At this particular moment I must, almost in the delivery of a confession, without conviction, say that I do not consider that my birth began my original existence. Not yours. Not anyone’s.
On creative grounds, if on nothing else alone, I cannot accept the view of death taken by most everyone, and taken by myself for most of this life—on creative grounds I am therefore obligated to oppose that something so extraordinary as a human soul can be wiped away forever.
No, our dead are about us, shut off only by our metaphysical denial of them. It is as we lie nightly in our own little astral hemispheres asleep by the billions, our dead approach us in our dreams, sharing certain ideas upon the spectrum of our souls. It is possible that the dead may consider these ideas to be their nourishment.
And maybe, just maybe, it is that by seeing these ideas in our dreams come to life is all they really want in the realm of Eternity. And just like this particular idea of mine, all of our ideas could be considered as these sort of fallen leaves that maturity transforms within us as we approach the autumn of our lives.
Our souls are fields of fallen leaves that cover this life with layers of metaphor and spirituality. And there are times when we may find ourselves barren with boredom, and instead of getting creative to pass the time, we starve these ideas of our dreams with the aridity of our own doubt. We let them dry up and wither away, which yields our dead from ever harvesting the sweetness of life again, and this our dead do not like.
And for some of us, the time comes in our life that we burn a lamp upon our fields of ideas so that our dreams may set our soul ablaze. It is damn near dreadful to think of waiting for our dreams to illuminate our natural lives with all that is love and light. Especially when time has become of the essence of all that is oh so precious. So instead of think, one must light the flame in the cavern of their soul and see what shows itself.
It is by setting fire to our souls we see that the flames of divine love burn on the pyre of fervor, as our wildest dreams come to life. This is the ethereal eagerness of creative development, that burning of the mind that wipes the slate clean kind of thing.
But to take a seat and watch this short little life pass us by without looking to leave behind some kind of mark is to invite death on our way to rock bottom, only to shorten the timing of its demanding pursuit.
Don’t kid yourself though; the dead are with us, protecting us, living with us in our dreams, and within our hearts they live through us. They are always watching over us on this spun little sphere, which is our institute of freedom. In the next frontier, things are much more cosmic and clear; the kind of wide-open clarity that eats into freedom with a certain balance of bliss.
We are free on this earth because of cloudiness, because of human error, and because of marvelous contradiction of law and limitation. It is as much because of beauty and goodness as it is because of the blindness of evil. These have always gone hand and hand with freedom. Good and evil, like life and death, are two sides of a coin placed long ago in the mouth of the Departed.
If we lived only one of our days to the fullest, filled with consciousness and goodness, we would find the density of an entire lifetime in the simplicity of one day. But we have become so intricately dispersed with our distracted recreations that natural life must allow us tens of thousands of days so that we may finally come to understand…
“In every waking man, death dreams asleep.”
But there is hope for us yet, and it sleeps in the possibility to be more profound than we were long before and way beyond that of good and evil.
For now though that is all I have to say about this matter. The songbirds are rustling in the distance, the sun soon to waken. Besides, all of these thoughts about a dream of death are likely to be nothing but a waste of breath, and now the time has found me in a hurry, under such pressure—all this unfinished business.
It is of hope to me that some would come to discover that the most impenetrable landscape, that the most unusual adventures are the ones seen and experienced from within.
Clearly creativity springs from something that rises, rolls, surges, and spills into us rather than from something that just stands there hoping that we might, however circuitously, find our way to it. In this sense we never “lose” our creativity. It is always there, filling us or else colliding with whatever obstacles are placed in its path. If it finds no inlet to us, it backs up, gathers energy, and pushes forward until it breaks through. The only way we can muster its insistent energy is to spin it in a positive way as to continuously mount barriers against it, this is so it can be diverted away from the channels that are poisoned by the destructiveness of negativity and negligence.
If we are gasping for creative energy; if we have trouble holding onto the imaginative, the morality of our own creation; if we struggle to focus on our personal vision, acting on it, or following through with it, then something has gone wrong at the spring of the source, between the headwaters and the tributary. Perhaps one’s creative waters are flowing through a polluted environment, whereas the pollywogs of imagination are killed off before they can grow into maturity. But more so than not, if creativity is bereft of constant flow, sometimes you have to let it build, like a pile of driftwood gathering from a Spring runoff, holding its own, until it’s time had to come to break the damn levee…
My mind may have well gone ahead and volunteered for any one of the dozen marathons going on this time of year. It was moving constant and in all directions. These marathon states, how should I describe their phenomena? In a marathon state I infinitely lack something, my heart swells to the point of sickness, it feels like a tearing eagerness ripping at the fabric of my being. This two and a half, “going on twenty” year journey into the creative depths of myself has bled through a lot of things that spill from the core of me.
The sentient part of my soul often wishes to express itself in ways most are not accustomed to. There are some symptoms of an overdose of caffeinated emotion. Or it could be that these butterflies intermingled with a heavy heart and lightheadedness were just some subtle vibrational twitches in the direction of all things synchronistic and full of surprise. I have at times had sense of being the instrument of a higher power. I often feel that I’m either being used as an example of human error or as a mere shadow of the suitable things to come. Which in the sense of excitement and deliberate expectation, was pushing me closer to the edge.
I was not so completely unrealistic that I failed to ask myself whether by a sensible person I meant myself. It was evident I had become one of those proud sensitive kind of gentlemen who liked to give so much trouble because I have been adorned with this passion for such internal matters that seem of slight interest to any so-called sensible person.
As I found my way swimmingly to the edge of the bank, I gathered my things with what little bit of wit I had left. My smile went wide with the framework of contentment. I had fallen under the influence of all things speculative and metaphysical. It was time to approach the premises of universal eagerness, asserting that the appearance of mankind on this earth as a whole, was a good thing, a little bit more immature and held to a lower lack of accountability then generations passed, but nonetheless curable in the esoteric sense.
I was starting to become keen again, to the peculiarity of things, within the depths of which certain secular tendencies often touched on “not” telling the truth. It’s these thoughts that sent my mind into frenzy nowadays, with their accelerating rhythms and paradisiacal philosophical deliriums that provoked the explosion of layers of an unknown consciousness deep within me. It was my hope that by reducing the strength of these outlying forces, that I might not run through the fire, perpetually on the edge of chaos before throwing myself into the depths of the river, all the while panting with joy and amazement.
I was becoming altruistic in the realm of all that is romantic in a short period of time, this writing, somehow had it’s hand in the digging of the depths in the trenches where which I often dove headfirst. I often think that the sickness in my heart somehow spread into a sort of high-strung emotional poetic disorder. This is how I sometimes felt, and still do from time to time. Too often I am washed over with a sense of being, poisoned by an eagerness, and a congestion of tender impulses finessed with fever, spun with all of it’s enthusiastic dizziness. Love did after all bring out my deepest peculiarities.
It’s not to be considered a bad thing at all; I’d be one to guess that it belongs to the nature of this path that leads to my own sort of inner salvation. And so it is that owing to my eagerness, I began to connect breathing with joy again, and owing to the gloom of sickness, I looked to connect that joy with light, and owing to the absurdity of my own thoughts, I allied the light that shone upon the walls around me with the light that burned inside me.
I had materialized myself as one of those Hallelujah and Glory types. Furthermore concluding that man, this one in particular, is nothing but a continent of creative divide. One minute you are creating this, the next that. Though it belongs to those who are sensible, they are the ones who look to offer their personal experiences as a helpful lesson to the rest, hoping to energize the hearts and minds of others and do right by them—an intensive sort of public relations project. And for those who share no sensibility, or offer no empathy, let them be as they may. They will wake up sooner or later.
There are times when I see all of these thoughts of mine with copious amounts of idealism spread about. But there are other times when to me, all I see is pure external delirium, a toxic entity of animosity spreading far and wide, burning the fields of indigenous love, and sucking God’s Muse dry of Her very own blood. With everyone so sold on gold and the so-called good, it has become much easier to bat an eye at evil while we tuck it into bed for the night. But it is a certain gold that greed seeks, and there is certain honey hued Inner gold that builds and spills from within.
Some will only understand this once they themselves are sufficiently stripped of their hodgepodge of ideas, considering little by little the blandness of ordinary conversations, that are often too careful to avoid the essential subjects, such as the purpose of life, and the path to the other side. Instead some are left to measure just how dull it can be to waste time playing solitaire when going up against the stacked deck of subversion.
Though it is of hope to me that some would come to discover that the most impenetrable landscape, that the most unusual adventures are the ones seen and experienced from within, where beauty blossoms with the ordinary, where each moment can be richly unique, where the splendor of honey-filled joy is found where it’s least expected, if only one knows at which angle to capture the light, which in my opinion, is an angle that bends from within. Maybe they would finally realize that once they reached the Stairs that leads to door of the Inner Kingdom, they would see that everything else is barren poverty.
I have grown exhausted of everyone looking at everything with a negligent set of eyes. In my refusal to participate in the decline, I no longer wanted to be one to trample millenniums of wisdom, or to accept the reign of cynicism and the establishment of barbaric beliefs. Nor would I any longer find comfort in being an accomplice to the establishment of greedy manmade ideologies, all of which spread one way or another with the idea of repressing consciousness, all the while converging on the excessive accumulation of possessions. I had to find myself hidden in the midst of them all. I finally came to understand that with this undertaking, in spite of its discretion, very well could capture a collapse better than anything else. So off to set the foundation of an Inner Church I went, as it is so to speak, I took to the canvas of God.
We’d all be much better off, if we all went to work on ourselves, as much as we go to work just to live. As I get in the car to drive to work, this river, this valley, it swells subtle with summer and new beginnings. Life was being drawn in the grass with the glowing green of growth. As one last thought runs through my mind, I find it unfortunate that we have been to the moon, we have charted the depths of the ocean and the heart the atom, but we have been standardized with this fear of looking inwards at ourselves because we have grown customary to the belief that this is where all of our contradictions will flow together within the confluence of the inner river. But it is only if ourselves, would allow the decongestion of our ability to choose the ethical choice between what is right and what is wrong, we would find that free will ain’t so bad after all.
In closing, man is an ever-flowing river of creativity until the very last breath he draws. There are no limits set by this eclectic and electrified universe upon man’s cosmic totality, or his multiplication power. Each man sets his own limitations in accordance with his desires. He may Be a tiny stream which gathers little energy and carries a weak current or he may be roaring river, with the weight of eleven hundred and eleven cubic feet flowing through him at all times. This is true of all the energy borrowed from the universe by all of us. It is there in infinite quantity. The gauge for the kind of flow each of us have within us is set by ourselves.
If we don’t change, we don’t grow. If we don’t grow, are we really living?
It is a good thing, perhaps, to write for the pleasure of the public eye, but it is a far greater and nobler thing to author for their direction an authentic and substantial benefit. The latter is the exclusive object of this commentary. If it proves the means of restoring to healthy shape one solitary victim of humanity, of igniting once more the fire of faith and joy in his or her stonewashed eyes, of bringing back to their sedated heart, the swift and plentiful impulses of brighter days, then and only then shall I be sufficiently rewarded for my work. Maybe my soul will permeate much in the same sacred delight that a good, god-fearing man, feels after his enactment of a good and unselfish deed.
I haven’t come this far to only go this far. This thought races through my head more often than not as of late. I stare through a glare at half of my reflection as it merges with the beauty of a surprise “summertime” sunset. I’d be a bit particular to speak with optimism that this is much the same view as Heaven affords its clientele. But what do I know, these are just thoughts, fleeting and pure. And the words that follow share the same boat.
What I’m trying to do here, among other things, is to layer the imagination with spirituality, poetry, humor, reality, and above all else purpose. I have never declared this writing as being dressed in the uniformity of style that society is so tickled with. I suppose when a reader finishes one of my posts—assumed the reader finishes the post—that maybe they fall into a state of gentle bliss and escape the faculty of their own fleeting thoughts for a moment or two. Maybe the reader has encountered some unpredictable way of “awakening” in a sense. It is possible that possibility alone has expanded itself along the corridor of their universe. Or maybe it is that I like to write because it helps me to crawl out of the ditches of my own life, that I myself have dug. But the only way I know to crawl is through the creativity of change.
The other morning I woke up and finally understood what I always thought was to taxing to understand. Progress. It is the most industrious word in the English language. There is nothing that can undermine the very definition of the word progress. The moment one decides to take a seat and deny progress the chance at manifesting itself, one should just go ahead and accept mortality’s invitation, so to shorten your pursuit of paradise.
The first step towards embracing change is to develop a progressive and creative routine that breathes betterment into your overall well-being. These routines could range from a daily workout to creatively writing, or hell, cooking for a living. It’s when we improve ourselves through habitual hobby that we leave little to no room for our thoughts to drift away towards all things that we assume to suffer in our life. It’s the fact that when we find something we are passionate about, our inner mechanism of success switches on and we portray a future full of purpose, envisioned by creating hope.
Creativity is continued growth per change. It is the crafting of something unique that had no presence in the world before. It brings forth something out of nothing. Nothing becomes something, which in the end, befits change. There is also a problem with change and that is whether or not something wholly new is feasible. In a world where old-fashioned concepts have become standard and ethical direction is ever changing, is it possible to create genuineness from the goodness of a soul? I guess it all depends on the individual.
True change should be measured as something that engages catharsis and the purification of our senses. It also over time help us to extract our own soul, bringing it home to the heart where it has always belonged. Creativity is a process built on change, and over time it pulls us away from our peripheral and judgmental thoughts while pushing us into the realm of perpetual spirit. It is the liberation of the spirit from all of the external elements that suppress spiritual and even personal development. But creativity is the consistent victory over said elements. To say the prior words with more simplicity, to immerse one’s self in creative acts of tenderness is to expel all that is toxic from ones life.
Change In Direction
As of now though, work beckons below, this view alone has my mind firing on every last cylinder. These thoughts forever fleeting, but they are coming together in a fleet that will cleverly chart the course through the chaos of me, let alone us, them, and you, the reader. It is to be considered of course, that you the reader, made it this far?
Change means that what was before wasn’t perfect. People want things to be better. It is human nature.
The beast has been astray for a quick minute. He’s been downstairs planning his attack against another kind of beast altogether—a beast of industrious culinary proportions. His head or hands, whichever you prefer and if they even exist? They have never been more full. He operates in an entirely different way when given a certain task. Let us be honest here—his borderline sanity meshes well with orchestrating chaos. It’s his kind of place.
I must go sharpen my knives, recalibrate the scales of success, all the while rallying in a new wave of troops. It’ll be a a band of broken pieces, but when those pieces are placed together properly, the wholesome beauty of growth is a gorgeous thing, and I’m just crazy enough to water them all with my own sort of insane sensibility. So let us go, and let us watch how the numbers grow. Let us get to where we were going a long time ago. I’d suppose this is when the story gets good. But who I am to know what the story holds. I’m just the one telling it. But I do, I feel the target set upon my soul, with the aim being set in the direction of a dream.
There are short-lived sorrowful seasons of life that to often tend to weigh us down with anxiety. Yet the time has now come to turn the corner towards the spring of redemption. Hope has always hung on to make a show of revival—not needing any reason to back it—only because it is in the nature of hope to revive itself when the spring in its step has finally sprung. So go on, get out there, water yourself, create growth, create community, create hope, and then put our own damn name on it, and stamp it with love.
I look to the Neapolitan sky, speaking silent. I am thankful for this solid ground. This path seems to be synching towards something splendid. You gave me this view, this crew, all for a reason didn’t You? There are still many questions to be answered, but it is in the fullness of time that the answers we seek usually arrive bound with astonishment, as we are left scratching about our heads with a mystified air surrounding us.
Look within. Within is the foundation of good, and it will ever bubble up, if thou wilt ever dig.
The spiritually hungry are always ready to learn more, for their hearts are eager to discover new truths.
As a man with a humbled heart, I strive for truth and goodness. If they ever find themselves in my possession, they may bring to me an unknown kind of heavenly happiness, but happiness itself is not of my creative and conscious purpose. As much as I am engaged in the pursuit of happiness, it is the truth that I seek and not happiness. Though it is possible that when the truth comes to be found, it may just be holding hands with happiness. And it is true that having a creative attitude towards life, as a whole is not man’s right, it is his duty.
A Creative Direction
Within this fallen world, I still see beauty everywhere I look and my creative nature will forever follow said beauty. And being somewhat of a poet, hope will always find enthusiasm hiding behind beauty in the depths of a dream. This enthusiasm becomes second nature to the poet because the truth of what he is, is within him.
A voice sounds off in his soul, which is fed with a creative energy equal to the power of all societies. You don’t make yourself interesting through madness, eccentricity or anything of said sort. In the truth of what is, the poet finds his enthusiasm in the ability to drown out the noisy distractions that this world seems to offer us on a daily basis. He becomes fit to hear the essence of all things.
Now let us focus on the truth of creativity. Creativity is the moral imperative that applies to the ethical department of life. The effort put forth towards artistic and cognitive activity carries with it a moral value that is unswerving when one starts to understand that the realization of truth and goodness is an act of creative nobility.
Digging For The Truth
Whatever I write from this point on, is for mere guidance of me and maybe you, and of course the boy. There is nothing nonetheless in the truth of these words than that alone. It is my life’s constant gravitational pull that has at times—pulled me towards the truth of me, myself, and I. These words, they may be the hidden paths, which lead to the truth of heaven above, but heaven already exists in my heart, and that is the truth in itself.
I would rather not be the man who looks upon his reflection and for a moment forgets the manner of man he was. Yet at the same time, I strive not to try and remember myself lest I come to find the person I am not. The first step toward finding me, who is of the utmost truth, is to discover the truth of God. So if I have indeed been in error, the paramount step towards the truth is the unearthing of said error.
Shall I flee far away, and hide within this wilderness of me? Shall I hurry for His shelter far away and free from tempest and these storms of me? I seek no treasure or experience—I seek only the truth. So whatever storms come, they come, and we brave them by dancing our way through them until the sun shines upon our souls. Is this not correct?
It is in my opinion that first you must truly know and love your self. Then you will become aware of the true “being” of God beneath your own fleeting thoughts. You will learn to wait with stillness underneath the chaos of confusion as you begin to recognize the unconditional love for yourself that hides behind reclusive pain. It is after one has become aware of the darkness in the depths of faith—freedom, salvation, and even enlightenment—are but seeds of the truth.
Seeds Of Truth
In the reality of spiritually awakening, something emerges from within you that grows so much deeper than whom you thought you were. And as much as the old version of myself is still around, something more powerful than anything I have ever felt grows within my soul. Someone has determined it necessary to anoint this head of mine with a sacred sort of oil, leading me down a path I never thought existed.
A seed must crack and break free from its shell of comfort, so to seek the light of salvation through devastation. This “breaking free” will look like complete destruction of a person to those who look at this world externally. Followed by the discussed judgment of “that boy is a few sandwiches short of a picnic” mentality. A losing of the mind, though in a lot of ways, can be of the highest kind because of what it is about ourselves we creatively come to find.
He has His own Way of bringing us out of our shells, of bringing us into the world—the world from which I long held the illusion that I was withdrawing. Most of my life I’ve felt some “far off” kind of sensation that something was leading me somewhere of significance. But in the harshness of my disbelief of His will, the path has seemed to twist and turn in all sorts of direction. And the only way to get through to me, I feel, was that He had to move through me from dead center, from the Cross within my heart.
The Truth Beckons
So in my own direction with my ego I went. Then came the flux of imagination, sensation, and insight, followed by an up close kind of ache for the sacred knowing of an astral plane beyond good and evil. And that in it self is the dark truth of something heavier than I’ve ever known, I guess that’s why I will forever draw these words with the manner of me—to find the lightness of my own being. And maybe they could help me to become more aware of my own ego?
At last, the light of the truth it beckons. It glows in the awareness of this ego of mine. It has long lurked in the shadows of this creative wilderness. Oh this writing, the spilling of my own fleeting thoughts, why must they exude my ego, why must they be the truth of who I am in God’s very own heart? And so it is I’ve come to understand my ego, and from understanding comes God’s growth. And why it is, that the beacon of light from within, will always be the beckon of hidden truth I seek.
I have wandered deeper into my own soul than even I’ve ever fathomed over these past few months—deeper than most wish to go. Lucky for me these words have been instrumental in keeping my feet on the path in a wilderness so deep. Maybe this depth has setup permanent camp in this wilderness of my mind. So allow me to tickle the truth with the gravity of this pen.
Tickle The Truth
The great fleeting feelings and thoughts are gone but not forgotten. And if we will not awaken the awareness of humanity’s collective ego—the collective of goodness, spirit and soul of society will never be convinced to participate in the geometric pattern of angels, and society will sink deeper into the abyss of suffering. So now the time has come to lift the veil of Maya. Illusion is real and reality has become a dream, no longer illusory.
The truth of heaven and of fallen angels will sow the seeds of the future for humanity as a whole. Both like to speak to us in dreams with certain criteria we never knew to exist. But we spend most of our lives dissecting our dreams, instead of living those dreams. These dreams, they come to us as we sleep, to help us see the concealed divinity in other human beings. All the while sharing with us a map that creatively charts the course of imagination across the abyss that so often divides us all from the truth of His Spirit. And upon the latitude and longitude of the heart, we find flesh and soul at crossroads.
The Story Grows
In the end all happiness really is—is the quality of your inner context. Each and every life that blesses this planet is in fact a story waiting to be told. Each life has a table of contents, that divvies up the chapters by those delicate and life altering situations that each and every one of us face every single day. Happiness is growth. Growth from all of the pain and suffering that once prevented us from believing in ourselves.
So let us join hands and build one another before we judge one another. Is this not spoken in the law of Christ, to nurture instead of destroy? So instead of fighting amongst each other, let us nurture the foundation of truth with unconditional love and help us allow a bright future for our children. Let us build a new path that leads to somewhere the world has never been.
“Bear another ones burdens and fulfill the law of Christ”
Man and his moral dignity with its freedom are determined not by the purpose to which he aids his life, but by the source from which his morality and the ensuing activities that spring from said source. It should be worthy of a note, that in a sense, “the means” from which a man chooses, are far more diligent than “the ends” in which he pursues.
To consider things and situations only in the light of the effect they burden upon me is to stumble upon the doorstep of hell, so as I stand up, rising out of my own hell, it’s time to reach for the truth of heaven.
The water is clearer than the air, and the air is the air that angels breathe.
“…at last the lake burst upon us—a noble sheet of blue water lifted six thousand three hundred feet above the level of the sea, and walled in by a rim of snow-clad mountain peaks that towered aloft full three thousand feet higher still… I thought it must surely be the fairest picture the whole earth affords.”
-A distant relative of mine—Mark Twain
Should I stand perchance and gaze upon your shore while your waves they dance —abrupt and still where my thoughts shall spill forevermore.
I look so deep within your emerald depth for as much as what I seek is likened to your clarity.
And so it is beneath a mirror —tinted zephyr here I stood dreaming awake fifteen years to the day.
For my gladness you have given and my wishes true as your hue blue. Though in your reflection of me I will always see a storm-savaged sea amongst these waves of tranquility.
Floated by your youth upon a buoyant breeze with your water and your sand you took me by the hand. And so I swam through the depths of you so deep and blue so tried and true.
You may not end up where you thought you were going, but you will always end up where He meant for you to be.
“The pessimist complains about the wind; the optimist expects it to change; the realist adjusts the sails.
-William A. Ward
Life will always find a tailwind when creating something out of thin air. In the mere reflection of life we require a creative and graceful wind—a special sort of fidelity with our inner nature that moves us in the direction of God. Life requires stability too. It demands a maturity of the creative gusto of our soul, which is not easily met in the constant adjustments of direction about the long and perilous journey through the sea of life. This life seems to result from the very least—in the experience of the artistic experiments that our creative soul has been quietly dreaming up to live amongst Him in the Kingdom of better days.
To reflect upon life with transparency, we must look towards God. We must keep the mind quiet. All the while allowing calmness and purity to at once become the well-kept condition of our being and the consequence of His vision for us as individuals. It is up to us to adjust the sails, and to allow His wind to carry us wherever He intends. This to me is the truth of life—the everlasting hope that breathes with each gust of life’s wind. It is the reason why I believe He created us; to create Him in our own creative way.
All a man should seek, other than God and his true self, is an opportunity to work his heart out through heightened work—to express the sensibility of his soul and to declare the lovely feelings of his time. He should seek to discover deeper purpose in his own creative meaning, as well as, the truths of the nature that both surround and entangle him.
He must use with confidence all of the delightful opportunities with his time on this earth—that God has so graciously given to him. It is most important to reflect upon ourselves in the creative sense, and to listen with the wind for the clandestine sounds of love and truth that He created deep within us all, long ago.
This writing began, in all reality as just a covert operation on my lifelong doubt in God and myself—the longing, the swelling heart, the raging eagerness of feeling deserted, and the painful keenness of an infinite and unidentified need for some purpose higher than this fallen world can offer.
Before I started to write again, I felt my imagination was headed for the shallow waters of mediocrity. And I wasn’t happy with my creativity drowning in the stagnant puddles of life. Why did my imagination have to give up its full and free connection to the universe, is it not a living garment of God?
I guess at the midway point of my life it comes to this. That as a creative individual I have often sought ways to prove what’s in my heart—the love, the poetic hunger for purpose, the swelling excitement over her unparalleled beauty—for which there are no acceptable terms of knowledge, just wisdom. Is it not the creative mind that is better off with hints, as opposed to extensive knowledge? But in the end we need not apply for the right to love in this world, we just do it because it is what God has intended for us all along.
When one writes his way through a spiritual awakening, it is bound to get a little too deep in spiritual schisms. The enigmatic engine will burn a little hot and sporadic from time to time. As one exorcises both the evil and the good from within him he will find numerous darkened paths up the mountain of his mind, and it is often as one approaches the off-beaten paths of his thoughts he will find himself betwixt and between, the sanctuary of beauty and the asylum of madness.
But just before he chooses between the paths, by God, the wind He blows it something fierce, and his ship gets turned around, away from the storms of himself. A smooth seam of glasslike water shows itself upon this sea of life, and he must adjust the sails for what he hopes is the sanctuary of His will. So as we sail towards the shore of big news, please allow me a moment to reflect on this creative written venture.
Let us not forget, that I had been a complete idiot until I started this blog and a partial idiot after that. So that being said, I will always be something of an idiot. I have overthought and rambled my way through my mind at my own pace and in all kinds of directions in search of something. It does happen to turn out that something was God. That’s where this path always led if you all haven’t yet noticed? It has become more than obvious that this sharing of my thoughts was just an extended errand for the sake of my soul.
It is true when I said that I believe this blog has been my own way of working myself through an existential crisis. My peculiar tendencies to get to the bottom of my purpose in life and to myself are of mine and God’s genuine demeanor, and I think these words alone can verify that. If they can actually guarantee a damn thing, I suppose is up to me.
My thoughts even now, they sit here simmering. Still, at some point they must come to a full boil. As my very fingers rehearse these written words, how would my mind work the notes of my imagination’s trumpet, when it was ready to blow alas? Would the peals of written brass be heard beyond this earth? Would Christ, the faculty savior of my imagination’s truth be roused, and may we together look with awakened eyes upon the true beauty of Heaven on earth?
I have always thought of thoughts as real constituents of being. So now with all of my being I must drop anchor upon the shores of home. As I look back at this sea of words, this venture of my bared soul that has shown the chaos, the beauty and all else in between the storms of my mind—I regret none of it. But comes a time for a man to walk in the direction towards his known purpose for a quick minute.
Recognize what is in your sight, and that which is hidden from you will become plain to you, for there is nothing hidden which will not become manifest.
Living The Dream
Last week I was offered and have accepted what I have long considered a dream job. And until I find my full stride along the new path in my career, my time is going to be precious. I am going to play Executive Chef for this quaint but busy little bistro-style bar and grill along the shores of the closest place I know to be bliss, that being Lake Tahoe. I have longed to get back to “painting” plates and creating dishes that grow from the garden of my soul. It’s going to be more than hectic enough all summer to occupy most of my mind. Which let us all be honest here, it is what this mind of mine needs.
The outdoor barbecues, the granules of sand tormenting sunburnt children with bliss, the beach with its perfect seventy five degree sunny days, the drive and motivation to be proud of collective success, is all that I need at this point in my life. The sunsets and sunrises, my buddy picking me up from work on the boat, it’s all quite the blessing. The Man Upstairs has a beautiful plan and I’ll even be able to afford Him the favor back by frequenting an early service of Church on Sunday mornings.
This summer will be beautifully orchestrated chaos, but I am better at harnessing the chaos of a kitchen, and all its moving parts, than I am at constructing the chaos of my own mind. Plus, the creativity and responsibility that comes with this job, gives me a sense of purpose I haven’t felt since my son was born. Whom by the way turns five today. Happy birthday big rig. For Heaven’s sake they grow up so fast. Here’s to your day filled with creativity and cupcakes. He is a Pisces kid through and through.
The dream hasn’t changed, but He has changed the course of the wind, and I must adjust the sails towards the direction of a different dream. I feel that there is still a purpose to my writing, there always will be when speaking of Him and His love.
In their hearts humans plan their course, but the Lord establishes their steps.
But it is but for a bit, that this all has to be put on the back-burner of reality. It seems to be His will for now, and I am no longer one to fight against that. We need not forget though, that where there are multiple outlets of creativity, the mind’s ability to create becomes lest congested. So in order to right this ship long lost in a sea of words, I must set the sails in the direction of the good fight, for myself and of course, love and His will.
In order to build a recipe out of words it is imperative to string incongruities and absurdities together in a wandering and sometimes purposeless way, and seem innocently unaware that they are absurd. This has become the basis of American art. And if my position is correct, another feature is the slurring and stumbling of the point. A third feature is the placement of a well-traveled remark with the transparency of not knowing it, as if one were thinking out loud. The fourth and final is indeed the pause…
That way you give the audience the time to divine that a surprise is intended;)
The wicked flee though no one pursues (Prov. 28:1). That being said, I’ll be back sooner than I am able.