dropping the "G" word

Imagine you (or I, or anyone for that matter) were bred from the earliest of your recollectable days to long to fall in love with a woman named Cindy.
You dreamt of a Cindy in your adolescence and chased after Cindy's on the play ground in your youth. You could imagine calling your lover by no other name. A woman's quality, apparent upon your initial interactions with her, all but vanished when she stated her name to be something other than Cindy. You were taught and tied into the endeavor of loving a woman with this name.

Imagine a string of romantic experiences that you have as you wander the earth, each very genuine, each passionate and hopeful. You encounter a woman (avoid the preliminary introductions) share experiences with her, fall authentically in love with her. Then you ask her name and it is not Cindy. So you leave her -- you leave the romance, the authenticity, the passion, the hope, the experience, the love all behind. And you do it again. And again. None of them turn out to be Cindy.

So you take a different approach. You seek out women named Cindy. You find a Cindy and you pursue her, date her, kiss her, introduce her to your family -- "This is Cindy" -- move in with her, share life with her. But it is all contrived, so you leave her for another woman named Cindy and do it again. And again. None of them coax love from you (and incidentally neither do you do much for them, so don't feel too cocky).

Imagine your broken and lonely state of being. Imagine having given up true love several times over. Imagine having placed your hope in an idea so resolutely time and again, and time and again it being returned to you void. And imagine in this grim state as you travel the globe with your seemingly hopeless cause set before you that you wander into a library in Frankfurt and select a volume of fairy tales; hoping to find something to quell the sting, to find inspiration from these stories of eerily unlikely events.

Flipping through the book you find her. Cindy, or in her fullness Cinderella, cinder-ella, the girl of the cinders, girl of the ashes. And -- ashes to ashes, dust to dust -- you realize that every woman you sought, those you loved and those you didn't (those who loved you and those who didn't) was Cindy, each a daughter of the earth, each human.
So you siphon your focus on the name into a more expansive focus on the experience of love. And you fulfill your destiny.

ufc with yhwh

i had a sweet wreck the other day. i was biking from work to meet lauren at a coffee shop, hauling downhill on 10th street. i decided to take a short cut along the pedestrian route so i glanced back to check traffic, crossed over and hopped up onto the sidewalk. it was raining and i took a sharp turn left a little too fast, my back tire slid out and my front tire buckled and i went down and skidded like 15 feet. i hopped up and had one of the moments of "am i ok? i'm ok. really? am i? i am." and then the obligatory bashful look around to see if anyone saw (no one did), unjammed my chain, hopped back on, thanked God i was wearing denim and a tough jacket, said, "that was awesome", and continued (with a touch more care) on my merry way.
it felt really good. i haven't wiped out for a while. i had a couple wrecks in college that were really sweet (one forward somersault with feet still in toe clips, took a big divot out of the woman's field hockey field at the bottom of our ski slope at houghton, i saved the divot because we had found a lizard and seth fancy and i set up a little island in a bowl of water for him, but he escaped and lived a better life than either of us ever could have given him), but it's been a good long while since i really skinned my knees. what's the appeal i wonder? it's not a desire for pain. just for contact, friction, resistance.
like the part in philip pullman's "the subtle knife" when william struggles, unbeknownst to him, with his father. like the story in the bible where jacob wrestles God. clings to God, makes demands of God, gets his hip broken by God. i don't talk about God on a daily basis anymore, not like i did when it was my homework to do so, when the community i belonged to made a practice of it. but i still like meeting for wrestling matches, smiles and dirt smeared across our faces, the two of us rolling around without much to talk about but with plenty in common. God letting me win sometimes, i letting God win sometimes.
i don't distinguish much between God and Life. like i don't hold to God as a human-like being with arms and legs that wrap around me in the fight. the events and experiences of God wrap around me, they are what i pull against or give in to. and i think that's how God likes it.. as in, i think that's how Life is done best.
i got an opportunity to sit with Life for a while a couple weekends ago, i had our little cottage to myself and i rested. sat across from Life for an evening and a morning and lingered in Its presence, feeling the surge of my own muscles for a change, rather than the push of Life's muscle on me.
i'm back in it again, wrestling again.. smiling, grimacing, struggling, collapsing. but really glad that we took some respite.

ben and bob

I guess this delighted me a little bit too much to keep to myself.
Simply this:

I had a dream last night that Veggie Tales came out with a full length, live action Christmas movie. Ben Stiller played Bob the Tomato.

That's all.

samurai, yogi, pacifist, and husband

a buddy and i are tossing around some ideas about being good guys in this world we live in. asking each other some questions and offering each other the conversation that results.
this week's question was simple and cliche (and gender exclusive so, to my female audience, please make adjustments where necessary -- my thoughts aren't exclusive, just my language in this entry):

what does a man of strong character look like?

my response:

the samurai's code of honor (bushido) contains a commitment to yu, or courage. this was a style of heroics that is more than fearlessness. it is courage that is tempered with wisdom. not a brash rushing into danger, but a wise willingness to face danger when necessary; not as a means of demonstrating his quality but as a natural extension of the good that has been cultivated in his heart. he does not desire death but neither is he deterred by anything from performing an act that he knows to be right.

"namaste" is a salutation given and received in india and nepal and elsewhere. it is a sanskrit word that, taken literally, means "i bow to you". but as a gesture it's meaning has grown and when a person greets another saying "namaste" they are in effect saying with humility and gratitude, "that which is divine in me reaches out to that which is divine in you". think: jesus when he told the story about the sheep and goats and "whatever you did for the least of these you did for me". namaste -- i see you, hear you, feel you as someone to be cherished, and i offer you my attention, my presence, my love.

in order to be wise in courage and to be attentive to others a man has to have a supply of patience. and that patience must come from a calm place in his heart, a place that is at peace. in the midst of tumultuous surroundings he must have the resolve to believe in the possibility of peace.

the band on my finger symbolizes a promise of loyalty. keeping that promise does not mean perfection, does not mean the absence of conflict, does not mean the absence of questions such as, "am i really the man i claim to be?" or "do i have what it takes?" being loyal means that when you look at the golden/silver/platinum band hugging your finger you remember and believe the answer to those questions, that yes you are and yes you do.

ideally a man of strong character is brave, compassionate, patient, and faithful.
that's why a man with strong character is also relational. because ideals aren't sufficient; and when ideals fail a man needs support or forgiveness or encouragement to be and believe in who he is. those things can be offered only from without, though they can come from the most unlikely places (so he is wise to keep his heart open and his wits about him).

a strong man is steady and available and vulnerable and honest and befriended.

by the way...

http://www.dannyiskandarphotography.com/slide/laurenaramwed/index.html

enough said.

Going to the desert next week..

There are some who seem to me to be content with very little; content to have jobs that require their days and then content to pass their evenings and nights in whims of entertainment, modest friendships, mediocre romance or religion. They don't hope for much, content to walk. I like to walk. But I want wings to turn my stride into flight from time to time. I want passionate oblivion to come crashing into what's happening right now; for it to get all tangled up, perpetually. I want storms to always ruffle my feathers while the wind unfurls my wings.
My restlessness is not discontent. I do not feel condemned by restlessness but compelled by it. I am not thirsty in order that I may writhe in my thirst but so that I will seek out a drink. My soul goes to the desert because there are elements of nourishment there, not because it is barren.
Yet in the very barrenness lies that nourishment. And the nourishment is space. The space to stretch out all my limbs, to open my lungs, and to spread my questions freely and expansively -- nakedly even -- until they dry out and crack like the lips that uttered them, leaving me sore and finally silent enough to escape myself, unhurried and unharassed enough to collapse into something that is something like peace.

a rant

The menus have a sufficient, even significant, amount of selection to them at the restaurants I'm working for. The finer dining of the two ranges from a glorified tofu dish, to a goat cheese and portobello mushroom ravioli, right on through to the market priced fillet mignon, with several nods to the sea (scallops, salmon, a nightly seafood special) in between.

About a month ago the chef derived a burger that could hold its own with the other dishes, presumably in taste, and absolutely in presentation. The burger is speared with a stack of olives and grape tomatoes, grilled according to the customer's order, adorned with the perfect proportions of complimentary ingredients, and befriended by an ornate tin, lined with a billowing linen napkin, full of French fries seasoned with duck confit.

You wouldn't expect a hamburger to make its way on to the menu at an establishment like this one, but - coming from a devout vegetarian - this burger does itself well. I immensely enjoy setting it before a guest. The visual encounter alone frequently elicits "oohs" and "aahs".

Imagine my surprise, my disappointment, my aghast when I chanced upon something less than appreciation the other night. It was not chagrin or criticism or disapproval that I encountered. I would have welcomed such a response in place of the one I received after setting the delicately crafted dish down in front of a guest.

"Thanks." And without taking so much as a pause, a breath, a moment to actually intend the gratitude just offered, "Could I have some ketchup?"

Some ketchup? You want some ketchup to go with your twenty-five dollar hamburger and fries? Are you a little worried that the chef back there in his "kiss the cook" apron might have, sometime during his culinary education in Paris, failed to learn how to make the food taste good on its own? You a bit nervous that he forgot to include something that would have made the meal better? I'll go ask him for a side of ketchup... and get slapped in the face for insulting him. No, I won't ask him, I'll just see if I can scrounge up some ketchup packets in the back, somewhere next to the creme brulee, or the fondue, or the bruschetta, or the olive tapenade. Honestly, you want some ketchup?

I thought all of that right away, but no more than that because she kept opening her mouth wider and wider and managed to display her ignorance more completely, "And some mustard... and," she looked to a friend, "Should we get some mayo? And some mayo."

It was pretty well precisely at that moment that I went ahead and stopped believing that the customer is always right. The customer isn't always right. The customer isn't always anything. There is potential for the customer to be right, or gracious, or naive, or rude. There are a lot of possibilities. One thing I have come to expect from time to time in the midst of my interactions with human beings is an attitude of entitlement. But the perfectly horrid coupling of entitlement and rash ignorance was nearly more than I could stomach. That the customer is always right is a dangerous myth marinated in flattery. It holds no true merit.

I do believe in customer service, in lovingly wanting what's best for other individuals. I don't believe in telling someone outright that they are stupid (even when the occasion implies it). I cordially tried to talk her out of ruining the artwork that had just been placed in front of her. I tried to talk her into perhaps waiting and trying the food before conceptualizing how she (also a credentialed culinary expert?) might better it. You don't let someone do themselves harm without a bit of a struggle, some effort at interference. Nonetheless, sometimes you end up squirting each of an assortment of condiments into little silver ramekins, arranging them on a small white plate, keeping a smile on your face, and quietly lamenting the poor soul's demise.

Two-toos

I'm waiting tables at a small restaurant/pub/brewery by day and running food for a fancier fine dining establishment by night. At Scholar's Inn (the latter) last night one of the gentlemen that washes dishes asked me if that was a prison tattoo. He was referring to my right forearm. I don't think he could see my left one, but there's a tattoo there too. I have two new tattoos.
Upon taking to heart the Hebrew words Shalom and Shekinah I decided to take them into my flesh as well, a covenant of sorts, a permanent reminder.
The Hebrew language as a whole intrigues me - it's longevity, the elusive nature, fertile stories that have been told and carried with it. It isn't impossibly elusive, but it seems to be that, in order to interact with it and receive it's fullest impact and meaning, a person needs a hefty propensity toward imagination. This is true of all spoken and written words, but it's easier to forget with the language one uses everyday, and easier to remember (for me) when the language is backed up with countless generations of tradition and utility, and a touch of sanctification.
So the simple, stolid nature of the Hebrew script, and the fervent, florid meanings of the Hebrew words got under my skin.
Shalom - peace. A wholeness to hope toward. A desire for unity. A desire for unity at the expense of hatred, not at the expense of diversity. I reach out my right hand to the world, to my neighbor, and with it an extension of peace; remembering that all children, women, and men are my kin.
Shekinah - presence. The divine dwelling amongst earthen vessels. Linguistically this word is feminine, and carries with it an image of God, who is every bit as much Mother and Beloved as Father and Lover, wandering the dusty wilderness of this earth and these relationships that we belong to. Dwelling amongst us, wandering with us. I reach out my left hand to the world, to my neighbor, and with it an extension of presence; being present to those who are around me, and receiving their presence as a gift. Both necessary to who we are and who we are meant to be.


O Thou, far off and here, whole and broken,
Who in necessity and in bounty wait,
Whose truth is light and dark, mute though spoken,
By Thy wide grace show me Thy narrow gate.
(Wendell Berry)

December 10th 2006

I turned twenty five yesterday. It was really fun.
A year ago I wrote this entry in a little red journal:

"In front of a mirror I stood and was self-aware, nose to nose with myself, in a big way for the first time in a long time. Self-aware and self-confused, uncertain about how to situate myself in the world.
A big question, pointless maybe -- Who is looking back at me? I looked close enough to see the reflection of my own reflection in the wet dark centers of my eyes. Who is that?
He who drinks his lover in with the same eyes, and succeeds at stilling her heart with his words and touch long enough to have her trusting him.
He who takes the Eucharist like a child takes candy, like a glutton. Feeling around for God with his tongue between bites. Mostly hungry, but almost as desperate -- and by no means sure of which is the nobler motivation.
He who dabs at paper with his pen; or blinks through a few pages of literature; or gives enough of himself to the people around him to keep them interested and intrigued. All these things, from time to time, trying to rake out something more than an existence.
I was close enough to see my pores, to see my face that was a lot more of a child's face last time I looked that close.
Luckily my step-brother knocked on the bathroom door and startled me away from myself. But I'll have to go back. There's something in my that needs sorting through. I need to listen some more, to almost cry some more, and to stare..
Later I talked with my infant niece about the significance of the experiences that are common to life but new to me, the ones that are all bundled and tangled up inside of me right now. She laughed and gurgled spit out from between her vibrating lips."

Having done those things -- sorted, listened, started crying finally -- I expect to be right back at it this year. I may even arrive at some statements to share, if not here then in some format somewhere else. I'm feeling stronger this December 10th than I did the last one.
Today I'm driving an hour south, from Indianapolis to Bloomington, where I have an appointment to sign for an apartment there. I'll be moving come January. This feels like a big transition. I think I need to talk with EllaAnne some more; she's shaping her gurgles and spit into words now, but continues to remind me that no matter what words I might manage to arrive at, laughter probably still sums it up the best.

the sacrament of cereal

On the same morning that I gave Lauren a ring with a diamond in it (a diamond passed down to me that once belonged to my great-grandmother, reset in a whitegold band, pure and simple) she gave me a hand crafted metal bowl, unfree of blemishes, the perfect size in both width and depth. She and I enjoy cereal, enjoy the experience of sharing it with each other. We enjoy life. We enjoy each other's hands and feet. The bowl is small enough for a bowl of cereal and just big enough to wash one's hands and feet in it, or to wash someone else's hands and feet in it. I think it's sturdy enough for life.
It was July 11th, early in the morning before anybody else in the whole world was awake, that Lauren and I got engaged. And we've been that way ever since.

application unsent

a month or two ago i was filling out an application for christian theological seminary, which is just that, a seminary, here in indianapolis. i didn't finish the application cause i changed my mind, but i didn't waste my time filling things out either. i had begun a draft of my personal statement, specifically the part about what i want to be when i grow up. i wrote about wanting to be a professor because i get excited about contributing to other people's education, which is of course contributing to their formation and their process of becoming who they are. then i thought about what sorts of things have contributed to making me the sort of person that gets excited about things like that, or just the sort of person that i am in general. the influences are as many as the people i've met and the conversations i've had with them, i decided. the influences are intricate and convoluted.
my formation -- as in the lines scrawled in black across the canvas of my life, the lines that give me shape -- was initiated by things like parental influence, religious heritage, culture and my social status within it. these are the things that distinguish me as a person who belongs to a certain time in a certain place, and who bears certain expectations.
my becoming -- as in the colors that fill me in and make me me -- are such things as the decisions i have made to adventure, play, love, speak, read, pursue, be still, encounter, and desire. things like my experiences in the wilderness, encountering the natural elements, encountering God, encountering a subtlety of existence that exceeds in quality the one that exists in the midst of the always striving elements of civilization. like books i've read and teachers i've had that have told me explicitly or in disguise, didactically or suggestively, that truth is mediated to us through metaphors; that imagination is essential for deciphering the truths within these metaphors; and that it is the same with God, beauty, and hope as it is with truth. like relationships that have integrally communicated to me that i am loved and capable of loving, and in the process have periodically revealed to me how it is that i go about receiving and expressing love. like the places i have gone in response to my commitment to an established revulsion toward the status quo; the places i have gone geographically, theologically, and life-stylistically.
these are the things that distinguish me as a person who is himself and not finished and, like the rest of you, not quite definable. it is the first that give my body shape and the latter that fill it with breath.

----------------

in the meantime, even though i changed my mind about cts, i'm still pondering and precariously close to pursuing more education. i listed a few reasons for this pursuit on the incomplete application.
--because i can't stop thinking. and a context for that, a plot of land that my thoughts can flourish in, would not be a bad thing to have. without it they might run amuck, get overgrown, and not end up nourishing anyone.
--i'm ready for some more structured intellectual stimulation.
--i want to teach, and like it or not (a lot of the time i do, some of the time i don't) i need credentials to do that.
--i want to teach, but i need to establish a big, fat, insatiable habit of learning first.

---------------

and then the application asked about my values. i made a list on the back of the envelope that the application came in. -- listening -- awareness -- simplicity -- primacy of relationship -- blessed are the peacemakers -- significant amounts of creating, noticing, and appreciating beauty. i jotted down that i value several of the traditional things as well. things such as fidelity and honesty and ambition and hard work. further to the right on the envelope i noted that i value travel and home, reading and writing, people and solitude.

lauren and i ran the indianapolis mini-marathon together on saturday. our experience contributed significantly to my renewed appreciation for large portions of humanity getting excited with one another about doing something fun, beneficial, and difficult. when that happens that's good news as far as i'm concerned. i value that.

I've been back a year

Before coming back from Europe last year I spent my final night in the Dublin airport and sat there with my eyes squinted tight trying to see what it was that I had just experienced. The most accurate thing I determined was that I was much the same as when I had left and that I was much different.
The similarities and differences between what characterizes a human on one portion of her/his journey compared to another portion are almost always blurry. Very seldom do we wake up dramatically distinct from the person we went to sleep as. But always, I'm convinced, things are happening and shifting in us subtly. We hope for the better, but it's best not to worry about it too much.

---------------

Right now the things I'm big on (which is to say: the things I'm thinking about, reading about, talking about, and trying to, even if ever so slightly, live about) are, amongst other things, in no particular order, the following:
-- environmentalism. I pray each night that God would help me to honor the earth and all its inhabitants. That prayer hasn't gotten fully answered yet. Neither is it any great comfort to me to know that every single person reading this, and everyone who isn't, could do a better job at it. We're each actually responsible - regardless of our faith or politics - to do so.
-- feminism. Feminism is not about angry women wanting a platform, and it's not about suggesting that only men are capable of oppression. Feminism is about acknowledging that an essential voice throughout history and in the world today is far too typically and easily ignored. It's mostly about wanting to live somewhere where mutuality and embrace are the norm rather than domination and alienation.
-- rethinking salvation. A step away from the traditional concepts of heaven and hell, toward a (hopefully) more complete desire for wholeness and justice (corporately, and then personally too).
-- rereading the bible. Trying to express an appreciation for the bible as a magnificent collection of literature - if not all literary masterpieces (some are, some aren't) than at least literary treasures. And trying to express that in such a way that doesn't warrant the assumption that I'd like to take God's voice out of the bible.
-- language. Not like cuss words and stuff. But an awareness of the affect of the words and symbols, images and metaphors that we use. How we term our world and articulate reality carries a lot. I consider the language we use to talk about God to be of specific, and even elevated, importance.

That's just a touch of the temperature of who I am or what I'm about (or what's the difference?) right now. Just a touch.

McTrees

I feel sorry for the trees off of interstate 84 planted in the picnic area of the McDonalds; situated there to give a touch of atmosphere to an otherwise plastic scene.
I feel like one of them someitmes. All tree-y and wild and connected to the earth with life and nourishment coursing, gracing through me. But my roots pressed up against the concrete of the suburbs, my soul situated in the midst of a plastic culture promising the fulfillment of plastic dreams.
It's hard to flourish beneathe the golden arches.

Panentheism

The people whose lives I am, in one way or another, currently involved in are representative of much. Their lives expose me and break me open to the layer of reality beneathe the crust of the life that I live when it's just me that I'm concerned with.
I kissed a woman's face this morning, was told that I am loved and knew it to be true, nigh on limitless.
I hold my infant neice about everday, the well being of my soul requires it. She tells me about how valid it is to be vulnerable. She is complete and whole, with her limbs filling in and beginning to flail about with some purpose and precision; but she is thorough in her neediness, adorabley so.
I walked through the hallways of an elementary school with a young girl who has been mostly unsought after for as long as she has been capable of blinking through the tears that come as a result; that come as a result of being passed from home to home, not knowing which family to fall in love with.
I held and restrained and chased after and reasoned with a six year old boy adopted only two years ago from Russia. He fluctuated from anger to adoration rapidly, back and forth, barely receptive to the love and hopes wrung tightly from the ragged lives of the teachers and parents who are everyday with him.
Another boy, eight perhaps, with down's syndrome follwed me from class to class and sometimes followed the directions I gave him. We read together. He looked at me with his eyes locked into mine and he touched my beard with curiosity.
I talked on the phone with my friend who is smarter than most friends that I have and more confused about life than he is smart.
I talked face to face with a pastor who is just as real life as I am, and at least as sensitive to it.
I traded greetings and brief conversation with my neighbor who is late into his fifties. He's a dealer, and in his spare time, like a bit of a parent, he keeps watch over his young white naive neighbors.
And then some.
And these things happening to me, to us -- if we'll just open our eyes and realize it -- are far more significant than they are transitory. They happen - snap - like that and I wake up tomorrow barely aware, if I'm lucky, that somehting divine took place when my life rubbed up against hers or his, theirs. Life is happening. All around you life is happening. So hang on tight or blink your eyes fast - whatever you need to do to cope or keep up. Your knuckles will go white and you'll blink your eyes dry before you realize that all around you life is happening. Then you'll let go and dampen your gaze. Then open your eyes wide for once and breathe in big deep breaths that tingle your skin as they enter your lungs. Let go and die. See God everywhere, in almost everything. And simply live.

Psalm 126

It was nearly seven years after I experienced the knife, which was only eight days after I left my mother's womb and first experienced exposure to this world, when I saw the lunatic spew out his prayers and poems with globs of spit pasted to the corners of his mouth.
We had been traveling more days than I could count. I was young and slow in the mind, and I could not count beyond what my toes and my fingers helped me with, but our days in the dust were beyond that number. I was young, my feet were soft and they grew raw. The beasts shriveled where they are meant to be heavy with milk and instead the heaviness was in their heads which hung down like stones on the ends of their long necks. The women took steps slowly. The children whimpered, when they didn't have enough breath to wail. The men were either quiet or violent. No one remembered why we walked. We just walked. One reliefless step. Then another. Without emotion, without purpose, without so much as a swallow of water to divide between our company. Our throats ached, cracked like the ground beneath me shoeless feet. And no one remembered why. Except the lunatic. Apparently he remembered; and his feet, toes bleeding, carried him from one clump of the travellers to another, eyes laughing and beard frothing, tiring us all the more with his rhyming racket..

the nameless one has made us
free
we dream we dream
our mouths are filled
with laughter
see
we dream we dream
my tongue alive -
wiggles, rattles, spittles song
to the nameless one
here, with us
all along
the way we dream

He raved about the Nameless One. He raved about our dreams. I don't remember dreaming. I remember being hungry, being thirsty. I remember squinting against the sun and digging sand out of my ears. But his eyes rolled up in his head when he laughed, the thick locs on his narrow head shaking. My father said to ignore him. My mother stifled a smirk. My baby sister passed gas. And the lunatic went on -- clawing at the dirt, screaming at the desert, mad with a fool's hope. He said we'd be happy. He said it in a prayer. Said we'd water the dusty fields with our tears and harvest a whole crop of happiness.
No one believed him, he was a lunatic.

At Hubbard and Cravens I talked with Jeff.

Jeff said that Paul Tillich called God the 'ground of all being' and pointed out how appealing that must be to me because I am grounded; in the sense that I like the earth, I like having my bare feet touch the dirt and the press of sharp rocks against my soles. He's right, it is appealing. Because it almost doesn't limit God. It almost lets God just be, without qualifiers and particulars. Qualifiers and particulars eventually have to get trashed. They are (and are meant to be) pretty and nice smelling at first. Then they wilt and should get dumped into the kitchen garbage. Lots of us keep the wilted particulars around because we can't stand an empty vase. But we shouldn't worry much. The garden is in full bloom.

my hippie spirituality

It begins with long hair, on my head and on my face, unkempt; and it manifests itself in the odor of my armpits often unadorned with deodorant, the hand sewn elbow patch on my thinning thrift store sweater, and a more often than not vegetarian diet. It begins there because these things have to do with me on the outside, and I believe spirituality has a lot to do with me and my body and how we interact with the stuff of the world that is going on outside of us. It continues in that my recent spiritual life has been one of less discipline; more of a barefoot, free-love, go-with-your-emotions style of (christian) spirituality. My focus has rested more heavily upon peace and love; shifted from the prove-my-point debates of the classroom, to poetry readings in a field where we all sit cross legged in a circle with smiles on our faces. Someone picking at the strings of an old guitar. And Jesus is unavoidabley central to it all, because this flimsy, free life of the spirit that I have been living has somehow sustained me and been sustained, even without the aid of drugs and sex, even with only a limited amount of rock'n'roll.

'over the hedge'

deceit. nudity. forbidden love. revenge. homicide. car chases. violence. explosions. family values. materialism. commercialism. capitalism. gluttony. secrecy. romance. mission. loss. redemption. pleasure. friendship. forgiveness. community. seduction. diplomacy. diabolical banter. world-stopping hyperactivity. satire. hypocrisy. destruction. reconstruction. pain. growth. ruin. and wonder.
plus the soundtrack is the fruits of the combined efforts of ben folds and hans zimmer.

i would encourage everyone to see this movie.

paria day four

an entry i penned during the walk through the canyon and desert that surrounds the twists and turns of the paria river in arizona/utah, an adventure that i shared a week ago with my trail mates: sparrow, friar, and mouse (aka laurence, ryan, and scott):

we were to walk with our Abba today and let Him let us share our dreams. 'what are your dreams?' is what we started the day with. and, 'let your heavenly Father whisper to you about you.'
my dreams, or the metaphors for them, are changing -- i still want to battle complacency, but my metaphor doesn't require bloodshed anymore - or at least not the involuntary shedding of another's blood.
now i dream of sculpting awareness into the everyday moments.
i dream of helping people become aware. aware of real life situations in our local and global communities. aware of the beauty and tragedy that spins together on this globe. aware of God. aware of eachother. aware of the cries for justice, the cries for friendship, the cries for acknowledgment. i want to help people be aware of things like hunger and warfare and sickness that exist unnecessarily; and to help people be aware that the way we live has an effect on these realities - helping the realities to become worse, allowing them to remain, or aiding in the solution. i want to help people be aware of their neighbors' hurts, or even to be aware that they have hurting neighbors who need to be loved actively, not ignored, not judged. i want to help people be aware of their connection to the earth, and aware of our general disregard for it. i want to help people be aware of our connection to eachother. i want to help people be aware of our connection to Someone who most of us call God. I want to help people be aware of the general truths of the teachings of the Christian church.
mingling hard won understanding of the spiritual life with the gritty, given details of the day to day. mingling action and contemplation, the sacred and the profane, the human and the divine, heaven and earth.
i want to help people be aware in these ways and more, and i don't want to leave them there just as i don't want to be left there. i dream of joining together with the human beings around me to dance toward an appropriate response in thought, word, and deed. so i dream of being a part of a community of increasing and tangible awareness that is committed to God's dream of love and peace.
i hope for this dream to come true.

ocean sides

apparently now that i'm back home (one of them) i won't be writing as much on this weblog.
that's kind of what i expected, but the past couple weeks have seen to its being true.
i will still write sometime probably.

still sifting through the emotions and realities that go along with being back on this side of the atlantic. believe it or not, this side of the atlantic is not far off from the other side. it is different, but not even mostly different, only some. there are people that need to be loved. there are moments that ought to be lived well - both intentionally and carelessly at the same time. there are responsibilities that are sometimes daunting, sometimes delightful. it's important (essential?) to share conversations and craft memories with others; just as it is to seek the hefty peace of God in solitude.

the public transportation in indy sucks, there isn't as much cobblestone, and it doesn't smell the same. but other than that..