Winter Totem

Tadhg sank to his knees atop the tor. Wind, icy and iron-like, skirled off the sea, summoning a doleful rattle from the bone necklace dangling down the matted furs that served as his coat. A weak cough scratched his throat. A short distance away, down in a glen that opened up into a cove along the beach, he could see a a stone cottage. At one end was hat looked to be a wood door. At the other was a lichen-bedecked chimney, from which a gauzy stream of smoke spiraled away into the air. "Good," muttered the traveler, "it won't be long now, will it, Fiachna?"

Tadhg smiled, wincing as his leathery lips split again. He reached a sun-burned hand up to caress the little skull attached to the end of the necklace. Tadhg reckoned his companion now gone would have liked the cottage and its promise of warmth and food.

The sun above offered the traveler little of the former and none of the latter. His belly not having been troubled by the presence of proper food for several days, he barely had energy to shiver. The sight of the cottage gave him some strength, and he struggled upright to hobble down the faint dirt track that led into the cove. As Tadhg set off, he saw the door open, and into the light stepped an old man wearing a wool cloak. It looked like kelp.

Tadhg limped up to the door. The old man was leaning on a stout driftwood walking stick, watching him, soundlessly and with eyes like those of a skua. The traveler staggered to a halt, swaying a bit. Neither man spoke. The wind offered whispery counsel with faint soughing about the stones of the cottage. After twenty or so heartbeats, the old man spoke.

"I see you've brought your talisman, my son."

"Blessed Father, I have."

"What was his birth name?"

"Fiachna, Father."

"Ah, a proper name for such strong bones. How long ago did the soul depart this shore?"

"Many months, Father. I've barely slept since. My dreams offer no succor, and his eyes haunt me no matter how heavy the dark."

" I can see it writ upon your visage, man. And your belly is meeting your backbone."

"Aye, Father, aye…" Tadhg's voice trailed off into the tail end of a gust. Tears wove tracks in the grime upon his face, staring helplessly at the priest.

The old man said nothing while stroking his beard. A resounding whoomp shook the ground as it traveled up from the beach. Tadhg started a bit, that seventh wave taking him by surprise. The old man moved not at all. He was staring into the emerald distance over Tadhg's shoulder. A clutch of seagulls wheeled overhead with thin metallic cries. The old man looked up at the birds. He sighed and spoke.

"Come inside, lad. There is fire, there is bread and meat. Feed the belly first, then rest your bones by the hearth. The tide turns soon, and we shall bless the bones of Fiachna that you and he shall sleep untroubled." 

The old man turned and entered the cottage. Tadhg started forward, head down, but warm relief beginning to flood his frame. The oak door creaked shut, wind filtering into the cracks in its face with the faint sound of scratching. Down below, the waves roared onto the shingle, spray hissing and purring among the rocks.

Jesus Christ Movie Star (Sunday Meditation #35)

Is your faith not enough that it takes movies to make it real, or to banish doubts? Belief in heaven, of whatever stripe, seems to me to be the minimum requirement to make it real for the believer. I say this after having seen an ad and two film trailers this week for religious-themed movies, "Son of God", "Noah" and "Heaven Is For Real".

A big Hollywood production is a low benchmark of imprimatur, in my opinion, to make one feel better about choosing to believe. Faith is faith, and it doesn't need a camera or an audience for validation.

Gift of the Chilis

Beseeching the gods
Night, eating round the table,
bestowed us chilis

Winter Embers

Orange coals burning low
ahead of chilly solstice,
longer days await

He Will Not Leave

On my travels to and from Virginia, I am always interested by the number of churches I pass on the route I usually take.  There are many, of different stripes of Christianity (I have yet to see any synagogues or mosques) in many buildings ranging from modest structures to authentic Colonial-era churches made of brick and slate.  One thing that is common is the number of signs I see, sporting religious messages or homilies, announcing intent or proclaiming an aspect of faith.  Most are relatively benign, but this past weekend I saw one that gave me pause and made me wonder.  It read:

God will not leave those that trust Him.

 The first thing that occurred to me was the implication:  That means that God might leave those that do not trust Him.  Which seems to me to be a repudiation of what I have been told is true about God.

God loves us all, right?  He will take care of us, right?  So what do you do when you experience things that seem to be evidence that God has left you?  Why would anyone trust a god that proclaims unconditional love for you, yet lets life abuse us at times?

Why would I trust a god like that?  Especially knowing that even though He proclaims to love me no matter what, He would leave me because I have reasons to mistrust Him.  If mistrust is a human trait, one that God created (because He created us, according to some beliefs), why would He leave us for expressing our humanity?  Especially when grounded in very real feelings of anxiety and fear?

I shook my head to clear it, and accelerated down the highway to put some distance between me and doubt.  Resolving that conflict would have to wait for another day.

Learning Logos

I have been blessed to receive, through the graces of a good friend, a copy of A Year with Thomas Merton, a profound and elegant collection of daily meditations by the Thomas Merton, the famed Trappist monk who was also an author, poet and civil rights activist.  This man of contemplation died in 1968, but somehow he read my heart.

There is much to be said about what I have read so far, but I today I wanted to say that I have learned a new word, gleaned from the July 9th meditation entitled "Heat and Zen Quiet".  The word is kerygma, defined as "the proclamation of religious truths" or "the apostolic proclamation of salvation through Jesus Christ".  Thomas Merton used it to describe the heat of the day he was experiencing:

"It calls for one of those nature poems, a kerygma of heat such as the Celts never had."

Brother Merton showed me the word.  This use of kerygma was masterful.  It is the use of a word in a nontraditional way, by someone who truly understood the original meaning.

In spite of the vestiges of my Christian upbringing,  upon reading that sentence and checking the definition, I felt the pangs of jealousy and inadequacy.  This is not unusual, sometimes, when taught a lesson you didn't know you were about to learn

Sunday morning, and I am basking in the afterglow of enlightenment.  The burn will fade, leaving me with the warmth of knowledge, all thanks to a Trappist who knew me before I knew myself.

Pushing Back The Sea

In between bursts of song, from some unseen source down the block, the night is blissfully silent.  Traffic sounds, of course, with the occasional airplane.  None of them especially bothersome, and all a quiet carnival for the ear.  Earlier the night was torn by the melancholic sounds of a lovers' quarrel drifting through open windows.  Curses and tears, a chanson of blue notes wafting on the late evening air, leaving pity in their wake.

Cool caresses of indigo silk, zephyrs curl through the windows as balm for the weary body.  These tiny currents possessed of Herculean strength that transform the bones and skin into a kite.  Floating off the couch, diffused through the window screen into human mist feathering off into the sky...

Soaring, gliding, escaping the "surly bonds of earth" in this fleshly wing, seeking relief and knowing this path, this rarefied road through the forest will carry one to the dim shore of an invisible life.  It is there the animate simulacrum called Yourself will dance naked on the sand, spinning tales in glee, to push back the Sea.

Lilacs and Lightning Bolts

Maybe it was just a coincidence, maybe it was someone or some thing trying to get through to me, but today I felt...good.  Like I had energy and a purpose.  I woke up this morning with an eagerness to get started on the day.  Instead of dozing off again and again, it was up and out with vigor.

That it was Easter Sunday was not lost on me.  Rebirth, renewal, rejuvenation, rising and all that.

I am not what you would call a religious man.  Perhaps it may be more accurate to say that I am a man with spiritual leanings, who wonders if he is religious.  Even if I am still grappling with God in all the incarnations put forth by mankind, it is inescapable that I was brought up in a Christian tradition; thus, the symbols and rituals of it are always there in the background.  It is a frame of reference, if I may borrow a bit from physics.

Empty tombs and rising sons weren't really on my mind, though, as I wasn't headed for church.  I was headed for my backyard.  Jesus may have risen this weekend, but then again, so did the grass.  Between the weather, travel and my work schedule lately I have had precious little time to tend to the oasis that is my home.

It is true for me that unfinished business causes me noticeable anxiety.  A low-grade background hum, when I know I have things to do and I can't (or just don't) get to them expediently.  So it was with the yard work.  Brush to chop, leaves to rake, weeds to pull, branches to trim and grass galore waiting to be cut.  I just wanted it done.

So it came to pass that on a glorious Easter morning I was outside pulling and cutting, chopping and bagging, all the while sweating like a waterfall, huffing and puffing like a beached fish.  But, honestly?  It felt good.  It felt real good, even when I was about to faint towards the end of the grass cutting. (Nothing a little exercise won't cure, I'm sure.)

It felt good because I was focused and relaxed.  I had simple problems with measurable results.  The serious case of The Funk that I had been unable to shake for weeks was finally, truly gone.  I read somewhere once, that it is nearly impossible to be depressed when engaged in meaningful work.  I say that is true, if the bubble of bliss I experienced today was any indication.  Sunshine, fresh air and a purpose: it doesn't get any better.

---

EPILOGUE:

I experienced some moments of grace today, courtesy of the natural world.  In my backyard there is a pair of lilac bushes, separated by another bush in between, the species of which I am unsure.  These lilac bushes blossom early, and when they do they start emitting the most wonderful aroma, the kind of aroma that makes me go outside just to breathe in when I have a spare moment.  Today while cutting the grass I walked right into a lilac branch, sporting a blossom which caressed its way across my cheek.  My lungs filled up with lilac fragrance, and I couldn't help but smile.

Later in the afternoon, some fast moving thunderstorms rolled in to the area.  The sky took on that amazing shade of pewter while bright silver bolts of lightning bracketed the area around where I lived.  I had the windows open, and I had to shut a few when fat drops of rain started splashing through the screens.  The wind was high, but not destructive, and the aroma of the rain was heavenly.  I was tending to a pot of beans on the stove, watching the branches sway and lightning crease the sky, and thinking this was a fine day indeed.  A fine day to come back to life, no matter what we think of ourselves.

Renewal

Asleep in the grass,
Soul and sun rising anew,
Celebrate this life

I Know You Want One

Winter Poetry Slam: Patuxent River Meditation #7

I sigh, Luna smiles,
Ice mumbles among the rocks.
Laughter, awaiting dawn.

Life Cycle: Meditations

Fall is here, this time with more than a hint of Winter in its recent weather.  No snow or ice, not here, not yet...but I heard whispers on the wind.  Not the whispers of demons crouched in the shadows and filling ones head with fear and blasphemy; rather, the whispers of the earth and sky, trees and water.  Ancient spirits that truly understand the cycle of seasons, and the ebb and flow of life.

That sort of wisdom I crave to possess.  I would like to know in my bones, muscle and heart the true definition of Spring, Summer, Fall and Winter.  I fear I would have to live to be a thousand before I could know such a thing.  Sadly for all us mortals, a thousand years is just not possible.

I'd like to know the turning of the seasons deeply and as part of an integrated existence in the universe.  All too often, in the noise of modern life, the seasons are too quickly defined by the inconveniences they bring: storms, heat, cold, snow.  They are too often portrayed as phenomena to be tolerated or overcome.  I believe this is no surprise, really, when viewed in the light of a Modern Man that sees the natural world as a resource to be exploited and a nuisance to be avoided.

This disconnect I do not know how to overcome.  I pondered this question last Sunday, on a two-hour hike through the woods, along a stream.  My trip began and ended at a parking area between the river and the woods, and its halfway point was a trail head alongside a road that forms a boundary to the park.  In between I walked through thousands of leaves, many patches of sunlight and crossed the stream numerous times.  There were moss covered stones and worn wooden footbridges, illuminated by silvery gold November sunlight.  I heard the call of birds and the conversations of squirrels.  Crows and hawks were seen.

I heard the wind in the leaves, and fancied it was the forest gods speaking to me.

I passed quite a few hikers, joggers and mountain bikers.  I chatted with some, curious about the pictures I was taking.  For the first time, I didn't feel foolish trying to explain why I was so fascinated with tree fungi laying in pools of sunlight spilling through the leaves.

I take pictures of them because they are beautiful, and serene.

Somewhere, maybe in the middle of my hike, I stopped.  I thought I heard something, or sensed something.  I strained to hear, and to see...so close, I thought, to that wisdom I was seeking.  The wind shifted, a branch fell, and I heard a biker coming down the path.  The spell broke.  I still didn't have my answer.

But I am close.  Someday, I hope I'll know.  Until then I'll keep walking, listening...and learning from the seasons passing.

Channeling Ambrose Bierce

Now, when I talked to God I knew he'd understand
He said, "Stick by my side and I'll be your guiding hand
But don't ask me what I think of you
I might not give the answer that you want me to"*

I take The Devil's Dictionary with a grain of salt, and as intended, knowing full well that Mr. Bierce was engaging in some top-notch satire. Yet I sometimes wonder if the definitions offered therein may be true.

So much to wrap my head around these days, and in a fit of pessimism I thought:

The tragedy here is not that I do not believe in God...

... the tragedy is that I do.

Assuming I have been given some answers (and I am not convinced of that), I haven't been able to make sense of them. Sucks to be me, I guess.


*Lyrics used without permission: "Oh Well" by Fleetwood Mac

What Up, J-Money?

 "Dude, don't harsh my mellow..."

The bearded chap pictured above showed up in the Gumbo mailbox earlier this week.  He arrived in a thickish packet along with a few other pages of printed material. Now, me and JC, we ain't exactly best buds, but neither do I have a quarrel with him. Most often when I receive this sort of junk mail, I skim it to the extent that I can identify that it is indeed junk, and I then toss it. I've always had a weird curiosity about religious artwork of all types, and I was bored and a little intrigued, so I kept it to read while eating dinner.

It offered me some insight, but left me scratching my head. The first page, photo below, actually warmed my heart. I was able to set aside some of my usual cynicism, and take the passages for simple, heartfelt statements that, in truth, have some relevance to my current life situation. Read on:

Not bad. Not overbearing, none of that in-yer-face, fire and brimstone, goin-to-hell type stuff that really turns me off. I don't need someone telling me I'm a sinner; I already know that. So it was nice to read something that basically says, "It's going to be alright, I'm here with you." Though it was taken from the Bible, it reads as if it could have come out of any major faith. I thought that was pretty cool. The header on the next page said the following:

I suppose it is, isn't it? Very nice, I thought. Munching on my red beans and rice burrito, I turned to the next page. And wouldn't you know it:

And here I was scrambling around looking for a financial planner I could trust, when all I really needed was the red patent leather Bible I received on my confirmation day. It's right there on the shelf...

To drive the point home, naturally, they kindly provided some examples, just so you know its genuine...I love that the second to last number is so oddly specific:

32 cents, 'cause the good Lord is all about balancing the books.

Even though I have what seems to be a low success rate when it comes to prayers, I don't begrudge nor do I discourage others from praying however they want for whatever they want. 

But why, why, why does it always seem to end up being about money? I'm happy that some folks who seemed in need got what they needed, but...why not...peace of mind?

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

BECAUSE GOD LIKES A GOOD LAUGH TOO:

"Hey, J.C.! What's up?" Wait, it's just Cheech Marin...

 

 Jesus: "Give that back, you big meanie!"

Satan: "Neener, neener, neener!"

 AND FINALLY....

 

We are soooooo busted...

1 down, 6 to go...

...and your pride is here on earth.

I guess the wages of sin pay pretty good, but how are the benefits?.

Mayo Playo Hato: In Which I Finesse The Dogma

Pagans have long memories. Or at least, they pretend they do. A short while back in these here Gumbo pages, there was a discussion of mayonnaise on sandwiches and other tasty treats. In that post I may have given the mistaken impression that I am some sort of “mayo hater”. If so, I humbly apologize, and herein seek to offer some clarification. A pulling back of the veil, as it were.

A careful reading of my previous white paper on the subject does show that my quibbles with mayo were more about application rather than classification. I certainly harbor no ill will towards the humble condiment itself, or against the multitudes of fine folks who enjoy a dab or spoonful or bucket of mayo on their food item of choice. Even if sometimes it does make me shudder. Mayo on bologna, My eyes! My eyes! O, Lawd hep me , hep me… Sorry. Got a little sidetracked.

As with any good question of theology, the asking of it causes one to think, to ponder, to wonder about the mysterious underpinnings of life. Life, really, is in some ways, all about sandwiches. Don’t we all just want a good, simple sandwich now and then? One that doesn’t make us quail before the infinite awesomeness and terrible beauty of the Universe? The answer to that is yes.

So the question of mayonnaise returned to me, this week, whilst I was trapped in the fever dream side effects of an un-static life. Things swirling about my head as I struggled to keep the nose above the waterline, clinging tenaciously to the bronco as it kicked and bucked. It was a synchronistic collision of a scribbled grocery list, too many deadlines and a smart-ass comment about my so-called backsliding regarding mayonnaise. Brothers and sisters, I am here to tell you, offer some testimony for your taste buds: there are some cured pork products that mayo does go well with, and I have to say, it goes quite well on a simple BLT. Doesn’t sound like much of a revelation, now, does it? Many of you probably already knew that. But I was sort of backed into a corner on it recently. I was hungry, stressed and tired. I needed something easy, quick and took very little thought.

Hence, the BLT. All the ingredients at hand…except mayo. I toyed with the idea of making it without the condiment, but then, what would replace it? Certainly not oil and vinegar!* In the interest of fairness, balance and gastronomic equality, I did it. I crept down the condiment aisle, and lo! A jar of mayonnaise in the cart! I didn’t exactly feel like Martin Luther and his 95 Theses, but I did have this absurd image in my head, of a monk nailing something to my refrigerator door. Besides, I felt I had to answer the clamoring hoi polloi. Honor was at stake!

“To understand a thing, is to know the manner in which it may be destroyed.” I heard that somewhere, I can’t recall where. While I certainly did not intend to destroy anything**, I wanted to be able to understand the thing. I cooked, I tasted, I enjoyed. It was good. Never let it be said that I was afraid to wander amongst the sinners, looking for goodness.

*See? I’m not a complete reprobate.
**Although it could be said that eating is destroying. But that’s another post.

You Say Your Last Name Isn't Damnit?

Mr. God
Suite #∞
Everywhere, Universe

Dear God/Allah/Yhwh, etc.:

Do you mind if I call you just ‘God’? Seems easier that way, plus it’s all Judeo-Christian and stuff. Yeah, that’ll do, seeing as I have to go with what I know, and what I know is a lot of stuff I have forgotten about being a Christian. Plus, who spells their name without any vowels at all? Huh? Who does that?

Oh. That’s right. You do. Another example of something that is supposed to be deep, but really just doesn’t make sense at all. Jeez, talk about the name fitting the thing being named.

Writing this letter seems nonsensical too, so I guess were even in some way. After all, I don’t believe in You, do I? I don’t think I do. No, I am confused about whether I do. Believe in You, that is. I believe I am writing to You, I can tell because I am hitting the keys right now. Hitting the keys is one if the indisputable facts of my existence. I can hear the clickclickclicketyclick and I can see the words forming on the screen. So there.

I don’t really know why I am writing to you. It isn’t like you have paid attention to me before whenever I have asked you for some of your time or a blessing. I won’t count praying for you to pleasepleasePLEASE get the prettiest girl at Portsmouth Catholic to dance with me, or letting Ravens win the Super Bowl. (For the record, G-money, she DID dance with me. But seven years between Super Bowls? Not cool, dude). Praying for stuff like that now, well, that seems a bit like masturbation: great fun for the person involved but ultimately it doesn’t produce life.

Life. I don’t quite understand it. And the one entity in this effed up multiverse who I thought could help me figure it out doesn’t return my calls. Yeah, You are a busy dude, I know. Don’t you have assistants for this stuff? You are omniscient and omnipotent and you can’t take FIVE minutes and give me a hollaback? My local DMV looks like a textbook on customer service compared to You. People keep telling me to give you a shout out, good things will happen, but even You have to admit, it ain’t looking great.

“Either He doesn’t exist, or He is unimaginably cruel” I heard that on a television show, one of those one hour hospital dramas, and it has stuck in my head ever since. I love a good joke, I’m sure you do as well. Knowing that I have heard some of the most profound statements ever from something as mundane as television makes me laugh like a hyena. Funny, yes?

So which is it, Mr. God? Non-existent or unimaginably cruel?

There is no shortage of reasons to believe you don’t exist. All I have to do is read the daily news to see all the misery and carnage going on in the world. And no, you don’t get off the hook by blaming it all on the bloody-mindedness of human beings. If You did create us in Your image (which may have been a huge mistake) and You created all things, then You created evil and pain and war and sickness. You created the Ebola virus, for God’s sa--, for PETE’S sake! What a hoot, dying by having your insides liquefy and shooting out of every orifice. Of course, if You don’t exist, then that just falls under the heading of Random Bad Shit That Happens. There are some advantages for not having You exist, I see. No Judgement Day, no being lorded over by the All-Powerful Father, and a huge laugh when certain religious extremists go to Meet Their Maker only to find the house is empty and nobody was ever home. Exquisite irony, don’t you think? Your nonexistence also confers upon me some security. I no longer have to worry about all the times I took Your name in vain. I no longer have to worry about all those bad things I said about you. Friends and family can sit near me without fear of being caught in the blast radius should finally decide to extract the ol’ Divine Vengeance (‘vengeance is mine sayeth the Lord, blah, yadda, blah..’) on me the blasphemer. Good, no penalties for having called you a liar and a hypocrite and a bastard. I guess that takes the sting out of being told You love me; it was never true because You were never true.

Maybe what really bothers me about Your apparent non-existence is all the wasted energy and effort I put forth in praying to You. All that crying I did. The frantic prayers for help as we drove to the hospital the night my daughter died. The down on my knees, pounding the floor in the NICU hallway BEGGING you to please let my son live when his lungs started to fail. All for nought, as You must know. Led me to believe that all the praying I did, when their Mom was so sick and pre-eclampsic, was just a palliative, that it ended up being dumb luck after all. I could have used all the energy I burned to better keep from losing my shit.

I did lose my shit. You know that, assuming You exist and that You care.

Which brings us to unimaginable cruelty. Oh my G--, I mean, wow look at all the reasons to believe this! You give us brains and heart and feelings and then cancer and war and good people dying of horrible causes, and You expect me to believe in Your infinite goodness? As we used to say back in the day, what kinda bullshit is THAT? Yes, here my Son, take this most precious gift of life…PSYCH! (HaHaHaHa). What is the point of all that? I cannot believe, do not want to believe it was simply to teach me a lesson and make me appreciate the good things that do exist in life. I DO NOT NEED A BRANDING IRON ON THE ASS TO MAKE ME REALIZE THAT FLOWERS ARE BEAUTIFUL. Remember those brains and reason you gave me? Well, I am many things but I am not stupid. Allowing my wife to become dangerously ill, forcing my kids into emergency delivery, letting them live an existence of days only to have them die, and then expecting me to believe it was all part of a PLAN? A PLAN? You sick fuck. The Almighty Father. Pffffttt. If my earthly father had treated me the way You have treated me, I don’t think there is a jury in the world that wouldn’t have convicted him of child abuse and mental cruelty.

I know what You are thinking. Well, I can guess, anyway. A short time later, I was graced with the presence of my Wee Lass. A more beautiful child I have never seen, and that proves God loves me. See, He answered my prayers. Right?

Wrong. A little secret You probably already know: when I found out The Spouse was preggers with Wee Lass, my mind went blank. I kept it that way until the day she was born. I avoided praying, asking for anything, as long as I could because I couldn’t have borne the crushing pain if something had gone wrong. I couldn’t have taken having asked for help a second time only to be denied yet again. I had no energy to put faith in an entity that was just going to severely fuck with my head. In that case, I don’t know if I can give you credit for anything. My little way of sticking my finger in your eye for being so abusive.

Here’s a quote from a famous Italian dude, name of Galileo, perhaps you have heard of him:
“I do not feel obliged to believe that the same God who has endowed us with sense, reason, and intellect has intended us to forgo their use.” Amen to that, brother! (amen. That’s a little sarcastic humor for You. Thought You’d appreciate that). See, the problem is, I have been trying to use my sense, reason and intellect to understand You. But nothing is making all that much sense, no matter how hard I try.

It reminds me of the miniature train set my brother and I had when we were kids. It was one of those little tiny ones. Cool looking engines about the size of a Snickers bar, tiny tracks, the whole bit. I loved watching that train go around the track. Big Bro and I even staged the occasional train wreck with Matchbox cars. Good times. But my big headed self was mighty curious: just how did something so small do what it did? How did it work? I really wanted to know. So one day, I raided Dad’s tool boxes and got a tiny little screwdriver. I sat down and disassembled that miniature engine, one tiny bit at a time. I was fascinated. The screws and wires and gears were so small and compact. Everything fit together and it all worked. I was delighted to see the mystery revealed!

The real problem came when I went to put it back together: I couldn’t do it. In my wonder I hadn’t thought to keep track of all the screws and wires and how they all fit. I ruined that engine. And as you may know, Dad was pretty pissed. Those engines weren’t cheap, and as the old man kept reminding me “Do you think I shit twenty-dollar bills?”. So I learned a valuable lesson.

Life is like that train set to me. Amazing, intricate, complex, beautiful. But unlike life, the train parts were all there in front of me. There really was no mystery, I just failed to keep track of all the parts. You are a different story. Put You together? I don’t even know how to take You apart! Where do I start, where’s my screwdriver?

Ah, enough. I have taken up too much of Your time already. All I can say is this:

I hate You for what happened to us.
I love You because You are the only place I have to turn.

The problem is I don’t know if I believe in You. What am I supposed to do with that?

I look forward to your response.

Peace,
Me


(So there it is: my 100th post in 100 days. Can you believe it? I can barely get my head around it. I am exhausted. I know the rule of thumb is to do a “100 Things About Me” on this occasion, but anyone who read my post of yesterday will probably understand why I didn’t do it that way. Perhaps later.

I cannot let this pass without mentioning the earthly impetus behind this post. The idea of it has been in my head for a long time, on the order of years. But it took some lovely ladies to kick me in the rear and get the boulder rolling. So I’d like to especially thank Charmaine (for the gentle encouragement), ChurchPunkMom (for making me really think about it) and Heather (for giving my Cúchulainn plenty of reasons to keep getting in the chariot). What can I say? I am a sucker for pretty Irish lasses. Thank you all so much, from the bottom of my heart.)