Those misbehaved fragments
Of a falling star
Land as cinders on my heart,
Setting ablaze a naked carnality,
A libidinous hunger, salacious desires.
I would behave with the spirit
Of a bestial miscreant - with abandon
I would mount and ride,
Ride wildly the beauty escaped
From heaven's sanctuary.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Even More on Prayer
My prayer life seems to have even more ups and downs than my health. There are days when the prospect of talking with a Holy God who speaks solar systems into existence seems daunting. What could I possibly add to that conversation? What form should my prayers take? Even though I am convinced He wants to hear from me, my stuttering and stammering, rambling prayers remain largely selfish and lacking in elements I would consider worshipful.
"Listen, God! Please pay attention! Can you make sense of these ramblings, my groans and cries?" (Ps 5:1 TM)
I don't think David much cared what he was adding to the conversation with that plea. He sounds a bit childish and selfish here, too. It reminds me of a two year old in need of a nap, cranky, whining and not really caring about the interruption.
I have recently begun to look at the book of Psalms in a different light. I was told some time back that Psalms is a book of poetry. That information changed the way I look at Psalms and at poetry. My own poetry became more free-form and from the heart, resulting in what I have been told is some beautiful verse. But I now recognize Psalms as a book of prayers, prayers from the heart, in the form of poetry. Those prayers are often unpolished, raw, sometimes pleading, sometimes praising. But they are all requests for God to meet us where we are - right here, right now.
How must David have felt narrowly escaping with his life when the enemy was his own son, Absolom? I doubt he spent much time polishing his language, or choosing the right words to take his anguish to God. In fact, it is easy to believe that the third Psalm as we read it is much more polished than David cried it - and it is rough.
I have begum to read the Psalms on days when prayer is difficult. I figure it is better to parrot someone else' words than to remain silent. The impulse to pray is deep within us all. But we need to overcome the awkward, out of place feelings that cause us to think that effective prayers contain "insider" language. Prayer is elemental and requires only honesty to be heard by the Most High God.
So let it all hang out! I dare you to invite Him to where you are, right now. He will surprise you if you truly believe in Him. And if you don't believe in Him, He's going to reward your honest effort. That's a win-win proposition.
"Listen, God! Please pay attention! Can you make sense of these ramblings, my groans and cries?" (Ps 5:1 TM)
I don't think David much cared what he was adding to the conversation with that plea. He sounds a bit childish and selfish here, too. It reminds me of a two year old in need of a nap, cranky, whining and not really caring about the interruption.
I have recently begun to look at the book of Psalms in a different light. I was told some time back that Psalms is a book of poetry. That information changed the way I look at Psalms and at poetry. My own poetry became more free-form and from the heart, resulting in what I have been told is some beautiful verse. But I now recognize Psalms as a book of prayers, prayers from the heart, in the form of poetry. Those prayers are often unpolished, raw, sometimes pleading, sometimes praising. But they are all requests for God to meet us where we are - right here, right now.
How must David have felt narrowly escaping with his life when the enemy was his own son, Absolom? I doubt he spent much time polishing his language, or choosing the right words to take his anguish to God. In fact, it is easy to believe that the third Psalm as we read it is much more polished than David cried it - and it is rough.
I have begum to read the Psalms on days when prayer is difficult. I figure it is better to parrot someone else' words than to remain silent. The impulse to pray is deep within us all. But we need to overcome the awkward, out of place feelings that cause us to think that effective prayers contain "insider" language. Prayer is elemental and requires only honesty to be heard by the Most High God.
So let it all hang out! I dare you to invite Him to where you are, right now. He will surprise you if you truly believe in Him. And if you don't believe in Him, He's going to reward your honest effort. That's a win-win proposition.
Drawbacks to Living Mindfully
In recent years I have studied bits and pieces of Dialectical Behavioral Therapy, or DBT. In one form, that I have studied two times, it was called Mood Management, taught by an instructor by the name of M. Moody (I'm not making this up), and that title explains more of its function than does the DBT label.
A key element of DBT is the practice of mindfulness, a particularly useful zen concept. Mindfullness, doing things mindfully, requires me to be present in everything I do. Confused? How often do you find yourself in "automatic" mode, doing thing by rote, unaware of your movement or even your thoughts? Mindfullness is a practice that involves me at a very conscious level in everything I do. That is the reference to being "present"; to be in the moment. I think of it now as trying to suck the marrow out of every moment in life.
That level of consciousness immerses me in my experiences and draws me out of myself. It allows me to focus on aspects of my life where I struggle. It helps me to detach from areas of emotional pain, or the practice of bad habits, when I am in a state of distress.
Heady stuff, to be certain, especially if your mind is as damaged as is mine. The peculiar mental/emotional illness combination from which I suffer falls in a category referred to as a "Borderline Personality Disorder." I dislike that label. No, that's not accurate. I despise that label. It sounds sinister. It conjures up images of serial killers lurking around corners. It calls to mind reports of disturbed men who are the product of a childhood where no one noticed Junior's fondness for torturing small animals.
Or maybe I simply need another medication change, to a pill that takes me to the place where I simply don't care about things like labels. Enough Clonopin or Xanex and I will forget..... Where was I going with that thought?
But where is God in that route? I do not denounce the medical profession for their interest in pursuing a chemical fix to a problem that stems from a chemical imbalance in my brain. But does a pharmacological cocktail accomplish the purpose God had in mind? Does it even allow me to work toward that purpose from my heart?
I have been studying, practicing and attempting to apply the mindfulness principle of DBT for the past nine months, with varying degrees of success. It is amazingly beneficial to emotional well-being. It has carried me through periods where funds were unavailable to renew prescriptions for the psychotropic fix suggested by my therapist. And withdrawal from those meds was less fun than was the swine flu at Christmas.
This morning, the simple act of drawing a breath, the cool air rushing through my nostrils, carrying faint scents of freshly mown grass and the nearby roses in the park where I have paused to pray and worship my God, The God, brings delight that exceeds the most memorable drug experience I recall. My chest and abdomen expand, drawing Him in, or was He already there awaiting my awakening today? The slightly warmed exhale releases even more cares to the surrounding mix of filtered sunlight, the pines overhead providing another pungent layer to my experience. The belief that this is how He will care for me today fills my spirit.
The flapping of flags on the stiffening breeze brings me to a different consciousness, and my feet want to walk. Having completed my worship I acquiesce. It's time to return to my truck and prepare a bit of oatmeal. Passing shopkeepers sweeping sidewalks and placing signs, cafe's, restaurants and bistros serving breakfasts, or preparing the fare of the day for diners yet to arrive, dogs leading masters by the leash, a light air carrying wondrous scents and flavors to my senses, I find myself at the beach.
Lost in thought, caught up in enjoyment of the moment, I missed my turn quite some time back. I will have to backtrack - later. I think I will stay in the moment for a while.
A key element of DBT is the practice of mindfulness, a particularly useful zen concept. Mindfullness, doing things mindfully, requires me to be present in everything I do. Confused? How often do you find yourself in "automatic" mode, doing thing by rote, unaware of your movement or even your thoughts? Mindfullness is a practice that involves me at a very conscious level in everything I do. That is the reference to being "present"; to be in the moment. I think of it now as trying to suck the marrow out of every moment in life.
That level of consciousness immerses me in my experiences and draws me out of myself. It allows me to focus on aspects of my life where I struggle. It helps me to detach from areas of emotional pain, or the practice of bad habits, when I am in a state of distress.
Heady stuff, to be certain, especially if your mind is as damaged as is mine. The peculiar mental/emotional illness combination from which I suffer falls in a category referred to as a "Borderline Personality Disorder." I dislike that label. No, that's not accurate. I despise that label. It sounds sinister. It conjures up images of serial killers lurking around corners. It calls to mind reports of disturbed men who are the product of a childhood where no one noticed Junior's fondness for torturing small animals.
Or maybe I simply need another medication change, to a pill that takes me to the place where I simply don't care about things like labels. Enough Clonopin or Xanex and I will forget..... Where was I going with that thought?
But where is God in that route? I do not denounce the medical profession for their interest in pursuing a chemical fix to a problem that stems from a chemical imbalance in my brain. But does a pharmacological cocktail accomplish the purpose God had in mind? Does it even allow me to work toward that purpose from my heart?
I have been studying, practicing and attempting to apply the mindfulness principle of DBT for the past nine months, with varying degrees of success. It is amazingly beneficial to emotional well-being. It has carried me through periods where funds were unavailable to renew prescriptions for the psychotropic fix suggested by my therapist. And withdrawal from those meds was less fun than was the swine flu at Christmas.
This morning, the simple act of drawing a breath, the cool air rushing through my nostrils, carrying faint scents of freshly mown grass and the nearby roses in the park where I have paused to pray and worship my God, The God, brings delight that exceeds the most memorable drug experience I recall. My chest and abdomen expand, drawing Him in, or was He already there awaiting my awakening today? The slightly warmed exhale releases even more cares to the surrounding mix of filtered sunlight, the pines overhead providing another pungent layer to my experience. The belief that this is how He will care for me today fills my spirit.
The flapping of flags on the stiffening breeze brings me to a different consciousness, and my feet want to walk. Having completed my worship I acquiesce. It's time to return to my truck and prepare a bit of oatmeal. Passing shopkeepers sweeping sidewalks and placing signs, cafe's, restaurants and bistros serving breakfasts, or preparing the fare of the day for diners yet to arrive, dogs leading masters by the leash, a light air carrying wondrous scents and flavors to my senses, I find myself at the beach.
Lost in thought, caught up in enjoyment of the moment, I missed my turn quite some time back. I will have to backtrack - later. I think I will stay in the moment for a while.
Waiting For You
Vivid cerulean eyes
Reveal a spirit,
A depth of soul
That compels I wait,
Propels my pen.
I would know you,
If allowed,
In the silly ways of childhood friends;
That you admire frogs and detest toads,
How many feathers you hold dear,
And why yellow makes you smile.
I would know you,
If allowed,
In the deepest ways of a confidante;
The secret fears that took years
To surface, a lifetime to reveal,
Those things that touch your soul.
I would know you,
If allowed,
In the delicate ways that in haste
Escape passionate young love;
The softness of your lips at first kiss,
The dewy sparkle of your eyes,
And that you blushed as you read these lines.
I would know you,
If allowed,
As the One would have me;
As your helper, leader, companion and mate,
As one who learned too late in life
The value of cherish,
the beauty of love.
Reveal a spirit,
A depth of soul
That compels I wait,
Propels my pen.
I would know you,
If allowed,
In the silly ways of childhood friends;
That you admire frogs and detest toads,
How many feathers you hold dear,
And why yellow makes you smile.
I would know you,
If allowed,
In the deepest ways of a confidante;
The secret fears that took years
To surface, a lifetime to reveal,
Those things that touch your soul.
I would know you,
If allowed,
In the delicate ways that in haste
Escape passionate young love;
The softness of your lips at first kiss,
The dewy sparkle of your eyes,
And that you blushed as you read these lines.
I would know you,
If allowed,
As the One would have me;
As your helper, leader, companion and mate,
As one who learned too late in life
The value of cherish,
the beauty of love.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Fauxbia
The deep and sonorous voice of
His defeatist self-talk was paternal,
And torturous, reinforcing the force fed
Message - there is no happiness.
Only gradients of misery -
Leaving him indifferent to the present,
Careless of the future.
Reared in the shadows of perfection,
Parental conflicts played out
As the "self-made men"
Of his father's generations
Chased ambitions beyond
The cramped lives
Of their own youth.
Affection and approval, bestowed,
Withdrawn, by the performance scale.
He was a sundial, numbering only sunny hours,
With little to say;
A lucid, inquisitive and fertile mind,
His native endowment a vivid sensibility
For the beauty of words.
He learned woman from
His quint-essential sisters,
Yet remained profoundly ignorant of women.
If love were happiness
It generated a loneliness
Made all the more desperate
By the intimacy of severed connections.
Psychic numbness, and fauxbia,
Yes, he feared being false,
Had plunged him into darkness,
With a vision of
A minimum level of connectedness,
The raw ache of personal loss,
The empty feeling of helplessness.
Forced to live as that outsider,
Trapped inside a family's feuds;
Being bonded to survivors,
Learning to live with the understanding
He would be jettisoned for others to survive:
Emotional dishonesty became
Necessary for survival.
Denial was the best defense
Since he couldn't change the situation,
And repression
Had long since
Ceased to offer relief;
He was too articulate for that lie.
The tightly packed crowd
Contained inside his head was
Momentarily frozen by the question -
How to unlearn the lessons of his youth?
To love and be loved, a necessary condition,
A prerequisite to a happiness
That could not exist?
Now, he works, and writes
And trusts in simple verities;
Chaos. pacified by distance and routine,
Serve to mitigate the sting
Of reality's' reminders -
To find that so urgently sought,
Only to have lost it in the finding.
His defeatist self-talk was paternal,
And torturous, reinforcing the force fed
Message - there is no happiness.
Only gradients of misery -
Leaving him indifferent to the present,
Careless of the future.
Reared in the shadows of perfection,
Parental conflicts played out
As the "self-made men"
Of his father's generations
Chased ambitions beyond
The cramped lives
Of their own youth.
Affection and approval, bestowed,
Withdrawn, by the performance scale.
He was a sundial, numbering only sunny hours,
With little to say;
A lucid, inquisitive and fertile mind,
His native endowment a vivid sensibility
For the beauty of words.
He learned woman from
His quint-essential sisters,
Yet remained profoundly ignorant of women.
If love were happiness
It generated a loneliness
Made all the more desperate
By the intimacy of severed connections.
Psychic numbness, and fauxbia,
Yes, he feared being false,
Had plunged him into darkness,
With a vision of
A minimum level of connectedness,
The raw ache of personal loss,
The empty feeling of helplessness.
Forced to live as that outsider,
Trapped inside a family's feuds;
Being bonded to survivors,
Learning to live with the understanding
He would be jettisoned for others to survive:
Emotional dishonesty became
Necessary for survival.
Denial was the best defense
Since he couldn't change the situation,
And repression
Had long since
Ceased to offer relief;
He was too articulate for that lie.
The tightly packed crowd
Contained inside his head was
Momentarily frozen by the question -
How to unlearn the lessons of his youth?
To love and be loved, a necessary condition,
A prerequisite to a happiness
That could not exist?
Now, he works, and writes
And trusts in simple verities;
Chaos. pacified by distance and routine,
Serve to mitigate the sting
Of reality's' reminders -
To find that so urgently sought,
Only to have lost it in the finding.
An It's It and a Stroll
Is there a finer frozen confection than an It's It? To call it an ice cream sandwich would be to say Seabiscuit was a nice pony. A vanilla delight between graham cookies, encased in chocolate - it approaches perfection, a hand held soul salve.
I rode the bus back to Monterey with Johnny, an acquaintance made during my first stay in jail, renewed during my second stay and again when he entered Sun Street Center's inpatient recovery program. His shaved head and broad smile caught my attention as I boarded at the Salinas transit center.
He's drinking again, sadly, for in spite of having so much to look forward to he just doesn't want to remain sober. He's an exceptionally talented artist in charcoal and in watercolor. He also recognizes that his art is suffering behind his drinking.
Still, it was nice to catch up with him. I saw him periodically at meetings until I moved to the peninsula about a year ago. Today we had a few laughs and exchanged numbers, but I know he won't call. My having remained clean and sober limits the conversation and what he really wants is someone with whom to drink. We went in different directions on arrival in Monterey. We had gone in different directions a year ago.
I walked the bike path to Cannery Row, having stopped to buy my savory treasure on Alvarado St. I was salivating before I exited Walgreen's. Near the Coast Guard pier I paused to observe a kayaking class underway. Despite the wind swept bay's influence, Breakwater Cove was astonishingly clear. Bright yellow and orange kayaks, each with a pair of students, were suspended on a rippled glass film of pale blue-green, revealing a deeper colored floor of rock and sand.
My thoughts and feelings drift and bob, gently rising and falling as I recall a kayak trip of my own. It was with a family that still exists in my heart, if not in my life. We had a most enjoyable time; created a memory I cherish.
I rode the bus back to Monterey with Johnny, an acquaintance made during my first stay in jail, renewed during my second stay and again when he entered Sun Street Center's inpatient recovery program. His shaved head and broad smile caught my attention as I boarded at the Salinas transit center.
He's drinking again, sadly, for in spite of having so much to look forward to he just doesn't want to remain sober. He's an exceptionally talented artist in charcoal and in watercolor. He also recognizes that his art is suffering behind his drinking.
Still, it was nice to catch up with him. I saw him periodically at meetings until I moved to the peninsula about a year ago. Today we had a few laughs and exchanged numbers, but I know he won't call. My having remained clean and sober limits the conversation and what he really wants is someone with whom to drink. We went in different directions on arrival in Monterey. We had gone in different directions a year ago.
I walked the bike path to Cannery Row, having stopped to buy my savory treasure on Alvarado St. I was salivating before I exited Walgreen's. Near the Coast Guard pier I paused to observe a kayaking class underway. Despite the wind swept bay's influence, Breakwater Cove was astonishingly clear. Bright yellow and orange kayaks, each with a pair of students, were suspended on a rippled glass film of pale blue-green, revealing a deeper colored floor of rock and sand.
My thoughts and feelings drift and bob, gently rising and falling as I recall a kayak trip of my own. It was with a family that still exists in my heart, if not in my life. We had a most enjoyable time; created a memory I cherish.
Monday, May 3, 2010
I Have Written About This Before
Everyone who calls on the name of the LORD will be saved. (Joel 2:32)
So why don't I call on His name? Why do I run to this person or that person, when God is so near and will hear my faintest call? Why do I sit down to plot my own course and make my own plans? Why don't I immediately place myself and my burden on the Lord? Since the shortest distance between here and there is a straight line, why don't I run directly to the living God?
Instead, I too often look in vain for deliverance everywhere else. Feelings of independence and insignificance come to mind as a cause, but I've written those thoughts already. And still I battle. It must be something deeper. Faith, or trust, perhaps? I think not.
I think it has more to do with my having too small of a concept of God. I have placed His mystery and wonder in a box that I open when I remember, instead of allowing Him access to "my" world. To be sure, I carry that box around with me. After all, I require ready access to God, when I remember Him.
I am amazingly forgetful some days. With Him I never need to ask if I may call. And the word everyone is all inclusive, all encompassing. It includes me and also means anybody and everybody who calls on His name.
My situation is urgent, and I cannot see how I will ever be delivered. Yet this is not my concern. God made the promise and I believe He will find a way to keep it. My part is simply to obey His commands, not to direct His ways. I am His servant, not His advisor.
So why don't I call on His name? Why do I run to this person or that person, when God is so near and will hear my faintest call? Why do I sit down to plot my own course and make my own plans? Why don't I immediately place myself and my burden on the Lord? Since the shortest distance between here and there is a straight line, why don't I run directly to the living God?
Instead, I too often look in vain for deliverance everywhere else. Feelings of independence and insignificance come to mind as a cause, but I've written those thoughts already. And still I battle. It must be something deeper. Faith, or trust, perhaps? I think not.
I think it has more to do with my having too small of a concept of God. I have placed His mystery and wonder in a box that I open when I remember, instead of allowing Him access to "my" world. To be sure, I carry that box around with me. After all, I require ready access to God, when I remember Him.
I am amazingly forgetful some days. With Him I never need to ask if I may call. And the word everyone is all inclusive, all encompassing. It includes me and also means anybody and everybody who calls on His name.
My situation is urgent, and I cannot see how I will ever be delivered. Yet this is not my concern. God made the promise and I believe He will find a way to keep it. My part is simply to obey His commands, not to direct His ways. I am His servant, not His advisor.
An Old Horse
Like an ageing thoroughbred
Tests the reign, wanting more,
Wanting to run once again,
I am in envy, and in awe,
Of those I see who grasped
The mystery of life and love.
The rain on my window reveals
Vignettes of my life shining
Through a prismatic waterfall,
Ego inflating their importance
To enormous, and vital -
Though merely cozy, and small.
A life of rushing timidity;
I am fearful of seizing hold
Of a love so coveted -
A crush of conflicted absorptions,
A passing wave across the sand,
Its mystery in its simplicity.
Tests the reign, wanting more,
Wanting to run once again,
I am in envy, and in awe,
Of those I see who grasped
The mystery of life and love.
The rain on my window reveals
Vignettes of my life shining
Through a prismatic waterfall,
Ego inflating their importance
To enormous, and vital -
Though merely cozy, and small.
A life of rushing timidity;
I am fearful of seizing hold
Of a love so coveted -
A crush of conflicted absorptions,
A passing wave across the sand,
Its mystery in its simplicity.
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