Incoherency

Scribbled by Sparrow
Too much darkness. Too many burdens to be laid upon an all too heavily-laden heart; as though an echoing canyon demands the filling of its emptiness. But more substance does not create less emptiness: only more echoes. And as the chaotic dance of too many directions leaves only a valley of collision, the heart in whom Death's shadow has been overtaken is abandoned to its confusion, overwhelmed by the terrifying volume of the shadow of life. Life that looks too much toward the beating of the heart, and not to the Forever that endures beyond breathing. Too much existence smothers the flickering freedom of eternity. Too much smoke veils the vision of what will linger beyond its dissipation. The sight of that which vanishes has no courage to offer: only the assurance of an end. Disillusionment cradles Disappointment as if in fear for its life, clinging together in the devouring time-hole of expectation whose name is Despair.

No. No more.

I choose Hope.

Too much heartache, hung upon too many loosened chains of loyalty freed with a vengeance. Too many idle words spoken from the shallowness of a heart caring nothing for another's wholeness, too blinded by itself to care if it tarnishes Another's treasure. Too many dreams woven of gossamer too fragile not to tear, too deceitful in its illusion of strength that does not suffer for its beauty. Too little memory for the truths that still linger. They lie invisible, hidden by shrouds of unspoken strengthlessness and overwhelmed by the lulling serenade of lies captivated by a carelessly-built castle of Unreality. Waiting. Wandering. Lost.

But not forgotten.

I choose Promise.

Too harsh the betrayal of hearts whose lovelessness is morphed into language. Universal understanding is ever dependent upon the generosity of shared circumstance; yet barriers cannot exist between the sincerity of a deceitful heart and the searching eyes of the Unending. What is honest only in the beauty of silence becomes terrifying when unspoken meaning lies bare before Faithfulness itself. Treachery may linger behind a veil only until the passing passes, and then the glory of its dross is worn away, leaving only the substance of what is unredeemed. Only truth. Only terror. Only time.

Not this time.

I choose Devotion.

Too much absence. The burden of that which gives no lasting goodbye cuts deeply in the memory of a tomorrow whose loss has not yet been suffered. Fear is the imperfection of a heart: fondness may be the deepening of one, yet for both to exist together betrays the presence of an imperfect depth. To fear the absence of joy is to deny the future of its thankfulness. Past is not a gift to be clung to any more than Future is a gift to be grasped; they fear not loss or aloneness: only the absence of wonder, whose vagrance diminishes the wholeness of a heart.

Not this heart.

I choose Love.

Too many words. Too many choices. Too many partial things that do not describe the whole. I cannot choose the pieces and refuse the picture. A puzzle finished does not diminish the mystery of its pieces: it only deepens the wonder to be found in the masterpiece of its completion. And what remains in the end is not a limitation, but an imagination no longer limited. A soul no longer shattered. A vision made endless by the endlessness of a Lover's devotion.

No longer broken. 

I choose my Jesus.
Category: 0 missives

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