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.

in terms of mean and nice

Because I am too pathetic to actually pursue my dreams very emphatically, I sometimes think of writing them out. Start a blog that pretends I am indeed an artist living in an RV, traveling with mild weather.

Here would my blog about a month in....

hrumph...(clears throat for story-telling)

February 16, 2010

The other day I parked at some old acquaintances' home in Birmingham, AL. I ran over their mailbox on the way in. How did this 1985 Winnebago make it all these years and all these miles without mishap? It's the same age as me, and though I've never broken a bone, I've had plenty of scrapes & bruises. I never thought I'd drive a semi, but I feel like this is one. Wish I had company on the road. But I'm not planning to be on the road all the time--it's the freedom to move, while keep my home with me, that I like. What an unheavenly idea! Anyway, about company. I've a mind to pick up random travelers. Oh dear, how quickly I'd become a traveling homeless shelter (lovely idea by itself) and lose my dream of a traveling studio.

They told me I could hang out here all winter if I want. Of course I won't, but it's nice to know I won't be overstaying my welcome if I hang around more than a couple weeks. I can't stay here too long because I know them. Even somewhat. I've got to get away from people I know, because of my insatiable sociability, even when I don't want to be social. I've got to go somewhere where everybody is mean! Mean and rude, and then I'll be like Fine, I'll stay in my trailer and you stay in yours, and I'll write some awesome stuff on my laptop, and I'll paint some awesome paintings, and I'll record some awesome music, but darnit, if you haven't picked up & left by then, I'll have found a way to give you some downhere music or something, and we'll be friends, and we'll

sit around the campfire, have a beer,

talk about the weather

look up at the stars.

you'll tell me horrible tales because you're mean, remember

and I'll say, that is horrible...

and I'll say, one time I had a nosebleed and I smeared it all over my face.

and you'll say something else horrible and I'll say, see the stars, how they praise God while you say such things.

Anyway I'm done inventing mean neighbors, I'm not very good at it. Mean people are the ones like me to just want to be alone to be creative, and that's not really mean but it seems like it. So those aren't the mean people. Mean people are the ones who hurt other people. I'd like to stay away from people like that. Mean person comes knocking on my RV door and I say "Who's there?"

"Mean person coming to hurt you."

"Go away, I am busy being creative. I don't have time for mean people like you unless you will be nice. See? I'm mean. You shouldn't have time for me!"

Anyway here I am in Birmingham. My habits are good so far, but I'm scared they'll slip any time. I made my bed, washed the dishes, and even did some dusting that didn't need done. Now that's good housekeeping if I ever heard of it. Blech.

I have maps on the wall. I have a map with stars for all the cities in the North America where I know people. It's pretty amazing. My downhomie friends make the constellation a bit starrier than it was before 2008.

I also have a phone list I made for my current city--B'ham-- of a bunch of venues where I can regularly seek piano gigs while I'm here. And of course a big calendar next to that list. Several gigs written in.

Biggest problem is this. this isn't big enough for an art studio. Shouldn't've compromised on space! I can't paint in cramped conditions. So the beginning premise of this venture is already doomed. Gah! And sound carries too easily out of the RV, which takes away my sense of privacy when I'm composing music. So I think I'll go home now to December, 2009, and call my friend like I need to, and unbuy this RV (heaven knows where I'll find another one like it), and put on my winter clothes again... and yeah, unvisit these people in B'ham that I haven't seen in like 10 years. Sorry, B'ham friends. Goodbye.

Proportions of a song

Take it out of context and it still has its shape

(as it plays in your head) like a square is a square whether it's a ten foot square of concrete or a square on a checkerboard. A sphere can be a marble or the earth.

A sphere is not "a sphere in comparison to a square."

A square does not need a contrasting circle to be a square.

Dimensions are needed for physical objects. But in your head, dimensions are only relevant if you're comparing an object to something else. But what is certain is proportion. Proportion is what identifies a sphere or a square, or... a melody.

So it is I can have a song in my head, a song which somebody else composed and which I know well. I savor a rather accurate representation of the song, only to find, when I open my vocal chords with the intention to hum along, that the song in my head is in no key. It's free as an untethered bird in my head. I can chase it all around the circle of fifths, and it's not attached anywhere! Even the voices in the song retain their respective qualities, without being attached to a particular key, which would be impossible in the physical world. If I try to hum along out loud, I may find the song is, in dimensional terms, very low, or very high. But as long as I don't try and match the song with my voice, there is no low or high in untethered head-music, except within the song.

Thus I love roman-numerals in music theory rather than specific keys. I'm thinking people with perfect pitch would not be able to relate to the above, because as I understand it, the notes in their head correlate to real life pitches.

Madness, Mukluks, and Mortality

and snow.

I don't get much done Tuesday nights. That is, not of my list of to-do's. That's because Tuesday nights my family gets together in the living room (overflowing somewhat into the dining room) to share, in turn, what we've been reading/learning from the Bible. It's one of the more structured activities that happens in my family.

This evening as we took our turns, the sleet outside turned to snow, quickly piling up. I heard the music of snowy winds raising voice. And eventually the muffled thumping, scraping of a snowplow. And I thought, Later tonight, I am going to bundle up, and go walking in the snowfall. Even if nobody will come with. I briefly fantasized about

tromping up the street,

making the first tracks,

snow falling in my face.

At some point, it doesn't matter how well you're bundled up:

it's not enough to just be a

muffled tourist of the first snowfall. It's not THAT cold.

So you sit down or lie down in it.

You sink into the

magic that is made of

a billion tiny ice crystals.

It's not that cold. It's quiet.

Your thoughts don't even echo,

so they stop running around so fast.

Why, it would be easy to fall asleep out here, in the snow, snow still falling, world so quiet.

Can I gather up a blanket of it to carry back with me?

I am going to buy some real boots this year. So there's no boot-question keeping me from actually tromping out in the snow to eat it up.

....Well....

After family time, I came upstairs to my room. Before I had a chance to check out the snowfall accumulation (I'd love to have a minor snow emergency; we rarely get them here...) I heard something else on the skylight. Rain. A wonderful pitter-pat that did not sound so wonderful.

With a wail I ran to the window. Indeed, that 1-2 inch blanket of snow that had piled up in minutes was now on its way back to the river.

I ran downstairs to take a better look out the front door, mourning the whole way. On the porch, I thought, Maybe It Is Freezing Rain. Reaching over the railing, I trailed a frond of dripping shrubbery across my palm. It did not feel very frozen.

Stomping my feet on the mat when I walked back in, my dad said, "Hey Hannah." "What?" "On the upside, if it thaws, I can install the new storm door I just bought for the kitchen."

Knowing how old that kitchen door is, it would be a sad thing to have bought the storm door and then never actually install it til Spring.

"Okay."

"I mean, maybe it helps to think of it that way."

"Yeah, it helps... that does it for me!"

And thus I am content to wait a little longer for that dreamy blanket of snow, although who knows what will happen with this storm by morning. (We're on the edge of it).

Music, My Love

For someone who hardly ever bothers to turn iTunes on when I'm on my computer, or to utilize my cd player/radio stereo, it's perhaps an audacious claim--but I say music is in my blood. It's intoxicating, it's heartbreaking. It's the classical music I heard all the time as a kid, Dvorak's New World Symphony transfused into my system. And when all the other genres I've embraced pour into the mix, it can be like vinegar and soda; it spills onto the piano in a wretched torrent of feelings and clumsy fingers. I am sure, I am so sure that Beethoven--when he could hear--and if he could restrain his rage at my lack of technical discipline--would know exactly what I was saying tonight on the piano. I don't even begin to suggest he would have thought me a great pianist. I'm severely undisciplined. It's ideas, ideas, feelings, sentences, questions, exasperation, insistence, acquiescence, the daughters of Jerusalem.. and I think Beethoven would have understood every word. And whatever beauty is behind the speckles will stay behind the speckles unless I let go of the purely experiential aspect. Trial by fire-refine it, tear it up, remake it, rediscover it, set it free. And so far, it's far easier to leave the music in its prime state, like a child cavorting in the forest, chopping at trees, picking flowers, with no shame or conscience that it's muddy and and lost, because in that world, home is never more than two or three chords away.