Fluttered Mind

Used books are a little-known joy.

It’s amazing how quickly thoughts change and flitter away. Just two minutes ago my mind was bubbling over with delicious phrases on the glory of old books, but in the time it took to grab my journal and a pen and craft that lifeless sentence, all my inspiration faded into oblivion--exact phrases and combinations of words that may never again enter my brain. Thoughts shattered, lost, and never to be thought again by my small mind in my short time in this immense universe. Words never to be born from this pen.

An exaggeration in tone, perhaps, but not altogether untrue. The mind does like to boil with ideas while the brain’s back is turned. It’s almost as though I’m strolling down a road in a yellow wood when I suddenly realize that I’ve stumbled into Wonderland. Autumn trees are unexpectedly laden with green foliage. Flowers have burst from their cocoons and blossomed faces. A grinning cat smiles slyly down from his perch on a tree. And the Queen of Hearts is enjoying a game of flamingo-croquet in a field over yonder. In awe of the sight I am beholding and doubting if I should ever come back, it suddenly occurs to me that I had the sense to stuff a camera in my pocket before setting out this fine morning--what a most unusual photo this would make! It would certainly win first place at the Polk County Fair. Yet after I spend thirty consuming seconds fishing my camera out of my impossible pocket, I look up through the camera lens only to realize that the green and the faces and the cat and the queen have all vanished back into the guise of an ordinary wood. The extraordinary that stood before me just moments before was just as real as the ordinary that stands before me now, but the wonder of the moment can never be fully shared or even documented. It has faded into a memory, and because of its fleeting obscurity it will soon fade further into the memory of a memory--the vague idea of something: a thought, a smell, a color--that once existed.

And thus it is that with my thoughts--a sad, forgotten possibility of what might have been fading into a passing playful melancholy. 

Worry-Mongering

"Therefore do not be anxious about tomorrow, for tomorrow will be anxious for itself. Sufficient for the day is its own trouble.”
Matthew 6:34 (ESV)

Don’t worry about what you will eat or what you will wear. Don’t worry about how you will earn your living. Don’t worry about life after college. Don’t worry about who you will marry. Don’t worry about the uncertainty of your health. Don’t worry about where you will live. “Seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness, and all these things will be added to you.”

That’s a lot of not worrying, and I’m a first-class worrier. I worry when I’m not worried. I fret over the smallest matters and tear myself to pieces over the large ones, and all too often my decision to call on my Lord comes late in the race. But this isn’t even calling on Him in troubles--it’s trusting Him before troubles begin and seeking first His will and His glory. And He by no means promises abundance or ease, but rather just enough to get through this single day. 

I have a love-hate relationship with this notion. On the one hand, I love that He promises to provide and that such a promise means that I can trust Him utterly. On the other, this means I ought to and need to trust Him utterly. Spirit battles flesh. 

C.S. Lewis once wrote in a letter that “it is a dreadful truth that the state of…’having to depend solely on God’ is what we all dread most.” This is shamefully true. I am so consumed with my own progress and ability that I neglect to give my Creator due credit. Or perhaps I am afraid to relinquish control out of fear that He might make things worse. Such fear is, of course, ridiculous when dwelt upon for any length of time, but He is not me, and part of me finds that disconcerting. That is, until I am reminded once more of His wondrous greatness.

Even so, this poor, conflicted soul refuses to learn her lesson, and thus it is that the grace of God is the mainstay of my life. May it be that, between relapses of worry and control-mongering, I might learn to seek first His kingdom and His righteousness. 

SDG

Hill

“Hill…it is a hasty word for a thing that has stood here ever since this part of the wood was made.” - J.R.R. Tolkien, The Two Towers

What a fickle thing are words. They can convey meaning so specific and precise and yet so full of possibility and understatement.

Hill.

Four characters. Three letters. One syllable. Little cause for excitement. Yet see how a slight exploration can bring an entirely new understanding. A hill is, by definition, an elevated mound of earth, plain and simple, but it is so much more than that. It does not breath, but it has a life of its own. A single hill is as timeless as the ocean. Formed and molded by the hands of God thousands of years before I drew my first breath. It has weathered storms beyond number and set its face upon more sunrises than I shall ever comprehend. It has been climbed by lonely vagabonds and entire tribes. It has fed single caterpillars and herds of cattle. It has felt the harshness of winter more deeply than I can ever know and has sung the songs of spring with more grandeur than my small voice can muster. And on it shall continue to stand and sing long after I have faded away beneath its grassy soil. Every dip and every fold was fashioned carefully by its glorious Creator before the first fall of dew, and there, tucked away between hundreds of other hills, that hill will proudly stand and raise blade and blossom in praise to the almighty King of Heaven until the last sunset. Indeed, what a hasty word for something so grand.

Winnie the Pooh and Friends

I have come to the conclusion that the television show phenomenon of having one best friend is false. Friends come in chains. Friendship is give-and-take when it comes to support offered and received, and as I lend support to one friend, there is always another behind me to keep me propped up.

Imagine a Winnie the Pooh scenario, if you will. ‘Tis a blustery day in the Hundred Acre Wood, and Tigger is foolishly carrying an open umbrella. Well, of course a healthy gust of wind must come along and catch the umbrella and carry him along in the direction of a precarious cliff. Now, Winnie the Pooh has just removed his head from a honey-filled tree hollow and observes Tigger’s plight just in time to grab Tigger’s feet as he blows by. Tigger is slowed considerably by Pooh’s efforts, but the two friends are still being helplessly dragged toward the cliff. Meanwhile, Piglet is gathering acorns from beneath a nearby tree when he sees the commotion coming his way. He tosses aside his acorns and grabs Pooh Bear’s flat feet just in time to prevent the flustered duo from being swept over the cliff.

Now, this could lead to a lesson about Piglet’s heroic act in  a David and Goliath situation, proving that he was braver than he believed and stronger than he seemed, but Pooh Bear physics aside, it demonstrates that while two are indeed better than one,  a three-chord strand is not easily broken (nor is a three-animal chain easily blown away). And so it is that close friends are rarely lonely duos but rather groups that travel either in chains or clusters, willing to leave behind prized honey and acorns to help a friend.

Twice Told Poems: Henry V

We two, we happy two, we band of lovers,

For she today who shares her kiss with me

Shall be my lover; be she ne’er so vile.

Dawn

Thoughts linger on the road behind

And fear the course to come--

I know not where this path will lead

Nor where this river runs.

The darkness of this looming wood

Strikes fear within my soul,

And luring voices all around

Dare draw me from the goal.

Yet looking on the path traversed

I’ve trod this path before--

The bloss’ming fields I loved so dear

Came after rain had poured.

Yes, blackened storms toss to and fro,

And roads wind long ahead,

But I shall walk with hope renewed:

I know this too shall end;

For as the sun rises each morn

And birds awake at dawn,

The flow’ring moors shall soon return

And night’s dark clouds be gone. 

Oh sonnet, my sonnet!

Oh sonnet, sonnet, what for art thou now?

To number love then batter my wretch’d heart?

You ask my sights to bend, my will to bow

To consider a truth adorned, in part,

By pleasing sounds and smooth, swift dancing feet.

But moments come when meaning eludes me--

I wonder, should I trust your rhythmic beat?

Your argument persists and I can’t flee!

Alas! A turn! New motives are revealed!

New hope? Old guilt? A solution perhaps?

Ah! Passion now pervades with zest and zeal

And resolution comes with gentle slap

            To former words--yes, now a jewel to end

            That once again, my flitting thoughts may bend.