Random Ruminations

Sometimes, you know, I just like to write. Not for any real reason, not to journal or to share some thoughts, but simply because I like to look at different things, hear different words, or simply sit and let the inspiration direct my mind in some way. I sit and simply let words come out, letting these words direct me, rather than forcing the words down some preconceived path.

This is a random selection of some of what comes out in those brief times in which I just let my mind wander and write. From recent times and the past, this is insight into my mind, and my soul.

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Last Updated... 04/17/04

Prayers for Diverse Occasions Sun and Breeze

10/4/03

Patterns of the unseen mingle about in my mind, uncertainty enabling their carousing. The constant clamor even amidst the trees and sky, all the world is lost from itself. Protected from the essence of being which pervades all natural places, not arising from them but filling the alive to overflowing. We sense no longer what it means to be real, to be whole, we are rats caught in the lab, enjoying the predations committed upon our souls. That is what life is about, we say, as we drive hidden from one place of noise to another. Surely there are places of calm and quiet, where the sun and stars can be viewed unimpeded by other’s assertions. A moment of calm broken by someone’s arrogant vomiting of their own freedom. The loud and boisterous the only ones who find true freedom, forcing others to ingest their expulsions.

- Saturday morning as I was bothered by constant construction and noise during sought after quiet.

4-9-03

Since I am spending so much time sitting around I am thinking it would be good for me to sit down and write a bit, if for nothing else than to keep myself focused and able to somehow, someway discover wisdom. It has always been through writing I discover some sort of hidden jewel within even myself. So I sit, not writing, for that turns always to be more destructively introspective than anything else, but rather by typing, by letting my mind flow, washing away, hopefully, the dross and debris which have clogged any sort of movement of a mental sort. That my mind is filled with dross, with a collection of scraps good and bad, flabby and stagnant is of no question – it is not exercised hardly at all anymore, so of course things build up, things which then clog and create chaos.

I also seek validation, validation for thoughts which streak through and by uncaught, their presence sparking some sort of subtle resonance, but not staying in whole or part long enough to provide any sort of cohesive movement. It would be good of course to focus my thoughts on things which would help me to grow, things which would help me to do more than pass the time, indeed things which would help me to engage the time, to make it my own rather than let me be its victim. It is a cruel taskmaster, time is, but also can be reigned in, domesticated, broken by bridle into becoming a gift, a tool. Like a restrained river it will build, so that rather than becoming an enemy it becomes a friend, allowing me to revel in its movement, in its flow, in its rhythm, in its colors and sounds. I have let time use me, abuse me, condemn me and I am the worse for it. So, now the time itself is ripe for me to rein in time itself, to discipline myself into somehow, someway becoming one whose life flows with time, gently letting it wash through and around me, rather than battering me along the shore, rocks, and stones.

 

10-6-03

The image of a gathering of people sitting in uncomfortable chairs, staring, and sometimes even listening, as a pretty man in a nice suit speaks at them is not the first image which would come to mind if one was to begin afresh. It is not the style of the steps, it is the dancing itself. We have been lost in our folk songs, we have lost touch with the rhythms of a living nation, a living world. We have lost touch with ourselves, denying in word yet celebrating in reality the distance we have with the Divine. To be holy is not a goal anymore, one must make excuses, ‘keep it real’, to show that one, despite outward signs, is really able still to sin with the best of them.

10-15-03

The dance, the rhythm, the explosion of creativity, the wild exciting ride which life is supposed to encompass, which the Church is supposed to illustrate, has been subsumed under a doctrine of God which even mildly put is terribly boring. This enervating force, this grounding of a live wire, has bored to death, literally, countless numbers who sought theoria more than theory. It is the living, breathing active relationship of God which we are seeking in our depths, which we yearn for with our entire being, a taste of which we would do many things, serious and silly.

9-16-03

The tree stood alone in the midst of a plaster covered world. It only was a glimpse of real life, thriving because of its connection with deeper things, rather than continually fighting its connection with deeper things.

11-5-03

The blank page. The canvas on which is painted symbols and signs, symbols which speak to a part of this world in distinct ways, symbols in which contain the soul of the writer. It is the manipulation of these symbols, their placement, their design, their combinations which for better or worse relate to the discerner a better or worse world.

11-8-03

Coffee is the drink of the gods. That concoction which illumines the soul, and brings warmth. That ambrosia which enlivens the heart and spurs on motivation. It is a force for community and a force for internal purpose. I think I’ll have cup right now.

8-6-03

A moment of quiet, a small bit of peace, even the birds pursuing soundless tasks. The sky bright and clear, sun-filled yet cool. Peace abounds.

A moment just to sit, to listen to the silence, to let the so gentle rhythms of the early afternoon seep into this oft raucous soul. The sound of a distant mower, rasping and scraping, ends this, but only slightly.

What wisdom is there, what news pray tell? What is the soul within being told? Only the gentle silence, mildly broken, is heard. The yearnings so deep, addictive. Yearning for the yearning, just to feel the life. The stillness, occasionally torn, speaks peace even to this.

What say you my soul to the rest without? Content shall you be? Dare say thankful? 'Buts' and 'Ands' assert, their inharmonic cackling more disturbing than the mowing and now hammering. If peace within can ever be grasped, than all that is outside has lost its power.

To pray, to rest, to simply be and become, letting the gentleness of the present whisper to my soul. To be on the ship in the middle of the storm, Jesus asleep, yet still calm in my heart, having faith, that is the becoming I seek.

7-22-03

We walk in a world not our own, possessing yet holding loosely, letting go all that binds, all that hinders the goal. We are the redeemers of time - what is fateful becomes fruitful, what is a fear and foe becomes a tool, a force, a power to be walked on like water. Yet like water we sink into time, letting our faithlessness cover our heart. We sink, worried, fretful, possessive, greedy, grasping because time is drowning us in its overwhelming force. We must walk on time, above and outside, yet touching it, letting its waves be that which we place our feet upon. It is only through and by faith we become Time-Walkers - eternal beings who transcend yet are connected with this elusive dimension.

I am Peter stepped out of the boat, "Lord, Save me! Time is swallowing me!"

"Have Faith," is the given response, "Walk forward neither looking to the right or left but at me, in my eyes. That which is lost is gained. That which is behind is yet ahead. That which is despaired is still a hope. Walk. Stand. Move. If you do not have faith, you will not stand.

"Time flows, but I am the one both in and out of time. Do not look to those trapped for assistance but to the one who has a stable hand. I am the one who brings order to disorder, disorder to order, upsetting and twisting around all things so that all things are directed towards me."

"Lord, I am weary - I have not faith."

"It is what you do when weary that marks a person of faith. Have faith, even though you have none. Sing and dance. Marvel at the beauty even in the smallest thing. Delight in the senses, taking in all in a fivefold way the encompassing bounty found even in this present sin-stained world. If this is stained, imagine what is possible when it is all cleansed."

"Lord, I do not know where to walk or what to do."

"Then stand, and keep standing, like a soldier waiting for orders. Stand and wait. Do what is before you and wait for counsel and guidance."

"How long must I wait?"

"As long as you must."

1-15-03

The winter sun, so-called even in Southern California, rests slowly, dropping between the various wires, poles, lights humanity has strewn about. A cross, wooden and crudely made, stands beside me. I am seated at the foot of a, if not The, cross. To be honest I never really have grasped a hold of that theologically. I know what it means, but it doesn't reach into my heart. It doesn't grab me. Maybe it is because I am always looking past the cross.

I never hear anyone say, "Come to the tomb, bring yourself and sit before the empty tomb." But it all hinges on that, I think, more than the other. Christ died is all good and well - thanks but I didn't ask for it. But Christ rose again - that's a bit more, that's power, that's substance, that's symbol with punch and bite.

This makes me want to read the early Fathers again. They did make Sunday, not Friday, the day to meet. We, now, are not much of a weekend religion. We love our Fridays, celebrate it's Friday, want others to have Friday, but when evening comes we don't know what to do. That it is Saturday -between a time and a time - is reflected in our words, but not in our actions. But it is the empty tomb we sit in front of, the power and bite of a life extinguished renewed and reconstituted. A life not as known, but more.

Eat, drink, be merry, and be full, for tomorrow we live. What is Sunday? It is rest, it is peace.

7-15-03

Washed away, buried beneath myself, grasping still. Peace must be sought, taken a hold of. Thanksgiving is the virtue which I must seek, continue to seek, though not with the purpose of specificity. It is not that. It is an awareness, a glimpse into reality, taking oneself out of the story for just a moment in order to have a look around. It is not, "I'm thankful for this, I'm thankful for that." It is the continual 'whoa' of life, marveling at the strands which are woven and drawn together. It is the decision not to dwell in the present but in eternity. It is hope enlivened, made into an expression. Thanklessness is hopelessness, it is faithlessness. To be thankful is to see broadly and acknowledge the depth and beauty of what is seen and unseen.

7-01

Written on a bench in the countryside of Ireland

The wind whispers through the trees, a gentle breeze shaking and moving, rustling the branches and leaves, a quiet and mellow song sung. I pray that my heart might be gently rustled, moving and flowing, hearing and participating in the song.

May the Spirit gently blow into and through me, animating and encouraging, gathering in me the fullness of who He is so that might be full in who I am.

I yearn with my being for that fullness, for that hope and delight which is promised to those who serve the Bountiful God. And so I offer Thanksgiving, turning my heart from inward to outward, letting my thoughts focus on the beauty of a single white flower, whose intricacy speaks of an artist beyond measure. I turn to the sky, full of scattered clouds billowing and blowing, giving us a glimpse of the blue expanse framed in white.

I look into a glen, brush which comes to shoulder height, trees tightly compacted, full of life, overflowing with that vital energy - yet full of peace and quiet.

The sounds of a solitary bird adds its voice to the chorus of the wind.

My God, may I serve you and know you. For you are that source of life - the conductor of this symphony - though some sounds appear discordant, you draw them into yourself meshing the harsh sounds and transforming them into the beautiful.

You are the great Giving God, whose face is not turned away. You watch and care for all your people - for me, though you feel so distant. May my heart reflect on your bounty and delight in your peace. May I in my very being find renewed life and joy in turning towards you in thanksgiving.

May my grumbling become laughter. May my moaning become delight. May you fill me and bless me not for what I deserve but because of the bounty of your own life.

7-22-2003

The hustle and bustle, crashing and banging about all around, entering even my soul, the measure of my own fortitude weighed by how much I let it. The wind blows through, rustling the trees, the leaves dancing in unison, in a chorus. The sun shimmers as they dance, a fine cut jewel alive. My weary heart seeks to meditate on these things but the hustle and noise break the rhythm. My thoughts do not turn in the midst of the chaos.

2-18-03

The tapestry of life speaks little of the monotony of living. All is before us, al is approachable, the world is our oyster. But we choose, choose, to allow ourselves to be hypnotically amused by drivel and banality. The gift is unwrapped and tossed aside until we no longer even have the ability, even the ability, to allow our lives the color, shape, movement, music which it yearns for, cries out for. So we drown these cries is so many vices, and yes, even in virtues. Nothing drowns the music like a well meaning religious pursuer.

We drown, and let be drown that which seeks to rise out, up, from us. This heroic, masterful, enlightening force which we all to some degree contain and maintain. We do not allow for an outlet, so we enjoy the stories, the shows, which speak how we want to speak, do which we should be doing, but will not allow ourselves to do. The masterful even is allowed to be perverted, twisted so that it still contains a vestige of the heroic, but is itself as drowned as we are.

Heaven is the heroic unleashed, unrestrained, so that we become that which we know ourselves, at some level, to be. That which draws us to the romances, adventures, comics, tales is revealed in our being as not only being that which we enjoy, but being that which we are called to act out in our own being. That is heaven, that is what Christ calls us for. To be fully what we are.

7-25-03

May the gentle move of the Spirit wash in me and through me, scrubbing away the dross and grime. May those dirty corners, those decrepit recesses be scrubbed and wiped and made sparkling anew. I am stopped now - moving nowhere, biding time - time which bowls me over, time which controls me. I must stand watch over time, making it work for me, letting it move by rather than through. My mind is too cluttered, too spastic, too controlled. The noise of the day becomes an excuse to let the inner noise have its way. But the way of my calling is the way of peace. Be washed, be made clean, may your heart be ready, always ready.

7-3-02

-Thoughts on Ireland, a year later, written on Anacapa Island-

A year ago I left for the Emerald Isle. Now back on an isle - a guano island - I sit. The year culminating in a week, a day, a moment. Trust, confirmation, instinct.

Where the path may tread I do not know, but it seems I am on a path. The lesson now is not introspection, but trust - trusting my instincts led by prayer, learning to feel, learning to be fluid, reactive, adaptable - like water, like wind.

Ireland was a prayer - a living, moving prayer, the resonation of which lingers still, knowing it can be found, a theophany encompassing life. I am still not worthy to walk upon Skellig Michael but I may be closer - approaching maybe not the completion, but approaching the path, the system, the beginning. To stay in prayer and dialogue - I am not ready yet. I lack coherence, and vagueness builds nothing. I look from a distance upon the very edge of a cliff down upon the waves, seeing through now clear water forms, movement, life. To see fully I must break through the barrier and enter the water itself.

7-15-2001

Lord of my heart, grant me grace for this day. Fill me with you perfect peace, my mind with delightful rest. For you are, I say in faith, the one who gives bountifully. You are, I say from history, the one who is faithful. You are, I say from Scripture, the one who is loving. Cleanse my mind, restore my heart. Let me rise and hope and sing, joining in with the chorus of the saints in praise. May you fill my heart with joy today.

11-20-2001

The tendency, nothing new, in my writing is to detail the Void, the hole in which I find myself. To counteract this my tendency is to rave, speaking words I should, hoping by rote to do that which I can't by will. I am rather weary of both now -- tired, simply uninspired to rant or rave. I must, simply must, learn how to observe while staying balanced, as the waves strike.

The ability to notice is maybe on of the most amazing talents which can be possessed. An old Far Side comes to mind -- the city is burning, crowds are fleeing, a dog in the window of a car driving away looks excitedly, wagging its tail, at another dog on the street. We notice that which appeals to us, that which somehow highlights our own interests. But the ability to be transformed by the noticing is rare. To draw in one's nets wide that what is seen itself transforms one's perceptions. That is a gift.

To stop, to listen, to look one becomes aware of a vast symphony of life, a dance reflecting Truth, but it is indeed a Truth more than we know, or can even grasp a hold around. If it could be captured we would have answers to our difficulties.

6-28-2002

There is a parrot above me - green (though not obviously so in the midst of shadows) with it's distinctive big head and rather startling exclamations. A few minutes ago a crow, maybe in a fit of jealousy, threw a large nut at me. It was intentional, I know. The nut came flying down, landing next to my outstretched leg. I looked up, knowing I was not under a tree with nuts of this kind. There, staring at me, laughter in its eyes was a crow. We locked eyes. He jumped to a nearby branch, looked at me again, and cawed. Just once. Then he flew away. He missed hitting me, so I don't feel too offended. The parrot just got here, maybe attracted by the mischievousness.

To play a symphony, one needs a theme, one needs a melody. What is my melody? What is my underlying rhythm around which all things must match?

7-29-03

I am in the process of becoming. I cannot do until I become. I cannot enter the banquet until I am washed clean and new. Doing does not reflect the soul, it is the becoming, it is the ability to become so that when the time is upon us we are ready.

The measure of the soul is in its internal being, its state real and hidden. It is not the accomplishments, it is the development of the inner impetus to pursue God.

Continually grasping, reaching, extending may seize a hold of a life, but it is at the cost of being.

The highest of God is not some particular act or choice or pattern of life. The highest is being fully that which God seeks in each particular person - devoid of sin, fully engaged and free to live as God intended. There is no more holy than what God desires - we are His, consecrated to Him, and what we become is the highest when it reflects who we are supposed to be.

6-29-2003

Can we expect to play a symphony - to learn the notes and rhythm in a moment? Are there scales to play, fingerings to practice? Do our very muscles require memorization?

Shadows trap us all in their enshrouding darkness, whispers abound, confusing us erroringly. Blurred vision makes us grope about, falling, stumbling. Those who speak are those who are least able to become aware.

We dance about in an orgy of pseudo-spirituality - proud and confused, arrogant and humbling, experts of one another's specks. We assault each other with our mocking calls, unable, unwilling to unite in discernable harmony. Discordant we are, surprised no one is listening. No one would, save for the song sung by the Spirit.

We grapple and maim, experts of others but not of ourselves. We do not know ourselves any longer. We do not know who we are - yet we are determined to tell others who they are.

The trees move in a dance, the only sign of the wind. In unity, according to their shape and design they gently sway and move, the music created as their leaves rustle. The dance of the living, the chorus of the alive, the movement of the Spirit touched.