Thursday, August 20, 2009
Walking...
A friend of mine just gave me an analogy regarding the Christian life that he discovered in a book he's reading. He described how there are moments in life where we soar, others where we run and sometimes when all we can do is walk. I have been soaring and running for quite some time, but I have found that often in those times of soaring and running, I have little need of God. I am sufficient. My situations are sufficient. I am now entering though a time in my life where it is all I can do to simply walk. I am finding it is in these times, however, that I truly have need of God. I will honestly confess that I much prefer to soar, amidst the beautiful places and experiences of life; however, I wonder if we learn more there? Or, if God allows us in His grace to revel in those periods, but then in His love He slows us down, bringing us into places of dependence. I love God when I am soaring, yet I have no real need of Him. I need Him when I walk. I wonder if God causes us to walk, so that in His love He can shape us, chipping away at what was otherwise inaccessible while we we ran or soared above our need for Him? I wonder...
Sunday, August 16, 2009
The fog of uncertainty...
This fog hangs thick about my mind and heart at present. I feel discouraged, but not without hope. I cannot see even the very next step, but I continue to trust the hands that have guided me faithfully thus far. I am so tempted to wallow in self-pity and despair as I wander through this fog, but I know I should refrain from such wallowings, for they lead only to paralysis. A that is what he wants, but he shall not win. I cannot lay down and die as they say; instead, I have to fight and be active as I walk blindly through this fog of uncertainty; this too shall pass...
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Purpose
Life is determined by purpose. Our actions, motivations, are all driven by some type of purpose. I feel my purpose, for which I have lived the past so many years of my life is now over and done--just like that. My life up to this juncture as been fairly scripted and pre-determined; however, this after college, "real life" business is another issue. It is, on the one hand, beautiful and open, free and utterly available, but on the other, it is terrifying and unbounded. Some of my close friends would say both hands are exciting. I am caught in the balance between terror and excitement. What's next? Who knows. I don't. But, I am beginning to realize, I don't have to know. Because honestly, as soon as a plan would formulate in my mind and heart, He would be directing me somewhere else in the meantime. I might as well surrender to the unknown. It seems like my only option at present...
Monday, May 11, 2009
Surreality
Life is continuing progression of the surreal. I feel caught in a vortex of forward motion, with no reverse option. How did I arrive in this place? How I have finished a time, a season, a period of life to which I shall never return? Life will move on and I will form new community, disjointed and "adult," but never again will life be so community oriented, so integrated, so holistic. I know I am losing an irreplaceable part of myself, but it's a part that must end. If I were to attempt and keep it alive, it would rot. It's like when you eat a delicious meal, and the meal was so perfect you want to repeat it; however, the repetition would diminish the perfection of the original meal. Contentment. Life moves forward. I cannot go back...
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Postcards
Richard Gere stares at me as I get dressed in the morning. He stands, seductively immortalized on my closet door. Cowboy boots, worn jeans and a white, ribbed, sleeveless under shirt. He stands lazily in front of an old Buick. His manly armpits are exposed to the world as he grasps the back of his skull. He languidly holds a cigarette in his mouth, because it’s apparently cool to smoke. It was my birthday postcard. A friend gifted it to me. Alright, I asked her to buy it for me, but I bought her Willy Nelson in exchange.
Postcards were not originally called postcards; they were simply called “souvenir cards.” And it was not until 1901 that they received this title of “postcard.” I am informed that John P. Charlton of Philadelphia first patented the postcard in 1861, choosing to transfer the patent to H.L. Lipman, for whom each postcard possessed only a small border with the subscript, “Lipman’s Postal Card, Patent Applied For.” These were on the market until 1873 when Government issued postcards first appeared; these were known simply as “Postals.” The evolvement of postcards continued.
By 1870 Austria had introduced picture postcards. Interestingly, it was not until nine years after the Americans patented the postcard that European countries began producing them. Funny, I always thought we stole everything from the Europeans.
I collect postcards. From everywhere I go, and everywhere I don’t. The study and collection of postcards is known as deltiology. I’m not a deltiologist per se; I simply dabble in deltiology. It is understood that deltiology is the world’s third most popular hobby after stamp collecting and money collecting. I believe my first postcard came from Barns and Noble, where most amateur deltiologists begin their careers, or at least where I began mine. It was an American classic: a black and white of Audrey Hepburn. My most recent postcard arrived from Frankfurt, Germany.
I keep every postcard I have ever received, or purchased, arranged about my room, as a reminder—a reminder of where I’ve been and where I have yet to go—or just because they have cool pictures. My favorite “picture postcard” is a black and white of a New York City street in the fifties and there is a Lama sticking its head out of a cab window. His name is Larry.
The Louvre, Paris. It’s also a black and white. In my memory it was a wonderful family vacation, but in actuality in was a dreadful combination of too many adults and too many overly large American-style, body-bags, which made for a marvelously miserable trip. It was our last day in Paris. I bought the postcard from a vendor across the street from a small café, quintessential Parisian. I never wrote a thing on it, but it lives on my closet door also, reminding me of that epic failure of a family vacation.
My goodness, My Guinness. It’s a traditional Irish saying. I bought this one in Dublin. The saying on the postcard sits right next to a picture of a frothing pint of Ireland’s finest. I lived in Northern Ireland for three months, a study abroad trip. In all that time, I am ashamed to say, I only ever had one pint of Guinness, alright it was a half-pint, but Guinness is seriously strong stuff. I just couldn’t leave the island without at least tasting the famous brown ale. Truthfully, it was really awful. I’m not a huge fan of beer in general, but Guinness is another story altogether. It’s like a meal in a cup, or so the Irish say. It was rumored that during the potato famine, if a person didn’t have enough money for food, they would simply buy a Guinness to sustain themselves. My goodness, My Guinness indeed. I didn’t write anything on this one either, it just exists, along with its story.
Postcards to me are a lot like poetry. They are brief, sharp glimpses of something—images, words, phrases—memories. And as with poetry, postcards must communicate, in their small allotted spaces, the equivalent of a longer piece of writing or a greater work of art, in breadth and depth. Wordless, or scrawled with numerous illegible letters, postcards are able to stand, singular and alone in their potency. Both have much demanded of them—postcards and poetry. They must give much with little. Perhaps that is part of the unique draw for so many deltiologists—a thing small yet significant—or perhaps it’s the pictures, or it could just be Richard Gere.
Postcards were not originally called postcards; they were simply called “souvenir cards.” And it was not until 1901 that they received this title of “postcard.” I am informed that John P. Charlton of Philadelphia first patented the postcard in 1861, choosing to transfer the patent to H.L. Lipman, for whom each postcard possessed only a small border with the subscript, “Lipman’s Postal Card, Patent Applied For.” These were on the market until 1873 when Government issued postcards first appeared; these were known simply as “Postals.” The evolvement of postcards continued.
By 1870 Austria had introduced picture postcards. Interestingly, it was not until nine years after the Americans patented the postcard that European countries began producing them. Funny, I always thought we stole everything from the Europeans.
I collect postcards. From everywhere I go, and everywhere I don’t. The study and collection of postcards is known as deltiology. I’m not a deltiologist per se; I simply dabble in deltiology. It is understood that deltiology is the world’s third most popular hobby after stamp collecting and money collecting. I believe my first postcard came from Barns and Noble, where most amateur deltiologists begin their careers, or at least where I began mine. It was an American classic: a black and white of Audrey Hepburn. My most recent postcard arrived from Frankfurt, Germany.
I keep every postcard I have ever received, or purchased, arranged about my room, as a reminder—a reminder of where I’ve been and where I have yet to go—or just because they have cool pictures. My favorite “picture postcard” is a black and white of a New York City street in the fifties and there is a Lama sticking its head out of a cab window. His name is Larry.
The Louvre, Paris. It’s also a black and white. In my memory it was a wonderful family vacation, but in actuality in was a dreadful combination of too many adults and too many overly large American-style, body-bags, which made for a marvelously miserable trip. It was our last day in Paris. I bought the postcard from a vendor across the street from a small café, quintessential Parisian. I never wrote a thing on it, but it lives on my closet door also, reminding me of that epic failure of a family vacation.
My goodness, My Guinness. It’s a traditional Irish saying. I bought this one in Dublin. The saying on the postcard sits right next to a picture of a frothing pint of Ireland’s finest. I lived in Northern Ireland for three months, a study abroad trip. In all that time, I am ashamed to say, I only ever had one pint of Guinness, alright it was a half-pint, but Guinness is seriously strong stuff. I just couldn’t leave the island without at least tasting the famous brown ale. Truthfully, it was really awful. I’m not a huge fan of beer in general, but Guinness is another story altogether. It’s like a meal in a cup, or so the Irish say. It was rumored that during the potato famine, if a person didn’t have enough money for food, they would simply buy a Guinness to sustain themselves. My goodness, My Guinness indeed. I didn’t write anything on this one either, it just exists, along with its story.
Postcards to me are a lot like poetry. They are brief, sharp glimpses of something—images, words, phrases—memories. And as with poetry, postcards must communicate, in their small allotted spaces, the equivalent of a longer piece of writing or a greater work of art, in breadth and depth. Wordless, or scrawled with numerous illegible letters, postcards are able to stand, singular and alone in their potency. Both have much demanded of them—postcards and poetry. They must give much with little. Perhaps that is part of the unique draw for so many deltiologists—a thing small yet significant—or perhaps it’s the pictures, or it could just be Richard Gere.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Timing...
Timing is an odd thing. It is a facet of our lives that we have absolutely no control over. Well, perhaps that's debatable--irregardless. We cannot orchestrate our lives. Well, we can try, but we will fail miserably. We cannot ordain meetings and departures, feelings or love. We cannot anticipate the timing of a broken heart, or a full heart. Timing dictates everything. And we are not the masters of time. He is the master of Time. We can manipulate or interfere with the timing of our lives, but I think ultimately, we will be left unsatisfied...timing is everything.
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