Too Many Thoughts

Too many thoughts circle round my head,
Angry birds--screaming, cawing, shouting beyond
My ability to comprehend, understand and know
The meaning of their words.
The pendulum keeps swinging as Time
Marches on, leaving my caged brain lost
Without the quiet peace of silence.
It marks off each hour and change,
Calculating the passing seconds so I may fear
The ever-coming end of it all.
These birds circle and come near enough that I may catch
A single snatch of verbiage and articulate sound,
But I am a child with too many pieces of the puzzle
Without the picture on the box.

Gra Geal Mo Feoil?

During the days preceding my wedding, one of the more difficult choices my wife and I made had to do with our wedding rings. I, having a love of all things Celtic and an Irish background, wanted something that represented our love for each other in a way that would be known to us and would stand out against other possibilities. She agreed. Thus, I spent two weeks scouring the internet looking for possibilities for Celtic wedding rings. Needless to say, there were plenty of options. I sent some to her, and we found one that we fell in love with. It was white gold (we think yellow gold is too flashy for us) and wide. On the ring itself is inscribed: Grá Geal Mo Chroí. Literally, Love of my Heart. We both oooed and ahhed as soon-to-be-married couples do and ordered them. A little over a thousand dollars and four weeks later, our wedding rings had been delivered. It was an amazing feeling.

Since then, I have grown to love my wife more and more. She completes me in ways that I never knew possible. There is never a dull moment with her; and if you knew my wife, you would agree wholeheartedly. However, as we progress down this road of life together, I am encountering day after day something that is evil, dark, and lurks in the wings of this grand stage. Every day when I wake up, it is there. Through every moment, motion, and mishap, it is there. It is foul, loathsome, unintelligible, and whiny. It squeaks like a mouse caught in a trap behind the refrigerator. It smells like there is a dead one right beside it. I hate it, but at the same time, I cannot seem to part with it. This thing, this it, is me.

I know, I can hear the conversations in my head. "You're too hard on yourself.... You can't hate yourself... You're too depressing... etc." Honestly, no. I do not hate myself in totality. However, there is a side, a part of me that I hate with every fiber that I can muster in my being. Its my second half, my other nature, my animalistic, unregenerate filth that occupies the other half of my brain. That part of me, yes I do hate, and I think I hate it rightly. You see, I know all the right answers. No, this is not a brag on myself blog. But I do. I know how to weasel and wiggle my way free of almost anything. Ask my mentor. He hates when I do not want to talk or reveal information because I will sidestep and be vague to get out of it. However, if asked directly, every wall falls down. On top of that, I'm studying Counseling. I know the right answers. But, I don't think the right answers are enough. To get to the real issue here, how does one honestly confront the degenerate filth that calls itself "flesh" without utterly destroying oneself?

Food for thought, I guess.

And, to stave off some thoughts, there is a difference between surrendering self and confronting self. For yes, the ultimate answer is to surrender one's self to the Lordship of Christ, living under His Word, and walking in submission and holiness. Again, I know the right answers. But to confront one's self, to resist. How does one resist one's self without destroying it?

It's like on Earthsea. Yes, I watched it. For Ged to destroy the Ged-beth, the evil creation that attached itself it his soul, he claimed it and called it his own. I do not think that process works in reality. Here's why. To embrace and claim one's flesh would be the equivalent of digesting a nuclear bomb. Unless one wanted to die an extremely big and colorful death, this action would be unwise. However, to confront and resist one's self without destroying the other part would be like stepping between the earth and the sky. It would be like walking west only to find out that somehow you are now going east. Impossible without something else.

So, knowing the right answers helps. But it doesn't solve the problem. What solves the issue is action. Thus, I write all this out and complicate the process for this simple phrase: Just Do It.

Thanks, Nike.

The Spirit

To lose touch with one's spiritual nature is a dangerous thing. Yet, I fear that we, as a race, have done exactly that heretical and blasphemous thing. We have forgotten the slight yearnings of the soul that prompt us to pause under the stars, to feel the wind wrap our bodies, to hear the trees whisper to each other. We have forgotten the Song, the Music, and the Composer. We have forgotten our part in the endless harmonies that stretch out across eternity, forming the life we live in the flesh. We have forgotten the veil that hides this world and the next, the curtain that ties every spiritual moment into the tangible. We have forgotten so much. I have forgotten so much.

It has been raining in Fort Worth for what seems like a month. Every day has been gray, gloomy, cloudy, misty, foggy, and wet. The temperatures dropped below the customary 80's into the lower 60's, igniting within me a yearning for Christmas. Christmas is one of the very rare times where the physical world and the spiritual seems to converge, juxtapose themselves, and then depart without a single word of farewell. The reds, greens, silvers, blues, and whites of Christmas explode across homes. Lights twinkle and flash as if the stars themselves could not remain behind the cloudy veil that separates their world from ours. The smells of cinnamon, nutmeg, pumpkin pie, and apple cider all twist and coalesce in a beauty that cannot be explained or described. And within the heart of the observer arises a yearning, a desiring for something more, something real, something true.

The yearning of the heart is the characteristic element of the spiritual nature. The yearning for the reality, the Truth, the World-Beyond-the-Veil. However, man, in his physical nature, cannot enter that World. We are lost in our selves, our modern terminologies, technologies, and traded lives. We have lost the ability to sit in silent communion with the Composer of it all, listening to our soul sing in exultation and adoration to the One. We have lost sight of our joy, our source, our future.

Eventually, I want to live in a place where there are real seasons, all four of them. Growing up in southern Mississippi, I became accustomed to four seasons, although they were not the real ones. They were Summer, Real Summer, Still Summer, and I Wish It Were Winter. However, I learned in school that there were actually four different seasons: Spring, Summer, Fall, and Winter. To think, I could see the leaves on the trees actually be a different color than green and brown! It was an amazing thought. Then, when I was in college, some friends of mine and I drove to Chicago for fall break. On the way home, we drove through St. Louis. Never in my life had I been as speechless about color. Oranges, yellows, reds, greens, and every shade therein was vibrantly visible down the interstate. The trees were changing colors, collecting the chlorophyll and going to sleep for the winter. In my heart, I pit formed that drew me into a deep reflection on my own soul and nature. I encountered the joy of it, the silence of it. I will never forget it.

The yearning of the soul is not foreign to us, but it is unfamiliar. It happens so rarely these days, yet when we read the writings of men and women from a little over a century ago and beyond, we find a joy and familiarity with their souls that we have never known. Yet, our culture longs for it, fills it with every new thing. And in doing so, we mute the Voice of the One, reveling in our distractions. Oh, deplorable race that we are! Is there no hope?

There is hope for us. We can never forget that there is hope. There must be.