ever heard of this site?
i’ve had it bookmarked for a while and drop by every once in a while. my visits have been mostly to the spirituality page. i especially appreciated the daily prayer exercises.
there’s some pretty creative meditations, exhibits and what not. i imagine i’ll pilfer some of it for next in the not so distant future.
someone i know died last night. chances are you’ve seen him but i’d be surprised if you could say you knew him. he wasn’t a friend to many and it wasn’t because we didn’t try. we did, but he was locked in an embrace with alcohol even as it pulled him under. Jesus can you take the time to throw a drowning man a line.
he said he loved Jesus. i can do nothing more than trust his soul into the care of God. i trust he is no longer captive to the chemical forces that have long had his shoulders to the mat. i trust that he is free like he has never experienced before. i trust he is living life as he was meant to live it. i trust he is well and whole, his eyes bright and clear as they take in Piercing Glory without blinking. i picture the smile on your lips and a bounce in your step - the relief you’ve so longed for.
i am glad you are safe, my friend. i only wish you could have experienced more life in the land of the living.
we all believed, hoped, expected that you’d make it, that you’d get a taste of joy this side of heaven. an operation, then long-term treatment, then a fresh start in tight quarters with those who’d see you the rest of the way. that’s how it was going to go. i never thought it would be anything different. none of us did
folks come and go in the hotel lobby. a porter stacks bags on brass trolleys as commuters wait for their airport shuttle. vans and buses come and go. the revolving glass doors see steady traffic. here i sit, staring out to the covered car park, waiting for my love to arrive. she will be driving a silver hyundai with a green sticker promoting vegetarianism on the back bumper. i am an omnivore. we share the car with friends. on board are our two children. with any luck the boy will be sleeping and the girl will be happy to see her daddy. i love them all. in this lull of my hectic weekend i miss them terribly. anticipation grows as i wait.
but shadows of concern play in the recesses of my mind. contingency plans bubble up only to be pushed back down with the hope they will prove unnecessary. i tread against that sinking feeling. it’s just traffic. they left late. the visit went longer than planned. hope does her best to float. a cell phone would be handy. too bad we swore them off unequivocally. worry grows as i wait.
there is little stronger than love for family. i smile as i think of mine. we will be together soon
sometimes i want to be a hobbit. you know, the little people of the shire with stout hearts and over-sized furry feet. i already share the half-lings love of good beer and the simple life. more than these, i crave hobbit adventure. the real issue here is not that i want to be a hobbit so much as i want to live in the land of middle earth.
now i am sure that the mention of lord of the rings may conjure certain images of peter jackson’s trilogy in the minds of my three fine readers, but let me establish that my love of this epic world was established long before the tale was told on the silver screen. in my elementary and secondary school years i spent many a bus ride reading j.r.r. tolkien’s work, eyes locked to type as the narrow country roads bounced me mercilessly. metallica, guns ‘n roses or some other hair band would blare through overhead speakers, and my fellow riders would laugh, yell or otherwise carry on - no doubt teasing some poor kid to no end. but i was not distracted, lost to another world most unlike our own. it is into this world of elves and dwarves, orcs and ogres that i wish i were born.
this is present tense. though i fell headlong into this bit of story telling at a young age, my desire to inhabit the world that is middle earth has never been stronger. it is a time and place where so much depends on decisive action that there seems to be little time for self-doubt and deprecation. the results of a day’s work are obvious - another mile traveled, another enemy slain, another battle fought. honour and glory are paramount. evil must be overcome. the world of men must rally or all is lost. heroes are the ordinary who fight beyond will and strength.
the only fight i wage is the one in my head and that particular battle grows wearisome. i increasingly tire of struggle against unseen and elusive enemies. esteem and self-talk pale in comparison to the hosts of mordor. is it heroic to steadily ascend maslow’s ladder? is self-actaulization and reaching one’s inner potential an honourable fight? seriously, let me take on a cave troll. let me defend my family against marauding orcs, my homeland against the forces of sauron. if only i were a ranger, garagorn they would call me…
i was reading some crap i wrote last year and i must say, it wasn’t half bad. when something is ‘not half bad’ it means that the majority is good. more good than bad. on the better side of worse as some may say. actually, no one says ‘on the better side of worse’ that i know. i will start
i do wish to write some more. i do enjoy putting a few words together, adding a dash of squiggles and dots for punctuation, and reading the result to the queen of my castle. she is a good soul and the primary encourager of mine. you may not know this but today marks seven full years of marriage for our little selves. an anniversary is what they call it. we will be dining out this early eve as our kids are in the good hands of friends. it will be a short stint of childless wonder - less than 4 hours all told - never-the-less, we will enjoy every minute.
seven is the year of the wool i have been told. wool? the last thing i knit was toque. for a girlfriend. i must confess that i just did the straight up stitching and my fine mother did all the tricky stuff. casting on and off and such. i’m really not sure i want to pick up the needles again. maybe my love and i will get a spool or bundle or shock or whatever you call a pack of sheep string and do something to mark the day as special. we shall see. it may be alpaca or even llama.
as seven is the year of wool it makes sense that it also be the year of the itch. it would appear that during the seventh year of marriage more than one couple has shipwrecked on restless rocks. tired of the good they got so they go looking for what they think they want some where else. not sure how it works really. i don’t intend to find out. wool over the eyes, i say. we two are not immune to spousal dysfunction and disharmony and the relentless grind of the everyday. by god’s grace and some doses of honesty, humility and some humour to boot, we’ve kept closer together when circumstances would wedge us apart. we fight for ‘us’ on a regular basis. things are well in the castle of late. we’ll use this year of seven to stretch some togetherness muscles. stay limber and in love.
incidentally, seven is also a movie about the dwarfs. an animated feature. the one where brad pit and morgan freeman track down said number murdered short people. deadly. turns out snow white got life times seven with no possibility of parole.
*almost his real name
Melvin hears voices that coach him. They tell him to do different things. I know ’cause he told me. Lately they’ve been saying he should eat a lot of sweets and he sure does. He has a fondness for the sour cream glaze. I hear voices telling me to drink more beer. I’m partial to the ales. I question those voices. Melvin doesn’t. He tells me about them with utmost sincerity.
Along with the voices in his head, Melvin carries his bible everywhere he goes. I’m pretty sure it’s a Gideon model. Gold cover and dog-eared as they come. I always ask him what he’s reading. Lamentations is a perennial favourite. I’ve seen Melvin weekly for about a year now and 7 times out of 9 he’s reading Lamentations. Ecclesiastes gets in the rotation, sometimes Proverbs, and once he even dipped into Revelations
Melvin may or may not eat when ever he comes around the Gathering Place from which i know him, but he always cracks the good book. The Lord must be cracking jokes in the wisdom literature because he laughs aloud on a regular basis. He’ll be reading by himself and chuckles will come drifting over the room from his direction. People will look up, realize it’s just Melvin, and go back to whatever it was they were doing.
Today I thought it was high time I got in on the joke.
“What’s so funny melvin?”
“Oh, I just heard voices from Israel.”
More chuckles
“See you later Garry.”
My coworker and I exchange puzzled glances as Melvin graciously excuses himself. I didn’t have time for a second question. As far as Melvin was concerned, there was entirely no need for any follow up. Voices from Israel are just par for the course.
As far as I’m concerned it’s time for a beer. Then I think I’ll read the bible.
She always did well at the county fair. Her cherry pie was to die for and her long-haired heifers were the envy of the ol’ boys.
“That there’s a cow.” They’d mutter, leaning on the fence while gazing soulfully at yet another one of her winners.
This year the grand prize was no less than an all expenses paid trip to Las Vegas. She intended to win it all. She always did, and they loathed her for it. She’d gloat in their faces and strut around the grounds with an array of blue and red ribbons across her dumpy bosom. A sore winner to be sure.
That summer she tended to her watermelons as if her life depended on it. They grew large and green and were destined for greatness. She would croon and purr over them. They were her beauties. I wish I could have found such favour in her eyes. She was my aunt and most evenings I would peddle over to help her roll the melons so that they wouldn’t grow flat spots.
“Put your back into it boy or next time send your sister.”
I’m certain her bark was worse than her bite but it didn’t make those summer evenings anymore enjoyable. She’d cuss and cluck and hiss at my work and then turn around and lovingly stroke the green monster I was heaving. She had a lot of love for the fruits of the vine. Every so often I’d give a melon a good kick just to spite her. I’d cry out as if I tripped and show her the dented rind.
“God help me child! Can’t you even walk, boy? I’ve half a mind to do it myself.”
I wished she would do it herself and send me home but she never did. Strong as she was, she really did need my help to roll the big one. Her prize was growing at the edge of the patch nearest the gate. Bitter as I was at missing out on evening of swimming, baseball or watching tv, I knew better than to mess with that melon. No fake falls around that one.
One hot summer night as I biked over, the sky grew steadily darker. One of those freak thunderstorms was moving in and fast. The air that had been so thick and still was beginning to stir. As I turned off the main road, I could see her down at the end of the lane working feverishly to get as much done before the storm broke. Her sturdy frame bustled here and there throughout the patch, snipping a vine then turning around to pinch a bud. She would be waiting for me to help with the heavy work.
I pedaled faster as the black clouds stacked above me. The wind was kicking up, I could see the fields waving as I hurried past. Thunder was rolling and close too. Big drops began to fall. As I approached the gate all hell broke loose. Thunder cracked right over head and lightning licked earth. It lit up the gate as I shot through, lugs pumping, eyes wide with surprise, every hair at charged to attention.
I couldn’t stop. My tire hit a small melon at the edge of the patch, front wheel twisting. Time seemed to slow. I could see my bike stop beneath me and recede behind. I was airborne, the vines of the patch passing underneath. Looking up I see two things very clearly - my Aunt’s horrified expression and an incredibly large watermelon in my flight path. Rolling and tucking my shoulder, I braced for impact.
I came to a few moments later, the cool rind of her prized melon against my neck. The sky was still dark, the rain still fell, but the frenzy of the storm had receded over the fields. I lay there, surveying the damage. Front bike tire severily bent, lodged in a small melon. Left shoulder very tender, wedged in a gigantic melon. Aunt’s face expressionless, eyes riveted on a her precious punctured melon.
“Com’on boy.”
With just a hint of tenderness, she helped me extricate myself, watermelon innards reluctantly releasing me. We walked slowly to the house to call my mom. With every step her hope of glory faded.
—-
another piece birthed at storytellers anonymous. this one from an exercise that had everyone submit a word, phrase, place name to a list. the object was for each person to write a story that included all words on the list. this time around we had to use the following: watermelon, Las Vegas, a grumpy aunt, thunderstorm and any form of the verb to fade. and there it is…
ever want to be part of something great?
ya, me too.
“there are no great things. only small things done with great love.”
mother theresa
I’ve heard it said that you are what you eat. At first blush, the phrase strikes me as rather stupid. It doesn’t compute. Consuming some food product or another does not magically transform a person into its likeness. Seriously, does anyone really think that having a bbq’ed steak makes one a cow or a t-bone or what have you? See – stupid saying.
That’s the literalist in me. Always on someone’s case about the exact meaning of their words. Usually the case I’m on is Shan’s. Usually she shoves me off with considerable efficiency. I would too. The literalist in me is a real ass.
The literalist in me is also a fan of steak, but I digress.
This blog post is going south in a hurry (Not actually south). I’ve written myself into a corner (You won’t really be able to find a corner anywhere in this paragraph other than the two times said word was used) and there’s nowhere to go. I hate it when that happens.
Here’s the long and the short of it… (Incidentally that is another stupid phrase that gets Literal Me all fired up. How can something be both long and short at the self-same time? Dumb.)
Take a hike.
Seriously, I need to go for a walk.
There’s something to be said here, but I’ll have to give it another shot when I get back.
at Storytellers Anonymous one of our assignments was to write for ten minutes using a picture for inspiration. i used the cover of our first edition of Hatch as i arrived late and it was the only thing handy. incidentally, hatch is not available on the internet. please contact me if you’d like a copy.
The war had taken it’s toll on Allied pilots. Thousands shot down over enemy territory, thousands more too afraid to return to the skies. Morale was at an all time low. Even officers were unable to hide the hopelessness they carried in their hearts. All seemed lost.
Until he came along.
He walked through camp with the swagger of youth. His dark eyes held a fire that ignited men’s bones. His words called out courage where ever they landed. He was stalwart. He was steadfast. And he was the ace who would turn the tide of that terrible war. We called him Kid. He was anything but.
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