thier impressive beards)

It is by now no secret that I have a slight addiction that has, no doubt, robed me (if you will) of my free time and spare cash alike. Yet for all the so called deprivation it has caused, its endowments are well worth the loss. Yes I speak of none other than my obsession with classic literature that has long been a self-fueling habit. Most likely if a book is old, I can say with a certain amount of confidence that I’ll enjoy the read.

I tend to dabble frequently in the British, German and French authors that seemed to dominate the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. However a few years ago I journeyed north of the well known central European dynasty and found myself falling head over heals for Russian literature. Tolstoy led to Pasternak that led to Dostoevsky and with each new work I am bewildered by their genius.

Allow me to demonstrate…

Exhibit A:

In the realist, faith is not born from miracles, but miracles from faith. Once the realist comes to believe, then precisely because of his realism, he must also allow for miracles. The Apostle Thomas declared that he would not believe until he saw, and when he saw he said “My Lord and my God!” Was it the miracle that made him believe? Most likely not, but he believed first and foremost because he wished to believe, and maybe already fully believed in his secret heart even as he was saying: “I will not believe until I see.”

Exhibit B:

Above all do not lie to yourself. A man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to a point where he does not discern any truth, either in himself or anywhere around him, and thus falls into disrespect towards himself and others.

Exhibit C:

But there is also a grief that is strained; a moment comes when it breaks through with tears, and from that moment on it pours itself out in lamentations. Especially with women. But it is no easier to bear than the silent grief. Lamentations ease the heart only by straining and exacerbating it more and more. Such grief does not even want consolation; it is nourished by the sense of its unquenchableness. Lamentations are simply the need to constantly irritate the wound.

Exhibit D:

Do no be afraid of anything, never be afraid, and so not grieve. Just let repentance not slacken in you, and God will forgive everything. There is not and cannot be in the whole world such a sin that the Lord will not forgive one who truly repents of it. A man even cannot commit so great a sin as would exhaust God’s boundless love. How could there be a sin that exceeds God’s love? Only take care that you repent without ceasing, and chase away fear altogether. Believe that God loves you so as you cannot conceive of it; even with your sin and in your sin he loves you. And there is more joy in heaven over one repentant sinner than over ten righteous men—that was said long ago.

Exhibit E:

Never be frightened at your own faintheartedness in attaining love, and meanwhile do not even be very frightened by your own bad acts. I am sorry that I cannot say anything more comforting for active love is a harsh and fearful thing compared with love in dreams. Love in dreams thirsts for immediate action, quickly preformed, and with everyone watching. Indeed, it will go as far as the giving even of one’s life, provided it does not take long but is soon over, as on stage, and everyone is looking on and praising. Whereas active love is labor and perseverance, and for some people, perhaps, a whole science. But I predict that even in that very moment when you see with horror that despite all your efforts, you not only have not come nearer your goal but seem to have gotten farther from it, at that very moment—I predict this to you – you will suddenly reach your goal and will clearly behold over you the wonder-working power of the Lord, who all the while has been loving you, and all the while has been mysteriously guiding you.


Thank you Fyodor Dostoevsky; sincerely thank you.

My self-surprising love affair with leafy beverages

For the majority of my life, I have boldly been a professing coffee lover. Inevitably destined to inherit a passion for the bean from my ancestors, I embraced my genetic predisposition whole heartedly and presented no resistance to the creamy goodness in my morning mug.

Offering more than just comfort in a cup, this love contributed to the enrichment of countless life experiences and it wasn’t long before I found myself in pursuit of this delicious hot beverage through the streets of Munich and the hills of Hawaii.

But why was I so persistent in finding this drink in particular? No other means of nourishment ever reached this level of precedence on my personal scale of importance. To contribute this obsession to taste alone would be ridiculous (and slightly embarrassing). And you can forget trying to chalk it up to the insane amounts of caffeine the beverage contains. I can see most of you raising your brows in cynical skepticism but it’s true and as proof, I swore off caffeine in late 2005 and have since successfully avoided even a single relapse.

The true greatness of the grinds is this and I believe the great Gestalt thinkers would be please to hear me say that while I fully believe that the taste, texture and temperature are all wonderfully simple things that contribute to the greatness of this concoction, yet truly the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. (For you left brainers out there, think of it as exponential as opposed to multipliable).

With its presence, conversations became more decadent, mornings more manageable, and it’s safe to say that this bean juice eventually evolved into my adult safety blanket. Being that it became a startlingly strong connection to comfort, I ensured a steaming cup accompanied me to every strange, stressful or new situation I managed to fall into. Morning, afternoon and evening were all perfectly wonderful times time indulge in Java and the frequency of my addiction was no doubt fueled by my seasonal Germanic habitat.

Upon returning to the States I continued in my constant consumption and eventually a four year career emerged out of this love as I found myself the proud member of a population of baristas. It's true, I was one in the elite group who could actually explain the difference between a light or dark roast and whom forwent decent salaries to simply bring you the goodness of the grinds (or so they want you to think). Nevertheless, most facets of my life were in one way or another connected to these beans.

Then something changed. While enjoying a visit to two soul friends of mine in the South-west region of our northern neighbor, I was offered a cup of tea. Not opposed to other hot drinks I readily accepted; after all, I even owned a few boxes of the stuff myself. Little did I know that the Canadian-purchased black leaf tea was so… delicious? I literally drank through the whole can of that stuff (leaving one sole tea bag behind in an effort to console my greedy guilt).

Surprisingly it was STRONG. An outcome I solely attributed to my precious beans. But for some reason, I was completely taken by those leaves. Hot, strong, delicious… all central traits of coffee, but tea did one more for me; it completely addressed my thirst.

Dare I say who knew? No, and please don’t think me that ignorant. Because I am well aware that the other 5/8th of the world have been practically founding their civilizations and staking their survival on the stuff.

Needless to say, my leafy consumption did not cease after that first weekend of bliss. Soon I was captivated (and yes slightly addicted). But amidts all the fasination with my new found drink of choice I can forsee one prominant question...is there such a thing as bad tea? YES! Heavens yes…weak, fruity ingredients that equate to nothing more than purplish- red water that looks like someone dipped their paint-by-number paint brush in your cup (and tastes just like it would if someone dipped their paint-by-number paint brush in your cup).

Truth be told there is some pretty bad coffee out there as well and as a rule of thumb, I have developed the habit of never ordering drip coffee from any commercial joint (including Starbucks) because no matter where you to you get tan colored water that reminds your taste buds of the last time you licked your shoe strings. Unless you happen to be in Vienna in which case expect the texture to be something similar to syrup and the taste to deliver a thorough slap in the face. But both done right (and by right I mean quality leaves or beans brewed STRONG) and I’m a happy camper.

So who wins? For today, I believed the leaves take the lead, but ask me tomorrow, and the beans could once again be number one. Regardless if anyone else thinks it’s possible to be a coffee AND a tea person, I am declaring myself as such right here, right now. No, you will not find me at the local grocers attacking the woman who took the last box of “Herbal Raspberry Zinger”, but you will find my kitchen well stocked of deep, strong black tea sitting comfortably on the shelf right next to the carefully selected, aromatic beans.

Aware

Suddenly aware. AwarE of this subtle Vibration. Vibration that has consistently set the rhYthmic pattern of my lIfe—yet perhaps I’ve been numb, calloUsed to its presence because of its consIstence.

Just what you wanted.

No more. No more. I couldn’t be more ashamed of my PassivIty. Forgive my apaThy, tiMidity. You’re hEre. Here. I can feel your bReath. Lead me to the pLace where you are. For I long to dWell where you are. Lend my just a mOment of that place where you are.

Aware—make me awaRe of the nEed. Make me increasiNgly more aware of your adeQuacy to fill—no EXCEED that need. The need of my people, my city, my nEighbors.

GLorious, graCious God—make me reaDy. These feeble 2 hAnds and two feEt. I want to walk away from being idol—unresponsiVe. You redeemed my soul and I kePt you for myself. Held you close encapSulated in my hands resting aGainst my chest. But in eVery way that you are mine, you cannot remAin solely within mE.

BURST FORTH! Steady movIng to the fronT. Burst Forth out of the celL I placed you in. BURST FORTH and out and beyond, tuRning all the while to enVelope me in your poWerfully gentle perFection.

Wrap me—send me
Cradle my spirit and graPple my soul.

PENITRATE!!

SEEP through every cell eveRy ounce of matter, every thought, concept—synApse.

Infuse then substitute.

You are a daUnting noveLty. Against which my cognitive atTempts to comprehend will eternally fail.

Penetrate-- possess-- procure
PURGE

In an attempt to prove myself wrong...

As many of you know “the deader the better” is my personal motto regarding authors; that is authors of literature, theology and philosophy (and fundamentally everything else). I have (what I think) a well founded theory of why this is so, and have chosen for the moment to spare you all of that lengthy explanation.

Living tirelessly true to my motto, my literature absorption is consumed with the works of Dumas, Augustine, Doyle, Tolstoy and other fabulously deceased individuals, most of whom put pen to paper before the concept of mass publication was construed. This has led me down a path that has never disappointed. In fact the only disappointment that perpetuated as a result was the disappointment I experience with modern publications.

None the less, I believe that when it comes to personally constructed credos, we should always be in the habit of attempting to prove ourselves wrong. This is not a current concept I have recently decided to apply to my literary addiction. However, with every effort thus far, I have failed, failed miserably, to succeed.

Most of the time I know what work awaits me next. While I’m a mere 90 pages into the current book I’m enjoying my thoughts cannot be kept from selecting the succeeding story. However, occasionally I do close the cover of one narrative and am lost regarding the selection of the next. I found myself in such a predicament one night several weeks ago.

This isn’t an all-bad situation, because the only remedy I know is to wonder the used book store with its rows and rows of mismatched shelves; sagging from years of bearing the weight of mankind’s publications. This ritual continues until something captivates me.

Something did. A novel by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, entitled “Love in the time of Cholera”. Taking my (what I thought were) chances, I purchased the hardback and headed home.

As some of you may know, the aforementioned novel was published in the 1980’s and it did not disappoint the public. Gaining stunning popularity, “Love in the Time of Cholera” went on to snatch up several desirable literary awards for its author.

I was truly memorized; entranced by the language, in love with the rhetoric, and lost in the plot. I was unaware that an individual, who is my contemporary, could weave together such a beautiful composition. Feeling that I had finally proved myself wrong, I turned the page to the book’s half way point only to be gravely disappointed.

For the next 200 pages or so, I was presented with the same beautiful language I had enjoyed in the previous portion of the book; however, now this language concerned itself with essentially one focus: the physically provocative endeavors of the main character. The plot was weakened, the mystery diluted. What happened to the promising novel I had started reading?

I had naturally encountered the modern literary portrayal of sexuality in other works, but I was unable to formulate my personal opinion about it until now.

The average shelf-life of a book these days is a meager six months. Six months and as an author, you have to produce something shiny and new or else your name will not survive the Barns and Nobel business model. Combine that with a culture that is fiercely saturated by visual media that, let’s be honest, floods our sensory intake with explicit material, and you get fictions that, while slightly more eloquent, are fundamentally cheesy romance novels (hold the illustrated paper-back cover).

Written media of today, in brutal competition with visual media, has only one choice: to arouse and shock us more with words than the latter does with images. Some may classify this as the progressive nature of society, but don’t fool yourselves. This societal obsession has provided authors with nothing more than a cheap cop out. The struggles with character enhancement, or plot sophistication can be casually overcome with the blunt introduction of sexuality; therefore distracting the reader from the fact that the manuscript in hand lacks any element of written genius mankind was privileged to produce once upon a time.

My apologies to Mr. Marquez, the author is clearly fantastic and had he composed 100 years earlier, he would probably stand as one of my favored authors, but he didn’t and therefore he doesn’t. So, I remain true in my motto and in my decision to consume literary works that have more to them than steamy love scenes.