Vagrant

Scribbled by Sparrow

It is long, I find, since my thoughts have been used to spilling themselves here. It is not that they have ceased to ramble; they have not mended their habits so much as that, nor have they yet scrounged up the decency to feel shame over their wandering ways. It is only that my fingers have been too much entangled in other matters to write them, and my heart too full of many things to muddle them out into their proper place in the world.

Yet the world itself has not felt to be in its proper place, these days. Or perhaps it is I who am out of place; caught up in the puppet-strings of a story that seems somehow unfamiliar to me, though it is a story I have always presumed to call my own.

(...Or something vaguely poetic like that, which was meant to sound a good deal less morbid and a great deal more cohesive than it managed to. If ever Eeyore and I should make one anothers' acquaintance, we shall have a grand party together; except that I shall be too incoherent for him to understand, and I fear his hut of sticks may not be big enough to fit the both of us. We shall have to content ourselves with a particularly ragged umbrella to sit beneath, and watch the rain fall together. )

And yet....

Perhaps it is Eeyore, with his ever-tumbling pile of sticks, that would best understand me after all. It is not that I am so very gloomy; though it is in my nature to cling to sadder things. It is only that I have, truly, come to the end of something, and it is not a thing that I would not ever have believed myself willing to part with.

I have come to the end of home.

Perhaps the most ardent expression that has found its way to these blog-pages is a longing for Home. I have always known, you see, that I do not belong here--neither do you, if your heart is caught up in the same place as my own--and the truth of that, like nothing else, has the capacity to strike joy and pain and hope and longing in a single stabbing of itself into your heart. Yet it seems I have never known it fully: I have only ever seen it for a moment, embracing it in the shadow of some great farewell, or some glimpse of beauty I cannot keep yet long to cling to. But always there has been a place, a person, a feeling, an experience; something on earth that I am longing for, something beautiful enough for me to have likened eternity, in some way, to it. And as I long for that which has made me most at home here, I come to yearn for the time when the comfort of feeling at home is measured by the Infinite and Eternal.

Yet there comes a time when all that you have sought for, and all you have likened to Belonging is met with at last; and as you gather it to yourself with open arms, you realize suddenly, joltingly--

It still isn't Home.

                   It is a funny thing, reaching that place--
                                    You may have known, all along, that it would come.
                                                          But somewhere between knowing and experience,
               you come to find that--though you were waiting for it--
                                                                                 you didn't realize it would hurt so much.

It is a difficult thing, to wander. To lay your head on a pillow in that place you hold closest to your heart, and realize that however many years and memories have bound you there, you do not wholly belong. And the truth cuts deeper still when you come to understand that no one and nowhere on this earth can make you belong.

And yet there is a truth, which sometimes deepens the loneliness's sting, and sometimes dissolves it, and more often than either requires a great deal of thinking over before one can really understand how to feel about it. It is this: that we are not meant to belong--any more than the stars belong in the shadows, or the pillow I rest my head upon tonight will not burn and perish and fade in the blazing day of Eternity (if not sooner; which, flammability considered, is not altogether improbable). Why should I care if it is my own? It will fade. Why should I mind if my home is no longer mine? It never has been; it was only ever a shell to shelter in, and it too shall fade. All of these shadows will fade with the land that has wrought them, the death of all that must die to give birth to something New.

And yet, it is not that it doesn't matter. It is only that I have found something that matters far, far more. I have learned that the ties that have claimed us for Heaven are stronger--thank God, they are stronger!--than the chains that bind us to the shadows. For once I was theirs; yes, once I belonged to the shadows. Yet it was through those days that I came to know something of great importance.

I learned that a certain gently-sought thing, called Joy, was never found in belonging--

it was found in being set free.

And I am not so homeless as the one who built Heaven and left it,
trading stars for shadows and perfection for scars.
My freedom is in His wandering,
my rest in His stillness toward death,
my home in the lostness He suffered to find me.
 
Yet perhaps, somehow,
you still believe in my right to complain?
 
No. I think--
I really do--
that perhaps,
I am not so very homeless after all.

Category: 2 missives

Butterfly Wings

Scribbled by Sparrow

The world is full of beautiful things,
Butterfly wings, fairy tale kings;
And each new day undoubtedly brings
Still more beautiful things.

The world abounds with many delights;
Magical sights, fanciful flights--
And those who dream on beautiful nights
Dream of beautiful things.

Beautiful days of sun kissed showers,
Beautiful sea kissed breeze,
Beautiful nights of moon kissed hours,
Beautiful dreams like these--

Our lives tick by like pendulum swings
Poor little things; puppets on strings,
But life is full of beautiful things,
Beautiful people too--
Beautiful people
like you.
- "Beautiful Things"                                  
Dr. Doolittle                                


In January, I wrote a little list in my journal. The month following, I noticed a number of friends posting lists of their own; oddly enough (or perhaps not), of the same subject matter. Now that I am no longer cloistered away, I suppose it is time for forces to be joined, hands to be shaken, and summits to be mounted together.

And so,

These are the things that keep me alive inside,
The things that give me little bounds of joy in my chest;
In short,
These are the things that haunt me
with the Goodness of God.

___ _ ___

51:10 || an octopus in my window || rain || days of darkness and thunder || tea || ocean sunrises and sunsets || seashells || three magical little stories || a canyon || nebulae ||  poetry that wakes me up || heaven || The Singer || trees blooming in snow || firefly-lanterns || my keyboard || music in my dreams || my sketchbook || pencils and paintbrushes || a little hand pressing skittles into mine || Hosea || words || that crowded feeling of vast aloneness || autumn || cold night wind || hands || a horse called Ireland || joy-tears|| the Bible I have had for so long it is falling apart ||  love for the lost || peeping stars || and,

a little promise,
bigger than the world itself,
that cannot be undone.
Category: 1 missives

All Joy

Scribbled by Sparrow


Time and time again, this world-weary soul has anchored all of its treasures upon that elusive thing called Joy. Never upon Happiness - you see, it has been warned of the fickleness of Happiness. Joy can exist within sorrow; Happiness cannot. Joy is anchored on things eternal; Happiness cannot be, for eternal things are won through hardship, and happiness is doomed to wilt against the storms of troublesome things.

So I am told. And it seems to be the common idea.

And yet... perhaps, Joy and Happiness share too much in common to be compared in such a way. They are both nourished by Delight. They are both anchored in Contentment, both rocked to sleep by Peace. They both rejoice in Goodness, and are wakened by beautiful things.

They need not be the same thing. I rather suspect that they aren't, quite. But where there are traces of one, there are sure to be traces of the other. The word rejoice is a common enough command, given by God Himself; and yet, there is both Joy and Happiness within it. We are not commanded to never embrace Happiness. It is a gift, tenderly given, and so is our abounding wealth of Joy in the treasury of Christ.

So perhaps - I am merely suggesting - the difference we mean to capture is not so much between Happiness and Joy.

Perhaps...

it is between Happiness and Hope.


Because we all are frightened sometimes.
Because we all are sorrowful, sometimes.
Because we all are unbrave, sometimes.
Because we all are wretched, sometimes.

Yet there is a little verse, which I found rather meaningful.
It says, 'Rejoice in Hope.'
And I thought that was rather profound—
don't you?
Category: 0 missives

Transplanted

Scribbled by Sparrow

Sometimes we cannot bear
to leave behind the things we love.

~ A tiny scribble in the corner of my sketchbook.~
Category: 3 missives

The Part Where He Kills You

Scribbled by Sparrow


Times of silence, online and elsewhere, are often ended with a victorious proclamation of a still-beating heart. That glorious phrase, "I'm alive!",  which serves the purpose of keeping acquaintances from scanning the newspapers for recent obituaries, and relatives from removing your name from the will, is a handy thing when one really wants to get the point across. All in all, it’s rather a comforting thing to see when you have been questioning the sustained existence of a friend. Provided it’s true, that is, and the fellow in question is still alive and kicking somewhere.

Well. I'm not.

 I'm not alive. For the past eight weeks, I have been dying a slow, agonizing death. Painful? Well, sure. That depends on how guilty you will feel for not being beside me in my sufferings, and how inclined you will thus be to send offerings of your sympathy. Flowers, notes, white chocolate, books, music... virtually anything, except a biology textbook or your neighbor's cat, will do. 
 
Not that I wouldn't love your neighbor's kitty to death. I would, possibly literally, so I don't suggest you package it up and send it thisaway unless your neighbor has signed some sort of liability form. And I’m afraid I’ve only just dug myself out of the pile of textbooks I’ve been buried beneath for the past eight weeks, and I really wouldn’t know what to do with another one. For there I have been languishing, beneath my books of anatomy and physiology and chemistry, in all the glory and valor and sleeplessness of eight-week school.  

I have not sent e-mails. I have not written letters. I have not made blog posts (save for the guest appearance of my Consciousness in January); nor have I associated with the outside world.  

In short, I am no longer alive. Farewell, world. It was nice knowing you. 

So, 

NOW THAT YOU KNOW YOU ARE TALKING TO MY GHOST,
There is this matter of death to be spoken of.


There are certain times when I wake up, sudden-like, and realize that I am dead.

It’s a startling thing, this being dead. But not so alone; I have company, and I dare say it’s of the nicest sort. The family sort, the sort that allows me to sit here and ramble on about the inexplicable, and then shut me up and tell me to get to the point. So I will. This is it:

Therefore if you have been raised up with Christ, keep seeking the things above, where Christ is, seated at the right hand of God. Set your mind on the things above, not on the things that are on earth.  For you have died and your life is hidden with Christ in God. When Christ, who is our life, is revealed, then you also will be revealed with Him in glory.
COLOSSIANS 3:1-4

I have died to sin, to the world, to the conforming nets that trapped me before I was freed by the Son. The butterfly nets can catch me no longer; I’ve metamorphosed, and though I still fight the flesh, my soul is caught with Christ in the promise of Resurrection.

For I have died with Him; yet He has risen, and I as well. Death has lost its sting. The ending of the Curse has been written. Existance is new as the Sought and Saved put on new wings for the seeking of the Lost.

There are certain times when I wake up, sudden-like...

and wouldn't you know, it seems I’m alive.
Category: 2 missives

On The Behaviour of Phantoms

Scribbled by Sparrow

For Anna, who tends to Understand Me. Just because...
it feels as if perhaps it should be.

I should not have been awake that night—that starless, silent, cloud-stabbed night. That night; night of darkness, night of fire, when I should have been asleep.

You looked so lonely there, crested in the darkness of the night unfurled; and yet a part of it flickered from you, and I could not tell if the shadow belonged to you or you to it. There was no moonlight to be yours or to not be; it was naught, lost from the sky even as its light was lost from your eyes.

But it was not the light of the night-sun that I sought in your gaze. It was the light of your joy, and it was as hidden from me as was the vagrant moon.

You looked so lonely, there. I stirred without stirring, and my heart reached for yours—for phantoms can move through windows, you see. And beyond my window, the shadow of your ghostliness twined with the frailty that was mine. I had thought to comfort you; and yet in our twining, your phantom-fingers fit so gently into my own… I felt that I had needed you, too.

We stood there in the darkness, lonely together. And then the clouds beheld our broken wholeness, and broke the wholeness of the night itself. Its shattered fragments, cracked and spindled with a birthless sort of starlight, pierced the night around us with a rain as soft as thunder, a fall as wild as rain.

My starstruck eyes lifted with yours, and the shower of cloud-blossoms was like the falling of a quick, white flame. It touched your face and traced our phantoms with a lancing spark of silver; as a forge-hammer falling, your shadows cracked and splintered. The shell of you fell away at last; and in its fading, the flame of you leapt with a life that, for all of its newness, I knew had been waiting long for you.

If only you knew how long I, too, had waited.

Our phantoms found heartbeats as your face beheld its own joy, captured in the beauty’s star-arrested birth. Then the darkness was overcome with white, and in the veil of quicksilver, my eyes were lost from yours.

Still I lingered as the night grew older, tracing with my gaze your footsteps which I could no longer see. For though my eyes were locked behind the window, I knew that our phantoms still lingered, somewhere in the furtive darkness; the darkness that was white.


*    *    *

At last the creeping morning came. Against the whiteness beyond my window, our phantoms had fled, and so had your footprints. The moth dust of the world’s lightening crusted the paleness with gold, covering the iced-in memories of our ghostly dreams.

Yet the ice could not erase the softness of our phantom touch, nor the wind scatter by the dreams we had dreamed there, on the night when it snowed.



Category: 0 missives