Such Great Heights
Tonight I heard loud thunk, thunks on my window; the kind of thunks that are made by rocks that have been thrown by hand; the kind of hand that belongs to someone like Romeo; the Romeo that I didn’t know existed, but if he’s throwing rocks at my window I’d better go look and let him know Juliet doesn’t live here. And if he is looking for Martha Lee Anne, then I should go down the stairs and let him in: I should let him in because he threw rocks at my window, and is there anything sweeter besides kisses on the cheek?
Might I mention that my window is on the second floor, faces an open back porch, and allows a perfect view of the moon? In other words, this is the perfect window for Romeo to throw rocks at. So I step towards the window, and there, rocks in hand, is my roommate’s mom who is locked out of the apartment? Sigh. And to think the one time someone threw rocks at my window, it wasn’t even a boy: but there are plenty of rocks, and certainly plenty of nights left.
They will see us waving from such great heights
Come down now, they'll say
But everything looks perfect from far away
Come down now but we'll stay
-Such Great Heights (best sung by Iron and Wine)
My favorite part of that entire song is the “but everything looks perfect from far away, Come down now, but we’ll stay” That’s perfect. Absolutely perfect. Reminds me of Robert Frost:
May no fate willfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth’s the right place for love:
I don’t know where it’s likely to go better.
I’d like to go by climbing a birch tree,
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.
-Birches
I wasn’t a swinger of birches growing up, but definitely a swinger of sweet gums and dogwoods. The missing limbs on both give testimony to this. Maybe there is a boy who is also a swinger of sweet gums or dogwoods, and instead of throwing rocks, he’s waiting for my window to be next to one….this prevents a possible broken window, and also provides a ladder both going and coming back….
In the 3rd grade my “boyfriend” gave me a heart shaped box of chocolates with a bee on it that said, “Bee Mine.” I thought this sweet. He followed his gift with, “I’d kiss you, but I have frosting on my lips.” I also thought this quite endearing. In the 4th grade I carved “I love -----“ into my sweet gum. In the 6th grade, my “boyfriend” liked me because I was good at hide-and-seek and I could run fast. Another boy wrote me letters and waved at me across the yard at break. One boy called my house asking for me, and when I got to the phone he said, “I saw you today at lunch and you stole my heart.” In the 7th grade I got a rose on my birthday, and he held my hand at break., and that summer, I kissed a boy in a game of spin the bottle. In the 9th grade, the boy who was moving away wanted to kiss me, and I didn’t let him: that summer, I got my first real boyfriend, and my first real kiss and he liked me despite my torn ACL, crazy knee brace, and braces. In the 10th grade, I had a new boyfriend and on his birthday, I stood on the end of a peninsula at the lake as it was getting dark, holding a cupcake with a single candle, and when he met me there, I gave him his first kiss. There was the boy who walked me to class, who couldn’t figure me out, who couldn’t decide if he liked me or just the idea of me, and I would have let him kiss me. In the 11th grade my boyfriend cheated on me because he was different, but I was different too. In the 12th grade “I love -----“ began to fade into the bark of the tree, and I let it. And just before my freshman year of college, the boy I really liked, liked me, and he kissed me in the road under a street lamp, and though things changed, he’s taught me the most about myself. During my second year of college, a boy at the drive through at Sonic asked me, “do you have a boyfriend,” and quickly followed with, “do you want one?” I drove away. That same year I formed a crush on a boy I know, but who doesn’t know me, and the next year I did the same thing, but this year, I won’t.
Today, I was looking through my “treasure box.” In it are things like a lucky bull’s eye that was my Bigdaddy’s, my keychain with things on it from Europe, Africa, and Wyoming, coins from all sorts of places, the key to an old diary, the flower I wore in my hair when I was a maid of honor, past airline tickets, a marble, a letter I never gave, an amethyst Matt found when we went to the Smokey Mountains, and a list: This list was written up at a girl’s retreat I went to in junior high: we were asked to write down all of the things we were looking for in the “h” word (saying husband freaks people out, so I’ll say “h”). I haven’t read it in years, mostly because I had forgotten about it, but I read it today, and found it surprisingly relevant so I put it back in the box and decided not to throw it away. I decided that that little pink piece of paper with my 13 year old kiss marks means something to me: I guess I remembered her smearing that red lipstick on and kissing that paper with such hope, and I couldn’t stand to throw her away.
Today, the girl who was my first roommate at Auburn- the girl who asked me to be her maid of honor at her wedding, the one who lived with me for two months in a tent in Africa- told me she is having a baby. And life seemed to meet me right there in my kitchen, over the phone, standing barefoot looking through the freezer for something to cook for dinner. Life isn’t a witty conversation between a guy and girl who are trying to figure each other out, who are trying to read the other’s mind instead of just asking the question. It isn’t a boy throwing a clump of dirt at the girl he likes on the playground, and it isn’t a boy seeing what all he can get if she’s willing. It isn’t sarcastic, or confusing, or hard to get; it isn’t mean, ugly, or a cheater. It isn’t indifferent or forgetful. Life isn’t blind to us or our hearts, if our hearts are buried six feet deeps, it’s because we had the shovel; and if we’re broken, it’s because we dropped ourselves into the wrong hands or the wrong place; and if we are the opposite of everything we ever wanted to be, well, we walked in the opposite direction. Life isn’t ugly, people are.
Today, it seemed simple. Alicia is having a baby with the man who is her best friend, who she loves; and she loves him because he pursued her, and she married him because it’s what her heart wanted, and in the midst of everything that was hard, and heartbreaking, and disappointing, there were all of these beautiful and fantastic moments. And it seems like such a waste to play such stupid games with people’s hearts when you realize how simple it should be.
So here it is: I’m not playing games with your heart. I’m not going to hold you at arms length because you “scare” me. I’m not going to expect you to cheat on me, lie to me, or walk away because of the others who have. I’m not going to hide my heart from you. I’m not going to half-way tell the truth because the whole truth is ugly. I’m not going to throw dirt clumps at your back when you’re not looking. I’m not going to be “complicated” on purpose. I’m going to try very hard not to shy away or to put up that stupid wall. And if you throw rocks at my window, I’ll open it…
If you ever hurt my heart, I’ve long gone forgiven you. And if I ever hurt your heart (girl or boy (this means in friendship or dating, except for girls, I don’t date those) then I’m sorry. I’m really very sorry, and I hope you’ll forgive me, I don’t want to be one of your heart’s cracks…I’d rather be one of your heart’s pieces of duck tape.
I figure that all of this doesn’t seem “realistic,” and is too hopeful, and naïve…but I’m one of those waving from such great heights, and I’ll stay...
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Friday, January 21, 2011
Forget Me
I'm a new soul
I came to this strange world
Hoping I could learn a bit about how to give and take.
But since I came here
Felt the joy and the fear
Finding myself making every possible mistake
-Yael Naim
I saw my life, saw it so clearly: I saw all of my mistakes like I was looking down on them, reading them, seeing them, knowing them. I saw them, insignificant, like the little marbles children play with, thumping them into cracks or between the spaces where furniture sits away from the walls, forgetting they ever existed; I saw all of it, every tick tick tick, like I could stop time or rewind it, or slow it down. I could speed it up until it fell, motionless- until I could see the end- and I stepped into my old bones like chalk, and turned my head to look back, and there it all was again, every tick tick tick- all in a row- from the beginning where I laid curled in black and empty, waiting to be filled; to the end where everything was white, burning, expanding, bursting: It was over.
The person I lived as, never the person I was. Always hoping for the next tick to change. “The next one, the next one, the next one.” But each second came, came, came, and went; just like the one’s before it. Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow I’ll be braver, wiser, better. And I saw my life: I saw it there, all in white just before it burst and burned out, and I realized sitting in the backseat of a car that I’m dying.
It’s ending. The ticks are carrying me to the front of the line that I’ve only just gotten into. And I look at my own life, my own blank page, and fill it up with meaningless letters I’ve grabbed while peaking through cracks in my fingers from the hands nearest mine: j-o-b, m-o-n-e-y, h-o-u-s-e, s-e-c-u-r-i-t-y. But I saw pictures today of the most lifelike statues I’ve ever seen, sitting on the floor of the ocean. And they were quiet, and still, and I wanted to sink, heavy, and stand next to them. I don’t know why, I guess I just thought if I could stand there, I could be beautiful like them- Just as I am. I could live to the end as me, and the coral that would clothe my arms and legs with every tick, tick wouldn’t change me or hide me, but become a part of me.
I don’t know which is worse, to have your life end in oblivion or to know how your life will end, unable to find the will or courage to change it. Today I could run, and it would all change: I could go to Tuscany, I could just be an English major with no idea of where I’m going to work, but happy to spend my days writing, I could wear white cotton flowers in my hair, I could kiss him first, I could write the stories I’ve wanted, I could make the confession, I could let the words go from behind my closed teeth, I could sing to you: I could, but I look towards the white, and it’s hard to imagine. I’m the statue with its eyes opened- seeing, but not moving- too afraid I’ll break or chip away.
I saw my life today, and the only real mistake I’ve ever made is hiding being the person you expect me to be.
I came to this strange world
Hoping I could learn a bit about how to give and take.
But since I came here
Felt the joy and the fear
Finding myself making every possible mistake
-Yael Naim
I saw my life, saw it so clearly: I saw all of my mistakes like I was looking down on them, reading them, seeing them, knowing them. I saw them, insignificant, like the little marbles children play with, thumping them into cracks or between the spaces where furniture sits away from the walls, forgetting they ever existed; I saw all of it, every tick tick tick, like I could stop time or rewind it, or slow it down. I could speed it up until it fell, motionless- until I could see the end- and I stepped into my old bones like chalk, and turned my head to look back, and there it all was again, every tick tick tick- all in a row- from the beginning where I laid curled in black and empty, waiting to be filled; to the end where everything was white, burning, expanding, bursting: It was over.
The person I lived as, never the person I was. Always hoping for the next tick to change. “The next one, the next one, the next one.” But each second came, came, came, and went; just like the one’s before it. Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow I’ll be braver, wiser, better. And I saw my life: I saw it there, all in white just before it burst and burned out, and I realized sitting in the backseat of a car that I’m dying.
It’s ending. The ticks are carrying me to the front of the line that I’ve only just gotten into. And I look at my own life, my own blank page, and fill it up with meaningless letters I’ve grabbed while peaking through cracks in my fingers from the hands nearest mine: j-o-b, m-o-n-e-y, h-o-u-s-e, s-e-c-u-r-i-t-y. But I saw pictures today of the most lifelike statues I’ve ever seen, sitting on the floor of the ocean. And they were quiet, and still, and I wanted to sink, heavy, and stand next to them. I don’t know why, I guess I just thought if I could stand there, I could be beautiful like them- Just as I am. I could live to the end as me, and the coral that would clothe my arms and legs with every tick, tick wouldn’t change me or hide me, but become a part of me.
I don’t know which is worse, to have your life end in oblivion or to know how your life will end, unable to find the will or courage to change it. Today I could run, and it would all change: I could go to Tuscany, I could just be an English major with no idea of where I’m going to work, but happy to spend my days writing, I could wear white cotton flowers in my hair, I could kiss him first, I could write the stories I’ve wanted, I could make the confession, I could let the words go from behind my closed teeth, I could sing to you: I could, but I look towards the white, and it’s hard to imagine. I’m the statue with its eyes opened- seeing, but not moving- too afraid I’ll break or chip away.
I saw my life today, and the only real mistake I’ve ever made is hiding being the person you expect me to be.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
A little french, and one HUGE spiritual headache
La coeur a ses raisons que la raison ne connait point
Translation: The heart has it’s reasons, that reason ignores completely. Pascal.
I’m listening to French music from around 1940-1970’s. It’s sultry and warm, like champagne bubbles that fizzle over the top of a glass. It makes me really happy; I just wish I knew what they were saying. No hablo French. Lo soliento.
A kiss to build a dream on…
-song by Louis Armstrong
It isn’t in French, but it has the same feel. Go listen to it. Now. If you don’t get drunk from the sound of it, something is terribly wrong with you.
French music makes me wish I had vintage high heel shoes, and pretty little stockings, red lipstick, and black hats with black bows. Tall mirrors leaning against walls, with sweet blue paint chipping away, chandeliers with crystal drops dripping splashes of red and green and blue light onto the floors. And a white cat that purrs while sleeping. I also wish my name were Amelie, or Hattie, or Laurie.Maybe I can learn the French alphabet. I doubt I learn more than that, I know “mercié”, and a few inappropriate phrases because of MTV.
So, perhaps I have caught you up in my romance of the French. Even with the narrow streets, and buildings that stand shoulder to shoulder like skinny children in a line, there is a kind of charm in the old buildings, and cafes, and small stores…and I remember most the art and book vendors on the streets, the smell of baking bread, a woman walking a white bunny down the street- I couldn’t even begin to make that up- and the Eiffel tower, which was most remarkable in person.
This newfound fascination with French music began after I watched the movie An Education, in which a young girl loves literature, and authors, and French music, and Oxford. And watching her smoke, lying on the floor, singing the French words, I found myself loving the music myself. Will I be smoking on the floor singing the lyrics by heart, no, but Pandora is more than sufficient for now.
I ramble way too much. I meant to mention my newfound discovery of French jazz and blues before blogging on something else completely differently, but as I have said, rambling is my specialty, of this I am certain.
Am I allowed to talk about French music only to swap completely and talk about Isaiah? I’m about to because here, you’re in Martha world, and I find myself doing things like this all of the time. It’s really nothing unusual.
While reading Isaiah chapter 1, I found myself considering what Hayley had asked me several days ago concerning good doing bad and bad doing good. Every night for the past several nights, I have literally found myself thinking over this, debating with myself, pondering over the real differences of Good vs. Bad and where God fits into it all.
If you haven’t read Isaiah chapter 1, it’s all about Israel being a sinful nation, rebelling against God, and really about the sickness of corruption that had taken over the people, leaving them- and the city - desolate, burned, etc. It goes on that the Lord is sick of “the multitude of your sacrifices”, and burnt offerings, and it seems, because their “hands are full of blood.” And it goes on that the Lord wishes them to makes themselves clean, and to remove the evil of their deeds from his eyes. He asks them “learn to do good, seek justice, correct oppression…” This eventually leads to the verse 18, which says, “Come now, let us reason together, says the Lord: though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they are red like crimson, they shall become like wool.”
So we see evil and wickedness being exchanged for forgiveness.
But I kept thinking the question over last night after reading. What is good? And I don’t mean according to the answers in ethics that explain “good is like a feeling, of “yea” or “ew” ; basically that good cannot be measured because it isn’t exactly known what is good or what is bad because different cultures have different ideas of the two: what is good for one people may be bad for another. No, I’m talking about God’s good. The good that is just, righteous, holy; the type of good that does not vary from people to people, because it is true to all people God has created. According to this idea of good being just and holy, none of us are good, right? I mean, none of us are God, so how could we be good?
I considered bad people who do good. When they do good, is it really good? I mean, if Good is associated with God’s being, how could someone bad do good. For example, a bad person giving money to orphans ( a good). I think of it this way: if they are bad/wicked, then they never had the intention of giving money to better the orphans, because that intention of doing good/desiring good would make them good, but clearly, we know- at least in this example- that they are wicked. So whatever the reason, though they seem to do good, they aren’t really good, because their intentions weren’t good, they were wicked. So good is absent.
Then I started to think about those people who drown others for fun, torture, murder ect. And I considered that we always say, “how could someone do that?” which usually someone answers, or our own conscience answers us with, “they had not a drop of humanity left.” But, what is humanity but wickedness, evil, and bad? In our inherit nature, we are terrible. Look at little children who know how to lie, steal, and cheat without ever been taught; how are they capable of such things at such a young age, why, by their innate human wickedness, their humanity. We associate humanity with charity, but we as a human species aren’t charitable, or kind, or generous. Why we
go to war with each other, hang each other, shoot each other, stereotype one another, judge one another based on racial prejudices. We ignore the starving and uneducated, we buy too much, waste too much, use too much…And after considering that we’ve been using the word “humanity” all wrong, I considered that it is true, none of us are good, because we are all human, and none of us are even close to being God; therefore, we aren’t even close to obtaining his goodness.
So how is there any good in the world? Which, we know there is. And if good, true goodness, is obtained through God, how is it there are people who don’t know God, yet seem to be good? How is that possible? For instance, I lived in Malawi, Africa for two months, in the middle of nowhere in the bush…in a tent. These people did not know God, yet they had warm, generous hearts. Don’t get me wrong, they had their share of wickedness, but it’s the goodness, real goodness, that I find surprising looking back. Last night I began to consider the beginning when the world, and man, were created.
And I thought, they ate from the tree of Good and Evil. So man knows Good and Evil. Inherently we are wicked, sinful, BUT we are aware of Good. And if we are aware of it, knowledgeable of it, as the people in Malawi were, then we are capable of acting out in Good. So Humanity really is both wickedness and Good, because we know both Good and Evil. And if I just gave you a massive headache through all of my jabbering, I’m sorry.
So, we know both Good and Evil because of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. God is only good, and though he must know wickedness, he does not act upon it. And if God is good, really good, and we are good, really good, well then, we really are made in God’s image, because there is no other way we could have obtained such a dichotomy in our nature otherwise. Because as God is good, and though he knows wickedness, because of his Goodness, he is not capable of acting out in evil. Because he is Good, he is not Good and Bad.
What’s the point in me saying all of this? There has to be a God. It is not possible for something Evil to be Good too. And it is not possible for something Good to be Evil too. Just as it is not possible for something to be ice and fire. But we see that we as humans are capable of being both. So, there must be a God based on the fact that we, such a violent, selfish, and evil species are capable of love, kindness, and occasional selflessness. And if there is a God, who is Good, and Just, and Righteous, who allows us into His presence, then we must be capable of learning his goodness, justice, and righteousness.
I just read a blog from a fellow friend about salvation as the transformation of the mind, and I believe it ties in well with what I’m trying to say. We are all wicked and good, so even in salvation; we will still be wicked, because we will still be human. But in salvation, the Holy Spirit resides in your soul, as a counselor and helper. Maybe this doesn’t mean anything to you, but as a Christian, I can’t tell you the guilt I experience when I realize how wicked I am, and how incapable I am of being like Jesus. It’s insufferable to desire one thing, only to be another. But to realize that I am both Good and Evil because I am all human, but in two parts. One part bad, and one part Good, and that with God, I can learn to be good, I can be saved, I can be made like snow, is a gift .
Salvation is about transformation of the mind. My mind is Good and Evil, and it can only be transformed by God. Just as if you have a glass, half full with dirty water, and half full with clean water… the class as a whole is tainted by the dirty water, just diluted by the clean. The only way to make the water cleaner is to begin a new glass, and to use a better filter to keep the dirt out. Using the same glass will dilute the filthy water, but the filth is still there. And refilling a new glass without a proper filter will just cause a new glass, with new dirty water. Renewing your mind is like getting a new glass, and leaning on the word, prayer, and having a real, personal relationship with Christ will create a filter that will dilute out the bad, and fill your glass with Good, God’s good.
“Come now, let us reason together, says the Lord: though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they are red like crimson, they shall become like wool.”
If I confused the heck out of you, I apologize. But this is usually how I reason through things. I just keep adding little details until I come to some weird conclusion. What are my conclusions?
1Adam and Eve ate from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil
2. People are both Good and Evil
3. God knows both Good and Evil, but is only Good in nature.
4. Because people are both Good and Evil, a HUGE Dichotomy, there must be a God for people to have Good as a part of there nature, otherwise, it wouldn’t be possible
5. It is possible for people who don’t know God to be good, because we know both Good and Evil
6. Being saved means a change in mind, and that can only happen with God…to acquire the characteristics of God (goodness, holiness, righteousness) one must get a new clean glass, and fill it up with God’s teachings, and get that wicked human half filtered and cleaned through confession and God’s mercy and forgiveness.
7. Even after being saved, you’ll still have a wicked nature, because no one is God, so no one is only Good. Being bad after being saved doesn’t mean you weren’t saved, but if bad seems to be taking over, that can mean you’re not growing.
8. Spiritual growth means meditating on God’s word, prayer, and spending personal time with Him, because in knowing him more, you learn of his goodness, and the more of his goodness you experience, the more you are capable to act according to God’s nature and not Man’s nature.
Translation: The heart has it’s reasons, that reason ignores completely. Pascal.
I’m listening to French music from around 1940-1970’s. It’s sultry and warm, like champagne bubbles that fizzle over the top of a glass. It makes me really happy; I just wish I knew what they were saying. No hablo French. Lo soliento.
A kiss to build a dream on…
-song by Louis Armstrong
It isn’t in French, but it has the same feel. Go listen to it. Now. If you don’t get drunk from the sound of it, something is terribly wrong with you.
French music makes me wish I had vintage high heel shoes, and pretty little stockings, red lipstick, and black hats with black bows. Tall mirrors leaning against walls, with sweet blue paint chipping away, chandeliers with crystal drops dripping splashes of red and green and blue light onto the floors. And a white cat that purrs while sleeping. I also wish my name were Amelie, or Hattie, or Laurie.Maybe I can learn the French alphabet. I doubt I learn more than that, I know “mercié”, and a few inappropriate phrases because of MTV.
So, perhaps I have caught you up in my romance of the French. Even with the narrow streets, and buildings that stand shoulder to shoulder like skinny children in a line, there is a kind of charm in the old buildings, and cafes, and small stores…and I remember most the art and book vendors on the streets, the smell of baking bread, a woman walking a white bunny down the street- I couldn’t even begin to make that up- and the Eiffel tower, which was most remarkable in person.
This newfound fascination with French music began after I watched the movie An Education, in which a young girl loves literature, and authors, and French music, and Oxford. And watching her smoke, lying on the floor, singing the French words, I found myself loving the music myself. Will I be smoking on the floor singing the lyrics by heart, no, but Pandora is more than sufficient for now.
I ramble way too much. I meant to mention my newfound discovery of French jazz and blues before blogging on something else completely differently, but as I have said, rambling is my specialty, of this I am certain.
Am I allowed to talk about French music only to swap completely and talk about Isaiah? I’m about to because here, you’re in Martha world, and I find myself doing things like this all of the time. It’s really nothing unusual.
While reading Isaiah chapter 1, I found myself considering what Hayley had asked me several days ago concerning good doing bad and bad doing good. Every night for the past several nights, I have literally found myself thinking over this, debating with myself, pondering over the real differences of Good vs. Bad and where God fits into it all.
If you haven’t read Isaiah chapter 1, it’s all about Israel being a sinful nation, rebelling against God, and really about the sickness of corruption that had taken over the people, leaving them- and the city - desolate, burned, etc. It goes on that the Lord is sick of “the multitude of your sacrifices”, and burnt offerings, and it seems, because their “hands are full of blood.” And it goes on that the Lord wishes them to makes themselves clean, and to remove the evil of their deeds from his eyes. He asks them “learn to do good, seek justice, correct oppression…” This eventually leads to the verse 18, which says, “Come now, let us reason together, says the Lord: though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they are red like crimson, they shall become like wool.”
So we see evil and wickedness being exchanged for forgiveness.
But I kept thinking the question over last night after reading. What is good? And I don’t mean according to the answers in ethics that explain “good is like a feeling, of “yea” or “ew” ; basically that good cannot be measured because it isn’t exactly known what is good or what is bad because different cultures have different ideas of the two: what is good for one people may be bad for another. No, I’m talking about God’s good. The good that is just, righteous, holy; the type of good that does not vary from people to people, because it is true to all people God has created. According to this idea of good being just and holy, none of us are good, right? I mean, none of us are God, so how could we be good?
I considered bad people who do good. When they do good, is it really good? I mean, if Good is associated with God’s being, how could someone bad do good. For example, a bad person giving money to orphans ( a good). I think of it this way: if they are bad/wicked, then they never had the intention of giving money to better the orphans, because that intention of doing good/desiring good would make them good, but clearly, we know- at least in this example- that they are wicked. So whatever the reason, though they seem to do good, they aren’t really good, because their intentions weren’t good, they were wicked. So good is absent.
Then I started to think about those people who drown others for fun, torture, murder ect. And I considered that we always say, “how could someone do that?” which usually someone answers, or our own conscience answers us with, “they had not a drop of humanity left.” But, what is humanity but wickedness, evil, and bad? In our inherit nature, we are terrible. Look at little children who know how to lie, steal, and cheat without ever been taught; how are they capable of such things at such a young age, why, by their innate human wickedness, their humanity. We associate humanity with charity, but we as a human species aren’t charitable, or kind, or generous. Why we
go to war with each other, hang each other, shoot each other, stereotype one another, judge one another based on racial prejudices. We ignore the starving and uneducated, we buy too much, waste too much, use too much…And after considering that we’ve been using the word “humanity” all wrong, I considered that it is true, none of us are good, because we are all human, and none of us are even close to being God; therefore, we aren’t even close to obtaining his goodness.
So how is there any good in the world? Which, we know there is. And if good, true goodness, is obtained through God, how is it there are people who don’t know God, yet seem to be good? How is that possible? For instance, I lived in Malawi, Africa for two months, in the middle of nowhere in the bush…in a tent. These people did not know God, yet they had warm, generous hearts. Don’t get me wrong, they had their share of wickedness, but it’s the goodness, real goodness, that I find surprising looking back. Last night I began to consider the beginning when the world, and man, were created.
And I thought, they ate from the tree of Good and Evil. So man knows Good and Evil. Inherently we are wicked, sinful, BUT we are aware of Good. And if we are aware of it, knowledgeable of it, as the people in Malawi were, then we are capable of acting out in Good. So Humanity really is both wickedness and Good, because we know both Good and Evil. And if I just gave you a massive headache through all of my jabbering, I’m sorry.
So, we know both Good and Evil because of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. God is only good, and though he must know wickedness, he does not act upon it. And if God is good, really good, and we are good, really good, well then, we really are made in God’s image, because there is no other way we could have obtained such a dichotomy in our nature otherwise. Because as God is good, and though he knows wickedness, because of his Goodness, he is not capable of acting out in evil. Because he is Good, he is not Good and Bad.
What’s the point in me saying all of this? There has to be a God. It is not possible for something Evil to be Good too. And it is not possible for something Good to be Evil too. Just as it is not possible for something to be ice and fire. But we see that we as humans are capable of being both. So, there must be a God based on the fact that we, such a violent, selfish, and evil species are capable of love, kindness, and occasional selflessness. And if there is a God, who is Good, and Just, and Righteous, who allows us into His presence, then we must be capable of learning his goodness, justice, and righteousness.
I just read a blog from a fellow friend about salvation as the transformation of the mind, and I believe it ties in well with what I’m trying to say. We are all wicked and good, so even in salvation; we will still be wicked, because we will still be human. But in salvation, the Holy Spirit resides in your soul, as a counselor and helper. Maybe this doesn’t mean anything to you, but as a Christian, I can’t tell you the guilt I experience when I realize how wicked I am, and how incapable I am of being like Jesus. It’s insufferable to desire one thing, only to be another. But to realize that I am both Good and Evil because I am all human, but in two parts. One part bad, and one part Good, and that with God, I can learn to be good, I can be saved, I can be made like snow, is a gift .
Salvation is about transformation of the mind. My mind is Good and Evil, and it can only be transformed by God. Just as if you have a glass, half full with dirty water, and half full with clean water… the class as a whole is tainted by the dirty water, just diluted by the clean. The only way to make the water cleaner is to begin a new glass, and to use a better filter to keep the dirt out. Using the same glass will dilute the filthy water, but the filth is still there. And refilling a new glass without a proper filter will just cause a new glass, with new dirty water. Renewing your mind is like getting a new glass, and leaning on the word, prayer, and having a real, personal relationship with Christ will create a filter that will dilute out the bad, and fill your glass with Good, God’s good.
“Come now, let us reason together, says the Lord: though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they are red like crimson, they shall become like wool.”
If I confused the heck out of you, I apologize. But this is usually how I reason through things. I just keep adding little details until I come to some weird conclusion. What are my conclusions?
1Adam and Eve ate from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil
2. People are both Good and Evil
3. God knows both Good and Evil, but is only Good in nature.
4. Because people are both Good and Evil, a HUGE Dichotomy, there must be a God for people to have Good as a part of there nature, otherwise, it wouldn’t be possible
5. It is possible for people who don’t know God to be good, because we know both Good and Evil
6. Being saved means a change in mind, and that can only happen with God…to acquire the characteristics of God (goodness, holiness, righteousness) one must get a new clean glass, and fill it up with God’s teachings, and get that wicked human half filtered and cleaned through confession and God’s mercy and forgiveness.
7. Even after being saved, you’ll still have a wicked nature, because no one is God, so no one is only Good. Being bad after being saved doesn’t mean you weren’t saved, but if bad seems to be taking over, that can mean you’re not growing.
8. Spiritual growth means meditating on God’s word, prayer, and spending personal time with Him, because in knowing him more, you learn of his goodness, and the more of his goodness you experience, the more you are capable to act according to God’s nature and not Man’s nature.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Thursday, January 6, 2011
FreeBird
It’s a little depressing, nay, disappointing, when I find the only two things I can really say about today are:
“Always make copies” and “Don’t wear your heart on your sleeve.”
I was told today “not to wear your heart on your sleeve,” by a much older woman. Apparently, when you do this, people swarm, and not to give hugs, but to stab. I don’t know if I believe this yet, and I guess I might be screwed when I find out it’s true…but I’m always going on and on about wearing my heart on my sleeve, and I think I’m a little too devoted to the idea to just give in because a few people warned me not to. I guess it’s my loss, or maybe my gain. Who knows?
I guess no one knows because most of us take the advice. So for all I know wearing your heart on your sleeve and having it stabbed can’t be any worse than starving your heart in a tiny cage. I’ll take the knife please, at least that way it’s over quickly. Cages suck.
I just read the blog (yes, not only do I waste my time writing them, I waste even more time reading them) of a guy who sat next to me in Advanced Composition. You don’t have to be me or sit next to this guy to know him, because you already know him: He’s the guy who’s sarcastic, but funny, aloof but connected, smart but a little slacker-ish from time to time, charming but is completely capable of being a jackass if he really wants, seems a tid bit lost and innocent, but throws the “f” word around with so much heart that you don’t even consider he’s cursing, and might I mention he didn’t read hardly any of the assignments but had all of the best answers in class. The guy you wish you could be (and by “you” I mean “I”), but you’re not quite brave enough or free enough to be him.
My friends and I gave each other nicknames in school. I was Myrtle the turtle, this is both humiliating and completely void of anything to do with me. My parents called me Pricilla the Hun or Lucille McGillcuddy because of my tendency to be mischievous and a “terrorist” from time to time. But when I was in high school, I was sitting on the beach with a group of strangers, and a boy asked me for my name, and before I said anything, he decided he’d call me Freebird. And when one of my friends asked him why, he simply said, “because she’s free.”
Maybe he was flirting with me, and calling me Freebird was his way of making my singleness sound desirable, but I liked the nickname. And when he starting singing the lyrics by Lynyrd Skynyrd, slurring the part about “I’m as free as a bird,” and rocked side to side, holding his beer, I was happy. Because I believed it.
Deep down, there’s a freebird in my soul, she’s just gotten caged somewhere. And cages suck. So Rhetorical question: If you stabbed me, would she fly away?
I don’t know what happened. Some people spend their lives not able to differentiate who they are now from who they were then. But sometimes- when I think about who I was then- she doesn’t look anything like who I am now. That seems absurd, you should always just be you, but one day, I couldn’t climb trees any more, and I couldn’t play with dolls or GI Jo figures, I couldn’t pretend and play: I wasn’t a child any more. This isn’t the end of the world, but still, I don’t think I just lost my nap time and animal crackers, I lost something else. I think I lost my courage. I never questioned my spontaneous roof climbs, or creek adventures, or attempt to build forts and sleep in the woods. I didn’t consider them, analyze them, look for the sensible things…I just did them because I wanted to, because somewhere in me, I needed to. I needed to get lost, to climb something bigger than me.
Somewhere along the way of growing up, I grew up. Where I used to dream about rooms filled with blank paper and pens, and traveling the world, dancing on cobble stoned streets, and getting lost in big cities with strange names, I lost Pricilla the Hun and Lucille Mcgillicuddy. They were replaced by the sensible and grown-up Martha Lee Anne. And Martha Lee Anne worries too much about the cost of traveling, safety concerns, getting lost in big cities not able to speak the language, and “what about my degree, and job, and ‘future’”
It’s highly ironic that the entire time I was hoping to just live. To just be. To take the world for all it was, and fall in love with it- all of it- I became the responsible adult that I hoped I’d never be. At this moment I hate Irony, and I’m well aware that he’s on the ground, gasping for air between his laughs.
I don’t need the house, the job, the “American dream”. I don’t need a white picket fence or a flower bed. I don’t need the crunchy eyelashes and white powder. I never needed them, I never wanted them, and still, I’m moving in that direction. I’m closer to being Stepford Ryals than I am to being Freebird. I refuse to be a Stepford, because it’s not who I am. I’m a Freebird, and birds don’t need organized folders and plans and people to tell them where to fly: They fly because they need to, because it’s in their nature to.
Wilson (the guy from advanced composition) is a freebird. He could be running or he could be a coward, but my idea of those two things means 1: treadmill 2. Getting a degree and working in a little office making a good American salary because the cage looks a heck of a lot safer than all of that empty, blue space. Being a coward is not: going to Europe for 7 months, having dinner with complete strangers, sitting alone in a café.
I think if I had never been taught responsible is better than spontaneous, or if you climb too high, you might fall and break something, or everyone grows up and…. I’d be more like Lucile McGillicuddy, like Wilson. Because I think, maybe, this is a huge generalization, but I think we’re all like Wilson in that we lust for the adventure, the story, it’s just, we’re not all brave enough to go find it.
But I’m going to find it. I’m going to write about cobble stoned streets, and old men singing opera, strolling down streets with empty bottle in their hands, and I’m going to sleep in the sun on open hills, and I’m going to feel tiny in grand churches. I’m going to be Freebird again. I’m going to be Lucile and Pricilla again. Because I’m not Myrtle the turtle and I’m not Martha Stepford, I’m Martha Lee Anne…and Martha Lee Anne has lust for a story, and adventures, and the unexpected, and I suppose, I just took a little detour from her for awhile.
“Always make copies” and “Don’t wear your heart on your sleeve.”
I was told today “not to wear your heart on your sleeve,” by a much older woman. Apparently, when you do this, people swarm, and not to give hugs, but to stab. I don’t know if I believe this yet, and I guess I might be screwed when I find out it’s true…but I’m always going on and on about wearing my heart on my sleeve, and I think I’m a little too devoted to the idea to just give in because a few people warned me not to. I guess it’s my loss, or maybe my gain. Who knows?
I guess no one knows because most of us take the advice. So for all I know wearing your heart on your sleeve and having it stabbed can’t be any worse than starving your heart in a tiny cage. I’ll take the knife please, at least that way it’s over quickly. Cages suck.
I just read the blog (yes, not only do I waste my time writing them, I waste even more time reading them) of a guy who sat next to me in Advanced Composition. You don’t have to be me or sit next to this guy to know him, because you already know him: He’s the guy who’s sarcastic, but funny, aloof but connected, smart but a little slacker-ish from time to time, charming but is completely capable of being a jackass if he really wants, seems a tid bit lost and innocent, but throws the “f” word around with so much heart that you don’t even consider he’s cursing, and might I mention he didn’t read hardly any of the assignments but had all of the best answers in class. The guy you wish you could be (and by “you” I mean “I”), but you’re not quite brave enough or free enough to be him.
My friends and I gave each other nicknames in school. I was Myrtle the turtle, this is both humiliating and completely void of anything to do with me. My parents called me Pricilla the Hun or Lucille McGillcuddy because of my tendency to be mischievous and a “terrorist” from time to time. But when I was in high school, I was sitting on the beach with a group of strangers, and a boy asked me for my name, and before I said anything, he decided he’d call me Freebird. And when one of my friends asked him why, he simply said, “because she’s free.”
Maybe he was flirting with me, and calling me Freebird was his way of making my singleness sound desirable, but I liked the nickname. And when he starting singing the lyrics by Lynyrd Skynyrd, slurring the part about “I’m as free as a bird,” and rocked side to side, holding his beer, I was happy. Because I believed it.
Deep down, there’s a freebird in my soul, she’s just gotten caged somewhere. And cages suck. So Rhetorical question: If you stabbed me, would she fly away?
I don’t know what happened. Some people spend their lives not able to differentiate who they are now from who they were then. But sometimes- when I think about who I was then- she doesn’t look anything like who I am now. That seems absurd, you should always just be you, but one day, I couldn’t climb trees any more, and I couldn’t play with dolls or GI Jo figures, I couldn’t pretend and play: I wasn’t a child any more. This isn’t the end of the world, but still, I don’t think I just lost my nap time and animal crackers, I lost something else. I think I lost my courage. I never questioned my spontaneous roof climbs, or creek adventures, or attempt to build forts and sleep in the woods. I didn’t consider them, analyze them, look for the sensible things…I just did them because I wanted to, because somewhere in me, I needed to. I needed to get lost, to climb something bigger than me.
Somewhere along the way of growing up, I grew up. Where I used to dream about rooms filled with blank paper and pens, and traveling the world, dancing on cobble stoned streets, and getting lost in big cities with strange names, I lost Pricilla the Hun and Lucille Mcgillicuddy. They were replaced by the sensible and grown-up Martha Lee Anne. And Martha Lee Anne worries too much about the cost of traveling, safety concerns, getting lost in big cities not able to speak the language, and “what about my degree, and job, and ‘future’”
It’s highly ironic that the entire time I was hoping to just live. To just be. To take the world for all it was, and fall in love with it- all of it- I became the responsible adult that I hoped I’d never be. At this moment I hate Irony, and I’m well aware that he’s on the ground, gasping for air between his laughs.
I don’t need the house, the job, the “American dream”. I don’t need a white picket fence or a flower bed. I don’t need the crunchy eyelashes and white powder. I never needed them, I never wanted them, and still, I’m moving in that direction. I’m closer to being Stepford Ryals than I am to being Freebird. I refuse to be a Stepford, because it’s not who I am. I’m a Freebird, and birds don’t need organized folders and plans and people to tell them where to fly: They fly because they need to, because it’s in their nature to.
Wilson (the guy from advanced composition) is a freebird. He could be running or he could be a coward, but my idea of those two things means 1: treadmill 2. Getting a degree and working in a little office making a good American salary because the cage looks a heck of a lot safer than all of that empty, blue space. Being a coward is not: going to Europe for 7 months, having dinner with complete strangers, sitting alone in a café.
I think if I had never been taught responsible is better than spontaneous, or if you climb too high, you might fall and break something, or everyone grows up and…. I’d be more like Lucile McGillicuddy, like Wilson. Because I think, maybe, this is a huge generalization, but I think we’re all like Wilson in that we lust for the adventure, the story, it’s just, we’re not all brave enough to go find it.
But I’m going to find it. I’m going to write about cobble stoned streets, and old men singing opera, strolling down streets with empty bottle in their hands, and I’m going to sleep in the sun on open hills, and I’m going to feel tiny in grand churches. I’m going to be Freebird again. I’m going to be Lucile and Pricilla again. Because I’m not Myrtle the turtle and I’m not Martha Stepford, I’m Martha Lee Anne…and Martha Lee Anne has lust for a story, and adventures, and the unexpected, and I suppose, I just took a little detour from her for awhile.
Monday, January 3, 2011
Lyrical Collage...
quickly…From “Love”
“It expands the sentiment; it makes the clown gentle and gives the coward heart. Into the most pitiful and abject it will infuse a heart and courage to defy the world, so only it have the countenance of the beloved object. In giving him to another it still more gives him to himself. He is a new man, with new perceptions, new and keener purposes, and a religious solemnity of character and aims. He does not longer appertain to his family and society, he is somewhat; he is a person; he is a soul.”
Annnnd
“Hence arose the saying, ‘If I love you, what is that to you?’ We say it because we feel that what we love is not in your will, but above it. It is not you but your radiance. It is that which you know not in yourself and can never know.”
-Emerson
I didn’t really mean to blog about Emerson, but I really liked his point in that second paragraph about how we say I love you, but the things we love, the person we love, are usually the things or the person that the one you’re saying “I love you” to can’t even see in themselves.; this seems odd considering that you would think the person who knows you best is you, and if you can’t see all that you are, that seems strange, like looking in a mirror and not seeing your nose or mouth. I find it ironic that we- even to ourselves- are sometimes strangers. Funny, huh?
To The Real Point. Here’s one song copy and pasted together with some of my favorite lyrics.
weep little lion man,
you're not as brave as you were at the start
Things used to be, now they not
anything but us is who we are
we all look like we feel
Text message breakups, the casualty of tour
How she gon’ wake up and not love me no more?
I walked the steps to her apartment with the window by the shore
And saw her curled on the tile through a crack in the door:
And the tears come streaming down your face
When you lose something you can't replace
When you love someone but it goes to waste
Could it be worse?
She's lying in the back room, crying on the bathroom floor
Singing “I can't take it, I can't take anymore,
I am a whore, I must confess,
I put you on just like a wedding dress.
I'd go back to December, turn around and make it alright.
I go back to December all the time”
Oh and she's always dressed in white
She's like an angel, And she burns our eyes
She’s got a wolf to keep her warm
I'm wide awake and I can see the perfect sky is torn
And it leans on me like a rootless tree,
Cause you were the same as me,
But on your knees
I've been searching for the words I don't know how to say
I've been searching for the words to make it go away
Things I've felt but I've never said
You said things that I never said
So I'll say something that I should have said long ago
Grace's amazing hands, they're ugly,
They're bruised by the blows that I have blown.
The lingering question kept me up,
2 a.m who do you love?
Have I still got you to cross my bridge in this storm?
Have I still got you to keep me warm?
Would you catch me if I fall out of what I fell in?
I am folded, and unfolded, and unfolding.
I am,
Tonight, pretend you’re a cigarette,
And you’re being smoked by a picturesque girl.
What you feel is what you are,
And what you are is beautiful.
She pulled you in,
And bit your lip,
And made you hers.
I won’t set you free
I won't set you free
Not to say it’s over
Come right back to me
Lights will guide you home,
And ignite your bones
And I will try to fix you.
“It expands the sentiment; it makes the clown gentle and gives the coward heart. Into the most pitiful and abject it will infuse a heart and courage to defy the world, so only it have the countenance of the beloved object. In giving him to another it still more gives him to himself. He is a new man, with new perceptions, new and keener purposes, and a religious solemnity of character and aims. He does not longer appertain to his family and society, he is somewhat; he is a person; he is a soul.”
Annnnd
“Hence arose the saying, ‘If I love you, what is that to you?’ We say it because we feel that what we love is not in your will, but above it. It is not you but your radiance. It is that which you know not in yourself and can never know.”
-Emerson
I didn’t really mean to blog about Emerson, but I really liked his point in that second paragraph about how we say I love you, but the things we love, the person we love, are usually the things or the person that the one you’re saying “I love you” to can’t even see in themselves.; this seems odd considering that you would think the person who knows you best is you, and if you can’t see all that you are, that seems strange, like looking in a mirror and not seeing your nose or mouth. I find it ironic that we- even to ourselves- are sometimes strangers. Funny, huh?
To The Real Point. Here’s one song copy and pasted together with some of my favorite lyrics.
weep little lion man,
you're not as brave as you were at the start
Things used to be, now they not
anything but us is who we are
we all look like we feel
Text message breakups, the casualty of tour
How she gon’ wake up and not love me no more?
I walked the steps to her apartment with the window by the shore
And saw her curled on the tile through a crack in the door:
And the tears come streaming down your face
When you lose something you can't replace
When you love someone but it goes to waste
Could it be worse?
She's lying in the back room, crying on the bathroom floor
Singing “I can't take it, I can't take anymore,
I am a whore, I must confess,
I put you on just like a wedding dress.
I'd go back to December, turn around and make it alright.
I go back to December all the time”
Oh and she's always dressed in white
She's like an angel, And she burns our eyes
She’s got a wolf to keep her warm
I'm wide awake and I can see the perfect sky is torn
And it leans on me like a rootless tree,
Cause you were the same as me,
But on your knees
I've been searching for the words I don't know how to say
I've been searching for the words to make it go away
Things I've felt but I've never said
You said things that I never said
So I'll say something that I should have said long ago
Grace's amazing hands, they're ugly,
They're bruised by the blows that I have blown.
The lingering question kept me up,
2 a.m who do you love?
Have I still got you to cross my bridge in this storm?
Have I still got you to keep me warm?
Would you catch me if I fall out of what I fell in?
I am folded, and unfolded, and unfolding.
I am,
Tonight, pretend you’re a cigarette,
And you’re being smoked by a picturesque girl.
What you feel is what you are,
And what you are is beautiful.
She pulled you in,
And bit your lip,
And made you hers.
I won’t set you free
I won't set you free
Not to say it’s over
Come right back to me
Lights will guide you home,
And ignite your bones
And I will try to fix you.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Beautiful Madness
It’s the second day of 2011. I’ll be 23 in 43 days. I still weigh 115. I still love God. I still want to be a writer. I still hate olives. I predicts that many of the things that happened this past year, and the year before, will repeat themselves: I’ll overflow the sink with water or bubbles, I’ll lock myself out of my apartment, I’ll oversleep on a day that I don’t need to do that, I’ll forget to pay the water bill on time, I’ll cry over something stupid, I’ll break a guitar string…..
My mom is right when she says, “you look older, but you feel the same.” I don’t know how much more I’ll change in the next year. It isn’t so much that I’ll change, I’ll just see more- have my eyes opened a bit more- and I think it’s all the seeing that changes. And I’ve also figured out that once your eyes are opened, they don’t forget…or close.
“When you grow up, your heart dies” -the breakfast club.
This came at the right time in my life, because I’ve come to realize it’s true. The older you get, the more you see the world for what it really is, and it isn’t anything near as beautiful or good as I had hoped it would be….It kind of burst my heart balloon.
I’m not angry about it though, which is strange, I suppose. I guess I thought that if everything I hoped for were ended in an instant, I’d fall apart, but instead I have a newfound love for God. It isn’t that I didn’t love him already; it’s just, I didn’t realize, really, how bad it all was without him. I didn’t really know how “fallen” fallen was. How messed up it all was.
I saw a book in a bookstore off the square a day or two following my revelation, and it was titled “beautiful madness,” and I laughed. Because I don’t think we know really how complete opposites those two words are. Beautiful is all sweet and warm and light, and reminds me of poetry and songs and of the summers spent in the pastures at Repton, and Madness is all insanity, and darkness, and twisted.
Life is beautiful madness, and if my eyes are opened more to the maddness, I guess they open just as much to the beauty. And I'm ok with that
My mom is right when she says, “you look older, but you feel the same.” I don’t know how much more I’ll change in the next year. It isn’t so much that I’ll change, I’ll just see more- have my eyes opened a bit more- and I think it’s all the seeing that changes. And I’ve also figured out that once your eyes are opened, they don’t forget…or close.
“When you grow up, your heart dies” -the breakfast club.
This came at the right time in my life, because I’ve come to realize it’s true. The older you get, the more you see the world for what it really is, and it isn’t anything near as beautiful or good as I had hoped it would be….It kind of burst my heart balloon.
I’m not angry about it though, which is strange, I suppose. I guess I thought that if everything I hoped for were ended in an instant, I’d fall apart, but instead I have a newfound love for God. It isn’t that I didn’t love him already; it’s just, I didn’t realize, really, how bad it all was without him. I didn’t really know how “fallen” fallen was. How messed up it all was.
I saw a book in a bookstore off the square a day or two following my revelation, and it was titled “beautiful madness,” and I laughed. Because I don’t think we know really how complete opposites those two words are. Beautiful is all sweet and warm and light, and reminds me of poetry and songs and of the summers spent in the pastures at Repton, and Madness is all insanity, and darkness, and twisted.
Life is beautiful madness, and if my eyes are opened more to the maddness, I guess they open just as much to the beauty. And I'm ok with that
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