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.
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.