Daily Sameness

The filtered sun caresses the dew stained folliage while golden petals stretch away their morning soreness. I fill my lungs with the aromatic announcement of their decision to be beautiful again today. Fragile grace notes in a hidden masterpiece infinitely original for its daily sameness. Such glory suggests a subtle rethink on my understanding of change.

True North

Always new skills to learn. Every day a new world to navigate. We take our eyes off the road for a moment, and the traffic stopped for everyone but us. We return from any detour, not to the interstate, but to a different map of the universe. Each corner we turn becomes a change in dimension rather than a change in direction. A world where compasses find true north in the complexities of the human heart, and the heart is as reliable as it is not.
What are these skills we need to learn for such disorienting times? What is our responsibility in shaping the world we inhabit? Are we waiting for the scientists or theologians or politicians to decide for us? I hope not. We dare not. But the question remains on the table.

My Vagrant

Tracing leaf veins in absent-minded particularity. Breaking concentration only to return the curious child's smile. The afternoon glare defending the horizon from the vagrant's extravagant imagination. The withering veins provide focus, contact, definition. Bound to no one, chained nonetheless to the earth. The soul was not meant to pilgrim thus.

One Brick at a Time

Walls are built one brick at a time. Initially the bricks along the ground are a mere nuisance. We trip occasionally, stub our toe and curse vainly. Imperceptably the wall grows and poses more of an obstacle and hinderance. Until finally, one day, all we can see is the wall. We are suddenly alone and strangely surprised by this situation. Where did this wall come from? When did it grow so high? How did this happen to me?
If only we had noticed each time we laid a brick down. One brick is easier to remove than an entire wall.

Work and Identity

Distinguishing between work and identity is not easy... if even possible. Of course, making no distinction at all is also problematic. Integration is different than enmeshment.
Those at the extremes get all the press. Working non-stop, convinced of one's indispensable significance, and completely unaware of the fragile house of cards being built to sustain one's sense of worth. At the other end of the spectrum are those who trudge off to the job they hate; loyally and/or begrudingly put in their time; all the while waiting until it's over each week so they can get back to living.
Where are the wide open spaces inbetween, where work is an expression of one's identity without being the keystone? Where are the people living their lives at work as much as they are at home or at play, and how are they finding their way? Talk to me.

Dawn out of Darkness

Morning beckons the soul into a new day. Seduced by the dawn we lumber forward into a series of mishaps that some good-hearted brick will confidently assert that we somehow brought upon ourselves. We each differ in how much of the day we trade away sorting out what of the unsolicited evaluation might have substance.
I venture along unacknowledged margins and brush up against the remnants of harrowing acts of life. Powerful for being attempted by the powerless without permission or applause. My chest heaves in inarticulate recognition of a distant dream unfolding in an as yet unimagined genre of being.
Morning's daily betrayal stems from assuming we look east for the dawn. Dawn is born in places where most dare not tread. Light emerges from darkness. It might be time to stop avoiding the dark places.

Weary of Masks

I find myself weary of the wooden caricatures of the "good" person. Discomfited by the smooth, sugary sweet masks of the certainly saved. Horrified to watch the rich, complex dimensions of suffering's awkward confrontation with love neutered into a flat, uniform social orthodoxy of polite nods and compliant disclaimers.
Where is the passion, the vitality, the tension, the paradox, the ambiguity, coarse, messy life?

Nightmares

I ran. Ran as fast as my out of shape legs would take me. Whether speeding toward or away, I'm still not sure. My lungs unable or unwilling to provide the additional oxygen.
Something enormous was at stake. Something for which I was responsible. Faster. Damn it. Kick it up a level.
There was as much chance that I would be the arriving hero who needed to save the day, as there was that I would be the fleeing villain who had just ruined everything. All I knew for certain was that everything depended on me getting somewhere before it was too late.
Savior or destroyer. Such stark extremes. I was beginning to cramp. The wind stung. I could not afford to pass out. Is that jeering or cheering I think I'm hearing?
The sidewalk ends abruptly at the edge of a vast desert. Did I take a wrong turn somewhere? So much at stake. I am responsible.

Autumn

Winding up and winding down. Autumn is officially upon us. With school starting and so many people back from their summer holidays, much is beginning. Time to refocus, look ahead, dig in. At the same time, with Fall comes the transition to Winter and the end of the year. The final lap before we reach the traditional measuring anniversary of December 31st. Last chance to affect the composition of the photograph that will most certainly be taken, if not by us, then by others. Did we succeed or fail? Learn anything?
I see in Autumn's dual nature not a choice but a tension. A tension between looking forward and looking back. Winding up and winding down. These are not opposites. Some things need to wind down in order for something new to begin. We do not have to ransom the future to the past in order to learn from the past and possibly change the future. Winding up and winding down belong together.

Tapestries

Subtle hues and intricate weavings cover the barren wall. Rich stories emerge from single strands of thread lying side by side. Tethered imaginations unloosed and scampering, barefoot for the first time, through undiscovered worlds. Lost in wonder even while at home.

Sign Posts

I suppose I would have preferred more sign posts along the way. I don't know why. There's a certain romance and chutzpah in charting one's own path. There are probably as many foolish assumptions in the maps drawn up by others as there is wisdom. Too many are certain they know the destination, are familiar with the terrain, or can show the rest of us the way. Not enough are exploring the complexities, reexamining the obvious, or searching for treasures in the sand.
Maybe a sign post or two would remind me that I am not alone in my quest. Assure me that I'm not merely lost or blazing a path into oblivion, because someone has been this way before and also felt it was worth proceeding further.

Moody Clouds

Overcast skies attempt to color the day drab, overwhelming even the sun. Unwittingly I find myself lured into the heavy mood. A bracing face slap later, though, I remember my pledge not to take my cues from outside myself. I set the tone to my day. I choose how I will press into the lifeless grey that surrounds me and infuse my steps with fullness and power. I accept responsibility for the colors and textures on my soul's palette.
So the sun does not join me today. There are other sources of light.

Untested Ideal

Sometimes it is easier to complain about not being picked for the team, than it is to get in a situation where one would actually have to step to the plate. When left out by the choice of others, our contribution remains an untapped ideal in our minds. We can feel the disenfranchised victim and leave the precious ideal untested. When we do find or create an opportunity to step to the plate, our contribution then goes from conceptual ideal to concrete reality. And most likely, however adequate, this participation will fall short of the ideal. Even excellence can feel like failure when compared to an ideal. Better to stay out of those situations altogether. Better to keep trying out for teams for which one will never be selected. The ideal will remain intact. That is if the safety of hitting home runs in your imagination is better than the risks of striking out on the ground. It's time for me to risk more strike outs.

Happy Birthday

Today we will have fun celebrating Mom's birthday. I so appreciate the annual rhythm of remembrance and celebration. The pause to reflect and appreciate. The opportunity to communicate creatively, light-heartedly, and extravagantly some of the joy of a special person. For all life's pressures and stresses that would distract and have us forget the treasures in our own home, the birthday party is a delightful and invaluable marker. Happy birthday to everyone born today!

Story Line

Rummaging through memories for clues on the way forward. For whatever surprises of originality the future holds, there is no disconnecting it from the past. The past can be redeemed, but the past cannot be erased. The story has many authors, so my control over its outcome is limited. I must attend to contributing my voice to the story.
It is my voice that is so deeply influenced by what happened previously. The child cannot distinguish between the voices and merely mouths the current story line. The teenager needs to cut him or herself off from the voices of the past and write a different story in order to establish his or her own voice. In adulthood, we are free to reconnect with the past without experiencing it as a threat to our own voice. In fact we realize that the story is best told when no detail is left out.

Strong Convictions

I can't decide whether strongly held convictions inspire or frighten me more. The underlying arrogance of the, "I'm right and you're wrong," starting point of any conversation is troubling for what a unilateral power grab such an assumption represents. On the other hand, the insipid passivity of withdrawing from the conversation altogether in the name of tolerance or relativity or respect smacks too much of excuse-making and conflict avoidance.
Where is that bracing edge where conviction and inquiry, passion and hospitality, living boldly and learning humbly mingle, if not comfortably, then constructively? The stakes are so high when it comes to matters of life and family and work that the conversation absolutely must, regardless of the dangers, be engaged, with all welcome and none retreating.

Wanderings

Borrowed phrases drift across the expansive steppes of unexplored imaginings. Not at home in my own body. Yet to be introduced to my own soul. Roaming in search of God knows what. I keep coming across abandoned tents and can't help but wonder what everyone knows that I don't. What are the secrets I hear whispered in the wind?
While certainly a foreigner, I am no stranger. I am pilgrim.

The Poet

Tumbling through meanings and perceptions and insinuations. The words cagily dare me to recover my lost footing. Carefully honed ambiguities haunt or seduce or both, while I vainly strive to frame the world with comforting certainty. The poet smiles knowingly and juxtaposes beauty and suffering anew, subtly exposing the frailty of my impregnable worldview. Right when I had everything worked out. Damn that poet.

Choices

The most brilliant ideas in the world don't amount to a thing unless they take the form of choices. Concepts certainly help us think more clearly and thoroughly, but by themselves are not life.
My point here is not to denigrate the value of ideas, but to heighten the significance of our choices. We enact life. Engage, participate, do. We are missing much if we merely stand on the sidelines and limit our involvement to thinking and talking.
I know I need to get more involved in playing the game. I know I have some choices to make.

Radical Anniversary

It may make sense to assume that a radical change in context calls for a radical reevaluation and reorientation of one's practiced, if unexamined, lifestyle. Natural disasters and terrorism in what is now a global economic community consume the headlines, but we pray that paying the bills, shuttling kids back and forth to school, and surviving that last and longest eighth hour of work will not be long in again becoming our primary worries.
It's difficult enough to change an annoying habit like biting one's nails, much less contemplate a different sort of lifestyle for a different sort of time. And it's not like the alternatives are out there waiting to be chosen among. We have a complex, reflective, creative, experimental task ahead of us.
Time is not our friend in this process. We need more conversations, and we need more people participating in the conversations.

Structure and Time

Time and structure go hand in hand. I've been learning the hard way.
When the hours of my day are highly structured, I feel imprisoned, constrained, controlled. No space for the imagination to explore, no place for the unexpected to intrude, no room for conversation to deepen or the new to emerge.
I've been surprised to discover that the absence of structure isn't much better. No boundaries to all the possibilities. No deadlines around which to develop priorities. Infinite options available at every moment paralyze instead of empower. The mind bogged down with continually justifying the current use of time against all the others.
So I'm building structure into my day. Enough to focus efforts, prioritize decisions, and make actual progress. Not so much to shut down the creative spaces and interactions I need to function as well. Life, of course, is a learning process. I keep being surprised, though, by where the lessons turn up.

War of Insults

Public debate today is seldom related to the issues at stake. Most rhetoric centers on disqualifying the other debaters from participating in the discussion. They are either evil manipulators or incompetent idiots. Why convince people of the merits of your thoughts, when you can convince them simply not to listen to any other voices? Insular circles of like-minded people all reinforcing each others' myopic take on reality with no means of inviting critique, alternatives, or even a simple reality check to inform. Each closed community spiraling toward hyper-confident extremes that make public debate seem futile and unnecessary. Once again war, even a war of insults, finds itself looking for ways to eliminate the enemy.

Spinning Facts

That we spin facts in order to interpret reality in our favor has become pretty commonplace. Those who do it consciously and intentionally are considered communication masters. Those who do so unconsciously and without pretense are often considered candidates for therapy to help them assess reality more objectively.
I believe we may have the health/unhealth take backwards. Intention demands responsibility. To distort with knowledge is to abuse power in relationships at others' expense. Self-serving, manipulative and dangerous, even if well meant. The self-serving aspect of the unconscious distortion of facts is more a means to cope with complex situations with one's self-esteem intact.
The goal is not accuracy. Healthier seems a self-comfortable ability to nuance complex situations, not merely for one's own benefit, but for the benefit of all.

Spacious Hearts

Life's beauties and horrors mingle with strange familiarity. We are the only ones surprised.
Some are able to switch gears quickly and address the devastating new situation with poise and clarity. Others reel from the sucker punch of life's sudden betrayal. Fear and love, desperation and hope, loss and sacrifice all present and accounted for. These serial bedfellows inspire both heroic action and raging impotence.
How do we adjust? Can we adjust? From whence comes the spacious heart that has room to welcome the unexpected?

Arm's Length

Arm’s length. Not too far away. Not too close. I remember when I first realized that I preferred God at arm’s length. Not too far away. Not too close.
It’s an old line of mine. An honest reflection from another season. Oddly true still today. What is it about the living God that is both irresistibly attractive and unpredictably threatening?

Bright Crisp Mornings

There’s something about the crystal clear freshness of a crisp, bright morning that braces the soul for the inevitable realities of the day. Instead of fatigued dread, though, there is on these mornings spirited anticipation. This is my day. My day that I will seize and mold into something beautiful. Obstacles are not enemies to fear but challenges to confront. Opposition does not portend failure but new partners to win over to success. I feel powerful, grounded, and free. I love bright crisp mornings.

Voices

So many voices. Quite the challenge to discern and distinguish between them. Especially while settling into the integrity of our own. Gone is the adolescent satisfaction of simply being the opposite of those from whom we needed to distinguish ourselves. Down the road aways yet is the secure maturity that can listen and learn without ceding self. In the mean time we make our next choices amidst the cacophony of voices we feel expect so much from us. Until, that is, we realize they neither know us nor care about us. No one said growing up would be easy.

Getting Perspective

Stepping away may be necessary to gain some perspective. We can get too close to our own choices. We lose track of the destinations for which we are enduring each step and get lost along the way. We miss the future disoriented by the present. Conversely, we might be so focused on a dream conjured early in the journey that we fail to learn from the clues life’s bumps and jolts provide. Lessons that might have served to inform and refine the dream. We miss the present in service of the future. Either way we are not serving ourselves well. Either way finding ways to step back and get some perspective is essential.

Uninitiated Lenses

In spite of methodically cautious process I find myself catapulted into an utterly alien realm. Efforts to minimize disruption and chaos don't always succeed as we might have anticipated or hoped. And so my world is new, and my life is new. Accompanying the freshness is a steep learning curve. And even with age visits the challenge to see as through uninitiated lenses.
Discipline and choices and the application of the will in the face of complex and undecipherable struggles within. Alternately at home and a stranger in my own body. Both at peace and restless within my own soul. Shuddering at the possibilities all within reach for both good and evil. The question is less, what will I reach for, as much as it is, will I reach at all.
It is just an assumption that dawn precedes sunset. What if the sunset precedes the dawn?

Stretching and Twisting

The morning begs exploitation. Something entirely new arising from something entirely routine. Far-fetched dreams brought to form without being tamed. And all within the spirit of a shy old man. The day begs stretching and twisting until it no longer resembles itself, transformed by living.
The discipline to dwell where the green can stain one's eyes. Both beauty and structure find harmony in the well-manicured lawn. Where design and control encounter freedom and mystery, and decide either to partner or to it alone. A momentous embrace or shunning.