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.
I sink with the weight of a thousand unanswered prayers—the ice-cold pain of rejuvenation sets its hook in my soul.
I now know the questions of my dreams are ones that only God can answer.
Goodness is achieved not in a vacuum, but in the spreading of hope, always attended by love.
Some sort of mirrored reality stares back at my reflection—hollow with eyes blue as the void. I see the edge. My mind walks along some celestial cliff. Paralysis attacks my legs. My stomach swims through an ocean of butterflies. I feel my heart pound with the rhythm of the crystal blue, white crested waves of persuasion churning below me, as they crash with winter’s effervescence.
My imagination falls upon a field of metaphors and instead of picking these written wildflowers for you, I leave them scattered about for you to decide? Which are worth picking and which are worth leaving behind to bloom?
This life, this story, this blank piece of paper, these words, what significance should they all carry? What is it all for? It has to be for something not wrong, but right—right? I am able to do what’s right, or should I stand wrong, maybe corrected? What is a man to do in the fashion of goodness’ sake?
As I fall from the cliffs of some astral dream, like hundreds of times before, the cement painted sky above comes to collide with the baptismal blue waters of the place I call home. I sink with the weight of a thousand unanswered prayers—the ice-cold pain of rejuvenation sets its hook in my soul. I wake up in a cold sweat. I now know the questions of my dreams are ones that only God can answer.
All through life, we are established and broken. Then we are broken and rebuilt. Such is the American dream, in its current blood red state of self-destruction. Its obsession with the self-destructive particulars of the wounded man has grown to be comical. These words were first written in some creative outpost, so it’s time we get down to business. If love were ever to become a revolution, I can’t think of better time to fan the flame.
Somebody asked me the other day, if I thought I was some kind of warrior? My response was, “Absolutely not. The moment I decorate myself as a warrior, is the moment the ego bears judgment on my being. One does not self proclaim themselves to be a warrior. This is full of idolatry and pride. The soul speaks chivalrous or it doesn’t. It is as simple as is it sounds. I just want to do right by the boy and by God. Although love is his namesake, it is for goodness’ sake that I do this for Him.” She looked a bit lost in my answer but you could see the light shine in her eyes as it came to make sense.
The Poet Barks
But at some point the poet will contradict himself, and as of now, I cannot think of a better time. There is no time like the present to revolutionize my mind. It is my very own idea of love. It is but a jubilee, maybe a rendition of what love, or even who I used to be.
Man’s association with chivalry is pretty much dead. The self-proclaimed warrior is associated with uselessness, because he does not respond voluntarily. A warrior knows his purpose, it is rigorous and it takes a special state of mind that is eternally unbending. To be a warrior is to be a seed of God’s purpose and to nurture His love wherever one goes with consistency. I guess where I am going, isn’t this or that way, but it is His way. Therein lies the difficulty of finding the seed of our purpose in a garden filled with God, faith, and wildflowers, and unfortunately, evil.
The goodness in the garden of good and evil wasn’t that far gone, so hope had stuck around, and because of this, goodness held a solid chance. So with these words, please allow me this dance.
Americans! With our outrageous ideas of love, saturated in the outpouring of domestic tragedy. Who are we to think so highly of ourselves, after all of the wars, the wholesale revolutions, devastation and death camps? We’ve soaked the earth with the blood of both the innocent and the guilty.
And still it spills forgiven from our hands? In the cremation of love, evil lingers in the scent of ashen hate. Hate but a hungry beast, fed through the vacuum of fear, racial indifference, and disbelief, and never in the sense of preserving goodness’ sake. What do our personal troubles amount to? Do we really suffer, compared to the others some consider of equal or lesser value? America’s democratic abundance does have its own peculiar complications. Does it not?
America is God’s experiment, such an experiment of dogmatic unity gone wild. Many of the wounds created by the dogma of elder civilizations have long been healed with this newfound wound, which is a mystery in itself. America didn’t like those who walked with this curious value that lacked pride. It ostracized those who embodied the special interest of compassion. America has lost its ability to understand the truth in the love of liberty and finding one’s self.
The goodness of man was created in scarcity. So what shall we anticipate from the false facilities of man with his plenitude? This is why the world could always use a couple more writers written in as poets, to maybe point out the flaws of the hardened heart.
In the adolescence of America, love was built on the template of a myth. It’s why we fell head over heels in love with the idea of love. Love is the thickness in our blood, rich with the platelets of self-desire. It was intricately embroidered with the fine print of bliss, but then our boys had to go across the pond and paint the hillsides of Europe with the blood of fascistic imperialistic belief.
Women were then given an image to uphold and the wild soul of woman was slowly cut off from her genuine self. The boys, they came back patriotic but broken men, suffered from the inevitable effects of evil, while death was seared into every sight they would see for the rest of their lives. This was the beginning of the end in my opinion, love put on a mask of comfort and sensibility, covered by the veil of fear and pain. This was when pure love went into hibernation. And sometimes a poet must carry the weighted stick that pokes the bear of love and lead it back into the wild where it belongs.
In the early days, revolution promised mankind a permanent and interesting life in love with moral goodness. Revolution was the work inspired by love and compassion. All classified aspects of the societal food chain were in a state of excitement led by the energy of delight in the poetic revolution of life. Or as William James put it, human beings really lived when they lived at the top of their energies.
My soul is fed by the energy of love, all souls are. This is why we often feel so connected to those we hardly know. It’s the energy of God’s delight, coursing through our veins. But what is there to be so sensible about love if, as I feel, I have waited thousands of years for God to send my soul fallen upon this earth? Here I am supposed to capture a true and clear image worthy of love before I return, before my human life ended. Being sensible with something as wild as love does absolutely nothing to mitigate the fear of “missing the boat.” I believe anyone can see that.
All of life has been spent in sin and virtue, in good and evil, in labor and struggle, in sickness and in health, in gifts, in sorrows, in achieving and regretting, in planning and hoping, and in love and fear.
Suppose a man were at once in his life to disappear into God for the space of a minute. And suppose he had seen things, considered them, known them, made judgments about them and spoke of them, out of acting wise or not. Suppose he stumbled in and out of prayer, while seeing the smoke of doubt envelop his surroundings. Yet he walked through clean to the upright side of obedience. And in this obedience, he tasted the vague sweetness of God, where he found spiritual ease in prayer.
In all these things, life is but a fabric sewn together with uncertainties. But in the moment of a knick in time, the minute in which he felt deliverance to God, the fabric of life comes to be woven by the pure love of God.
“No good thing does he withhold from those who walk uprightly.”
Strength In Numbers
It is in this ecstasy of pure love that we arrive at the true fulfillment of the first commandment, loving God with our whole heart and mind, and all of our strength. Therefore pure love is something that all should aspire to please God, and we ought to desire to inspire all with unconditional love. Not just for a minute, nor half an hour, nor a week, but forever. It is in these souls that conspire to love, that peace will be proven to be force in this world.
We are the strength of the world, because we have become the tabernacles of God. We are the ones who keep the universe from being destroyed. We are the little ones, we do not always know ourselves, but the world depends on us. And though no one seems to realize it, we are the ones for whom it was all created and we shall inherit the land.
We are the ones who renounce the world and throw away the meager possessions. We alone appreciate the world for what its nature has given us. We understand joy, and those who are hateful and angry—joy will destroy. We are the clean of heart, we feel God in our hearts, and our freedom has no limits. We wash the world with God’s light.
So come, let us go into that body of His light. Let us live in the cleanliness of His song. Let us shed the labels of the world like clothing and enter barren into His wisdom. For this is the prayer answered when He hears the cry: “Thy will be done.” And this is all that one seeks, when he tries his damndest to do something for goodness’ sake.
One may never know why he held the great unknown so close to his chest. He often grasped at its searing celestial pain under intense circumstance. Sometimes he would even reach for it and pretend to fill it with emptiness. Then came the day when he filled it with what he thought was emptiness and instead it was God who filled his heart with joy. And as he felt a sensation like no other shiver up his spine, he knew it was God telling him it was time.
To be continued…
This is merely an excerpt from the book, call it practice if you will.
This bandage is something we call love and as He wraps it around our heart comes a feeling of love, like none have ever felt.
It is quite the arduous task to persevere with the constancy of a positive mindset as pain lurks in the shadows of eternity. There are countless external elements that fuel the eternal engine of thought with damaging matter. For the longest time I thought negative circumstance was just assumed to be a revolving door in this life and that all negative reaction but mere instinct of the mind. But now it seems that all suffering is good for at the end of a rainy day is to be drenched in its own doubt. I never believed that positive thought—even in the excruciations of pain—was something one could consider permanent.
Let me be the first to admit that I was wrong. My frame of mind has recently undergone this sort of revival. It was when I gave Him complete clearance to conduct this train I call life in whatever direction He has planned, was when the light of positivity began to shine wherever I looked. It was in this glimmer of shimmering humility, after a winter’s rain, when shone the sun within and as the clouded past is now behind me. The sunshine on my soul speaks with this clarity unlike anything I’ve ever felt and the words fell as follows.
Create The Day
“A jagged shadow of mountains sifts through the western sky spreading shades of day-glow orange, mixed in with the night and it’s lacking light. They do collide well enough to satisfy the backdrop of infinity. A river with its gilded slivers runs reflecting with amethyst hints as it breaks away from below my feet, branching off towards the darkened trusses of a burnt out bridge.”
A sensation washes over me from the gut of my soul. I am not in the depths of prayer. There is just something about this moment He either wants me to learn from or remember. Neither of these thoughts of mine are guaranteed to be true, but it was then that I didn’t feel any pain, but relief in the belief that the beauty waiting down His path will be unlike anything I’ve ever imagined.
Keep your face to the sun and you will never see shadows.
Something happens to a person when the imagination gets lost in a sunset. As one gazes with depth at the grandiosity of night and day colliding, the eye of the soul starts to open. The humbling beauty of God somehow manages to paint us with shades of humility as we come to understand how insignificant we really are. We begin to see the world in a new light, everything takes its proper shape, and even pain begins to find its comfort zone.
In order to contemplate the wide horizon of life, we must climb out of our self-centered ways and rise to a safer height of hope. One begins to understand, that the center of being isn’t within us, but it is in God, this is when everything starts to fall into the right place away from the endless ditches of pain.
Humility in its metaphysical meaning is the heroic conquest of selfhood and an ascent to the heights of spiritual soundness. Humility means to escape from one’s superficial self-image and from the asphyxiating atmosphere of one’s own limited self into the pure air of cosmic life. Far from being opposed to freedom, humility is an expression of freedom. Nothing or anyone in this world can force humility upon us—we can only arrive at it ourselves, through pain and suffering, and God.
The heart, sick with wounded love and left defenseless, bleeds from the countless arrows that pierce at it throughout life’s longevity. Only spiritual humility does well to defend us against the agonizing pain of the heart’s growth. Once pain truly humbles one, genuine growth begins and the heart begins to heal. Humility has always been aimed away from self-love and it is the arrow that impales the wound of pride, and from that pierced arrow blooms a softer kind of holistic healing with God applying the bandage. This bandage is something we call love and as He wraps it around our heart comes a feeling of love, like none have ever felt.
It’s a feeling of love, and not in the sense of self-love but this kind of love for everything, every outcome, and every circumstance that didn’t go your way. You must let it all go and leave it to Him sitting above the top of these stars to conspire over. It is then, that the positive side of pain is first recognized as freedom. It is unopposed freedom, freedom from inner conflict, freedom from an enslaved mind, but most of all its freedom from all of our pain and suffering. It is the radiant freedom of His unconditional love.
Love is a force, a radiation of beneficent, soul-giving energy, like the love most of us have for our children. It is the victory over all the false passions of love that provide the soul with the purest of power. It is through Christ that this power calls to us. The whole of moral goodness consists in acquiring this spiritual power through pain and prayer while conquering the darkness of natural life.
Christ endeavors us to overcome the external world and not submit to its ways. Humility is not a submission to it; on the contrary, it is a refusal to submit, and a movement along the edge of great resistance. And yet the empowering love of Christ and spiritual morality is exceptionally simple. Simplicity, indeed, is the humbled secret to living a life full of love, for complexity means division and weakness. To live a simple life, where love cascades from the sky like snowflakes fallen from heaven is easy and can be accomplished. You just have to accept the pain for the growth that it is, and be ever ready to shine for the happiness that waits with a brand new day. Now let us pray.
I understand that most of my life, at most times I move to fast for my own good—I have often felt like Asahel in the Book of Samuel. I often go running these days, to clear my head, and there have been days that I just wanted to run away from it all, from writing, from responsibility, from the truth of who I was meant to be, or even the truth of who I am. In the end, I have been running from the pain, and even in the pain felt in my legs, the goodness, I can feel it growing deep within me. I do, I believe in the light of You shining within me, and it is Your show now, I give You complete reign. I am more or less the protagonist and the antagonist all rolled into the main character who writes his story while searching for his grail.
Pain grows in the absence of joy, and joy cannot be grown without pain. It is imperative to let pain grow with God, until it is time for the wound to bloom. And this alone, is the positive side of pain. This darkness, this coming to Jesus moment, this is faith, and from this faith sprouts joy. And as the sun creeps back around, the path shines clear.
Love shoves me around this sanctuary of life; it recoils from within like a celestial gong as it reverberates within your soul.
Love brings us around. Love guides us drifted throughout the day. Love, love, love, it lifts us up when feeling down. Love walks with two steps upon the ground and four steps in, it sails with the wind. It is love. It is solace. But I do not care if it is solace. I am no longer attached to solace. I love God and that is why love will always carry me around wherever I choose to go. I do not pay much attention to anything anymore if it is lacking in the realm of His love. I haven’t the time for anything else but love.
And when the time clock of toil rings within my ears, it is like pulling teeth trying to make myself shift with the grind of life all because of love, this secret love, hidden love, opaque love, down in the depths of me and all around me, where I won’t talk about, where I don’t care to talk about. And anyways, I don’t have the time let alone the energy to consider such trivial matters.
I only have time for the divinity of eternity, which is just another way of saying love, love, and more love. Maybe a bit more common sense would snap me out of this, but love has always been seen as spotless through the mirror of clarity, and this I’ll always tell you. I am not attached to it (one would hope) but it is love and it pierces with tenderness through the core of my being, where it is stamped soft upon the bottom of my heart.
Love shoves me around this sanctuary of life; it recoils from within like a celestial gong as it reverberates within your soul. And I must be honest—love is the only thing that gives this heart of mine the gift that continues to tick.
Love radiates the way everything looks today. The way it was up early this morning painting the dawn with shades of a bluebird. These mountain peaks, they speak lovely in the silence of snowfall. And through this patch of fog, or is it a cloud, or may it be smoke if You will, but it is love, and right now it is all I choose to see for You are here with me.
The boy, my child, he bounces brisk through the crackling snow, each of his footsteps symbolic for the fire sizzling within the comforts of the beast. His thousandth question within the hour stumps me with a selfless attention and just like that the beast is gone. He’s off seeking the answer somewhere buried in the depth of a childhood memory. The boy he brings a balance to the beast, he keeps him bustling wild and on his toes. I hear him sing a song under his breath, though hidden by the ruffling leaves, I begin to see, to hear, to sense the man he will grow to be within the love of You that now blooms in me.
This is the way things have come to be after prayer, and speaking of You while having a picnic with my child. Everything seems so mysterious yet simplified in Your Presence. Your Son, Christ died for Love, not just in the collective sense, but within all senses, and even our very own sins, and this is the way that I shall write this, too. For once I feel whole because I am full with You. You are the Love in everything I see as my own child has now taught me.
This is how “love” works, as I so often stood stoned by the choir of my thoughts, the less I worried about creating, the more possessed I became of Love. There is a valuable lesson to be taught in the wealth of being poor in love.
Oh love, why can’t you leave me alone? This is but a question built rhetorical in meaning: so please for the sake of Heaven don’t leave me alone.
At all times we must cooperate with love in His house, and His love sets a fast pace even in the first mile of the marathon, and if you don’t keep up, you may stumble and fall far behind. And yet any speed is too slow for love—and no speed is too fast for you if only you would allow His love to lift you off your feet—after that you have to sail the “whole” way. But it is only in our dual nature that we choose to come down from cloud nine and just walk instead, such is patience one would guess.
Allow me to be poor in the Light of You. I’ve had a tough stretch of doubt, my thoughts twisting and turning, too much, as usual—such is the mind of a creative—always producing problems out of reality’s thinnest of air. This business sometimes burns me, and so I seek some proof.
Be exalted in your strength in the Lord; we will sing and praise your might.
Psalm 21 : 13
I am all dried up of desire and can only think of one thing—I shall stay put by this fire of You that burns so deep inside me.
These demons, my faults, my desire have all run dry, and yes my soul has softened like a wax the closer I am drawn to the candle of You. We have come a long way turning the beast into creative energy, these shadows into support, my fear into fuel, my failures into kindling, my weakness into strength. Let us not waste these agonies of life. Let us use this pain to recycle all hearts with the Spirit of Love.
Our purpose is not to simply be, but to work together in the collective sense with God in the creation of our own life, our own identity, our own destiny.
A tree gives grandeur to God by existing as a tree. It is by being just a tree that it is observing Him. It consents to His creative love. This tree, it is an expression of an idea which is in God and which is not distinct from the essence of God. It is by expressing itself as a tree that it imitates God.
The more a tree is like itself, the more it is like Him. If it tried to be something else that it was never intended to be, it would be less like God, and therefore it would give Him less majesty.
There are no two created beings that carry exact likeness. Individuality should not be considered imperfection. On the contrary, the perfection of each created thing is not merely an adaptive style to its abstract type but in its own individual identity with itself. This particular tree will give glory to God by spreading its roots far and wide, it will raise its limbs into the air and it will seek the light of life in a way that no other tree before it or after it will ever do.
Each particular being, in its individuality, in its distinct nature and being, with all its own features and reserved abilities and its own sacrosanct identity, gives grandeur to God by being precisely what He wants it to be here and now, in the circumstances designed by His Love and His endless Art.
The formulae and certain charismas of all living and cultivating things, of inanimate beings, of beasts and blossoms—in reality all nature—constitute their holiness in the vision of God. Their inward landscape is purity in its simplest form. It is the blueprint of His wisdom and His existence in them.
The unique awkward beauty of this Shetland pony, floundering in the snow saturated dirt on this chilly last day of November under these swelling clouds is a holiness blessed by God to His own creative wisdom and the glory of His nature at work, it alone asserts the glory of God.
These yellowed pale wildflowers along the side of this path that I am walking as we speak, the ones that most hardly ever notice, they are saints in their own simple way, grasping for the grandeur of God.
This leaf in my hand has its own roughness and its own ascending fractal pattern of veins, which characterizes its own holy nature, the brook trout hiding in the depths of this river are canonized by their specific speckled beauty and their strength.
This great, wounded, half-naked mountain that looms ahead of me is one of God’s most majestic works of art. There is no one thing like her. She is her own character—nothing else in the world ever did or ever will imitate God in the same way. That is her sanctity.
What about you? What about me?
Unlike the animals, the trees, and all of these inanimate beings, it is not enough for us to be what our nature intends. It is not enough for us to be individuals. For us unfortunately, holiness means more than humanity. If we are never anything but people, we will not be able to offer to God the worship of our imitation, which is sanctity.
It is considered a truth to say that for me sanctity consists in being myself and for you sanctity consists in being your self and that, in the last consideration, your sanctity will never be mine and mine will never be yours, except in the collectivism of charity and grace.
For me to be me means to be myself. Therefore the problem of sanctity and salvation is in fact the problem of finding out who I am and of discovering my true self. And I must be honest, the more I place my eyes upon His scripted garden, the more I pray, I am coming to discover who I was meant to be. But it is true that I still must walk this path, and it is also correct that this path is a lifelong journey, but I take pleasure in the beauty that I see and the beauty of His will that awaits me.
Trees and animals do not latch on to the same problems as we do. God makes them what they are without consulting them and they live in the perfection of satisfaction.
With us it is entirely different. God leaves us to be whatever we like. We can be ourselves or not, as we please. We are at liberty to be real, or to be unreal. We may be true, we may be false, and that choice is ours.
Throughout life we may wear many different masks, if we so desire, and never emerge from our own true identity. But this is a choice that must not be made with impunity. Causes carry effects, and if we lie to ourselves and to others, then we cannot expect to find the truth and its reality whenever we happen to want them. If one chooses the way of falsity one must not come to be surprised when the truth eludes them when they come to need it.
Our purpose is not to simply be, but to work together in the collective sense with God in the creation of our own life, our own identity, our own destiny. We are beings built from the freedom God so graciously gave us. By this I mean to say that we should not passively exist, but actively possess the awareness to participate in His creative freedom, in our own lives, and in the lives of others, by choosing the truth.
To say it even better, we are called to share with God the work of creating the truth of our existence in our true identity. We often evade this responsibility by toying with masks, and this does please us because it appears at times to be a free and creative way of expressing life. It is quite easy and it will seem to please everyone. But in the long run, it may carry a cost and sorrow may saturate in the depths your soul.
We must work out our own identity in God, in which the Bible says as follows:
Therefore, my beloved, as you have always obeyed, so now, not only as in my presence but much more in my absence, work out your salvation with fear and trembling.
Philippians 2 : 12
To find our own identity is a laborious task that requires sacrifice and anguish, risks and many tears. It demands close attention to reality at every moment, and great fidelity to God as He reveals Himself via obscurity, in the secrecy of each new situation.
There is no clear-cut path that lies ahead of me and it is not known beforehand what the result of this work may be. The secret of my whole identity is hidden in You alone. You will make me who I am, or rather who I will be when at last I fully begin to walk in Your presence.
But unless I desire my identity and work hard to find it with You, the work will never be done. The way I must do it is a secret I can learn from no one else but You. There is no shortcut to this secret without faith in You. But I now know that prayer is a precious gift that is never fleeting, and it alone has begun to enable me to see and begin to understand the work that You want done.
The seeds that this tree has planted in my liberty at every moment, by Your will, are the seeds of my identity, my reality, my happiness, and most important my sanctity.
To refuse them is to refuse everything; it is the refusal of my existence, of my own identity, of my very own self. So I will not refuse them, instead I shall water them with Your will.
Humility, that low, sweet root, from which all heavenly virtues shoot.
Some poets are not poets for the same reason that some spiritual men are not saints—they never prosper at being themselves. They never get around to being the particular poet or spiritual person they are intended to be in the eyes of God. And it is true that they never get around to being the man or artist that was built by the circumstance of their own life.
Years are squandered in the efforts of vanity to become some other poet, some other saint. For reasons in the realm of absurdity, they feel indulged to try and summon some inner existence that perished centuries ago, which lived through circumstances wholly unfamiliar to their own reality.
They wear out their minds while exhausting their bodies through indignant endeavors with the promise of creating a one of a kind experience for those that cement themselves in the essence of spirituality. And sometimes they do rush the experience to meet their own self-centered and exhausted demands.
Hurry has long been known to ruin the creative mind. To often one seeks quick success and tends to drift with such haste to get it—that they cannot take the time to truly be themselves. And when madness falls upon their mind they argue that this drifted haste is but a species of integrity.
Within all prodigious creative mind’s you find that humility and integrity coincide in the comforts of perfect balance. The creative who understands this, knows that they are themselves because they have been humbled by God in some way, shape, or form.
As far as the accidentals of this life are concerned, humility will stand content with whatever it is that satisfies the generalities of a society. This does not mean that in the essence of humility we should consist in being just as everyone else.
It is upon the contrary that humility promises to be the precise person that God intended you to be. And since no two people are alike, if you carry with you the humility to be yourself, you will not be like anyone else within the totality of this universe.
This individuality will not always assert itself upon the surface of daily routine. It will not be a matter of mere appearance, or opinion, or ways of doing things. It is something buried deep in the creative soul. It is something within that only few can exude, something very similar to daylight’s prelude.
To truly exist in humility, the ordinary ways and means of men are not, in any way, a matter of conflict. The humbled do not worry about what everyone else is doing—the trends of others matter not. To conform to, or lack thereof with these stumbled occasions in life, as a matter of life or death is to fill your inner self with unnecessary noise and confusion.
It is the humbled man that ignores this indifference by doing whatever it is in this world that helps him to find God while stumbling upon his purpose at the same time, all the while leaving the rest aside. He learns to see with clarity that what is useful to him may seem useless to someone else, and what helps others find their purpose may ruin him.
Now we come to the purpose of this post. It is when one makes a promise to God, to live humbled beneath the will of Him, that the spirit refines itself, it finds a peace with a common sense that knows nothing of sane morality.
Before a downfall the heart is haughty, but humility comes before honor.
Proverbs 18 : 12
There is no humility in insisting on being someone you are not. One may as well go ahead and say to God, I know better than You, who I am to be. And how would you expect to walk your own journey home if you take another man’s road? How should one reach his or her own self-delegated level of perfection by pretending to be someone else?
In this scenario, sanctity will never be yours; you must have the humility to work out your own salvation in a wilderness where you are absolutely alone. And so from here humility takes a heroic turn when one decides it’s time to be nothing else than the man, the creative, that God intended him to be.
And honesty will often be fabricated as an illusion to seem like pride. This is a thoughtful temptation because you can never know whether you are being true to the truth of you, or if you are merely fortifying a defense for the falsity of your personality—the creature of your own appetite for admiration.
But humility is at its most prominent when the lesson is learned that in the anguish of keeping your balance in such humbled demeanor—you continue to be yourself without acting tough about it, and without asserting your false self against the falsity of others.
Live in harmony with one another. Do not be proud, but be willing to associate with people of low position. Do not be conceited.
Romans 12 : 16
So let us pray.
Lord, too often and in too many ways I’ve put myself first—above my loyalty to You, above my recognition of sin, above my need for repentance, above my humble reliance on You for everything. Today, Lord, I come to you with a promise that I will always be humbled by the grace of You, and I ask that You purge from me any selfish pride and help me to see all things as they really are. You first. You always. And I thank you for this beautiful day that awaits.
Keep silent for the most part, and speak only when you must, and be brief.
It is sad but true that in this day and age everything has to be a “problem.” We live in a time of anxious demeanor because it is our manner of giving anxiety the opportunity to do what it does by creating a problem. Anxiety is not something that is inflicted upon us with force from exterior elements. We inflict it upon our own world and upon one another from within ourselves.
Sanctity in these modern days is prescribed with the meaning of having “no doubt,” as when the mind travels from one arena of anxiety to the next in which anxiety does not exist. And perhaps it may mean to lean upon God, to be without anxiety in the midst of anxiousness, so that the debris of doubt may be left for the next traveler to deal with.
In the sense of all that is fundamental—it boils down to the silencing of all contradicting distractions that border your being. Spending a quality amount of time with silence helps to reconcile the contradictions within and around us. And although they will always run rampant, these contradictions cease to be a problem, because the Man Upstairs is the only one who deserves our fullest attention in the depths of silence.
Contradictive conflicts have long existed within the soul of man. Yet when man prefers evaluation to silence—conflict turns constant and carries no solidity to an insoluble situation. We are in no way meant to resolve all contradictions but instead we must live with them and rise above them to heights where only internal solution sees them as the dimness of objective values in which they are, where they become trivial by comparison.
Silence, then, belongs to the substance of sanctity—in silence hope remains steady like a winter’s first snow while strength carries the weight of doubt away.
When silence used to surround me, I saw it as a problem—it was then that I could never escape my own mind to find silence. Then came the day that silence, it ceased to be a problem, and I came to figure out that my mind must’ve influenced it all along.
Still though, I knew the problem would come back to the surface because the internal fruits of subjectivity and understanding would never be enough for my mind. Silence is supposed to show us what is objective and concrete, and it does after awhile.
Silence is meant to be an intimate occasion with something far superior to this world, as beautiful as Being itself. Silence is but a way that we may lean upon the sanctity of God’s silence in a deepened state of peace.
only in returning to me and resting will you be saved. In quietness and confidence is your strength.
Isaiah 30 : 15
We are a society that puts words between our true selves and things. In most cases even God has become just another abstract reality in a land of language that no longer serves as a means of unity with reality. But it is through His Word and the writing of words that I fall into the silence that I seek to move forward with myself.
As I’ve said once before silence clears the air that was once filled with the smokescreen of a man’s mind and his thoughts. In silence we will always stand face to face with the bare being of things, and still we find in the nakedness of reality that is easy to fear, that neither are a matter of anxiety or indignity.
The naked reality of these words should be considered as being clothed in the friendly fabric of silence, and this silence is very much linked to all that is love. The world that words attempt to categorize and control will always sit tight with us, and it is in silence where I have learned to know my reality by respecting it where words have sometimes corrupted it.
When one has lived alone long enough with the new reality surrounding him—adoration of God alone will bring forth a few intriguing words from this silence, and this is the maternal material of Truth.
Words fall between stillness and silence—between the silence of distraction and the silence of our own being. And in between the silence of the world and the silence of God, words will always fall upon our soul. When we are truly content and have known the world in its silence, words we learn are not what separate us from the world, nor from God, nor from ourselves because we know not to trust certain language to contain reality. But it is within the silent sanctuary of the Psalm we find hope in the sound of sanctified words.
If the Lord had not been my help, my soul would soon have lived in the land of silence.
Psalm 94 : 17
It is in stillness of the Psalm where we learn that truth rises in the silence of Being from the quiet tremors of His Word. Then as we sink into silence again, the constricted truth of words pushes us down upon the silence of God.
Or rather He rises with a calm fury from the darkness of a moonlit sea, like a long lost treasure floating upon waves of words and when those waves of words recede—His brightness will forever be a light upon the golden shores of our being.