Philosophizing

"Therin lies both life's sorrow and its joy: that in living, a man accepts shadows and light in one turn. There is no one without the other," he said. I considered thoughtfully for a moment, breathing in his words. Then, with my brows knit closely, I replied.
"In some ways I am thankful. Without the existence of evil, there would be no opportunity to fight for the dominance of good."

Going Swimming

There is a fleeting instant during each of life's most terrible experiences, when time slows and one begins to realize what is actually happening.

I'm drowning, I thought, as the last desperate pocket of air escaped my lungs and drifted out into the void. After discovering the worst about the action, inevitably the worst about the result pops into one's head too.

I'm going to die.

Once this thought enters a mind, it doesn't leave. Ever. For most people, it helps to have that small whisper of colossal knowledge knocking around in the back our their heads, impacting every decision and guiding every mental path. Facing mortality head-on often inspires men and women to change things, inspire others in their turn, and have an affect on the grander scheme.

Others become paranoid.

That day at the lake Uncle Timmy fished me out of the water by my left leg and dried me off, only a few seconds after I discovered that death loomed somewhere on the horizon, maybe sooner than I was expecting it. Uncle Timmy was laughing the entire time he spent wiping the slime from my hair.

"Boy, you were this close to being shark bait," he cackled.

It was my last swimming lesson.

Ouch

Welp, my imagination is officially dead. So long career. Oh wait, I'm going to college for this, to spend a billion dollars. Ha. Ha ha. Ha.

So much deflation.

Ramblings

There was a house at the end of the drive. It was closer to home than the hill, and farther away than the white flowers that grew in the front yard. The pillars in the front were crafted from gray stone that seemed colossal at one time. Those pillars fairly reeked of wealth. It was a mansion in my little-woman eyes. Now the house is just a place I pass on the way to school, on the way to work, on the way anywhere. It used to be a destination in itself--in a way the only thing I truly recognized as a sign that home was just around the corner. Some houses are friends. But the house at the end of the drive was never quite a friend. It called me home with stern stiffness. 

Home is changing now. It seems smaller and more crowded, and deeper too. Things that are said aren't just things to say. Sometimes home feels lonely even when it is full of people. 

It depends on the people. Bibles sit on every shelf, just as they always have, but God never felt so far away. Maybe once before. 

God's still here. I'm still here. But it's that deepness that comes between us now. Home isn't as safe as it once was, now that I can see and feel and recognize: a bitter word is a result, the cause miles away through time's map. There are weaknesses here in my home that I never saw before. Maybe part of it is me, my own silly skin, thinner than starlight. I'm searching. 

Even at home, I'm searching. There's inspiration to be found in the softest sound of a beating heart, or the squawking cringe of an old couch, or the bark of a dog, or the smile of a stranger. I don't always see it at first, but home is a place where stories thrive. Year in and year out, people are crafted in a home, just as hamburgers are in McDonalds. 

I think I'm almost ready to leave. I didn't think I would be, but now it seems like I could actually feel ready. 

The world is out there, and it doesn't scare me as much as it did a little while ago. 

The world is still big, but I'm not as small as I used to be. There's a lot to discover, and discovering things always makes me feel better somehow. After all, something tells me God will be easier to find outside, once everything I know is a little farther away. 

First Day

He finally glanced up at me, his glassy eyes filling with swift recognition.

"How long have you been here?"

I smiled. "A few hours."

His eyebrows puckered. "Really?"

"You were muttering," my fingers traced over my throat as I watched him, the motion carrying my nervousness away.

"What do you want?" This time his voice was a bark, and all the nerves sprang back into view.

"You hired me. Remember?" I asked.

"Of course," he said, the interview returning to him slowly. I watched as his mind spun back towards yesterday. "Well, I can't use you right now. Go home."

Oh, such words of cruelty. My fragile, ambitious heart was crushed in a single instant. The visions and dreams built upon countless hopes fell to the floor in crumbles.

I nodded, gulping. Tears soiled my eyes and I turned away.

7/9/14

Tonight I am a torn apart mess. Half of me wishes to be a little kitten cuddling cozily in soft, squishy blankets with no worries and no hopes and nothing to look forward to but a life of endless security and kitty kibble, sunshine puddles and the occasional cliche ball of yarn to unravel. The other half, however, is desperately craving adventure and depth and something more. More than just existence, so dull and average.

The Mountain

The trees whisper to one another. Their voices are masked by the wind, each drawing laughter and lilt, love and sorrow from a summer breeze. Together they tell the stories of the mountain.

Around me is desolation. Memories linger everywhere, and names are mentioned often, breathing longer life into the memories. The trees remember. They recall the days of slow rebirth, aching pain and ash. The mountain is their guardian, but a fierce one, demanding much and giving slowly. Flowers crawl their way up the dried embankments, desperate to live, desperate to love, desperate to bloom wild, winsome and free. The lakes, like puddles, huddle at the foot of the mountain. They glisten blue and purple in the sunlight, happy offspring of the past destruction.

Memory. It's everywhere and nowhere all at once. Everywhere we remember without really remembering.

I look at the flowers. I look at the lakes. I look at the trees.

I try not to look at the mountain. This is odd; after all, it is what I came here to see. But the mountain is ominous, reminding me of the suddenness of tragedy. While the birds sing and the trees whisper, a deeper voice is heard. Through the beauty of this day, the shadow of another rises up, reminding me, reminding all of what once was.

The mountain is speaking.

Its voice is low, its message short.

I listen well, and remember.