The wisdom of Solomon and Jo Rowling.

One of the reasons I read as much as I do, is that I routinely find things that arouse excitement.

Check out this excerpt from the story of Solomon, Ancient King of Israel:

"...God said [to Solomon], 'Ask what I should give you.' And Solomon said, 'You have shown great and steadfast love to your servant my father David, because he walked before you in faithfulness, in righteousness, and in uprightness of heart toward you; and you have kept for him this great and steadfast love, and have given him a son to sit on his throne today. And now, O Lord my God, you have made your servant king in place of my father David, although I am only a little child; I do not know how to go out or come in. And your servant is in the midst of the people whom you have chosen, a great people, so numerous they cannot be numbered or counted. Give your servant therefore an understanding mind to govern your people, able to discern between good and evil; for who can govern this your great people?'

It pleased the Lord that Solomon had asked this. God said to him, 'Because you have asked this, and have not asked for yourself long life or riches, or for the life of your enemies, but have asked for yourself understanding to discern what is right, I now do according to your word....' 

Then Solomon awoke; it had been a dream." - 1 Kings 3, New Revised Standard Version

Now take a look at this scene from Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, just after Voldemort had hit The Boy Who Lived with the Killing Curse:

"[Harry] lay facedown, listening to the silence...A long time later, or maybe no time at all, it came to him that he must exist, must be more than disembodied thought, because he was lying, definitely lying, on some surface...He stood up, looking around...Harry turned slowly on the spot, and his surroundings seemed to invent themselves before his eyes...He spun around. Albus Dumbledore was walking toward him... 

'Where are we, exactly?' [asked Harry.] 

'Well, I was going to ask you that,' said Dumbledore, looking around. 'Where would you say that we are?' 

...'It looks,' he said slowly, 'like King's Cross Station. Except a lot cleaner and empty, and there are no trains as far as I can see.' 

'King's Cross Station!' Dumbledore was chuckling immoderately. 'Good gracious, really?' 

'Well, where do you think we are?' asked Harry, a little defensively. 

'My dear boy, I have no idea. This is, as they say, your party.' 

Harry had no idea what this meant... 

[After talking for a time with Dumbledore,] the realization of what would happen next settled gradually over Harry in the long minutes, like softly falling snow. 

'I've got to go back, haven't I?' 

'That is up to you.' 

'I've got a choice?' 

'Oh yes.' Dumbledore smiled at him. 'We are in King's Cross, you say? I think that if you decided not to go back, you would be able to...let's say...board a train.' 

'And where would it take me?' 

'On,' said Dumbledore simply. 

Silence again. 

'Voldemort's got the Elder Wand.' 

'True. Voldemort has the Elder Wand.' 

'But you want me to go back?' 

'I think,' said Dumbledore, 'that if you choose to return, there is a chance that he may be finished for good. I cannot promise it. But I know this, Harry, that you have far less to fear from returning here than he does.' 

...[Harry] stood up, and Dumbledore did the same, and they looked for a long moment into each other's faces. 

'Tell me one last thing,' said Harry. 'Is this real? Or has this been happening inside my head?' 

Dumbledore beamed at him, and his voice sounded loud and strong in Harry's ears even though the bright mist was descending again, obscuring his figure. 

'Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?' - J.K. Rowling, Deathly Hallows, chapter titled "King's Cross"

After Solomon's dream took place, he became known in his kingdom for his great God-given wisdom, which made him one of the most well-known and respected rulers in history. Harry returned to the chaos of the most devastating battle Hogwarts had ever seen, and the conversation he had with Dumbledore helped empower him to defeat Voldemort with a finality he did not achieve as an infant, and become known as a savior for Wizard and Mugglekind alike.

Think twice before ever letting yourself be convinced that what's in your head is meaningless.

A new way to live.

I'm not often caught off guard by anything except face-to-face interaction with people. For whatever reason, interacting with other humans is a mystery I can't seem to conquer. There are moments when I feel I have achieved the impossible. I'm engaging, I'm warm, I instinctively know the appropriate things to say, and, more importantly, I instinctively know the appropriate things to say to provoke other people to speak. In the midst of such miracles, I think, "Maybe I've finally figured it out. Maybe this is the day that the mystical magic required to have a comfortable conversation made its way into my bones at last." Oh the hope those thoughts bring.

Then I go talk to someone else. A different person takes my place. I stammer, I can't think of anything to say that doesn't sound like a textbook, and I'm either mostly silent, or I ramble through a multitude of unimportant words. The impossible becomes unreachable again and I wonder where my charm decided to hide. And why it decided to hide.

Most other things don't throw me for a loop. You know those people who drive you crazy with all the things they do so well all the blessed time? I've often been one of them. I intend no arrogance when I say that. I just say it because it's kind of true. When I was a kid, I was always near the top of every list that measured academic prowess. All the smart kid award ribbons they gave out at assemblies; I got 'em. Spelling bee champion certificates; got those too. I was also on the teachers' mental "most attentive and well-behaved" lists, which meant extra responsibility that I reverently bore on my shoulders. And my success wasn't limited to the classroom. In generally all other areas of my life, if a standard for performance was set, whatever it was, I would meet it.

With that kind of record, it was easy for me to develop an expectation that everything will work out. The results might not be perfect, and getting to the goal might not be easy, but the goal will be met. It always is. A challenge comes before me, I confront it, I conquer it. A flawless formula. No surprises. No chances of wondering what's happening and why.

But that system broke down and I have been unequivocally baffled by the last six months.

38 weeks have passed since I stopped being a full-time student and gained a degree, and I still don't have a job. Not even at Wal-Mart.

Before last summer had ended, the mental interrogation began. "What is this? I'm capable. I'm competent. I have talent. I have skills. I'm a hard worker. I have initiative and to spare. Why is this happening?" Soon after came the accusing. "You're not as capable as you thought. You didn't have a detailed plan. You should have had a detailed plan, then you could have followed through and everything would have worked. You didn't try hard enough. You're being lazy. If you would just make up your mind and get up and do something, then you wouldn't be in this position."

But that wasn't true. At least not completely true. I tried, or at least made moves to try. But every plan, every attempt, was stifled. I fell into, and am still hoping to get out of, an exhausting, stifling hole. No money, not even enough to drive a mile down the road, meant going out to find a job became an as of yet unconquerable challenge. But the longer I don't have a job, the longer I'm not making money, the longer I'm incapacitated. No movement. No progress.

The larger problem with the dialogue in my head, though, was its focus: me. I've been learning more than ever lately how much my life is not about me.

I have always believed, and do still, that being responsible for oneself is important. Some people need to learn that lesson. But my lesson was different. It's easy for me to live by my own ability and expect that what I do is the answer for everything.

My opinion is beginning to change. I think God loved me enough to not let me live the rest of my life thinking that I can do whatever I decide to do, or that it's even ultimately up to me to do anything at all, or that situations will always work out. Some things, no matter how hard a person may will them to, don't work out. People die. Fires burn possessions. Security is stolen. Heaven is the only sure redemption. I live and breathe only through God. The most important thing I need to do is know him.

It took a long time, but I think I'm finally beginning to rest in that. Knowing God. The knowledge of him I already have is the the most life-giving I have ever known, and there is yet an infinite depth still to explore. And by his grace, in knowing him, I can be faithful to move and work in the means given to me. I'll get a job. Probably. I'll pay my own bills one day, live in my own place. I'm still vigilant and looking for what I can do where I am. When opportunity is presented, I'll take it. But whether I'm making a paycheck or not, God is providing. He's gracious. And he is the source and definition of my life.

"Easy" is not a word to describe these last six months. I have been broken down further than I ever thought I would be. But I've been saying the closing words of this song all the more:





Thank you, Jesus.

Because nothing I do can ever go without authorial comment...

My last post featured an abstract something that I wrote. I don't really know what it is. Maybe it's a poem? I don't normally write poetry, but more surprising things have happened.


For those of you who read it, to refresh your memories here appears the poem-piece-work-thing again. For those who who have not read it, here now is a chance to read it for the first time:




Twin faces look out from the wall, one above the other.
Their eyes are both fixated to the same point.
They share a look of fright. A look of worry.
As if something's coming after them.
A relentless pursuit.

Each countenance is frozen.
The upper's eyes are wider than the lower's.
The lower seems to feel more dread, like there's a finality about this chase that the other doesn't see.
With both mouths agape, neither of them appear to like what's coming.

The terror is close.
It will catch them any second.

They could run, only they can't.
They're in the wall.
Immobilized.
Incapable of fleeing what is sure to strike...now.

Seconds pass.
The faces are unchanged.
The terror has not overcome.
It just looms.
Like a rain cloud neither approaching nor departing.

In these faces is mirrored my own.
Frightened.
Unmoving.
Never overcome, never overcoming.






There's a real smile-bringer, eh?


Before I continue, I'd be grateful if you would entertain a small digression on creative interpretation. This could mean and/or represent any number of things (although I doubt any of them would be very happy). One of the gifts of the human mind is interpretation. As someone who internally interprets things from the outside then releases them back into the world with her own fingerprint added, the last thing I want to do is stifle that same privilege in others by saying that what I thought when writing is the only valid meaning to be discerned from my creations.


In that spirit, I would like and intend to share here what I was thinking when writing the above unnamed work, but I do so free from the attitude that "what I say goes."


Back to the business at hand, this was inspired by a thoughtful look at my bedroom wall. The "twin faces" were found in an electrical outlet (an American one, of course), that I spied from the side. The vertical slits formed each pair of eyes, the round holes made to accommodate the third prong on three-pronged plugs served as mouths. I was feeling particularly melancholy in this moment, and as it's melancholy and mirth that spawn the majority of artistic endeavors, I guess it's no surprise that I was overwhelmed with an urge to find a pen.


The brand of melancholy darkening my mood was spawned in part by frustrations of feeling almost incarcerated in circumstances, unable to get out of them to do what it is that I want most. As soon as I saw the faces, I thought it was significant that they were unable to move. I also found significance in the fact that not only is their spatial position fixed, their expressions are never allowed to change. If their expressions can't change, maybe what's bothering them is unchanging. The good news of that is, it will never get any worse. The bad news is, it will never get any better. I've felt that.


Though I've felt that, however, I don't believe it. Not eternally. But my eternal beliefs would not shine with so much hope if melancholy didn't take me to such dark places.

An exercise in writing.

I suppose a writer can and does grow through filtering their own experiences through their own faculties without suggestion or influence from any other source. But it's been my experience that I often won't realize something until an outside source has gained my attention and placed a light on what was right next to me but darkened before that point, especially when wandering over rarely frequented terrain. Thus I treasure what I gain outside myself and believe that my growth is quickened by it.

I expect (either accurately or misguidedly) one day, when I'm a "real writer" (whatever that means), I won't ascribe the same degree of importance to hearing from the outside. Between that time and this, I solicit reactions. And interpretations. Have you the inclination, please share them. Much obliged.



Twin faces look out from the wall, one above the other.
Their eyes are both fixated to the same point.
They share a look of fright. A look of worry.
As if something's coming after them.
A relentless pursuit.

Each countenance is frozen.
The upper's eyes are wider than the lower's.
The lower seems to feel more dread, like there's a finality about this chase that the other doesn't see.
With both mouths agape, neither of them appear to like what's coming.

The terror is close.
It will catch them any second.

They could run, only they can't.
They're in the wall.
Immobilized.
Incapable of fleeing what is sure to strike...now.

Seconds pass.
The faces are unchanged.
The terror has not overcome.
It just looms.
Like a rain cloud neither approaching nor departing.

In these faces is mirrored my own.
Frightened.
Unmoving.
Never overcome, never overcoming.

A peek inside my journal.

Journals are good for writing messily. They're also good for writing things that shouldn't be posted on the Internet. Typically, the things that end up in my journal fall under one of those two categories. Thus, they stay in my journal.

Occasionally, though, the fruit of my journal endeavors is something blog safe. Perhaps even blog worthy (in my mind). Such a creature appeared last week. I thought the occurrence was amusing, and I always like a laugh, even at the expense of myself. :)

For your reading pleasure, slightly edited for clarification for those not a part of my mind's inner circle:

1-14-12

Dude, I am so not cool. If that wasn't clear before, tonight provided sufficient proof. I was just trying to recount bits of tonight's episode of SNL to Calyn and it was comical. Not because I'm a comic genius, but because I'm exactly the opposite. I sounded like...I don't know what exactly I sounded like...like an intellectual trying to be culturally relevant but failing. Much like I just failed with that description. Everything's a lecture with me. I have a friend who is a joke over-explainer and makes no secret of telling people that he is. I'm like him. And what I mean by that is...see? I'm the one who should be writing textbooks, not sketch comedy. Or better yet, I'll write articles on sketch comedy that can appear in peer-reviewed journals, so that I can intellectualize and over-explain and get paid for it. That's the ticket. I'll become a famous cultural critic. Even the uncool seem kind of cool when they have money. I do remember one thing I said that may have redeemed me a little. I used the word "trashy." Maybe I'm only 99% uncool. Add in a little money and I might be able to bring that number down to 98.5%.


(Note: In my journal, this little paragraph looks moderately substantial. On this screen, in this diminutive, uniform, personality-challenged font, it's far less impressive. This is why I like handwriting.)

(Note 2: "The Beautiful Letdown," playing in my mental jukebox, has been my companion writing this, "painfully uncool" as I am. If you like Switchfoot and haven't been singing it before now, you're welcome.)

Music. My favorite from last year.

I archived my book list from last year rather promptly, but I failed to muster the same initiative with my music list. Oops. It's still January, though, so I'm cool, right?

Here the original page appears in its entirety, with added italicized commentary in parentheses.





My brother and I made an indie film with the camera on my LG Vu. It's a money maker, I tell ya. See?

As grand as that was, the soundtrack to my life and times in 2011, unfortunately not included in the movie due to budget concerns and lack of editing skills, is even better.

Here it is, a list of meaningful new (either to the world at large or to me) music I have incorporated into my life in 2011.

In alphabetical order by title:

1. Barton Hollow - The Civil Wars (I not-so-secretly want to be Joy Williams. To do that, though, I have to find myself a John Paul White. I think he's out there. Somewhere. If you're reading this and think you're him, we should meet.)

2. The Far Country - Andrew Peterson

3. Heal for the Honey - Brooke Waggoner

4. The Ladder - Andrew Belle

5. Love & War & the Sea in Between - Josh Garrels

6. On the Altar of Love - downhere (I have supported the endeavors of these guys for a while. Musically, they haven't ever given me a reason to falter. But this time around, I was nervous. Before I heard this album, I was actually afraid that I wasn't going to like it. I prepared myself for impending disappointment. Then I heard it. And I think it might be my favorite album from them. Maybe.)

7. A Way to See in the Dark - Jason Gray (This album restored my sanity during a time when I thought it had ceased to exist.)

8. Welcome to the Welcome Wagon - The Welcome Wagon (Released by Asthmatic Kitty, produced by Sufjan Stevens, this album is terribly catchy. And they pronounce the word "handkerchief" like "handkercheef.)

And an honorable mention has to be given to Hark the Herons's album Under Skies. They released it digitally in 2010, the year in which it was crowned my most listened-to album, but they didn't print physical copies until this year. I bought three of them, so my Hark the Herons fever has been just as raging this year as it was the last.

Adventures in the Pit of Email.

When one develops parts of their life around the Internet, abandoning said Internet leaves behind a mess. Like all messes, this one either has to be cleaned up, or severed from one's life with brutal finality and left alone and ignored completely.

I'm not a brutal severer. I have no wishes to disconnect myself from the three Ws eternally. Therefore I elected to start the cleaning process today.

Step one: plunge into my inboxes.

I have looked at and done something with approximately 500 emails today. I am frequently given to exaggeration, but in this moment I can truthfully and sadly say that I am not exaggerating. My neck is feeling enough pain to testify.

It wasn't all drudgery, though. I can confidently say I was amused today.

It seems about the time I went dark, a whole host of persons started thinking I merited them giving me something for free. In my Gmail account, I got a slew of messages offering me everything from money to iPads. Wow! People can be surprisingly generous. One woman, or what I assume was a woman, even said the generosity was a family affair. Apparently her "Cousin Lenny" was the one who really wanted me to have a prize and she was just acting as mediator.

My favorite message came from another woman who seemed to be feeling a greater sense of urgency than any of the others. She implored me, "Please have your iPad," not "You've won!" or "I would like to send you a free iPad." No, it was "please," as if she really wanted to say, "Take it off my hands, I don't want it, it's yours, get it out of my sight!" This one was also a family affair, because apparently this iPad was coming "courtesy" of one of her cousins too.

I  might have been tempted to believe them if any of them could have spelled or used punctuation.

So no money or expensive high-tech gadgets for me. All I received were chuckles at the lengths people will go to get my address (every one of them (or perhaps a singular one under many guises) asked for it).

This kind of stuff happens on the Internet every day, and I know that. It's not unusual enough for me to post a blog on it. But the only reason I comment on it (aside from being grateful for a smile in the middle of an unpleasant chore) is because they were all in my Gmail account. In the years that I've used Gmail, this is the first time I've received messages as such to that account. And it wasn't just one or two. I was bombarbed by them. The latest of them came today, so it's continued to happen periodically over the last few months. And I'm intrigued by the fact that they didn't start until after I was unplugged. Hmm.

Getting back to cleaning, I'm happy that's done. I do still have some to work through, but only a handful, and I have identified all of them and know what I need to do with them after my neck and patience both get a break.

After email, I will move on to other things. Then, maybe sometime in the near future I will successfully be able to use the Internet again.