Look Out! Look In!

Dream Farm Part 1

2011-07-13T10:29:00.001-07:00

Dream Farm Part 1

J.R. Burns

Imagine, if you can another world, one in which the entire world has been ravaged to fuel monstrous machines. The machines have polluted air and sea and sky and even the heart of man. Still more bleak yet in this quest for a better world, conformity has reigned for 500 years.

Within a life time we will have no more power. Society and the earth itself will let out its last great groan and cease altogether. We who have been its faithful guardians for these past generations cannot conceive of how this came to be.

Then came the day when one stood, in our midst, he was an aesthetic, one of great contempt, he was one who lived outside the law, and yet we could not touch him. Worlds he had, worlds within him that we could not hope to understand or think to enter into. And yet we did hear his voice, his rebel tongue which he oft used to fuel-fire the cursed individuality dream which the masses clamored upon as senseless drowning rats, the daft fools following a larger fool.

He spoke out “This world need not altogether die.” A loud shouting and murmurs arose and all but smothered his voice “Blaspheme!” the common thread between them. His voice rose still higher, and yet more resolute in patience.”This world can go on, I know well a source of power which you cannot rival with all your splitting and burning, combining and consuming.” The assembly hushed when the revered world was spoken, power, even from the tainted likes of he, the word in itself pulled tight the strings among the faithful.

“What is the name of the new source, and what is the riddle of its combination.” I demanded to know, being of one mind with the sensible present.

“Imagination.” was his simple reply. In my ears I heard a great tumult, a tempest of contempt hurled upon him. And yet silence was all that was outside. This loss of sense was jarring; in all the worry I must have forgotten my tranquility pills. All leaders took them, they were our source of clarity to numb the mind and make us alike, of one mind.

The others looked to me, as I had asked, so should I continue to interrogate, as is but proper ordinance. I gathered my wits and set them aside and questioned as made sense. “And how exactly can this outlaw venture, this great divider of peoples, turn into a source of…” I paused as not to say the revered world in sentence with that which is unclean “of a solution to our situation.” There would be no way he could respond, and I knew the meeting would go forward without further incident.

No more had I thought this then he replied as if expecting what I had said. “I have found a machine which can convert novel ideas into energy which can run these things on which you depend.” Again the room took in breathe as such taboo words, novel ideas…and energy bound together to defile the sacredness of machine. “This cannot be,” I said without thinking as makes only good sense “You will prove this theory or be gone at once.” The crowd grunted agreement. We were of one mind again and would crush him once his postulation proved false.

Then from his bag a glowing orb appeared. “Light!” was the awed word which echoed through the gathering. “This is a receptor.” The heretic said “As I dream of new things, as my mind visits other worlds this picks up my thoughts and coverts them into light. However, one must un-shield their mind in order let it function to full affect.”

Travelers Thorweneo

2011-06-15T18:41:00.000-07:00

The Thorweneo traveled together as long as any could recall.

As companions where they a sight to see as most could view but one.

Times past when passers few might glimpse not one but two.

Far more seldom, and lucky be, a soul to see all three.

It happened just that, one fortunate chap, perchance the three reveal.

Of The Ephemeral he saw blazing gold of radiance non-reflected.

Of The Kinestetic, the most oft’ seen, a bold and ripplin’ motion.

And of The Intermediary, who is of often spoken, did he see many form flash upon its shape not in full but mere as a token.

The three did seem to blend as they traveled on together.

The one begin, the other end neither fool nor wise could quite render.

In image as stories alike they do attempt to capture.

Many did in ignorance attempt the three to master, and thus end in folly and disaster.

Others did a slave become, not to all but only one, and likewise themselves rend and in so met their down fall end.

Ultimately holi the body be who travels in their company, and cherish sight and be in aw of that which is in their stead oft’ hid.

The secret now in mind reveal, The Ephemeral, Kinestetic and Intermediary do in dwell not outside on journey take but venture within still.

Winter of the Mind

2011-05-28T13:58:00.000-07:00

Winter of the Mind

By J. R. Burns

It was a cold crisp morning that I would never see. The kind of morning where breath hangs in the air and all noise is muted by the snow and ice smoothing the world. I would have liked that morning, as the sun would cause the ice to sparkle, and causes mists of snow as the trees unburden themselves before another cold night.

I had lived in the mountains for years, the twilight years as we had come to call them, before my wife passed away. But I guess there is no justice in a story began at the end, so let’s begin at the beginning.

I was born in the evening of a balmy spring day. My mother had become used to children arriving in their own time, as I was the third of four to bless my family with noise. Three hours and I arrived, no worse for the wear.

The first few years flew by, I was growing and changing so much, and my mother had my temperament pegged even then. She wrote a note to be in those early years that I would only get to read once she left this world, but that will come in due time.

My mother stayed home with us kids, on our five acres of land, when I was in my third week of kindergarten I broke my arm trying to dive into the above ground pool, and instead of in I ended up out. I still remember the dull pain to this day, though I no longer feel anything.

Those five acres I grew to know as my own paradise, my refuge from school, and eventually girls, and life expectations of others in general. I learned so very much in that laboratory. We’d build race tracks for the good ole Radio Flyer Wagon; we even made a mud hot tube after school one afternoon when the heavy rains had caused the spring to flow. Freedom and fantasy were the air and food of my childhood. But we all grow up, at least in the physical sense.

In middle school and high school girls entered the picture, more as a backdrop and an unattainable companion whom I longed for, yet could see no logical reason why. I dated a couple times, had my heart broken more than a few times, and learned the dance.

College began one brisk fall with a church service and seeing my Father cry for the second time in my life. The first couple weeks were rough as I broke up with my long distance girlfriend of over a year. Then I was truly on my own. I loved and lost and lost again. My mother passed away my sophomore year and I was never the same again. A summer later my Father was remarried and my would be wife entered my life. The Christmas my Father shared a note written to me when I was weeks old, telling of the man I would become, of the way I would draw the world in through my eyes and let it seep into my heart. A year and a half later I was engaged to be married and my Father was in the process of getting divorced. My older brother was married and sister was engaged and the world was spinning faster.

I graduated from college, barely, and begun my journey of life with no direction and crushing depression. Then, as often things do, they got worse. My soon to be wife temporarily called off our engagement, I had a summer job that all but robbed me of any sense of self-worth, and life seemed as dim as could ever be.

I survived that run in with death, but just barely, and the scars would follow the rest of my life. Two years later I was married and beginning a new position. A new hope arose and fell again within months, depression dogging my every step, and unhealthy workplace and I was almost down for the count. Then a strange thing happened, I lost almost everything and was freed. I quit my job, and began loving life again.

Years past and we moved from this place to that. Jobs came and went, children came and left. And then it was just the two of us, wading into the warm waves of our sunset years, approaching the twilight. She was first to go, she always had to be first, both in life and death. The habits I abhorred in life were endeared in her deafeningly quiet absence. I returned to the small town of my birth to live out my days, to be in the land that had formed my soul even as my body grew weak. And so on the cold night, somewhere around 3am, with the bitter wind causing the house to shake, and the soft dance of the fire with its crackling… I let go and was…. Something else… and I never saw the morning.

Dear Mom - You'll Never Know

2011-04-09T05:01:00.000-07:00

Dear Mom,

It has been years since I saw you, years I refuse to count. So much has changed. I can still remember the last time I saw you, I cried as I went to my plane, I felt death even then, from the moments we hugged goodbye. I thought Julie was going to die, but it was you. I still cannot shake that moment.

I have been thinking of all the things you’ll never know. You never knew that I went to college just to make you proud; you’ll never know the struggle after you died to finish. You never saw James married, or Julie, or Jeffrey. You never met the women I married who you’d prayed for all those years. You didn’t see the rose we had for you at my wedding, or the music to the dance that should have been ours. You’ll never see the faces of your grandchildren, or meet the woman who is married to Dad. Since you left there have been so many struggles, so many losses, and so many stolen moments.

I am in massage school now, I remember you asking me to rub your neck, all those pains which were missed signs you were sick. I want to be a healer, because of you another thing you’ll never see. Sometimes I imagine your view point, seeing everything, but that is no comfort for I will never look you in the eye again, face those fierce blue eyes which burn with love, harsh, judging, soft knowing, comforting eyes.

We spread your ashes under two trees we planted for you at home, though the word home doesn’t fit without you in it. I planted a tree at college for you, I saw it last week and it is still growing, now taller than you ever were in life. Yet your shadow still remains, you will never know the impact you’ve had both in life and death. I was so very mad at you in life, how you pushed toward a non-directed perfection, pushed to love the other no matter the scars it would cost, my anger died with you.

You’ll never know how you shaped this world by your presence as well as your absence. The people in my life who remember you are dwindling, as are the ties I can touch and see that remind me of you. Your pictures are so very small in comparison to the women you were.

All this, all that happens in my life from that point where you staggered and fell for the last time… all the joys and pains we yearn to share, all the hopes and dreams that were born and died since you went away, everything that is stuck inside of me, all I want to ask and share… all of it, you will simply never know, never hear.

With Love in Sorrow,

Squeaker

Full Circuit

2011-03-26T05:47:00.001-07:00

It had been many years since Louise had walked on her own; so her previous care taker had told me. I watched Louise each morning struggle and groan to her feet, half shuffling, halting stutter steps with her walker to the bathroom, and back to her bed again. It was hard to inspire her to do much else, many had tried and all had failed. Louise was a good fifty, slender graceful beauty of her youth intact; the doctors could not find a reason for her motor skills’ deterioration. The wiring seemed all there, they’d said, but something is missing to complete the circuit.

I’d only been her care taker for 6 months when I first heard her story, or rather stumbled upon it, or maybe it stumbled upon me. I was fetching Louise a blanket from the hall closet when an album came off of the shelf and landed on my foot. As the throbbing pain subsided, I delved into her past. Pictures leapt out from the pages, over and over all the same, her and a dark haired man dancing. Occasionally one would bear the title of this regional semi-final or that, this championship or that. The costuming changed; as did the style of dance as the dancers gracefully aged, but the couple’s posture was the same always linked, then the pictures abruptly ended. One last photo had been removed; I could see the aged yellow frame with a crisp white space where the photo had been.

I phoned Louise’s last care taker and found that she had indeed been a famous ballroom dancer who had disappeared from competition after a love affair. Thinking there was no more to the story I let it go.

Three weeks later flowers arrived. I brought them in, and just before I put them in a vase she came to the kitchen, out of breath, and flushed. I quickly asked what the matter was, and prepared to dial 911. The words tumbled from her mouth… She had smelled the flowers, and wanted to know who had sent them. The card was blank. Her face fell again as did the energy she’d just had. I assured her I would look into it as they were from a florist just down the street.

The next day I stopped in and asked about a bouquet sent to 1027 Valley View Drive the day before. The man behind the counter lit up, yes he knew the order, he had arranged it himself, the older gentleman who ordered it had insisted on every detail. He’d figured the arrangement was for some sort of surprise celebration, perhaps an anniversary. I told him that the card had been blank, and he was puzzled, the gentleman spent half an hour writing, it cannot have been blank.

I returned and shared the news, again there was a brief burst of life, and then her face fell again when I said there was no name, and the man had paid cash.

Another week passed and we had a caller, this was a rare treat as she had no family, and too little time for friendships during those years. A tall man with silver graying hair asked for entrance, on a visit over due. Recognizing him from the pictures I let him in smelling his strong cologne. He had barely crossed the threshold when Louise met us in the hall, his cologne her call.

He handed me his hat and coat, and a CD and bid me put the music on. Both looked at one another aged, stumbling, as they walked. He held his hand out for hers, and she accepted it. And they danced, oh how they danced. And for that brief moment Time stood still to watch. And as the music ceased so did their moment frozen in time, and back to their seats they went. The circuit found its completion after all, and so does this story end.

Home Brewed Tea of Bitter Bitter Memory

2011-03-12T05:54:00.000-08:00

Home Brewed Tea of Bitter Bitter Memory

Some days, when the cold rainy fog of life descends I retreat into my memory. I walk even measured steps through the kitchen of my recollection. The one cobwebbed windowsill is alive with herbs of all varieties, each leaf coated with a layer of dust. At first I quickly and haphazardly pick them, but as the dust takes flight into the air, my progress slows. And as more new leaves appear so does my clarity fade.

My thirst deepens as my lungs coat with dust. I pick the last few, and begin my preparations. First I rinse the innumerable specs of dust away which cling to the ridges of each moment. They seem clean enough, though the air is blurred by the invisible unwanted, which become all too visible in the stream of light though the window. I crush each leaf, patiently attempting to extract meaning from these moments; some seem to burst forth with strong fragrances, triggering familiar feelings from within. Others I grind longer and longer and feel nothing; nothing but the emptiness of past tastes and smells my saturated senses refuse to welcome in. After all the moments are processed, I sweep them into my filtered strainer.

I fill the kettle with pure tear water and place it on the stove. My skin reluctantly embraces the onslaught; waves of heat wash over, they release the swift cascading sweat of regret, the light steam billows and swirls and mixes with the airborne dust causing it to fall muting the colors as does volcanic ash poison made ever more potent. I pace the small space as the kettle starts to boil just as my Father did before me; my bare feet leaving tracks in the thin film of dust-mud now covering all I see and touch. Then the familiar scream, the pressure is too much, the heat has done its brutal task,

let the steeping begin.

I thrust the muddled mixture of moments into the scalding sorrow water and wait for the visions to come forth. And appear they do, twisted, ephemeral, with a familiar torturous bent. They haunt, entertain bemuse and befuddle. Speak, they, in wafting hissing whispers of love lost that was never had, moments lost amidst the recollections’ rushing waves that pound, engulf, release and swallow whole again. I am steeped in the permeation of painful indecision, foolish follies all; originators of scars that are my mark to this day. As happens every time, I have chosen my moments incorrectly, and let them steep far too long. I am left with this pot of potent poison of my creation. This is the concoction which I crave to imbibe. I surrender to it so it might digest me and make good on its promise to paralyze, to sharply dull the hurt of now from which I am retreating. This is how I make the bitter bitter tea of muddled moments in memory.

The Peoples of the Key and Lock

2011-02-26T17:36:00.000-08:00

The Peoples of the Key and Lock

There once were two towns, both of strong, proud folk with meager estate, perched in old stone houses above a valley with river meandering between. The towns had both good and bad years, as towns do.

Then the Invisibles arrived.

So it happened on one night, the kind of night when pies are left out to cool in the autumn breeze, both towns’ folk took after dinner strolls along river and upon returning discovered; !robbery!, !thievery!, !unspeakable betrayal!... all the pies were gone.

Next mourn when women folk went down to the river to draw water and begin their daily toils, stories flew criss-cross over the water. All talk was on the thievin’ in their midst and, as happens when women folk get to talkin' bout this and that, soon the men folk get the idea that a meeting should be held.

So each town held meeting and speak of the violation they had all suffered.

One town in their wisdom decided to build fences and lock their houses when leaving for the evening's strolls, as only makes right sense. The other town decided that pie was only good for one thing, namely eating, and if there was hunger in their midst then they would fight it how they knew best, namely baking. They decided to place vittles out nightly, with a key under the pan or plate as a sign of welcome; in hopes that the hunger would be fed and the Shamed would fess up bringing all to light.

So each town enacted their plan with haste and fervor. And as brisk dusk fell, one town was alight; windows defiantly thrust open, the other cold and dark as if braced for impending battle.

Next mourn when women went to draw water, and begin their daily task; words hurled across the river. “What fouls you are”, said the people of locks and fences, “to feed the Lazy offa the sweat of your toils.” “What folly”, returned the people of keys and open windows, “hunger when met with ill-will only breeds cruelest desperation!”

Both in their wisdom were correct. The town of locks and fences had three houses robbed. The town of keys and open windows found vittles gone, plates and all. So, as women folk talk, get an idea into their heads, so men-folk get the notion it’s about time for a meeting to be held. The town of locks and fences decided they were still too soft. They needed police with clubs to patrol the streets, impose a curfew on all. The town of keys and open windows decided that as fall was coming hunger must be much greater than imagined so they ought to hang coats, hats and gloves on shrubs and lower branches. For as you are hungry, also do you get awful cold.

So each town by their wisdom so set to work. Attics and basements, alleyways and dark corners were the places of preparation.

Next mourn came the women folk went to draw their first water for the day, and began their chats each side further spoke their part. The town of locks, fences and clubs jeered still more fervently. “You townsfolk will be robbed blind and left helpless to give away your life blood and get nuthin’ in return!” The town of keys and open windows, and coats made their snide reply; “To be cold and hungry without a friend in the world is the recipe of murder both to human and of common decency.” So as women get to talkin’ and men get to noddin’, they reckoned another meeting was about in order.

So the town of locks, fences and clubs were further outraged. Police and curfew added none to their security, four houses robbed and not a witness found. In turn the town of keys, open windows and coats found all they had given gone with no trace none of thank you given. So each town devised the last desperate and final step, for none could think of any other.

Next mourn; when women yawn and warm their hands by newly stoked fires and head to the waters to draw their daily ration, civil tongues did they employ. The towns people of locks and keys, of open windows and strong fences of clubs and coats did all washed out their buckets, their ears, and eyes, set to what made sense.

So they did pull down stone by stone and so dissolve the towns of stone perched on their lofty heights, and built from them a third town bridging the river, connecting folk on both sides. They set to work this final solution for the Invisibles' hunger, cold and want of house and work, acceptance and community. As if in response Invisible did at once appear that night. Lights set the valley aglow between those old cold stone towns. There was born the town between, a town of generosity and caution, of wild hope and shrewd planning. In their midst did they greet anew old neighbor and new alike. With new eyes they saw hunger and sickness, grief and pain in all their forms, along with their inadequate but ample remedies. The third town all slept soundly and dreampt of robust spring.

Last Great Gesture

2011-02-05T06:05:00.000-08:00

The door slammed so hard it didn’t close. The light streamed out, a sliver of warmth across the cold snowy street. The hollow prints, still fresh, the only marks of humanity upon the tranquil scene, and they too were filled one drifting snow flake at a time. Soon all trace would be erased, and by next morning when they found her there would be no hope of recreating those last moments.

More fuss would circle around her, than had ever happened in a day of her life, all save the first. Her birth was one of silent tears, strains, and relief. Shouting would be the one constant in her life, from her very beginning to her last moments on this earth. Never one to yell back, quiet rage slowly built within. She knew her place, and never a day went by she was not reminded. First to last none-withstanding.

Life was hard when she was young, dreams and hopes could not help but flood the clean expanses of her imagination in stark contrast to sewage puddles on the corners that were her nursery. It would be hopeful to say she learned, and learned well, the costs of dreams, but sadly it was a habit she never broke.

Her teenage years were much the same, placing hopes and dreams as olive branch crowns on any passersby who might be the secret to her freedom from the invisible bonds that held her on the street. Her mother lasted until her 17^th birthday and then vanished, no one saw, but all knew her fate.

She was destined for greatness, hope was her only choice; love had to be her freedom. Many men came, and more left; her inward rage only mounted. The world could not be this way; the world simply could not be this way. She turned inward, seeking her salvation from within.

She dabbled in religions as many sample pizza toppings, mixing and matching but the grease just never seemed to sit well, and as she regurgitated the words to her… friends... the results were the same: Food poisoning.

Then came the great night, the night for which she would finally have her fame, the night when all would take note, newspapers proclaim her story and carry her picture, at least for a day. Her first of many lovers came back into town, he had made his fortune and come to take her from this place. Classic Fairytale ending, eight years, five minutes too late. For as he found her; body warm, lips parted, and arms stretched wide for his embrace; that which caused her to move about in this world had left her. Hope, had left her, or she had finally parted ways with it. She was dead, no cause of death could be found, no visible trauma, no fresh wound marks to be seen, no health conditions worthy of her demise. With all the science, all the tests all the reason and intellect brought to the task, no one could see what was clear, a broken heart leaves no visible marks to be seen and yet covers all we see.

The Farmer and His Fortunate Folly

2011-01-22T13:48:00.001-08:00

The Farmer and His Fortunate Folly

There once was a Farmer who was as prideful as he was prudent and as clumsy as he was clever. He was known by his neighbors for his fair and shrewd business practices. From all he expected the same tireless work; of his neighbors, of his workers, and even of his fields.

This remained his pattern until one, ordinary fall day when he mortgaged his fields, his house and barn and made plans to rent out his fields for the season. His neighbors, also farmers met at the local tavern to exchange words on this peculiarity. “He has never so much as taken a loan all the years I have known him.” Said one “Nor his father before him” said another. “And what of this trip, he was very closed-mouthed about the destination, and purpose” chimed in a third. No logic or purpose could they discover in the Farmer’s cryptic words and deeds.

The season passed quickly, and the harvest planted, grew and was gathered in. Little thought was paid to the Farmer or his journey. The following spring, just as the land was being tilled once more to receive the next year’s seeds, the Farmer returned. Before returning to his own field he met with each of his neighbors, toured and complemented their fields, barns and holding. So rare was such a visit, especially from such a prideful man that again the farmer’s were abuzz with chatter. Some tried to feel slighted or insulted “Who does he think he is traipsing all around our lands as if he owned them all.” Ours saw it for what it was “Seldom does anyone but me and my workers see the land as it is, beautiful, harsh and generous, and he did just that, and for his visit I am thankful.”

The next day was a day the Farmer would not forget. He woke early ready to sow his fields. He put on his jacket and went to his satchel to retrieve the treasure his journey had yielded. A treasure which he had planned would allow him to own all the land around him, which he had so recently toured. And all his neighbors soon would be of his employ, the life of leisure was to be his fortune. No sooner had these thoughts warmed and clouded his mind then utter horror soon replaced it. His satchel holding the key to his riches had a small hole in the bottom, and the seeds which would have yielded twice the harvest in half the growing season were missing, his very life blood drained away. His loans would be due at the end of the season and he had nothing left to his name to sell that had not already been borrowed against.

That day he revisited all his neighbors with a hard and harsh humility which bore down upon his back as no weight had ever done. This day was to beg for seeds to plant, not hardly enough to repay the loans, but enough to live on his remaining months. Some of his neighbors still had hardened hearts from all the years of his shrewd business dealings with him. “I knew your visit of last eve was mere show to put me in frame of mind for this begging that you do now.” Others among his neighbors looked on him with pity “Here is all I can spare; I will only plant half my fields this season, for I cannot bear to see a neighbor starve while I eat well.” All his neighbors gave something no matter what their response in words. The Farmer planted all his fields and counted the days until his life was over.

Then something unexpected happened. That spring all the fields surrounding the Farmer grew twice as fast and twice the yield, regardless of the amount of seed planted. Even fields that had gone unsown yielded this same plant. And what is more, by the time the harvest had been gathered it the plants had re-sown themselves. Such was the joy that all the Farmer’s neighbors, now rich beyond their dreams paid the debt the Farmer owed. Only the Farmer himself understood his folly and the good that sprang from it. The rest of his days he lived a changed life, indebted to all and blessed by many.

14 minute story

2011-01-08T18:34:00.000-08:00

There once was a man, few remember even fewer still now lament. In early life the hopes and dreams of the village rested upon his shoulders. He was to be their leader, once their father had gone the way of the ancients. He was as strong and wise as his father ever was, however he had one weakness, love.

Many were the days when he would steal away only to be found with a neighbors daughter in some secluded hay field. As he grew, so did his passions. And grow they did until a fateful day when out with his love of the moment they were to cross the rushing river for home before dark fell. Not one to ask for help, and more the one to give it he crossed upon an old tree who had fallen years before. Not to be bested his love clamored after, the tree creaked, and broke hurling her into the waters. In a moment she was sped from him and he could naught but look on in terror.

That was the day his love, both for women, and life were doused by the cold rushing waters.

Years past, and as he had grown in wisdom and strength when young, now he withered with each passing day, not content to work or play, to jest or study. He was a mighty tree with root rotten, a cask of the dream. To harden what was left of his heart further, many in the town took his current state as an affront to their future, their security. So the ridicule began to rot from outside, what the hole or grief ate away from within. This continued on until another fateful day when he vanished without word or trace. Some talk about caves in the local hills where a thing, hard to call a man, roams and roosts. Others speak of a mysterious bridge being build across the river, with no builder to be seen.

Retreat: Naked Faith Rocks in my Box

2010-10-01T14:21:00.000-07:00

This past weekend New Leaf Church went on retreat. Unlike some of the past retreats there was a distinct flavor of sharing and reflection.

One of the activities was to decorate small river rocks with aspects of faith journey, the corner stones of our personal faith.

I attempted many times to distill my faith for 5 core things, events, or people that help me define what I believe.

When I got close, the paint would not stick.

I turned to the box and decorated with growth lines, the kind that trees hide deep inside themselves. They tell or the weather during that season of growth.

So what is on my naked faith rocks?

Everywhere I go, I carry the taste of loss. One of my rocks stands for the deep sorrow only a close death can bring. The perspective and heart ache when physical embodiment of imperfect unconditional love has flown.

Another stone has faults and seams in it, battle scars and beauty together. This stone reminds me of my continual, ongoing struggle with depression. My faith is a life boat and an anchor, sometimes I decide to climb aboard and other times I struggle in the water "on my own". My life has been marred with beauty and pain invisible at first glance, but deeply present.

All my stones are not washed smooth, some roughness remains, some evidence of the journey incomplete, the journey that will never fully wear away the marks of struggle and doubt, loss and beauty and hope in the pit of utter hopelessness. I, like my faith will never me complete, never perfect, never more than a work in progress and I would have it no other way.

So, you see my faith rocks are naked, bearing marks proudly, with humility and shame, and many more the like invisible at a glance.

What are the corner stones of your faith, the anchor and give buoyancy to your life?

Zero Sum Game? Life?

2010-07-24T12:42:00.000-07:00

The power of things is all around. We cannot wander anywhere but the deepest woods without being impacted by the lust after things, and the marketing that feeds that drive.

At some point, my guess is early on we meet money for the first time. Carefree bartering of youth begins to transition into needing this stuff in order to get more stuff.

At first we rely on allowances or odd jobs to feed our need for things. Comic books, toy soldiers, candy all momentary pleasures, and all, in the moment, life or death needs.

As we grow, so do all consuming appetites and more. To muddy the waters further still the things money buys become a sign of worth. What we wear, the things we drive, as well as having and providing the "hot" and "new" for and to our friends keeps our social credit alive.

Then money begins to "really" matter. As fads fade and real bills begin. Money becomes and obstacle in the pursuit of knowledge. Can I get loans transitions to can I pay loans and eat something other than Ramen Noodles.

Once we strike this balance, or any time we approach that balance life happens. Lay offs, romances, fender benders, illness, family, friend's marriages. Every costs, and to find joy you have to ante up.

Time passes, jobs resumes grow in length often faster than we'd like. Identities change as often as the seasons and sometimes more frequently. The we commit again, love, marriage, bills, mortgages, rent all due, Student loans echo and one wonder's if it was all worth it. Worth, value, cost - value which we hope is positive.

Money is the grease the fills the holes to prevent us from sinking. Money allows is social mobility. Money is the measure of the worth of our time, either salaried or by the hour. Our prestige, or identity all wrapped up in an number. We work for money, we work for those we love, we work for those we would avoid on the street. Money stretches us to find the expectations demanded of us.

And when our time comes to close, the marketing machine preys upon our will to not have our passing burden those left behind. Money, wealth, reputation to be defended even after we are gone.

All but in the deepest woods does money rule our lives. And as in the woods we strive to leave no trace, yet in this life we strive to leave a large dent, and hope it is seen as beautiful.

Coed Small Group Session 10

2010-03-17T15:46:00.001-07:00

Take your time, reflect, write color.

Pieces of Life, Parts of us all.

What are the pieces of life that nourish us?

What do we take root in and are anchored to that which we could not live without?

What is our Sunshine that helps us grow?

What is the wind in our lives that spur us on to change?

What is the water that sustains us, and drives us to thirst even more?

Nothing to see here :)

2009-12-01T09:48:00.000-08:00

Just an update, The Coed small group is still progressing. We have changed mediums to clay, so it is hard to show in the same way how you can play at home.
However! I will be posting a summary of lessons learned of the past few sessions.

In working with clay I find that the connection with the object adds to the experience. It had been easy for me, when asked, "What is...?" to respond with a pat answer. To just repeat what I had heard, or said myself many times. To attempt to translate the concept into a three dimensional image allowed those easy answers to become utterly insufficient.

Peace, Joy, Love

What is peace?
The rippling waters of the ocean, the shelter that brings wholeness.

What is joy?
The heart taking flight, the moment when gravity loses it's hold.

What is love?
A scared imperfect heart whose brokenness allows the love to spread, as a seed breaks away from it's source of nourishment to die so that a new live would be created.

Love Love Love

What is the love of self, the love for community and the love for the world?

Love of self is the embrace that is never tight enough and lasts all too short making the cold air all the more chilling when the hug ends.

Love for community is the warm chain that binds causing sleepless nights, hard goodbyes, and awkward hellos.

Love for the world is a warm glade that fills with mist, cold breezes and seems to never be big enough to fill the space between as the trees creek and sways threatening to fall, yet never touching the ground.

What is the love, peace, hope that is just out of reach?

The search for the ever changing lizard who blends into all surroundings; never found, ever sought, and always present, though invisible.

So what? How does changing the lens we see life through alter the things themselves which merrily go about their business unchanged, unaltered and utterly unaffected?

Being changed is all we can hope for, all we can ask of ourselves, and all that is ever really possible.

I change, We change, the world is not the same.

Coed Small Group Session 5

2009-10-23T18:29:00.001-07:00

Hope: Look at this walled garden. If this were your hope, what would it look like? Add the things that would make this your place of hope. Who might be there, how would you feel there? Take some time to draw, write, color and add whatever is missing.

Now that you've visualized your hope, what would God add, or what might God hope for, on your behalf that is missing, add those things, people, feelings, objects.

Lets think about the wall. Does your wall have decoration on it? What is it's purpose in relation to your garden of hope?

What stops us from sharing our hope, both for ourselves and for those around us? Is it fear of rejection, or that our hopes might cause others pain? How might hope be meant to share?

Think of hope, and how you might find courage to share it with others, and help them build a hope for themselves.

Coed Small Group Session 4

2009-10-15T18:26:00.001-07:00

Identity: The Patch Work of our Past

Many times a quilt is formed out of pieces of material which outlived their use. I have a friend whose mother made a quilt out of old t-shirts from events, as well as their baby blanket.

Think of the expanse of your past. What positive trends do you see? How have past trials and triumphs built how you see yourself now? Take some time to color in, and let your mind drift to positive times past.

Looking across your patch work quilt, what surprised you?

What was the process like, moving from memory to memory?

What is one great memory you hold onto in times of difficulty?

A quilt can be a symbol of safety, refuge, warmth and comfort. What stops us from claiming these positive past events, moments, memories as a fountain for a positive now, and a hope for the future?

In the blank space, write, or draw, or color what hopes, dreams, goals, passions you have for tomorrow. Be it the day after this, years from now, or looking back at the end of your life. What "squares" would you hope to look back upon?

What is the first next step towards sewing together the experiences of today, into the pattern of what is next... ?

Coed Small Group Session 3

2009-10-14T15:17:00.000-07:00

Identity: The things we hold onto; the things the hold onto us

I think we all know someone who is a pack rat. A person who finds function in anything and everything. The look at the things around them and see potential, if not imagined function, and cannot bare to part with these "practical treasures". What happens when we live life like that? When our experiences, heartache, loss, grief, disappointment all collect and render forward motion all but impossible.

Take a look at the image with the tug boat, feel free to color and let your mind wander.

Look at the bottom blank panel. What are you holding onto that does not propel you forward? What is weighing you down to the point of stagnation?

Identity: My Many Sides

Place yourself in the chair. In the left panel, draw, write color the attributes you see in yourself. Be fair, optimistic, pessimistic... be real.

In the center panel record how your friends, family, "others" in your life might describe you, again be real, be honest, be at peace with who they see.

In the right panel, dream, hope, pray, explore what God sees in you, sees for you, hopes and made you to be.

Look across the panels, what strikes you, what is different, and the same... where do you place the most emphasis on who you are? From which reflection do you draw most of your identity from?

Coed Small Group Session 2

2009-10-14T15:06:00.000-07:00

Identity: Name
Looking down? or Looking up?

What is the origin of your name? Is there a story or how you got your name, or a story behind who you were named for? What, if any, impact does who or why you were named _____ have on how you see yourself and your life?

Take some time to look at the image of the well. You might see it as looking out of the depths to the sky or looking down into the well's depths. Color and write as you feel led, the building blocks of what makes you, you. These can be obstacles , people, characteristics both past and present.

Where are you headed, and how do these blocks mark the journey towards that place?

Coed Small Group Session 1

2009-10-14T14:40:00.000-07:00

First an brief introduction. Identity is something many of us struggle with at various times in our lives, and all of us struggle with at some point. Here you will find activities and thoughts on Identity. You will find my opinions here, and perhaps some others thoughts if they allow. Mostly, my hope is that you will find the activities themselves helpful. Feel free to print out the weekly image(s) and color/reflect along with us.

And now for something completely different :)

Identity: Overview

Our lives don't always work out the way we intended. To be honest, our lives are NEVER exactly as we hoped or wished for, same goes for our spiritual journey. In the cartoon, look at each of the images in order and follow the story. Put yourself in the story, in what part of the story do you see yourself now? What does that mean to and for you? Feel free to take some time and color pieces of the image that stand out.

How might the story, and your life be different than you expected?