Neo-oldschool

I'll consider myself a very lucky lady indeed if I someday find myself married to a man who agrees that children should be reared with less flattery & bribery and more structured expectations in the home.

People (with special emphasis on their formative childhoods) need less self-esteem-building and more order. They need to be taught excellence, not self-acceptance (which will come with excellence). They need to be taught duty, not dreams (a dutiful person will still dream and will be more likely to achieve those dreams, if in light of duty's rewards, a particular dream continues to hold sway).

Duty, excellence, self-discipline, obedience, charity. All things I am putting off the learning-of while writing this small rant.

I believe in Community in which members share with one another the truth of who they are in personality, story, and beliefs/vision. At the cost and miraculous subsequent recovery of dignity, members share what's truly on their hearts. In so doing, hearts are knitted together. In the freedom to speak one's heart is the freedom to be changed. This obedient humility may be tempted to falter when faced with the inevitable blunders guaranteed in the family paradigm, but without such a laying aside of formal caution, Community is only an activity, neither satisfying nor healing nor testing, but merely occupying. It is a misrepresentation of Christ's body when members are not so knitted together, and the fault is not the Head's (who through mysterious and wonderful ways draws obedient hearts closer to Himself) but the members, unwilling to account for their selves before an assembly of fellow believers.

May God's people love one another with the rich mercy God has first showed them, loving one another with the deep heart that Joseph felt for his brothers, who had not even loved him as brothers should; loving one another as Jesus loved his disciples and all his brothers.

Gratitude

My attitude toward life has been characterized by the constant demand for something had yesterday. But coupled with that discontent has been not genuinely appreciating the past, nor being genuinely open to the future.

So I started just writing down things that are good memories, which I'd marked as bad memories and not thought about. There are sad things mixed in, but when I'm willing to remember the sad things, whole boxes of good memories are brought to light.

Goodbyes are sad for me. Something in me wildly resists the closing of chapters. I guess that's the mark of eternity in my heart, as I deeply long for a place where goodbyes don't mean the end.

So I graduated from college and slammed the lid on the trunk of memories. Way too many goodbyes were in that trunk.

In fact, every living moment is half-goodbye. Hello and goodbye. Like water running over your hand--you may close your hand over a bit of water, but the stream doesn't wait for you to touch every drop; it keeps rolling.

So I've been in constant resentment of the "goodbye" side of living, instead of smiling at the "hello" side. Clutching at the things slipping away, pushing aside the things that are newly appearing. Not even enjoying the sensation of water flowing over my hand, much less jumping in completely.

Sometimes I've taken pains to enjoy the water of life--again, grasping a bit in my hand and holding tightly to it. I sat in a park with a friend who was soon moving away. We sat on a green lawn surrounded by trees and memories, but both of us were painfully, painfully conscious that we were already living in the past. Looking back at that past version of us, I'm embarrassed, like I would be embarrassed looking at someone today who is painfully self-conscious. We were self-conscious of the moment, self-conscious of the fragility of it, the transience, that in just a few minutes it would be over. In all that, we thought we were truly living in the moment, in all our awareness, but in fact we were stepping outside of it. We were rejecting the fleeting pleasure to prove that we did not take our time together for granted. Glorying in the moment, I now think, is not about swallowing and digesting a moment before passing it on, but giving it a big beso and brazo as it flies by. Or maybe lightly touching it, tenderly, as it moves by, but not stroking it to death like the man with the puppy in Of Mice And Men.

My senior year of high school, I traveled to England on winter break. I remember my determination to capture every memory in a journal. This was going to be the trip of a lifetime, and I was going to make sure I didn't forget a moment. How much time I spent each day writing out that day's events, when I could have been living more fully the brief weeks there! Almost an insult to me now--if I open the journal (may I appreciate it more someday!) I merely see a faithful transcription of what I can recall instantly given the right prompting. I do think there is a place for journaling, but now I think more of the journal I kept in Spain--brief reminders, not wasting time writing out the actual memories. Now my idea of a scrapbook is to write down and paste in "keys" which can unlock boxes of memories without being the memories. The former kind of exhaustive journaling reminds me of the conundrum, "If it takes someone ten days to write completely about one day, how long would it take to write about everything in eternity?"

I was so thorough in my documentation of that England trip that I've had little need to remember it. I never reflected much on its scenes, because they were written, and they offered no future pleasure for me. So recalling scenes was more like eating knives and burrs than a pleasant reliving. No, no, I don't mean the memories were bad. I just mean that in general, I grieve what is past and that grief is like eating knives and burrs.

Funny how overdone nostalgia and a sort of bitterness bring about that grief. And how the cure is to remember more, but with joy instead of resentment. Re-joy. Relive the joyous moments, not the sad goodbyes. Shed a tear for the sad ones, but for heaven's sake, remember the funnies! And then en-joy, onward-joy, the "hello"s. En marcha, onward march.

Time sometimes brings things back around full circle, it's nature, and above that, God. But that's it, not grasping or clutching that brings completeness to any experience. This morning I began rejoying, which is a very hands-free way to appreciate the past and enjoy the future.

The Great Jumbo Deception

So I've always been enticed by products in bulk. After all, if I have the cash to buy more garbage bags now, why not buy a large quantity and then not have to buy them again for like, a year, at least!?

But there's one kind of bulk-buying I've decided is not worth it. Jumbo rolls of toilet paper. You think you're getting more for your money--and perhaps you are! Calculate the price-per-square, if you wish. Even so, here's what I think happens... a new roll of toilet paper inspires a sort of carefree attitude. "Yuss! Absolutely no danger of getting stranded in the baño this time around!" Need I say more? The bigger the roll, the more the squandry.

On the other hand, what if I were to go around to public restrooms collecting the nearly empty rolls? If my toilet paper holder constantly had an almost-empty tp roll on it, I can betcha everyone one would be frugal in their usage. And oh, the millions of dollars I'd save, I could go buy a bidet. Heh--actually, if I was getting such rolls of TP for free, I'd be like an infinity-aire, since zero and infinity are opposites, right?

Neighbors.
lawn mowers.
root beer.
sweet tea.
boulevards.
sandals.
chinese food.
robin's nest.
(peep peep)

TMI...

1 Towel ring, 2 shed handles & 1 hasp affixed to appropriate places


3 dozen cobwebs swiped in shed
1 dozen ants spotted in shed. Ant extermination in order.

2 broken push mowers acquired. Someone's junk becoming mine? or useful? We shall see. I always wanted to take apart a small engine.

etc. :)

I love having a house. It's like, something to live for. I know it's not really, I know there are loftier things to really live for... and but you know how much meaning it adds to a routine that when you come home you've got all kinds of things waiting for you to do, things that won't get done without you? Well. Hmm. I wasn't so excited when I first moved in and realized the shower only went up to lukewarm. However, my big brother saved the day and confirmed my suspicion that there was some kind of adjustable thing there..... took apart the knob and turned it hotter!

Meanwhile my kitchen faucet became more and more of a trickle. The inspector had checked the screen and said it was fine, so I was slow to check it again. Well, the aerator gadget is what needed cleaned out, and I'm surprised the inspector didn't know that, but it did provide me a very satisfying opportunity to fix something on my own.

Today my new roommate's dad helped me crank up the water heater a notch so that we can spread out the hot water over more than one shower. :-)

Sadly, I still haven't done any artwork. But I'm not stressing out about it. I have enough art for a show already, and though I would like to have some new stuff for the upcoming exhibit, that's a self-imposed ideal. So I'm not worried about it. And not worrying is wonderful. Wonderful. I've had an epiphany, I think.... Enjoy.

Home

orange juice
leftover chinese

paint scrapings
1 can of lysol
vacuum the latest spiders

the breath of friends and family lingers, warming the heart of the home. This is housewarming. It may feel a little cold when the loved ones go, but it means something that they breathed your air--laughed and talked in your air--in some cases, farted in your air. Ate your food.

Yesterday I slept my evening away.

Today I did battle. I'm grateful for the rain excusing my non-lawn mowing so far--and now I've been able to make arrangements for the mowing. I'll get myself a push mower when I can.

Tomorrow I may conquer the mountain of "first bit of artwork." And why not?

<3

It's hard to find a rhyme or reason to my musical preferences. They change over time, too. I wondered today what I've had against indie music in general. I wondered this as I listened to the capital album "Under Skies" by Hark the Herons. I noted the handclap in some songs. The indie handclap. And I thought, "but this is wonderful music, not deserving of my anti-indie prejudices!" Then I thought, "What is it I have against indie music, anyway?" I liked it well enough in college. Maybe that's part of it; for some reason I don't care to reminisce about college. I remember college in terms of relationships; the good ones are still with me, the poor ones are left behind. there. And the college has changed so so much. It's hardly the same school.

As I got into downhere's music after colllege, I took on a brand new appreciation for everything not-indie. The music industry, the recording/production process of music. Quality over quantity.

A couple weeks ago at work, everyone in the lab voted to switch to country radio. Just today I figured out what radio stations mean when they say "the best variety." I've always thought, "That is a straight up lie. You're playing the exact same stuff you played yesterday." But I guess what they mean is stylistic variety. And in that, I admit, pop radio does have a lot of variety. Not many songs sound alike. And admittedly on this country station, it all sounds like country. And I'm finding I like it. The songs that I don't like as well are generally at least amusing. The songs that may qualify as depressing are a sad sort of blues depressing, not a vengeful hatred or cubicle wall-building. Country music often has an attitude of wanting to take away walls. And the music is more relaxing, (at any rate, I find pop music non-relaxing), making work hours pass more quickly.

Maybe my leanings toward country/blues/folk/open sounding music are why I like downhere's indie album so very well. The sound is plain and clear. They've got really sweet blue harmonies. The songs paint pictures and stories and colors. Occasional burrs in the making-of give the music character.



I think I'm coming around the mountain: I respect the music industry, but I don't think it should be the goal of every talented musician to get in. Many people would accomplish more with their music by sharing it freely with those around them. But there's the dream of making a living at it. I don't know what to say. Some do succeed. Clearly it's not an easy business. If the 99% who will never make it could enjoy making music for its own sake, maybe we'd be in a different world, eh?

Why is it there can be such beauty in an old soul with a harmonica, but someone else straining away at an electric guitar misses the mark? While I would say as a rule I prefer electric guitar. There's no rhyme or reason. I can't put my finger on it, and beauty's subjectivity is a further reason not to be influenced easily by the opinions of others (such as myself).

Stir Crazy

I think there are two states of being.
The one that states
and the one that be's.

I have a very deep need to run off and be,
though I couldn't resist a bit of stating.
roar.

"Do You Realize" reprise, and relativism.

through north windows the blue sky echoes into the room.
Every pane wide open and the keys resound for the stranger.
the songs for a lost generation, a dreamer of dreams, a believer.
(Down the street, a hand presses to lips with a cigarette, distant eyes.)
Money? But this is breathing. This is sighing. Thinking out loud.
It's fingertips kissing through a window. Don't price that.
There's no replication, no recreation of this tonally-wrestled resolution.
What a language, rarely found.
Electricity burnishes the notes;
More clearly than eyes, speak the resonant chords.
but the system remembers the noise.

The veil of song is heavy.
How can I say such simple things like
'I care about you'
when we've lost our frames of reference for undemanding sentiment?
Who would know that's exactly what I mean and nothing more?
The frame of reference was the village.
The language of familiarity.
Unspoken rules had meaning when formed by generational experience.
Care is such a fright--
and assuring nods unsure.
Because habits of understatement
make sincere words sinister;
they call repetition pretension.

Now each person is an island
No way to know if the next Galapagos has evolved as far.
Skies are shared, but who knows what a white flag means
when everyone is their own country.

You may value what I don't, but no matter,
there's always me myself and I
(if that diamond ring turns brass,
Mama's gonna buy you a looking glass)

We fought off our limits, talked away authority but
forgot to complete the liberty for all with unlimited amnesty.
So it's safer by far to stay home
speaking the language of pretty tones.
In subjectivity is not so much freedom
but a blurry judicial safety.
--here is original ending--
--but I tried to continue--
The message passed over the ocean
that interest equals love,
that curiosity equals fantasy,
that care equals obsession.

Some take care to point out that marriage is not just romance but
work, friendship, camaraderie, battle, sacrifice.
So the same sweet things encompassed by platonic friendship
are now thought equal with romance.
God forbid the day when friends cannot be vulnerable.

Fan of gravity, don't kick the ceiling fan.

So I've really gotten into praising God for gravity. From outer space, what is up and down? If I'm standing upright, the Chinese are standing upside down... on an xyz graph, anyway! Which is how I tend to think, rather than spherically.

The gravity fan-craze started when I did something I've been needing to do this spring--walk out in a field at night and stargaze. It hasn't been enough to occasionally linger in my parked car when I get home; dirty windshield and town lights get in the way. A couple songs from Downhere's 1999 indie album encouraged me that it wasn't weird--in fact, perhaps deeply normal--to need to run out in a field and hug the earth and look at the sky and ponder the Creator's greatness. So, the first balmy night that made me aware of my aloneness, I walked into the middle of a soccer field behind my church that hadn't yet been mowed. I lay down on a tuffet of grass and stared at the sky. The breeze that danced around was both cool and warm.

As I stargazed, I played a mind game equivalent to the walking-on-the-ceiling game indoors. You know, as you lie on a bed you imagine that the ceiling is the floor; you imagine stepping over that doorway or climbing up the sloped floor/ceiling. Don't trip over the chandelier. etc. Only, in this version there's no ceiling. You've stepped through the trap door that is a skylight. Oh, that's scary.

The more I imagined I was "dangling" above outer space, the more firmly I felt the earth pressing into my shoulder blades. What I take for granted as the sensation of lying on my back felt more and more like an incredible magnet force keeping me from dropping into the sky.

P.S. I love the Orion constellation. He's a super-cool warrior dude. I don't think any of the other major constellations are people. Orion's Belt is the first collection of stars in the sky I ever learned to find and find again. Now I can see all of Orion, leaping across the night sky with his bow aimed for a long distance shot, his sword at his side. I've mentioned before how amazing it is to realize the stars I see, men of old saw too. Well, just now it occurs to me that (virtually) every soul that has ever walked this earth, has looked up at those same stars sometime. Wow. (Compassion for those who never get to see the sky)

As I gave the mosquitos their first Hannah's-ankles-feast of the year, I tried to look at my surroundings as through a camera. Dorothea Lange (famed photographer of "Migrant Mother") could see a photograph in any common object, and supposedly said to someone sitting near her deathbed, "I've just photographed you." Thinking of that, and Hark the Heron's suggestion to slow down and just watch what's right around you, I gazed around the patio, across the highway, at the table. A bug divebombed my hand and died on the table. It was a funny-looking bug, like a bit of bark with trailing wings. I blew on it gently and it rolled a few inches across the table. I guess some bugs in spring pretty much hatch, fly, mate, and die, falling out of the air for no particular reason other than they have no more purpose for living. For a moment I gazed across the highway again, trying to see a picture in a shaded house. When I looked back, the bug had revived. It glided across the table, regaining its sense of direction, then took a running leap back into the warm and wild evening. I got a picture of it on my cell phone just before it flew, but timing did not make up for poor equipment, and all you see in the picture is a reddish crumb. But I'm glad for the encouragement of other artists not to rush moments, but to watch for something simply interesting right under my nose.

sensaciones

In the living room a paling sunset softly lights the house.

Feelings. Sensations.

In my mind, thoughts and feelings--a loved one lost, but I know he's simply gone somewhere else. If I were convinced his very being was finished, my feelings would be completely different. Even so, there's a goodbye for now.

A soft day--mild sunshine, hugs, a kindred spirit. Reconnecting briefly with an old friend whose spirit is so kind, so comforting.

For a moment the sunshine intensifies to a tangible gold, before clouds soften the light to a purple. A fly spins on the window sill, the cockatiels in the cage make a general nonverbal clatter.

I feel something so serenely beautiful, I want to describe it, but I don't know what it is. It's the young leaves on the tree out the window with subtle blue and pink sky beyond. It's the stillness of the evening. It's the silence of the house, it's that last magenta sun ray blazing again. The paneled study door that stands open is not brown right now but lavender, magenta, black. This sunset is like a conversation, softening and brightening in still more vibrant beams.

I held his hand and read to him a few weeks ago. It was as though I grounded a current that ran in my veins, as I learned what a very old man's hand feels like, and it's not terrifying.

Could it could rain without actually raining? Or a cello serenade in gentleness without one edge to the tone, nothing to rasp in your ears?

A voice that is a gathering of tones, not a pitch.

Senses. Ever lie on the earth looking down at the stars, an endless fall below from which you're held by this glue called gravity?

How beautiful. Adoration and homage to the Maker.

the sign

When the world you know is falling apart

(when the ones you love leave you alone)

and no one can reach into your isolated heart

(so cold it is hard to breathe)

don't

give

up

your hope

Originality

You get a springboard of an idea and sit down at the piano.
You write some words, edit them, reshuffle them, fit them to some chords, and play and replay, til the song has a familiar ring to it.

The next day it sounds even more familiar. And you're bothered. Did you write it, or was all your work just a remembering of a song you've heard somewhere?

Helen Keller once wrote a little story which seemed to just flow as easily as a dream. A beautiful little story, her friends and family were excited to publish it. Only then, the author of a nearly identical story stepped forward. Sentiment turned against Helen for what looked like blatant plagiarism. Sometime or other, Anne Sullivan must have read it to her, but the memory faded enough to blend in with knowledge and resurface as a seeming original thought.

So in my passive absorption of music, I hope my own personality continually gets in the way of what could otherwise be unwitting plagiarism.

Delayed Consciousness

So I've wondered if there could be a phenomenon which I'll call delayed consciousness. Like lag in a live chat, it couldn't be much of a delay or it would be easily measured.

But here's the picture-- imagine a brain as it processes the information received by the senses. Information comes in the ear. At lightning speed the brain processes the raw data into a conscious experience of hearing.

But what if there was a step in between raw data and experience? What if some brains, before creating the conscious experience of hearing, stored the information? In a fraction of a second's lag, you suddenly have a person who, in hindsight, thinks they knew what someone was going to say just before they said it. For by the time they experienced 'hearing' they already had the stored knowledge. Not as a memory, perhaps, but a sense of familiarity. Hmm.

Disclaimer:::: this is not based on any scientific fact or research, but speculation. I'd love to watch a documentary on the subject of sensory experience.

Blue chocolate

"Laura Ingalls lived in Olden Times," my brother once told me matter-of-factly. "What are Olden Times?" I asked. I learned that once upon a time there had not been electricity or cars. It was kind of like camping or something. They rode horses, they had outhouses. They were basically underprivileged, but they also wore really cool clothes. The girls, at least, wore enormous poofy dresses with ruffles, and these corsets that made their waists tiny, and their hair piled on top of their head. They wore bonnets and boots and gloves. The men wore tall hats and had beards or moustaches. They made up for the lack of electricity with lamps and candles, and that, of course, was cool too.

Ever find yourself reaching through layers of yourself for a forgotten sort of beauty? You know what it looks like, you know you could fake it, but you won't. It's been too long since I hugged the earth and smelled spring. And I know there are many coinciding realities of nature's beauty and deep truths, but the jumble of practical objects invades my vision.

I forgot the beauty of the home chord. You can do so much with the suspensions. Such fullness in music that is the color of slate, or a forest, a clear night sky. Music that captures just what you feel when you walk alone through a village at night, down to lapping black water with a hint of sunset left over on the far side; you sit on an empty park bench and wonder about God, feeling so alone and insignificant but loved; you long for answers, but you know right now His answer is to let you sit and contemplate the vast creation. And in your heart you are crying, a deep longing cry neither bitter or hurt, but the only response you have for the vast mysteries around.

It was a kind of "emo" that, as years went on, became confused with negative angst, fear & insecurity. I try not to promote that kind of emo anymore.

But tonight I'm emo. Sweetly emo. Like I-am-filled-with-joy-because-God-has-given-me-so-much-more-than-I-deserve and I-am-filled-with-sad-sweet-love-for-the-beauty-God-has-created and deep-in-my-soul-I-long-to-see-the-majesty-of-God. Enjoying being human, enjoying feeling, enjoying the inbuilt desire for beauty.

The other morning, after staying up unprudently as late as I usually stay up, or a perhaps just a little later, I had an especially epic waking up experience.

I maintain a 70-minute "snooze" bracket, during which I intensify the pleasure of sleeping by waking myself up every ten minutes to remind myself that I'm asleep. If you've never formed this habit you wouldn't understand.

Somewhere around 8:30 I decided I should go ahead and get up. (The hard deadline for getting up is 9*, but 8:30 is a far more comfortable time to get up.) Since I was up and it was 8:30, I decided I could certainly take the time to put in my contacts. I opened the contacts case, and I noticed my contacts were blue. I don't have blue contacts. I've tried them on before, and it would be fun to have a pair, but the fact is, I don't have them. So I knew they weren't real. But I was like "hey, as long as I seem to have them, I might as well put them in and see how they look." (Like, if I got a love letter from a secret admirer, and I realized no such secret admirer existed, I'd still want to read it if it were legible and the words didn't dribble off the page...).

*8:50 real time, I think. I try not to know precisely how far off my clock is.

But when I tried to put one of the contacts in, I realized it was way too big for my eyeball. I put more solution on it and washed it and tried again, but whenever I raised it to my eyeball it was too big to get in past my eyelids. I was like okay, these are some funky contact lenses. They weren't even just blue anymore, they were like entire eyeball-covering lenses that made the white part of your eye look really white. They also were like alien or weird eyes, like costume contacts.

Probably about then my alarm went off again and I verified I was still in bed and another ten minutes of my morning was gone. I think I got up and went to work, but I don't remember for sure because the alarm went off again and I was back in bed. Finally, toward 9 I fought off the blanket and assessed my state of sleeping-in. Apparently with all those snoozes I'd been sleepwalking and stuff, because I had my work clothes halfway pulled on over my pajamas and other various chaos. Then the door opened and two friends of mine came in the room. Apparently this had all been a prank. I sat up and said, "Well anyway, I need to get up and go to work."

They were like, Um, it's Saturday.

I fell back in bed with a sigh of relief. Duh, all that snoozing for nothing. That's right, come to think of it... the day before was friday. This was Saturday. No worries. Peace. Calm. Rest.

Beep.

Beep.

9:00.

"No, it's NOT Saturday," I said emphatically, and genuinely got up. Really.

2, 314, 12, 4, 85, 7, 28, and the value of a life.

Does anybody ever agonize over just how to shape a written character? Sometimes I'll perfect a letter and leave it alone. I've settled on a cursive F right now, don't remember where I picked up the shape...

(or what about this:

1ne

2wo

3hree

4our

5ive

6ix

7even

8ight

9ine)

I'm no mathematician, but I like some numbers. Sometimes I associate numbers with people, or with myself. I'll think, "So-and-so just *is* the number -- and I don't know why." Sometimes it has to do with the personalities of lower numbers. Because around the age of 3 or 4 I began learning those lower numbers, and associating them with images and people who bore those ages.I like the numbers that make up my birthdate. They are, well, good numbers. Now, the number 4 is not anywhere in my birthdate, but somehow I equate it with my name, Hannah. Maybe because on an upside-down calculator, 4 is what I would type for h's and n's. 484484. Maybe because I was about 4 when I learned the numbers. (My second-eldest sister is distinctly 8... though she's also a pretty good 14, 16. I remember her 14th birthday well. Meanwhile my oldest sister is more like 9, 11.)

I'm currently agonizing over how to achieve a "4" character that I like. Naturally, there's always the question of which general shape to start with: square or triangle. AKA, L with a slash, or the triangle "closed" type. I've done both. I don't remember which I learned first, because almost right away I realized there were two ways. Either way, when I would switch, it was because I felt the former was the dumb way to do it.

Sevens were pretty much an upside-down L, without the hook on the end. Then I saw my neighbor draw a 7 with a hook on the overhang. My world was shaken. Ever since then, I've considered that hook an extra bit of flair to include. Not to mention the horizontal slash that, somehow, clarifies a 7 from a 1.

But that 4..... man, it's a tough one. It's just as hard as an H. H, the first letter of my name, and I've always agonized over it. The height of the slash affects the personality of the H so much, right along with the angles of the verticles. Bored yet? I can think about this for hours. Not just this, of course, but along with whatever else is important at the time.

4, like H, can be very plain or very artistic in presentation. The one in this font is not bad. It's close, with a slightly bolder vertical than the other lines. But I look at it and think, "but it's supposed to be open." But if it were square, I'd say, "Square is ugly. It should be closed." Like I wrote recently on a message board, how a play on words can sometimes drive me nuts, "like a snappy clip *photo* that you that you open, close, open, close, but neither the state of open or closed are satisfying--there's spring tension either way--so you keep clicking it til someone punches you."

I just saw a mention of July 4. I guess I've always identified with that holiday because it's in the same month as my birthday.

The thing is, I've seen some elegant old handwriting, and "back then", people learned to form their characters *awesomely* (but not painstakingly...that's the beauty of it. Scritch, scratch, voila!). Who decided penmanship didn't matter anymore? It's not just about neatness or readabilitiy, it's about beauty. I've always written quickly and chaotically; sometimes I'll slow down and carefully form every letter depending on the impression I want to make, but generally I try to be honest: my handwriting reflects my mood, my attitude, my vulnerability, my honesty, and my lack of discipline. I'm not saying that writing nicely is pretentious. On the contrary, just like you clean house for guests, there are times to write carefully and neatly. There are times to write like bug tracks. My handwriting is something I continue to develop over time, just like language. My native language is still plastic, open not just to new vocabulary, but new complex sentence structures. In the meantime, I cheat a lot. If the point is to get it written down, I don't waste time holding to an unspoken standard.

But I imagine someday, having perfected my personal script *pfft!,* travelling back in time to a rigidly disciplined classroom. My ruler cracks down on a desk. "Look at that four! It looks as bored as a mummy at chamber concert! Show me some real appreciation for music." or, "Whatever you do, please make your eights look happy. Confident. See this? This is a wasp that has been stepped on. Please, no crushed Apocrita exoskeletons on your exam tomorrow."

Here's the deal with the 4. I want to perfect a 4 that is both open and closed. It's a triangle, but the two verticals don't quite touch. In fact, they have to respect each others' space, while dancing closely. None of this Almost-Cross-But-Not-Quite-Because-Teacher-Says-So. Nope. Scritch, scratch, voila. Leaning, but not resting. Resisting, but not tense. Did you know tiny hash marks had so much personality? Ok maybe they don't. I'm crazy and should go offline.

Nope I'm talking more about it. The L-shape of the 4...I think the trick is the illusion that it sticks up higher than it does, but it's really quite short L with a long horizontal. The tall right vertical shouldn't curl away, because it's the support of the pair and should not abhor the complicated, subjective L that is so hard to shape correctly. The vertical should have a slight curve to it--nonchalant but responsible. A 4 with a very tall vertical and little L looks nice but oh way too snobby for my personal handwriting. See last image in this post. :)

Interesting. I have just decided that the best 4's come when I aim for an honest, no-frills vertical. And I think that's what I've been looking for. Now I can lay the subject to rest. Good night. I mean after I load in samples and comment on each one.

At the end of the day, I like seeing the different ways people write, without judgment, but with observation. Here are some fours I experimented with as I wrote the above post, trying to find what I could do to repeat the effect I want.

pretty cool, but I like the L to cross the vertical.

a little stodgy. Well balanced, but a bit sad looking.

maybe a bit too snazzy, but optimistic at least... it's kinda like a swastika waiting to happen, but it would be a good, pre-nazi swastika of good luck.

Well balanced, actually; I do think the L is a bit high, but I do like it.

kicking back... kinda rickety

the angle of the horizontal slash is anxious

cozy in a sans-serif way

here's style, but the L is too low

the cautious curve of the verticle, hm. Counter intuitive. Not stable.

Nice classic triangle style. Really, I've got nothing critical to say to this, even if everyone else in the world went for the square kind.

Too studiously "not-quite-touching"

What? what's this? Ah, it's a 4 that says, "hang this all, you know what I am, stop blurring the idea of absolute truth, at the end of the day a 4 is a 4; not a 0, 1, 2, 3, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9! You know you love me." And I say "You're right. My judgment of appearances has nothing to do with my appreciation of your being, and I like your confidence."

Here's flair, but the personality but the verticals have opposite personalities.

This one is trying to be many things besides a 4. Maybe it's a 4 in A's clothing or vice versa.

Hmm. This 4 is narcissistic, far more intent on looks than integrity.

This one has wonderful intentions, but is not comfortable with itself.

This 4 is nice but does not have particular the harmony I seek.

This 4 is afraid of progress.

Good, I think this is one where I aimed for a straight vertical, resulting in a natural slight curve. The L is a bit too jaunty for my goal, but otherwise, would earn an A in my fabled penmanship class.

This is the "snobby" one.

The thing is, they are all 4... they are all fully, functionally 4. It's easy to point out their faults as related to some invisible aesthetic, but the fact is, if someone tortured me with nothing but white walls, pink noise, and snowstorm television, how deeply beautiful I would find a few definitive marks with meaning. Meaning. Visual aesthetics are only possible when applied to objects that already fall into some kind of order of deeper significance. So it's kind of funny to think we place so much importance on appearances, when our existence, the spark of life itself, is the most precious thing we have, enabling us to waste time if we choose, wondering about the meaning of life. Or how to draw a 4.

A couple days I posted this article in a hodgepodge post, but after thinking about it more, I wanted to separate it from that post, with no particular flair:


http://www.christianitytoday.com/ct/2009/august/16.22.html


I don't think his point is that people should rush to get married. He's not commanding anybody to run and find someone to marry--that behavior is probably where early marriage goes wrong. I do think he's suggesting that people don't gain something by waiting for the sake of waiting.

I don't have my own paper to write on the subject. I just thought his was an agreeable assessment of what's going on. Observing doesn't change anything. But it can be somewhat validating.

Thundershower

The downpour.

The pause.

The rumble.

Unpause.

So, I am pleased to report a lovely raining sound coming in my skylight. In fact, I think I need to go record it. There. 5 minutes of good rain, and now I'm listening to see if I'll be able to hear the spring peepers in the background that began shouting their first peeps of the year! This is a long overdue fulfillment of a promise I made to a friend who said he'd like to have a recording of rain.

Here's something I've been wanting to write about:

"Lord, help me

be

the one You're making me...

Lord, help me

see

the one You're making me---one You're making me...."--Downhere

Downhere's self-titled album has been my favorite in the car lately, resounding the themes of my heart, as not long ago, So Much For Substitutes did.

Lord... help me be the one You're making me... I have never felt more earnest in my quest, though at times I more adamantly pursued more "obviously" mission-oriented things. What I am pursuing now is to work hard at what I do, with a mission mindset. Surrendering not just the direction of my life, but little daily things that I feel are nasty little parts of me, but I now know the Holy Spirit can work on, apart from my abilities! Outbursts of frustration, even when they're just in my head. Fears. The self hatred that knocks at the door when I remember something I said imperfectly. Sometimes the fist of my own self is holding onto fear or anger-- and that too, I surrender. In surrender the heart relaxes and says, Wow, You really mean this? You really mean you died to take this all away? You really forgive me? I really don't need to clench my shoulders in defiance? for there's nothing better than Your healing hand--I don't have to understand what You're doing, because I can be certain it's good.... I'd say that's worth it! Peace of heart. My Father, as I walk, is watching and guiding me. He gave me senses, but he also knows their limits. So I'll use my senses... and trust Him.

"Curious, the child tugs the fingers of the bigger--he wants to see the face that is his own; he's not alone.

Lord, help me

be

the one you're making me."--Downhere

----

Another realization...... scribbled down at work the other day,

"No shame following someone's lead

if you feel you'd be happy to do it if you thought of it yourself."

A.K.A. Don't cripple yourself by insisted on 100% originality. There's no such thing. And doing something because it makes sense is not the same as blindly imitating. Following is not bad. It's what you follow.

Vacation

That's what I feel today is. One single day off work. I didn't sleep in much, but scrambled around packing for a weekend trip I'm about to take. I had a deadline to make--a teeth cleaning appointment. Teeth cleaning doesn't bother me. They don't feel any different now, which probably means I've been keeping them pretty clean.

I'm already 45 minutes into the total 4 hour trip of today, but I don't need to get to my destination til 5 or 6. So I'm simply relaxing at a coffee shop. Really relaxing. It feels like so long since I sank blissfully into the soothing company of strangers. The babble of voices that are in no way directed at me. A gentleman sits on the other side of this side table working a crossword, and we feel no need to explain our existences to each other.

On the high ceiling--corrugated metal it is--there are huge nails sticking through, like the roofing is the very next layer, and was attached with liberal nail gunning. And I think, "While I am in here I should hope gravity remains toward and not away from the center of the earth."

Not worrying about tomorrow:

worrying--caring-- I asked my Dad about the original Greek of the word. He found the same word for worry in the verse about not worrying about the morrow, is used in verses that tellpeople to care for one another. I asked because in older English, the word "worry" referred more to a haggling/wrestling. Like a dog "worrying at" a bone.

I can see how the word could have positive as well as negative connotations. Care for one another. Be engaged in your concern for your brothers and sisters in Christ, not just "hi how are you? good. 'bye." But don't take that same multi-dimensional concern into your thought life about your future. I can spend all day exploring imaginary pathways into the future, wrestling with ideas and schemes. But there's such peace in recognizing my helplessness, and resting in the present. A time to plan, I suppose, and a time to enjoy the present. I'm off work today, and blogging in a coffee shop full of sunny chatter, is rest for me.

I should start thinking about hitting the road. I look forward to some pitch exercises while driving. Do re, do mi, do fa, do sol. First, though, I might get a bit of cheese cake. No rush.

One thing about this weekend is that my friend's dad is hooking me up with some used sound equipment. I don't know what to expect, and I'm intrigued by this development. And, great gherkins, I just realized I forgot to pack "the Yamaha Sound Reinforcement Handbook."

Blue

I geeked out at Walmart today because there's a new line of makeup, really geared for teenagers. Mascaras in brilliant colors that have nothing to do with natural looks. Etc, etc. I mention the mascara because that's what made me smile. I got one that falls in the range of blues I'm forever attracted to. For many years I've studiously said that all colors are my favorite--a color alone is just not the same as a color next to another---- but I have to say. Any blue in a range of royal blue to deep cerulean, has to be about the best.

Then, as I drove home, the sky ahead of me was saturated cerulean with the burnt orange blend, and in my rear view mirror the sky was the deepest royal blue imaginable. Ah. Philosophically I like a gray sky. It's easier to drive on a gray day. Good moody clouds sometimes reflect my thoughts. But in the end, I realized, I am so glad the sky is blue. The lofty reaches of the heavens: blue: deep, rich. Blue.

Sky. Water. Water colored by tanic acid: ripples of dark blue, light blue, rich brown.

This makes me want to paint.

Thank You.

Tired

keep your chin up.

Fed up.

Swallow.

Failure.

Don't back down.

Complain.

Stuff it.

Self conscious.

Keep smiling.

Disconnected.

So is half the world.

I guess I'm not the only one

so I'll stay if you will, and fight.

Sometimes I could just lay down and die

because I'm afraid of this fear I wear.

Look in the mirror and see my natural face---

I miss the makeup, that other me.

Sometimes I could just lay down and cry

imprisoned in slow-motion corporate machinery

when I really want to dance,

to shake my body, to punch the air, stamp the ground.

I looked inside my heart and saw a horrible vision

of death and black, dirty decay.

Tell me it was a lie?

Tell me I'm clean?

I want to come out of this prison

and laugh at death once more

But I fear the God of old Israel

who seemed then to want fearful reverence

I just can't keep myself sorted.

Does He want my feet or my hands?

I could be happy with so much less

I'm needing so much more.

Because I've got it so good

& I've got it so bad.

-----

The above I wrote at work the other day. Some days I feel I could explode as I constrain my energy to the slow-moving but flurried pace my tasks require. The pent up energy stays in my head, and I analyze things into the ground. Other days I'm joyful and not bothered by the speed of the clock's hands. Generally, when the nature of a task allows me to listen to my ipod, I have the joy of listening to some downhere, Derek Webb, and podcasts by Ravi Zacharias. Occasionally, however, there's a day where even that doesn't help.

Sometimes makes me question my mental health, but I see trends affecting my mood & energy. Caffeine, breakfast, sleep, all play in for sure, and I'm not consistent with any of those factors. Water intake probably matters too, and I'm not consistent with that. Nor have I gone out of my way to exercise for months (I know myself enough to say when spring hits, I'll be out running, but that doesn't solve the winter problem).

But one big factor I've spent most of my life not giving much space to, is how my day is affected by starting it out in surrender. And then, thought by thought, impulse by impulse, surrendering my entire day to God. I'm like a battery that, by neglect, has grown so weak that I can't even hold a charge. So, staying on the charger. It's making such a difference.

My emo relapse this evening is a standard self-conscious reaction to all the video editing I've been doing from the Downhomie Palooza last summer, where I took it upon myself to be a really ridiculous narrator of the whole weekend retreat. It was a blast at the time, and I had a blast recently showing the videos to another downhomie, but alone, being as amateur of an editor as I was videographer (my aim & steadiness grew more careless as the weekend progressed. Kinda matches the outlandish narrating.) But to sit there editing--seeing myself, my expressions, from the outside instead of the inside--it brings on a self awareness I'd rather not have. Next time I'd love to do it again, but with a real video camera, and a steadier hand, and a slightly calmer behavior.

Anyway. I also just blew my evening on the computer, something I was trying to stop doing by getting off facebook and Twitter. Fact is, I somewhat miss facebook, and much more, miss Twitter. I miss being able to shout out to people. Technically I have access to all the same people through other means, but I haven't bothered. Okay, so I got a bit of laundry done and some work on the video, which is itself hard to pin down as a valuable work or not. People will laugh at times, maybe tear up a bit other times, and to finish it will be to follow through with something I promised. I guess my disillusionment with computer stuff is how intangible the results are.

Which leads me to something that happened today that was exciting!! Something broke! Why should I rejoice that something broke? I was having a fine time copying hundreds and hundreds of papers, when the copier jammed. I opened it up, saw the paper scrunched up like an accordion folder. Pulled on it.... and suddenly I saw chunks of red rubber! I backed away and said "Oooh, not good! bad news! May day! May day!" People are used to my mutterings, and the bosses were in the back of the room looking at a scanner, but the our delivery driver happened by, and reached in and pulled out one of the pieces of rubber. We tested the copier and it seemed to still work, but in one spot the toner wasn't sticking. So we stopped the copying process, I switched to scanning, and I felt a general sense of upliftedness.

I asked myself, why do I get a kick out of this? Making copies happens to be my favorite task, so I wasn't excited because of switching out. But it's a spot of excitement in the day? But really, there's such a sense of relief--release of tension. Why? My best guess is that, I spend so much time thinking and pondering intangible problems I can't do anything about. Here, suddenly, is something that's broken. Not maybe broken, but certainly broken. And there's a solution. Call the service guy. He comes. He knows what's wrong, he replaces the part, and that's that.

I know I'm a sinner, I know Jesus Christ is the one who fixes that. But sometimes there is so much more on my mind than whether I told a lie, thought a wrong thought. I think constantly about creating art, finding clients, writing, getting a place of my own, and then battling with the discontentment, impatience, and covetousness that fills my thoughts.

It was in one of the appendices of Desiring God that Piper wrote, number 11 in a 15-section list of ways to fight for joy: "Get the rest, exercise, and proper diet that your body was designed by God to have." Sometimes I make such a separation of my spiritual life and my physical life that I feel no motivation to do what's right physically. I loved this comment: "What brought light to this perplexity is that one of the ways the Spirit produces His fruit in our lives is by humbling us enough to believe that we are not God and that God can run the world without our staying up too late and getting up too early." Yes, I'm guilty often of staying up late with the idea that I had yet something to accomplish, some way to redeem a long day full of wasted moments.

But no--the day is at an end and it's time to say, "Lord, this morning I offered my day to You, even as I rolled out of bed and set out to take it back. I offered it to You a few more times, and I felt your love... who am I to say how well I served you today? I don't feel good about how it went. I tried to be kind. But later I hid. I tried to share. But then I fell into the pool whose reflective surface I'd been staring at. I hate it when I spend that much time thinking about myself, God. But one miraculous breath at a time, You showed that You still have a purpose here for me. As I heard a fine speaker say recently, here's the paper you gave me--I scribbled on it, I ruined it. Can I have another? Tomorrow can you help me breathe again--and move--and have my being? Your kingdom come--Your will be done, for thine is the kingdom, the power, the glory, for ever and ever. Amen."

Tales From The Vienna Woods

If you can get your hands on this piece of classical music, listen to it and let your imagination form its own story before reading this. Otherwise--here is the romance as the music told it to me.

Fade in: A foggy overcast morning looking across a valley at a dark forest.

0: 20 A castle. Tall, powerful.

0:37 Waking up--zoom in, and the quiet morning isn't so quiet as there is hustle & bustle within the castle walls,

0:50 the drawbridge comes down, soldiers march along the walls. All is well.

1:12A young man comes walking out of the castle, along the moat. He's a picture, he's a word, he's a presence, he's a solemn, pleasant melody.

1:40 He walks across a damp field,

1:55 along the shore of a lake where waterfowl are waking in the foggy brightening morning.

2:08 Then he sees her.

2:14 She's a picture, she's a word, she's a presence, she's the same melody on a different instrument; she looks shyly at him and the air sings delicately.

2:30 the melody is perfect. Though the notes are the same as what they've known in themselves, to see the same tune on a different person is a delight.

2:45 Smiles of mutual recognition; they take hands. They dance a little jig, and you see snapshots of them walking and talking through some months or a year.

3:10

Pomp & ceremony: what else, but a wedding with lots of waltzing!

They dance with friends & relatives, with important people.

4:20 The last dance of the wedding is theirs--to the same tune the air sang around them separately, but with the joviality of a wedding feast instead of the holy awe of their first acquaintance.

The dance goes on, but the pictures blends from the wedding into a waltz through life--

(5:15) festivals come and go; parasols and prams and gentler walks.

5:50 Now they're middle aged--the waltz is a little more stately. Strong, robust, but with more goals and task orientation; less fluid.

6:23 What's that--the children marrying? first grandchildren? These changes are sad and joyous. A little sigh, but this is natural and good; a new measure of life.

7:24 ??? children whining and running all over the garden?

7:45 Behave now, grandchildren... grandma's on a float in a parade, proudly waving like a queen.

8:30 The house is emptier now, but the two find their steps are a little lighter for it, and now, the waltz is freshened and clumsy by toddler grandchildren joining in.

9:00 And the grandchildren are now...in their young way... gaining gracefulness, and life is speeding up again.

9:40 In fact, what's this modernity coming about--trains and big steam ships? Life is getting more hurried as the couple is slowing down.

10:00 The dance is halting, slower, but the two know each other so well, in each others' arms they still dance like they did at their wedding. In fact, an observer forgets they're older and halting, and sees two who are in love, dancing like the wind. A great ceremony of celebration is held for their 70th wedding anniversary. What a tiring day, by the end....

11:50 but here they are now alone, two very old people who never stopped loving each other completely (see Portrait of a Marriage by Pearl S. Buck). He looks at her; she looks at him--their faces light up with tender sweetness. She doesn't see an old faded face; she sees the good soul that has embraced hers all these years; a face smoothed slightly, perhaps, through misty eyes. The melody sings as young and delicate as ever, sparkles like tears of joy. The exact same tune unbelievably deeper and sweeter in light of the many journeys they danced through in life--they have never forgotten the beauty of the moment, of their complementariness. They barely need murmur the words: "It's been a good life, my dear, my love."

12:25 The. End. Into the land of eternal sunshine.

Rip What You Sew

the young and the old-- the mortar of this life.

Look out for them, you middle aged.

You're a brick, you're a beam, you're the structure is what you say.

Not for long, and you hide from the eyes sinking deeper in the glass

'cause not long will it be and your parents will be gone

and you'll have no where to face but behind you at the children you neglected

and who learned from your rejection of the old.

Should the children feel grateful if permitted from conception to the crib?

The old for not being put to sleep?

Is being from a previous era of thought the same as inexperience? no!

Is being a blank canvas with no experiences the same as inhuman? no!

Dare any judge the value of a life as less than worth fair nurture?

Children are raised, the middle ones age.

Children are not children for long, but that brief window is eternity for them; remember?

They'll call the shots in a little while, and you're teaching them not to save a place for you.

And I say to you who want to do away with the weak, the young, the old,

you'll reap what you sow...when your mind is still on target

but your body's broken down,

and the people walk away and leave you cold

will you wave a feeble hand and weep for little children who are murdered by the laws you sought to pass?

But now you're young and in your prime, say "call me sister not your mama"

You're fighting for the right to be alone and without guilt

fighting with your words to say that words don't have to mean

a thing unless you say they do; let's call it ripping what you sew.

Like rain

Rain.

Drip, drop

(or rush).

Who could ask for a more comforting sound?

It's like a rush of purification, sometimes violent, sometimes most gentle.

It's not just similar in my mind, but almost synonymous, with redemption.

Saturation.

Drenched.

Standing in it, you're soaked and vulnerable to whatever wind there may be--

or maybe you carry an umbrella and delight in the nearness to the weather without getting too wet.

Water, liquid, thirst, quench,.... Ahh.

Followed by a warm dry towel; your hair ratty & wet as you sip tea or chocolate.

Perhaps there was a time when I was a child when rainy days meant boredom and blah. But now I couldn't ask for something more beautiful. Gray skies are thoughtful, not weary; they are honest, not mean; rain is a re-ordering of elements, a redemption of all things colored by dirty dusty days.

Rain in my soul; may I endure suffering like the earth. Frosts tills the ground; then comes the rain, that plants may grow and for a greater good.

In the rain, new colors show. Rocks show deeply brilliant colors. Plants are more vibrant. Yes, rain may break some things down, but it nourishes and washes.

----

What wondrous love is this, O my soul, O my soul!
What wondrous love is this, O my soul!
What wondrous love is this that caused the Lord of bliss
To bear the dreadful curse for my soul, for my soul,
To bear the dreadful curse for my soul.

When I was sinking down, sinking down, sinking down,
When I was sinking down, sinking down,
When I was sinking down beneath God’s righteous frown,
Christ laid aside His crown for my soul, for my soul,
Christ laid aside His crown for my soul.

To God and to the Lamb, I will sing, I will sing;
To God and to the Lamb, I will sing.
To God and to the Lamb Who is the great “I Am”;
While millions join the theme, I will sing, I will sing;
While millions join the theme, I will sing.

And when from death I’m free, I’ll sing on, I’ll sing on;
And when from death I’m free, I’ll sing on.
And when from death I’m free, I’ll sing and joyful be;
And through eternity, I’ll sing on, I’ll sing on;
And through eternity, I’ll sing on.

Rapunzel

When there's no strength for detail

there's the ease of poetry.

When the rain is too cold for poetry,

there are wordless hymns.

When the piano is out of tune and won't sing,

what is there to do but stand on the roof in the rain

and praise the God who allows good and pain.

We wallow in excesses,

some made by God,

some snatched by us.

So designed for the beauty of refining. Distilling. Diminishing. Purifying.

Ghosts Books, for starters

Old books in their latter days

first rejected by the tv-sated teenager,

cast aside by the homeschool mom at the booksale

(and the semi-intellectual bachelor passing through)

piled and piled in a dark storage room.

Finally, rejected too many times; marked for destruction.

Books with real spines.

True literature, history written as it was made. Culture.

But what does it matter? Weighted down by all that Is today, why should I cry for dead books of yesterday?

Gathered by eager young hands, the old are given one last chance--to be wrenched apart and filled with blank pages,to give a vintage appearance to a journal-- stealing the cover, trashing the heart.

Oh this feels like such a wrong... such a crime... a book represents so much heart, someone wrote it, someone forgotten, someone loved, someone lovely, someone lonely, someone funny. Oh God, can we know everyone someday, in eternity? Someday can we take the time, and time again to know the hearts that have come and gone? Can those ideas and dreams be disinterred and reexamined and appreciated? Or is all this a wretched futility you want us to let go of, to bask in your presences, forgetting all else, an eternal nirvana?

Feels like such a wrong, such a crime, because everything in life for me--every sentence, every joke, every picture, every leaf, is a parable for a soul, for life, lives, living, people, community. It's just a book--the earth spinning most certainly does NOT depend on preserving the words therein....

but oh, I my heart keens.

Wish I could renounce everything in life but reading for a year to do justice to libraries and the written word. Would we read "broken" literature in Eternity? my heart is surely so wrong in this. My caring is not for the books, I could wake up tomorrow being quite "over" this subject. It's for decrepitness... decay... work... THOUGHTS... gone to waste... Ecclesiastes... none of it matters, does it? Millions of books go to show we can't fight the truth of Ecclesiastes; even a heart willing to remember the works of the past can't keep up with the present and the past and dreams of the future all at once.

Oh why, oh why. I am so frustrated with the analog of time, the one-way dimension. Why can't time go sideways--why can't I in a moment stop and read for a year, then continue on with real life?

conclusion...Dissatisfaction like this is beautiful, beautiful in my undisciplined, unordered life. Given the choice to wander throughout time as I pleased, I'd completely lose track of what is forward or backward. As in fact all natural laws are wonderful in their confinement. Laws, in fact, are wonderful things in their unifying element. Jumping from natural laws to cultural laws, I wish we had more social rules that were generally held to. Not that casually people must adhere to them, but that if you are in a strange setting, you can default to a certain polite set of rules where you "can't go wrong." And I don't mean table manners, but things like how long you stay at someone's house when you dropped in, what dating is.... My personal conviction is that dating should be encouraged among young people--going on dates with people you're not romantically interested in, but doing each other the honor of getting to know each other as equally-valuable human beings. I am so fed up with the unspoken "You are not mate material so your mind & heart don't matter."

But that comes back to the castoff-book collection dilemma. We have to make choices, choices of elimination! Our human limitations absolutely require it! Even God in human form couldn't spend time one on one with every person. That's not what he was here for. But if we all followed His example, nobody would go untouched, unheart, unloved. Likewise (this is backwards, I should say this part first...) if everyone read as much as they should, no proper book would go untouched, unread, ignored.

So for books, all I can do is practice reading, and encourage others to read, and let go my a "savior-of-books complex". Besides, I have other interests.

And for people, I also need to practice what I preach. Love spreads. But a drop of water can only spread so far on a piece of paper, if more water doesn't come from somewhere. There's One, who says

"Come to me."

(we say, wait til we've cleaned up)

"Come to me."

(We say, hold on, we're really messy. just a minute.)

"Come to me."

(We say, I'm sorry, I've gone too far, I don't even have the strength to shed this dirty cloak.)

"Come to me."

(We say, it hurts to look at You, You so clean, me so filthy. Let me hide for a while and sleep off my guilt; then I will come and acknowledge yesterday's sin with the right kind of sorrow.)

"Come to me! I am the one who washes you clean. I am the one who changes you. Come to me when you are filthy, broken, nasty, and lazy. Your dirt can't rub off on me. Come to me."

And so often, in the end, it is He who comes to us. He gives us living water, and when we are standing in that wonderful downpour, we can't touch our surroundings without leaving a mark. Strategy, apologetics, and all the goodwill in the world will only accomplish as much as the sum of efforts. God is an external source of love, light, and washing... refreshing cleanliness. You don't get the clean-feeling by hiding in the basement, or by beating yourself, or by depriving yourself. You get the clean-feeling by stepping under the rushing water, and letting the dirt wash down the drain. Wash me clean, Lord, day after day. Dirt still sticks to me, God.... wash me, wash me... and wash me again, I am dirty and I have dirty people to touch.