Saturday, July 30, 2011
I was talking to a dear friend the other day of my reservations with the church and of religion. At times, I have felt very strongly the absence of God because in turn, I have truly felt God. All to easily, I find myself falling into the habitual pattern of focusing on my separation from God rather than the reunion that I have here with fellow believers and the promise of being made whole. Christian Wiman, a brilliant poet, writes and speaks in a way that is raw and telling. He reminds me that it is a choice everyday to focus on moving forward in my faith where I am.
"So now I bow my head and try to pray in the mornings, not because I don’t doubt the reality of what I have experienced, but because I do, and with an intensity that, because to once feel the presence of God is to feel His absence all the more acutely, is actually more anguishing and difficult than any “existential anxiety” I have ever known. I go to church on Sundays, not to dispel this doubt but to expend its energy, because faith is not a state of mind but an action in the world, a movement toward the world. How charged this one hour of the week is for me, and how I cherish it, though not one whit more than the hours I have with my wife, with friends, or in solitude, trying to learn how to inhabit time so completely that there might be no distinction between life and belief, attention and devotion. And out of all these efforts at faith and love, out of my own inevitable failures at both, I have begun to write poems again. But the language I have now to call on God is not only language, and the wall on which I make my taps and scratches is no longer a cell but this whole prodigal and all too perishable world in which I find myself, very much alive, and not at all alone. As I approach the first anniversary of my diagnosis, as I approach whatever pain is ahead of me, I am trying to get as close to this wall as possible. And I am listening with all I am." -Christian Wiman
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
God goes, belonging to every riven thing he's made
sing his being simply by being
the thing it is:
stone and tree and sky, man who sees and sings and wonders why
God goes. Belonging, to every riven thing he's made,
means a storm of peace.
Think of the atoms inside the stone.
Think of the man who sits alone
trying to will himself into a stillness where
God goes belonging. To every riven thing he's made
there is given one shade
shaped exactly to the thing itself:
under the tree a darker tree;
under the man the only man to see
God goes belonging to every riven thing. He's made
the things that bring him near,
made the ming that makes him go.
A part of what man knows,
apart from what man knows,
God goes belonging to every riven thing he's made.
I could read this a million times over and it would never get old.
Monday, July 25, 2011
A couple of weeks ago, I tried to make cake balls. As you can see, (from the picture directly above) things really failed- failed big time. Yesterday, we attempted to make cake pops for a Master Gardener Luncheon of my mom's. Again, as you can see, they (all 200 of them) turned out to be beautiful!
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Adventure is a path. Real adventure- self-determined, self motivated, often risky- forces you to have first hand encounters with the world. The world, the it is, not the way you imagine it. Your body will collide with the earth and will bear witness. In this way you will be compelled to grapple with the limitless kindness and bottomless cruelty of mankind- and perhaps realized that you yourself are capable of both. This will change you. Nothing will ever again be "black and white."
- Mark Jenkins
Monday, July 18, 2011
The other day after having a conversation about why girls can't do as great of things as guys (i.e. golf at Preston Trails, have an impromptu camping trip, fly fish, etc) something great happened! It was decided that we (Ellie Turner, Jeff Turner, and I) would make a special trip to experience the true glory of fly fishing. Yup. That's right. We are going to Basalt, CO at the very end of the month and we are fly fishing for two full days. Supposedly, girls are more natural fly fishers. So, we will see.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Yesterday I had the great privilege of exploring and going on an adventure with my dear friend Margaret. With squinty eyes, we woke up at five in the morning to allow adequate time to get ready, grab coffee, drive to our destination, and watch the sunrise. Our destination- Turnpike Distribution Center (off of 30). This center is a wonderful mix of crushed cars and their rusted parts smashed into little boxes along with big bold machinery and falling dirt. It is a beauty! seriously. Think Doctor T.J. Eckelburg's Valley of Ashes from The Great Gatsby or the junk lot from The Brave Little Toaster (I know you know what I am talking about). Sadly, there were workers at that time in the morning and a barbed wire fence. They would not let us in because it was "dangerous"- PAH!!! We looked onto the beautiful scene and vowed that we would be standing in Turnpike Distribution Center within the next two weeks. So, that is our plan. For now, here are some pictures.
Friday, July 15, 2011
Kate MccGwire's practice probes the beauty inherent in duality, exploring the play of opposites - at an aesthetic, intellectual and visceral level - that characterises the way we conceive the world. She does this by appealing to our essential duality as human beings, to our senses and our reason, and by drawing on materials capable of embodying a dichotomous way of seeing, feeling and thinking. The finished work has a consistent 'otherness' to it that places it beyond our experience of the world, poised on a threshold between the parameters that define everyday reality.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Madden me back to an afternoon
I carry in me
not like a wound
but like a will against a wound
Give me again enough man
to be the child
choosing my own annihilations
To make of this severed limb
a wand to conjure
a weapon to shatter
dark matter of the dirt daubers' nests
galaxies of glass
bash-dancing on the cellar's fire
I am the sound the sun would make
if the sun could make a sound
and the gasp of rot
stabbed from the compost's lumpen living death
O my life my war in a jar
I shake you and shake you
and may the best ant win
For I am come a whirlwind of wasted things
and I will ride this tantrum back to God
until my fixed self, my fluorescent self
my grief-nibbling, unbewildered, wall-to-wall self
withers in me like a salted slug
-every riven thing, Christian Wiman