Reflections on "A Fusion of Old and New"

Last night, my amazing brother and his incredible friend performed a recital together of classical pieces both traditional and modern thus leading them to call it "A Fusion of Old and New." Pretty self-explanatory. Aside from their flawless performances, the music was enchantingly beautiful, an intricate interplay of interwoven melodies and tempos and emotions. Quite simply: a joy to listen to. So you may be wondering, "so why the shameless plug for your brother's performance? Does it mean you'll be posting a recording of it?" Sadly, fair reader, that is not the reason for this post. The reason would be that, as the music swelled and swirled around me, I felt inspired to write and came up with my first free-form poem, which is uncharted territory for me. I hope you all enjoy it as much as I had writing it.

And here at the end of all things,
At the end of all that was,
We find ourselves affixed, transfixed,
Transfused by ghosts of time and space now gone,
Now carried into brilliant time and space as yet unseen.
Throw wide thy gates, O Ancient Doors!
Throw wide thy arms, O Stranger Friend!
With thanks and welcome, we invite and are invited
To the touching of eternity.
The funeral of what is past and birth of what is yet to be
Stay for just a moment,
A single, blissful moment,
For the marriage of the present.

Upon My Soul, The Night Has Fallen Dark

The last eight months have been a time of searching and growing. I have examined my soul, forced to finally face those darkly rooted areas that I thought I could avoid. Through the help of friends and an incredible amount of God's grace, I have learned to see not only my weakness but also what is true, noble, just, pure, lovely, of good report, virtuous, and praiseworthy. In light of this, I wrote the following poem and wanted to share it.

So for anyone else who feels that their soul has fallen into unbearable darkness, know that there is light available to you and remember that you will yet rise

Upon my soul, the night has fallen dark,
Without the blessed stars or guard'an moon,
Without the hope of song by speckled lark
Or even mournful requiem by loon.
Instead, in darkness, the utter silent void,
Harangued by condemnation self-applied,
My soul's abused, like mouse by cat is toyed,
And finds there only ash in which to hide.
Alight, my soul; arise on phoenix wings!
You need not stay beneath the ashen heap.
Sometimes we die to see what freedom brings
To life renewed but first must take that leap.
Refining fire awaits to gird your flight,
To give you strength to banish this dark night.

Why So Silent, Good Monsieurs?

As the words of Phantom of the Opera beautifully state, I wanted to explain the lack of posts. Well, greater than usual lack of posts. Especially since I started off this year saying that I would post something every week, which I must admit I have not done very well.

Here goes . . .

I've let go of my dream of writing a book.

Phew. There, I've said it aloud. Well, cyber-ally (if that's a word) anyway.

Now I should explain the connection to less posts and the releasing of my dream since I realize that the connection may not be as obvious as it is to myself. About two months ago, I was discussing with my counselor what I would do with myself if I could do anything at all. Almost immediately I answered that I would write a book. She asked why and it took me a while to come up with an answer. When I finally did, which took some further questioning and thinking, I realized that I wanted to write one to prove that I could. This was a revelation to me and I thought a very poor reason to want to accomplish something. This is not to say that wanting to do something to prove that you can is always a bad reason, but as a reason to do something that you profess to love for its own sake, it's a bad reason. So I decided that writing a book was something that I needed to let go of and, after saying aloud that I let go of this particular dream, I started crying. When my counselor asked me why, the first things that came to me were sadness, which is natural after a loss, and relief, which it took longer for me to understand. After some assigned reflection, I realized that I had made the completion of a book my standard of my writing ability. In other words, if I couldn't write a book, I wasn't a good writer in my own mind. After years of people saying how much they liked my works and that I should write a book one day, I had taken it too much to heart. I had made this someday-book an idol and chain in my soul, and upon its release, my heart felt relief.

Hopefully now, the whole lack of posts/writing a book dream correlation makes a little more sense.

Since then, I haven't really written much at all. Some of my more discerning readers may see the connection to my previous post and the dream release. That was written a few weeks later, if memory serves well, which it only does on occasion. It's been funny because I thought I would miss it much more than I actually do. Right after this time, I began painting a lot more (which is a hobby I took up almost a year ago now, sheesh). Only recently have I again felt the muse's pull to write again. Which I may or may not do, though I'm thinking I may.

All this to say, that is why I haven't been posting as much and that I sincerely apologize to anyone who has been thinking I've fallen off the face of the earth or anything of that sort. I haven't but I have been trying to explore some new horizons. So there may yet be more postings of stories and musings in the future but I'm not going to be so concerned about making definitely sure they come about.

You Give Up a Few Things, Chasing a Dream

Note: If any of you are unfamiliar with the movie “Treasure Planet” or the book Treasure Island, go see/read them and come back if you don't want any spoilers. Otherwise, proceed with your own caution.

In the lesser known animated Disney film “Treasure Planet”, a sci-fy re-telling of Robert Luis Stevenson's Treasure Island, cyborg John Silver and cabin boy Jim Hawkins have a moment after returning from a friendly jaunt among the stars. Silver praises Jim for his flying prowess saying that people would have been singing his praises if he'd had Jim's talent at his age. With a wry laugh, Jim states that that wasn't his experience but that he hoped to change that. “Sometimes - plans go astray,” Silver warns. “Not this time,” Jim responds confidently. At this point, Silver draws attention to his cyborg leg and performs some maintenance with the help of his protoplasmic pink blob pet, Morph. Looking a bit worried, Jim asks, “So, uh, how'd that happen anyway?” Gazing at his mechanical hand, Silver murmurs, “You give up a few things, chasing a dream.”

Dreams are costly things. As much as we like to think of dreams as lovely fluffy things like clouds or unicorns, we must first endure the thunder and lightning and horns before we can see their fulfillment. Throughout modern media, especially in children's literature and films, we are encouraged, even dared, to follow/pursue our dreams. Usually there is shown some kind of struggle, but I don't know that that always give it justice. How many have actually pursued their dreams and found that, far from the single large obstacle in their way that they saw in the movies, they must face obstacle after obstacle after obstacle after obstacle and then a small step forward. To actually achieve one's dreams, one must be willing to sacrifice anything from time to mental/emotional energy upon its altar.

But what happens when the pursuit of a dream becomes bondage? When all of one's energy and focus goes into the fulfillment of the dreams at the expense of everything else? Would our culture still say to pursue it? That the end must and will justify the means? John Silver, aside from the obvious loss of his right leg, right arm, and right eye, sacrifices, albeit somewhat regretfully, his relationships with Jim and even Morph. Finding Captain Flynn's treasure has become his one consuming passion in life. Should we applaud him for his single-minded determination to follow his dream not matter where it lead him? Of course not! He's the villain after all and I think this is important. It is not only a matter of physical or emotional loss that Silver experiences; he loses a part of himself. The part of him that praised Jim's talent and encouraged him when he felt discouraged is abandoned when it comes into conflict with his greater dream of treasure.

It can be easy getting caught up in a dream. I know that I often only see the rosy, golden result at the far end, ignoring the dark and painful road that leads to it. It looks so beautiful, sitting there in its pristine, un-achieved glory. But its beauty can be just as insidious as the siren's song, leading to places you never would have chosen along paths you would never have trodden. I have found myself weighed down with chains of my own making. Like Jacob Marley, I formed my bonds link by link, all the while thinking that I was growing closer to my dream. It was my dream that had been a mine from which I gathered needed iron for my chains. My dream had become a nightmare, something that still retained its golden exterior and promise of good but now held something hidden, something sinister. Like Silver, my dream had turned sour and had consumed a part of me. It had weakened rather strengthened, causing atrophy instead of growth.

Yet, we needn't remain attached to our dreams. We can let them go, let them fly away like loosed balloons, should they be carrying us away from where we ought to be. This is not to say that knowing that a dream has become poisoned means that it's any easier to release. In fact, it can be even more difficult to do so as it is often long-held dreams that become the most binding. But in the loosing there may come even greater good than the good we thought we'd get by holding on to the dream, though it may take time to see the good beyond the loss. Silver comes to realize the depth of his obsession and then must choose which good he really wants, Flynn's treasure or Jim. In a dramatic moment of either holding onto a boat-load of treasure or releasing it to reach the falling Jim, he lets the treasure, the fulfillment of his deepest and longest held dream, fall away so he may save Jim from doing the same. As they're escaping, Jim comments in amazement, “Silver, you gave up...?” Panting for breath, Silver responds, “Just a lifelong obsession, Jimbo. I'll get over it.” And so it can be with releasing a dream. First, we must realize it for what it has become. Then we can decide to let go and get over it.

Now this is in no way trying to diminish the importance of dreams. In fact, dreams are precious things that God gives us to inspire and encourage us onwards to greater things. And even if we must release dreams, that does not necessarily mean that they are gone for good. In Genesis 22, God asks Abraham to sacrifice his son Isaac. Isaac was the fulfillment not only of Abraham's deepest dream but also of God's promise to him that he would have a son and be the father of many nations. By asking him to sacrifice his son, God was asking him to let go of his dream in a dramatic and seemingly definitive way. Yet Abraham obeyed. When asked by Isaac where the sacrifice would come from, his father answered that God would provide. As he was about to plunge the knife into his son's heart, God stopped Abraham and showed him a ram to sacrifice in Isaac's place. In the same way, we can be asked to let go of a dream or even be asked to kill it, but that may not necessarily be the end of it. It could be simply a season or a test to see where our focus and energies really lie. But even if it should be something left on the side of the road not to be picked up again, may I be able to say that Thy will be done and it is well with my soul.

Be Strong, My Child, and Fear No Nightly Noise

In honour of my good friend Sara's graduation, a wonderfully insightful and talented writer and blogger, I wrote the following sonnet. Can you find the allusions to George MacDonald and J.R.R. Tolkien? In the words of Bono, "Every artist is a cannibal / Every poet is a thief" and I only steal from the best.

Be Strong, My Child, and Fear No Nightly Noise

Be strong, my child, and fear no nightly noise.

They are but shadows, clawings of the Ash

And whispers of the Alder who destroys,

Desiring all to hunger, rage, and gnash.

But in you, child, there beats a heart of gold

As pure as laughter from a baby's lips,

As bright and warm as fire in places cold,

As precious as the desert dew that drips.

So sing, my child, and make your presence known;

Beat back the goblins with your foot and song;

Let blaze your light and they are overthrown

For courage, kindness, goodness make you strong.

Go now, my child; adventure waits for you.

Remember me and say a prayer or two.

Typewriter Monkeys and The San Francisco Writer's Grotto

What?! Two posts in one week where there is not a sequel involved? I know, my readers, I know; it's shocking. But I learned a couple of things over the past few days that I think is rather relevant to this blog.

First, I discovered a new blog, The Typewriter Monkey Task Force. Just as quirky as its title, this blog covers a variety of subjects in very fun and interesting ways. I mean, its subtitle is "Faith, Writing, Video Games, Literature, Life, the Universe, and Everything." That's a lot of stuff if you ask me. But it's not really the subject matter than struck me. Well, it kind of was and kind of wasn't. What I'm trying to say, and rather unsuccessfully at that, is that reading his blog, looking at his posts showed me that not everything that ends up here doesn't have to be some great work, or even partial work at that, but can just give my thoughts on things or share something that I found amusing. Granted, that's the way he chose to write his blog, and that not all blogs function in this way. However, for me, this was really freeing. It meant I didn't always have to have some great, edifying purpose behind my postings; they could be as simple as repeating a joke or musing on a conversation. I think I'd like to try that sometime.

Second, I bought a new book, 642 Things To Write About. While out shopping with my mom at Barnes &Noble, I made an impulse purchase of this particular beauty as I was literally about to go to the register to make several ... other ... purchases. *ahem* Anyways, there were two things that I found intriguing about this little book. The first thing was the fact that there are literally six hundred forty-two different writing prompts, in other words, two years worth of ideas should you choose to do a different prompt every day. And the range of the suggestions is fantastic. They can be as serious as relating your most embarrassing moment as if it happened to someone else or as silly as giving a pep talk to a dying plant. With this new tool, I have felt inspired to try new things, things I haven't even thought of before. My last post is the result of one of the exercises asking what can happen in a second. The other cool thing about this book is its creation; it came to be in a 24-hour period as a result of the brainstorming of the San Francisco Writer's Grotto, a modern day Inklings if you like. What this showed me is that 1) a writing community is an amazing thing and I should find one and 2) that not every idea I have for writing needs to be something spectacular or best-seller worthy; it can be silly.

And thus, I may be making a few changes to my routine and quality of posting based on my recent findings but I hope they will be for the better.

I Blinked and I Was Dead

I blinked and I was dead. Just like that. One second, I was alive and the next, dead. Yep, dead as a doornail, to borrow a famous phrase, which I've never understood really. I mean, of all the objects to be compared to death, a doornail would not have been at the top of my list. Maybe “dead as driftwood” or “dead as a coffin.” I guess there is the fact that the doornail was never alive, being made of metal and all, so the comparison becomes not only the obvious one of being very much dead but also that he may not have been alive in the first place.

Funny how much clearer you think when you're dead.

But still, the whole dying thing was much faster than I'd thought it would be. In the movies, everything slows down, and the person's life passes before their eyes like a fast-forwarded film. Honestly, I was kinda looking forward to that part. Well, a part of me looked forward to it; the other part dreaded semi-reliving every moment of my life. So when that didn't happen at all, I felt cheated, just a bit. I shouldn't really be surprised though since Hollywood over-dramatizes everything.

I wonder what would have happened if I hadn't blinked. Would I still be dead? Would I have lived to be married, had kids, spoiled grandkids, and finally died in a nursing home, filled with tubes? Would I have been happier? Made others happier? Brought about world peace? But who's to say I made the world better. Maybe I'd become the next world dictator or a serial killer. Would I have been a mean, selfish person who died alone and unnoticed? Or passed my days in utter obscurity? We'll never know. Because I'm dead.

Really now though, I'm not bitter about dying. It's just kind of amusing to think of “what-ifs,” like imagining what could have happened if you went left instead of right at a fork in the road. You'll never know so might as well imagine something crazy, right? I do have some regrets, people I wish I could have seen again or projects I wish I had completed. I hope this doesn't mean I become a ghost or anything. From what I've seen and read of them, it would stink to be one.

I will say this though about dying as quickly as I did. It didn't hurt. Often when reading a historical novel or watching some modern drama, I'd wonder how much it would hurt to die on the edge of sword or by a speeding bullet. In my experience, I felt nothing at all. I blinked and I was dead.

Screwtape Letters ... Sheegog Edition

In one of the classes I teach, my students read The Screwtape Letters and, as an assignment, had to write a letter from Screwtape to Wormwood as if they were "the patient." And it struck me, why don't I do the same? So, my faithful readers, here is my first complete story in a while. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

My dear Wormwood,

Why is it that you did not tell me that you had been assigned a new patient? I have had to forcefully persuade Galldrip in Distribution to give up this delicious news of yours. Do not think that simply because I advocated that your punishments be extended after your incredible failure the last time that I would be any less interested in your acquiring a new assignment. Quite to the contrary, I desire to be even more invested in your attempts since you obviously did not seem to heed my advice previously. Perhaps this time it will be different. I hope for your sake, nephew, that it is.

From what Galldrip has told me of your patient, you seem to have your work cut out for you. Having been raised in the Enemy's camp, she will be unassailable by some of the techniques used on your previous patient, not that you were any more successful with those. Furthermore, she comes form a stable, loving family who are also devoted to the Enemy thus placing another defense against attack. However, from what I have gathered in her dossier, she does have several promising areas that are much in your favour. Now pay attention, Wormwood, as I will try to explain everything in the most elementary terms so there can be no possibility of misunderstanding me.

First, we have a good hold in a well developed slothfulness that she has passed over as a mere bad habit of procrastination. When confronted with something she knows she has to do but does not want to do, she practically begs us to find her some kind of distraction. What makes this sin even more delicious is the fact that what she most often turns to is something she honestly enjoys but we have turned for our own purposes. Her love and enjoyment of stories can be taken to a numbness when keeping her from what she knows to do. Here you can get a taste of that exquisite flavour of a perverted pleasure where you promise satisfaction and give nothing in return. The internet can be a powerful tool when attempting to distract your patient. The ease of clicking from one page to another or passively allowing one video to play automatically to the next. With your patient, you should encourage feelings of distaste for her responsibility and desire to be distracted, ultimately leading to a day in which she accomplished nothing and has gotten very little pleasure from the hours spent watching something she would otherwise have enjoyed.

Before you make any protest at the ease and seemingly innocuous nature of this sin, let me make my second point. She has, with our help, a strong sense of guilt and shame over not being the person she thinks she ought to be. Remember to not let her realize that her standards and image of her ideal self are unreasonable and largely unattainable. By strengthening the thought that this ideal can and must be met, you not only deepen her own sense of self-condemnation for not having reached them but also further separate her from those who love her for who she is because they see the various facades she wears so as to appear as her ideal for them and are distressed by her drawing further away from her natural self. On her side, she will feel more and more isolated by her mistaken belief that her inability to attain her ideal is causing the distance she feels when it is the mere fact that she is trying to be something she is not that is the real root of the issue. And your pursuit of greater shame and guilt is reinforced by her self-made isolation. Hopefully, you can see where this is leading, though I highly doubt it. By first encouraging her slothfulness and then attacking with her shame and guilt over not being her responsible ideal, you create a most refreshing cocktail of despair and self-loathing with undertones of anger.

However, you must work this very carefully. While you may see this as a very simple matter of encouraging what is already there, you must understand the delicate nature of the situation in which you are working. What you must remember, and keep your patient from remembering, is that the Enemy is always nearby to prompt the patient to resist your distractions and accomplish what is needed of her so she may then enjoy her pleasures without any guilt. Especially because of her time in the Enemy's camp, His commands are embedded into her mind which, while it makes excellent fodder for guilt, therefore means that she cannot be made to fully forget them. He will remind her of these commands, but you must pounce upon every suggestion that He gives before they have any time to take root. Also, you will constantly have to be on your guard with every interaction since most of her social circle is among Christians, thus bringing her into further contact with the Enemy's influence. If you are not careful, you will quickly lose the ground given to you at the outset of your assignment.

Do try not to lose this one. You know the consequences should you fail to bring this soul to our Father Below.

Your affectionate uncle, Screwtape

A(nother) Challenge: The Gypsy's Map pt. 4

The Gypsy's Map (pt. 4)

"Remarkable are they not, sir knight?"

"I do not even know where to begin," Oliver stammered.

"They are called chara berries," explained the Sentinel, "and grow plentifully in direct sunlight and in areas that experience immense amounts of joy. Thou canst eat them with the results thou hast seen or be crushed and used as a salve for any injury. Thou shalt have need of them upon thy journey hence."

Taking the branch as if it were of purest gold, Oliver gazed at it in wonder for a few moments before plucking off the remaining berries and placing them in a pouch at his waist. After storing his newest provision, he gathered the rest of his equipment placing things back into packs and saddling Capell. The Sentinel, for his part, held out the berry he had picked towards Capell, who ate it gratefully. Seeing an opportunity to return to its original perch, the bird hopped from the horse's head onto the stone man's hand and thus up his arm until finally roosting on his shoulder, twittering merrily. Upon the bird's return, the Sentinel inclined his head towards his shoulder companion almost as if he were trying to catch what the bird was saying.

"Dost thou have all that thou needst?" queried the Sentinel.

"I believe I do," answered Oliver. "Thank you for thy hospitality and teaching. I shan't forget thee and shall remember thee in my prayers."

The knight offered his hand. Smiling broadly, the stone man grasped Oliver's outstretched hand and held it.

"Fare thee well, good knight. May the Holy One of heaven guide thee on thy quest and His mother and all the saints protect thee as thou pursuest thy journey."

Releasing their hold on one another, Oliver and the Sentinel regarded one another with friendly, even brotherly, affection.

A(nother) Challenge: The Gypsy Map pt. 3

I know this is Tuesday not Monday but I did write a bit yesterday. I just didn't get a chance to post before it passed midnight. So here it is, meager as it is. I will be posting later today with the segment for today.

The Gypsy's Map (pt. 3)

In its beak, it carried a branch of what appeared to be gooseberries but, instead of the usual verdant or crimson coloring, they were golden almost to the point of shimmering.

“Please eat,” encouraged the Sentinel, gently relieving the bird of its parcel.

The bird in its turn fluttered to perch atop Capell's head appearing almost like a decorative plume.

Oliver took the proffered berries and, trusting to his host's judgment, popped one of them into his mouth. Almost as soon as the berry hit his tongue, an explosion of all the most delicious flavours burst upon his senses. He could not give a name to any of the flavours, of whether they were reminiscent of fruit, vegetable, or beverage. Rather, he felt as if he tasted emotions: sweetness of joy, tang of surprise, spice of curiosity, rich undertones of contentment. Swallowing, Oliver felt fully rejuvenated and no longer hungry. He eyed his leftovers with wonder. The Sentinel, seeing the knight's curiosity growing, smiled and took one of the berries between his fingers.

A(nother) Challenge: The Gypsy's Map pt. 2

The Gypsy's Map (pt. 2)

 “Why dost thou desire truth?” the voice asked again.

“To give justice to a fellow pilgrim,” Oliver replied thinking of the old gypsy whose name he didn’t even know.

“How didst thou come to be here?” queried the voice once more.

“By following a map given me by that same pilgrim.” He pulled out and unrolled it from where he had hidden it beneath his jerkin. Turning around, Oliver showed it to the entire area, not knowing where the speaker stood.

“Very well,” said the voice. “Approach me.”

“Where art thou?” the knight asked in turn.

“I stand before thee, sir knight.”

Oliver looked before him and still saw only the Sentinel stone and the misty avenue. But it had changed. The mist or fog had, if anything, become thicker now seeming opaque. If there had been any hope of seeing anything before, it was gone.

However, the most striking change was the Sentinel. Where once stood a large boulder was now a flesh-and-bone man, tall and broad-shouldered. In all appearance, he resembled the rock from which he came. His mantle and raiment were blue-gray, the collars of which were greenish-gray like the moss that had encrusted the stone. Gray hair spilled from his head to his shoulders and his silver beard reached the center of his full chest. At his side sat a large black blade.

In moments, the knight took in this whole scene. His heart beat faster at the sight of his questioner but bravely strode toward him nonetheless, his gait and manner not betraying his growing trepidation. He could not imagine what this man wanted with him. Certainly, he had asked some peculiar questions but the knight could not determine whether the man meant him good or ill. All too soon, the two stood face to face.

A silence fell upon them both. Wind passed through the trees, whistling. Still the two remained silent. Tension rose ever so slowly as the knight tried to grapple in his mind the purposes of the man before him.

Suddenly, the Sentinel reached for his sword and swung it at Oliver. Caught in the web of his thoughts, the knight barely had time to react. Drawing his sword, he parried the Sentinel’s blow. The zing of their exchange resounded through the forest. Capell trotted nervously, adding his worried whiny to the air. But the two combatants remained locked, neither releasing his blade’s pressure upon the other. Once more the tension and silence rose together.

Oliver was more confused than ever. What had he done to make the man strike at him so? Had he done something wrong? Or not said the right thing? Perspiration beaded on his forehead from the effort exerted by both his body and mind. The strain in his muscles echoed those of his brain. No matter what combination of situations, answers and responses he thought of, the knight could make no sense of his opponent’s actions.

Again, without any warning, the Sentinel pulled out of their lock and swung once more. Staggering forward for not having anticipated the release, Oliver just barely knocked away the stroke lowered at him. Then the blows kept coming, giving him barely any time to think. With each encounter, the knight tried to understand the reason of his opponent’s attacks. But the more his mind rushed to find an answer, the faster came the blows.

Finally, he gave up trying to understand. His mind could no longer take the strain to which it had been subjected. Every idea, both reasonable and ludicrous, had been explored and to no avail. Even if he had tried, Oliver’s mind would have balked at thinking of his present situation any more. As his mind wearied, so did his body. Somehow, as his mind had raced, the battle grew more intense. The Sentinel seemed to grow stronger with every stroke while at each same blow, energy was sapped from the knight. At last, he could take it no longer.

“Holy Father, deliver me, thy servant!” Oliver cried aloud. With no more strength, he fell to his knees at his opponent’s feet.

The Sentinel held his blade aloft in preparation of giving the final blow. But he stayed his own hand. So they stood, one man standing and the other kneeling. Then, just as unpredictable as his first onslaught, the Sentinel withdrew from his fallen opponent. Sheathing his sword, he reached out his hand to the knight.

“Rise, sir knight,” he commanded. “Thou hast passed the test.”

Ready to accept death, Oliver was confused to hear the Sentinel address him so. Looking up into his opponent’s face, he was surprised to see a small smile creasing the weather-beaten face. Something glinted pleasantly in the victor’s grey eyes. Thinking and reviewing for a moment all that he knew of the Sentinel, the knight decided to trust him. Firmly, he grasped the outstretched hand and was pulled to his feet. Looking up into the Sentinel’s eyes, Oliver saw what looked like fatherly affection.

“I do not understand, sir,” the knight said at last, this simple statement summarizing his state of mind in reference to everything he had experienced with the once-stone man.

“Dost thou remember the lines penned upon thy parchment?” ask the Sentinel.

“Trust thy faith and not thy eyes. Be thou cunning, brave and wise,” recited Oliver, unsure of how this applied or how the Sentinel had come to know of that couplet.

“What didst thou believe that meant?” the Sentinel questioned.

The knight thought for a moment. He really had not given the couplet much notice other than as an interesting side part to the more intriguing map. In his mind’s eye, he envisioned the faded ink upon the matted parchment in its gentle script. Nothing about it had particularly struck him as noticeable. The lines did not seem to make much sense together but individually were words of advice, the first Scriptural and the other good cautionary sense. At last, he shook his head and looked questioningly to the Sentinel to enlighten him.

“When thou didst face me,” the Sentinel began, “thou didst try to understand my movements by thine eyes. Through observation, thou didst search for victory. Yet, the more thou didst search, the more difficult it didst become to understand. Only when thou didst cry to the Holy One of Heaven didst thy salvation come.” The speaker shook his head mournfully. “Many a knight has fallen by my hand without once thinking to call upon his Maker.” Returning from his momentary reverie, he smiled down upon the knight. “But thou, sir knight, have earned the right of passage. Hand me thy map.”

Bewildered by everything the Sentinel had been telling him, it took a moment for Oliver to realize that the man was waiting for the map from the gypsy. Retrieving it from where he’d placed it in one of the saddle-bags, the knight handed it to the Sentinel. He could not fathom what the man of stone would do with the map. There was nothing more there beyond the point of the Sentinel and the beginning of the avenue. With immense curiosity, he watched his former opponent.

The Sentinel received the parchment with the deepest solemnity and handled it with more delicacy than one might expect of a man who had once been a boulder. Turning it corner to corner, he whispered a stream of words in a strange, unheard tongue that had once been spoken at the beginning of time but now only echoed in the hearts of the trees and earth. Then he brought the paper close to his lips and blew gently. Like flaking scales, small pieces of parchment flew away and revealed some more of the map.

Oliver looked on in amazement. Never before had he seen anything so wondrous. Handed the map, he looked to see the newly exposed area. Not much had changed but there, snaking across was a milky line that the knight rightly assumed was the avenue before him. It continued for a way without turn or off-shoot, finally ending in what appeared to be a sheltered glade. Like when he had first seen this magical map, he had no idea where this glade was or what it was called. And still there lay more unmarked parchment. He looked back to the Sentinel.

“What do I do now?” the knight asked child-like.

“Thou must continue, sir knight,” answered the Sentinel kindly. “Thou hast set thyself upon a quest for another and must complete it or forfeit thy honour.”

As if summoned, the face of the old gypsy glided like a specter before his eyes. For an unknown reason, Oliver was drawn to the man’s eyes. Wrinkled and weather-beaten, the gypsy’s brown eyes reflected great care and deep sorrow. The knight’s heart cried out in sympathy and longed to comfort his former guest. Determination rekindled to renewed vigor and he felt boldness once more run through him. Folding the map, he put it beneath his jerkin against his breast. Facing the Sentinel once ore, be put forth his hand.

“I thank thee, sir. Wilt thou take my hand in brotherhood?”

“That I will, noble knight.”

The two men clasped hands and no words were spoken for a time.

“But thou must take rest with me,” the Sentinel said at length, “for there is no protection or shelter in yonder avenue. In the morning, thou mayest continue thy quest.”

Gratefully, the knight accepted the Sentinel’s gracious offer. He followed his new host to where the Sentinel had once stood as a boulder. In its place was a small alcove of young trees, amidst which was just enough space for Oliver and Capell. Entering his home for the evening, the knight immediately felt its magical effects. A sudden drowsiness fell upon him. All the strain and exertion he'd made earlier that day demanded their dues at once. Lowering himself to the ground, Oliver saw Capell already soundly asleep, his flicking tail evidence of happy dreaming. He drew close to his stead and laid to rest against its side. Never before had sleep claimed this knight as quickly as it did in the man of stone's arbour.

The Sentinel smiled and took his place before his sleeping guests to protect them from any terrors of the night. Nothing would pass him that would pose any danger to their needed rest. As he kept his vigil, the Sentinel spoke many prayers over the sleeping knight, asking the beloved Saviour, His mother, and all the saints to protect and guide the knight on his perilous quest.

The sun rose the next morning dazzlingly bright, dappling Oliver and Capell in speckles of golden light. Rubbing his eyes, the knight propped himself up on one elbow and looked into the new day. The Sentinel still stood at the entrance, steadfast as the granite from which he came. Oliver got to his feet and stood beside his benefactor.

“Good morning, sir knight,” said the Sentinel turning to smile down on him.

“Good morning, Sentinel,” Oliver answered with a smile of his own. “Hast thou watched all through the night?”

“I hold a vigil for every soul who comes to me, whether he falls beneath my blade or rests within the arbour,” explained the Sentinel.

A small red-breasted bird alighted atop the Sentinel's head, creating a comical appearance with the difference between the large stony man and the tiny gentle bird. Yet it did not seem at all inappropriate either, as if the bird was meant to be there.

A(nother) Challenge: The Gypsy's Map pt. 1

This is my last week of Easter break and I have a couple of things I want to do before going back to work, one of which is actually writing or at least completing a story. While reading through some old journals, I found a medieval/semi-fairy tale story that I started about 5 years ago and decided to try and finish it. I suppose the urge and interest was increased by the fact that I visited friends at my alma mater (now that's weird to say) Saint Katherine College where they are taking a fairy tales class and had to write ones of their own. Thus I feel inspired to do the same. Also, a little boy that I read a portion of it too from years ago is still asking about it and I would like to let him know how it ends.

So here's my plan. I am going to post pieces every day of my progress on the story and, hopefully by the end, I'll have a new story on my hands. Yes, yes, yes, dear reader, I do realize that I am trying to do yet another challenge, which I know I have a poor track record of actually completing. But I am going to do it. And I have better chances this time since I'm only keeping it to a week and I am not working this week. Therefore, I'm going to cheat today and post what I had previously written. I pray your forgiveness in advance as it's going to be long so I'm going to break it into two pieces. Hope you all enjoy the journey as much as I do.

The Gypsy's Map (pt. 1)

Many years ago a knight named Oliver came from small village now long forgotten by men. All was peaceful in his village and all the area around it. Resolved not to become idle and self-consumed, Oliver worked for his fellow villagers doing odd jobs, as if he’d never been knighted. Then, an old man came to the town. His clothes were thin and dirty, and he carried a large walking stick carved with many intricate designs. As he walked, he limped greatly and leaned heavily on his stick. Around his waist, he wore a rope belt from which hung an assortment of talismans for, you see, he was a gypsy. When they saw him, all the villagers rushed to their homes and locked their doors. Oliver alone was unafraid. Having faced greater dangers than one old gypsy man, he approached the stranger with kindness.

“Hast thou travelled long, good sir?”

“Many a weary mile on old tired feet,” was the answer given. Looking up from the dusty ground, the gypsy saw his greeter’s face. “Thou art not of my brethren. Why then dost thou greet me?”

“Tis the teaching of our Lord Jesus Christ to give shelter to the stranger. Come with me.”

“Saint Sara bless thee for thy kindness.”

The young knight led the old man to small hut he had built himself. The door opened to reveal a modest room nicely furnished and clean. Seating the old gypsy on a chair, Oliver went to a pot emitting wonderful aromas. He then proceeded to spoon the stew into earthenware bowls. After encouraging his guest to begin eating, the young man cut a few slices from a loaf of bread and filled two cups with water. The two men ate in silence, the one fulfilling the hunger gained from days of travel and the other not wanting to disturb him. Thus went their evening meal. When the gypsy had eaten his fill, Oliver led him to his own bed. At this, the man balked.

“No, sir. I shall not take thy bed. Thou has been gracious to this old gypsy . . .”

“And one more kindness cannot hurt thee,” the knight finished.

Seeing that his host would not be moved, the gypsy lay down, closed his eyes, and immediately fell into a deep sleep. Smiling to himself at his guest’s slumber, Oliver drew the covers over the sleeping man and took his repose beside the dying fire with his sword at his side.

The next morning, Oliver awoke to find his pot already brewing and the old gypsy gone. Going to the stewpot, he sniffed its contents. He nose told him his meal would be delicious. As he was stooped over the pot, the knight’s guest came in holding a strange bouquet of herbs and flowers. The old gypsy smiled seeing the look of surprised pleasure so easily seen on Oliver’s face.

“It pleases thee, I see.”

“Yes but thou didst not need to go to all this trouble. ‘Twas my place to prepare our meal.” The guest shook his head.

“I took no more trouble than thee when thou didst take me in and in this small way, I may repay thy kindness.”

Thus was the knight rebuffed and forced to be a guest in his own home while the gypsy finished preparing the meal. After a few minutes, it was finished and he spooned into their bowls a mash-like substance yet it had a unique, foreign flavor that delighted the senses. Once both had had their fill, Oliver asked the origin of their meal. The old man sighed heavily and his brown eyes grew sad.

“From my homeland, many miles away. I was not always the weary vagabond that thou dost see before thee. Once I had been a farmer and physician amongst my people. But it seems the saints and God most holy did not desire this to remain so. Our land suffered a drought like none that even our elders had ever seen. We cried out to Saint Sara for help but we received no reply. Then,” his eyes began to fill with tears and his voice faltered, “people began to die, our children and our elders. They looked like raisins in the noonday sun. Never before have I seen anything more tragic or pitiable.

“Finally, the few of us who were still alive left to find a new home. But on our way, we met a wild-looking man. His eyes seemed to stare at us and still not see us. He waved a sheet of parchment, crying that it led to the source of the drought. We all believed he had lost his sanity due to the lack of water. But we could not refuse his parchment for he would not let us pass until we took it. And so began our woeful journey. I am sorry,” he said suddenly. “I should not burden thee with my troubles.”

“No, thou has not troubled me in the least, good sir,” answered the knight much intrigued. “Do you still have the parchment the crazed man gave you?”

“Yes,” the gypsy shrugged, “though I did not take much notice of it once we had it.”

He moved to where his satchel sat and looked through its contents. Finally, he pulled out a worn sheet of paper and offered it to Oliver. The knight took it with great solemnity. But when he looked at it, his brow immediately furrowed.

“I’m afraid some of the ink has faded. There is naught here but a small portion.”

“’Twas always that way, good youth,” the gypsy replied. “Another reason we disregarded its former bearer.”

“Wast thou not curious in the least to know why it had been made so?”

“We did not pay it much mind, considering its former owner. What curiosity we had was satisfied with a short verse on the parchment itself. Thou canst find it here along this edge.” He turned the map so the knight was now looking at it upside down. “One of our young men found it whiles passing the time on our journey.”

Oliver examined the writing carefully. It was written in an even, delicate hand. And thus it read:

Trust thy faith and not thy eyes.

Be thou cunning, brave and wise.

The knight studied the couplet for several moments. His mind mulled their meaning and significance. The old gypsy watched the young man curiously, wondering what had intrigued his host so much. Nonetheless, he did not interrupt Oliver’s reverie. At last, the knight re-acknowledged his guest’s presence.

“Wouldst thou mind if I kept this map?”

“Take it with my blessing, good sir. May it bring you better fortune than it has its previous bearers. Well, I must be going.” The old man rose and began to gather his few belongings.

“Wait,” Oliver cried, surprised at his guest’s sudden behavior. “It will soon be sundown and it is quite a distance to the next village.”

The gypsy seemed to take no notice. He continued filling his sack and then put it on his back.

“No,” he stated finally as he headed for the door. “I cannot impose on thy hospitality any more. Besides,” he paused half-way through the door, “the rest of my people are waiting for me.”

“Where exactly are your people?” the knight queried aloud.

The man stopped and looked out towards the setting sun.

“Waiting in the arms of Saint Sara,” he replied quietly and continued walking out of town.

Oliver watched until his guest was no more than a black spot against the sun. Then he went back inside his home and prepared his evening meal. That night, he prayed for protection over the old gypsy wherever his travels led him.

The next morning, Oliver gathered all the maps he possessed and began comparing them against the old gypsy’s map. He looked for any recognizable landmarks so he could find the starting place. Finally, he found a large rock called “The Sentinel” on both the gypsy map and one map of a small woodland area. Smiling, he leaned back in his chair and took a few deep breaths. He then got up and began gathering his equipment and provisions.

Stepping out the door, the knight gazed out across the land stretching before him. His armor glinted defiantly, boasting scuffs and gashes from skirmishes with bandits. On his hip rested his trusty sword, docilely waiting ‘til its master should have need of it. Maps, food, spare clothes, flint, and a tinder box were stuffed in a pack upon his back. As he stood there pondering the path ahead of him, Oliver fingered an amber-entombed piece of white heather that hung around his neck. Shoving the pendant under his shirt, he walked to the nearby stable.

“Capell.”

A chestnut-hided horse trotted out to the knight and nuzzled against his shoulder. Oliver gazed deeply into the horse’s eyes and it seemed to understand what was in its master’s mind. Once saddled and bridled, he mounted the stead and looked one last time upon the quiet village that had been his home.

“Fare thee well, good home. May the blessings and protection of our Lord rest upon thee.” With that benediction, he turned his back on the village with the thought in his heart that he may never see it again.

Several days passed before the knight reached the Sentinel stone. It stood at the entrance of an avenue of trees between which hung a thick fog like cobwebs. Like a guard it sat imposing and impassive, daring any to enter the misty passage.

Oliver dismounted Capell and pulled out the gypsy’s map. He had reached the only place pictured on the map. Now, he did not know what to do. A path led away from the Sentinel but led to blank space on the parchment. Methodically, Oliver pondered in his mind what could be next.

“What dost thou desire?”

The knight drew close to his mount and placed a hand on his sword. His eyes darted all around, searching for the speaker.

“Who goes there?”

“What dost thou desire?” The voice sounded as old as the earth and seemed to reverberate through the air like thunder.

Calming Capell, the knight stepped out with his hand still ready on his sword. He had not seen or heard anyone enter the wood since he had. As far as he could tell, no one was hiding behind the trees around him. The only place left was the Sentinel and the fog-laden avenue and nothing there had changed.

“Who goes there?” Oliver repeated.

“What dost thou desire?” came the voice a third time.

“I desire to know the truth,” answered the knight.

Xavier and Earl

I'm sorry for not posting this sooner but the internet where I was was spotty and quite unruly. Thus this is posted after a delay. I continued the saga featuring Xavier of the excerpt previous. With this piece, I tried digging into more of the back story of why Xavier is going to Anton and the identity of the "dead person" he's looking for. It surprised me very much, giving me ideas that I hadn't even thought to contemplate before, but I hope that you all enjoy the revelation just as I did.

Xavier and Earl

Earl began organizing the various pieces of jewelry by type and color for the third time, giving Xavier sidelong glances every so often. Xavier sat in a chair behind the counter, rocking back onto two legs of the chair and fingering a photograph. Whistling nonchalantly, Earl edged his way closer and closer to his friend. Xavier remained absorbed with his photo. As his whistling waned, Earl looked over Xavier's shoulder to see what had so fixated his friend's attention. After seeing the subject of the picture though, he shook his head slowly and walked back towards the shelves of digital cameras.

“She's out there, Earl,” Xavier said quietly, not looking up from the photograph.

“Xavier,” Earl began with a sigh.

“She is out there,” Xavier repeated, crinkling the corners of the photo.

“You've got to let her go, man,” continued his friend as he let the cameras be. “There's nothing more you can do.”

“But she's still waiting to be found!”

Kicking over the chair as he got up, Xavier shoved the picture in Earl's face.

“Look at her! You're just going to give up on her?!”

Earl pushed Xavier's hands away and tried to move past him towards the depths of the shop. Xavier grabbed his shoulder as he passed, turning him back towards the photo. As Earl attempted to move away, Xavier tightened his hold on his friend's shoulder.

“Look … at … her,” Xavier seethed.

“She's dead, Xav. Accept it!” Earl broke out, ripping away his shoulder and grabbing both of Xavier's shoulders in his turn. “You can't let your guilt control you like this. You're going to drive yourself insane. Some people have even already started discussing committing you to Rigby Range.”

He snatched the photo from Xavier's hand and turned it so Xavier was confronted by its image.

“Is this what Sarah would want? You obsessing over Jemma? Losing your hold on reality?”

Xavier stared at the photo, wellsprings forming in his eyes. With a quivering hand, he reached up and took the picture from Earl. Earl released both the photo and his friend's shoulder, moving to lean against the counter. Xavier held the picture in both hands as rivers ran down his face.

“Do you remember taking this picture?”

“'Course I do. It was a week before the accident.”

“We were having a picnic to celebrate Sarah getting into veterinary school. Jemma had helped me make a cake for her.”

A smile quivered across Xavier's face.

“She … she insisted that we write 'conga-rats' instead of 'congratulations' because it had animals in the name. Sarah just about died laughing when she saw it.”

“I remember you freaking out that you'd forgotten the napkins and utensils when it came time to eat it,” Earl added, a smile playing around his mouth.

“Yes,”laughed Xavier as he wiped his face with his shoulder. “I thought I'd ruined everything. But Sarah and Jemma … thy just looked at each other and grabbed handfuls of cake. Like mother, like daughter. They never saw a problem without finding a solution.”

Dropping one hand on the counter to support himself, Xavier covered his eyes with his other arm, his hand clutching the photograph. His breathing grew ragged. Earl watched his friend and dug around in his pocket.

“I can't lose her, Earl. I barely have Sarah and I promised her … I promised her I'd take care of Jemma until she woke up. How can I face her now? How can I say I lost the best thing that ever happened to her?”

Hearing a crackling sound, he removed his arm and looked toward his friend. Earl was holding out a peppermint. Xavier took the mint, unwrapped it, and popped it into his mouth. Setting the photo on the counter, he tried to smooth out the corners. Earl wrapped his arm around Xavier's shoulders.

“You'll cross that bridge when you get there,” counseled Earl. “For now, just be there for Sarah. Focus on what you can do for those who are still here.”

Xavier nodded and continued smoothing the picture, pausing at times to stroke the faces of a smiling blonde young woman and a laughing brown-haired girl.

Xavier and Anton

I realize that I have a bad habit of leaving things unfinished for which I apologize profusely, dear readers. But I had a new idea. In my mind, I pictured a guy in a fedora pulled down over his eyes smoking a cigarette as he leaned up against a wall. The feeling with the picture wasn't that the guy was sinister but he was a bit shady, "working on the side of the angels but not one of them" to quote a certain BBC show. At first, I thought I would need to create a whole framework and story into which he fit and played but then it dawned on me that I could just start writing a scene with him in it and see where it went from there. And so here is the scene. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it.

Xavier and Anton

“Thanks for the ride,” Xavier said to the cabbie. “Keep the change.”

“Sure this is the right place? Rather a lonely spot,” commented the cabbie.

“Yeah, I'm sure. I'm probably just early is all.”

“If you say so.”

As the cab drove away, Xavier looked around the street. At the end were the cab's taillights fading around the corner. The stores on the street were closed for the day and looking as if no one cared whether they opened again or not. Along the street were a couple of vehicles as forlorn looking as the buildings in front of which they were parked. A few streets over, a siren sounded. Xavier peered into several of the dusty, empty windows before confirming the suspicion that there was no one else around. Hearing a crash and a scream nearby, he jumped and looked towards the source of the noise. Two cats chased each other out of an alley, across the street, and into another byway. Xavier exhaled slowly and leaned up against the wall.

“You spook easy. That's good to know.”

The young man whirled around to see another person in the street with him. Seemingly out of nowhere and making no more noise than a ghost, the speaker had appeared leaning up against the same wall.

“Are … are you Anton?”

“I go by that name … sometimes,” answered Anton, taking a pull on a lighted cigarette.

Xavier stuck his hands in his pockets and shifted from foot to foot, waiting for Anton to continue. The stranger let out his cigarette smoke slowly. An awkward silence had fallen on the two people, one that Xavier did not feel it was his place to break. He didn't want to scare the guy off by acting too eager, by being overly hasty. But Anton continued to lean there smoking his cigarette as if he had eternity ahead of him. The young man began playing with the insides of his pockets to give his fingers something to do.

“So … you wanted something from me.” Anton finally spoke through an expulsion of smoke.

“Yes, yes I did,” Xavier confirmed with more eagerness than he had wanted to show. “Franny said that you could do just about anything.”

“Well, you know sisters. They'll say just about anything about their big brothers.”

“Then … was she … was she wrong?”

“No, she wasn't,” assured Anton, holding his cigarette between two fingers. He turned to directly face Xavier and looked straight into his eyes. “But you really shouldn't believe everything everyone tells you.”

Xavier took his meaning and nodded.

“I know.”

Turning his back on Xavier and returning his cigarette to his mouth, Anton started walking down the street. Xavier remained where he was and then began following Anton, at a distance. Anton stopped beside a '74 Plymouth Roadrunner that Xavier had noticed but had assumed abandoned by the state of disrepair. Rust lined the edges of the plate joints. The bumpers were dull and looked as if they'd been covered by years of dust. The rear window was so cracked it looked as if a spider had made its home within the glass.

“Well, introductions and preliminaries now aside, how about we step into my office.” Anton waved his cigarette at the front passenger seat as he disappeared inside the car.

Pausing with his hand on the door handle, Xavier looked back around the street. At the far end from which he himself had entered, another cab was passing on its way to another destination. A call jumped to his throat but never passed his lips and the cab continued on its way. He watched it disappear from sight, even waiting till he could no longer hear the tires on the asphalt. A tap on the window brought Xavier back to the fact that he had still not entered the Roadrunner. Pulling the door open and sitting down, Anton began driving away.

“Since you are coming to me on recommendation from Franny, it can only mean that you are in desperate need of something that is otherwise unattainable,” Anton stated, breathing his cigarette smoke out the window.

“Y-yes,” answered Xavier looking down at his hands, his fingers interlocking and then separating repeatedly.

Anton took lazy pulls on his cigarette waiting for his passenger to continue. Xavier kept his gaze fixed on his hands, the color slowly draining from his face. He licked his lips.

“I … I need to find someone.”

“A lot of people do.”

“Yeah … well … I don't think a lot of people are looking for someone like I am.”

“Obviously. Most people go to the police rather than come to me.”

“I tried the police,” Xavier explained through gritted teeth. “They said that I was crazy.”

“I knew that the moment you came to me. Most people, well more like everyone who comes to me is crazy in one way or another.”

Xavier gave Anton a sideways glance. For his part, Anton flicked ash from the end of his cigarette onto the swiftly passing street.

“So, why is it that our city's public servants believe you bereft of your sanity?”

Xavier leaned back in his seat and rested his head and arm against the window.

“They said … the person I'm looking for … is dead.”

Let's Try This Again: Chapter 1 – The Wandering Child

Reading over what I wrote, while there were some cool images, I wasn't really happy with it. I mean, what great pieces off literature start of describing the weather anyway? Not to say that what I'm writing is to be considered any great piece of literature but ... hopefully you know what I mean. I wanted something that drew in readers, including myself, more quickly. Here is my second attempt and I like it much better and I hope you do too.

Chapter 1 – The Wandering Child

Queen Elfleda gazed out the window at the almost torrential downpour, her arms crossed and chewing on the corner of her bottom lip. Restlessly, she moved from sitting to pacing, back to forced stillness and again back to needed movement. Sometimes her gaze would flicker from the window to the staircase at the bottom of which was the still closed door but would always return to the glass pane separating her from the elements.

“Milka, how are the boys?” the queen asked of a plump woman who was passing.

Curtsying, Milka answered, "The young masters are sound asleep, milady, except for master Oliver, master Clement, and master Cyril who are with Honorius in the library."

The Night

Prose at last, everyone! This will be a bit of a change from the usual fare as I will be posting increments of it as I have them. So here's the set-up. I am attempting to combine and re-tell two of my favorite Hans Christian Anderson fairy tales, The Wild Swans and The Traveling Companion. Hopefully, I will not do the Danish master too terribly with my attempt and hope that you all enjoy it along the way. These are just the opening lines so I apologize for the briefness.

The rains had been especially long this year, filling the rivers and lakes to the verge of bursting. Everything everywhere was wet … and cold. Thousands of stars littered the ground as they mirrored those in the velvet above. Thin strips of cloud veiled the chaste moon's face. And in a small cave covered in moss sat a mound of rags.

Haikus for a New Year

I promise I will get back to that first poem and finish it, eventually. So for now, these haikus will have to suffice. Hopefully, I'll get around to writing some prose and posting it.

The sun is setting,

Ending the previous year,

Rising on the new.

The days are like stars,

Flickering, glowing, burning,

Dancing in the dark.

The path of life winds

Serpentine through trials and joy,

Blending into one.

Glorious Ruins

OK, I know this may be a bit of a cop out but this is something I wrote back in October but never posted or shared really. The idea of "glorious ruins" was the theme of my church's women's retreat and thus you can guess where I wrote it. I tried to capture the feeling of how something bad can become something good, that what we see as defeat can be the beginning of victory. I'm sorry if it's a bit rough.

Glorious Ruins

The walls now lie broken, battered and worn;

The banners lie lifeless, tattered and torn;

Defeat echoes loudly, tangibly felt.

No hope left within it, courage has melt.

So where is the glory, mighty to save?

So where is protection, voice in the cave?

So why are you silent, me left alone?

So what will I do now, left overthrown?

Come walk through the fire, refining though hot,

Let go of your failure, something for nought.

New life shall be yours now, dry bones alive;

My wings are your cover; love me and thrive.

The walls are now diamond, pressure made good;

The banners fly proudly, tatters withstood;

Now laughter abounds here, victory found;

These glorious ruins no longer bound.

A Day in the Life of a Domestic Feline

For this week's posting, I'm sorry to say that I do not have the happier half of the poem I posted last week. It is still in the works. Instead, I have a short vignette on what my pet cats must be thinking while I think they're taking it easy. I hope you enjoy the silliness.

A Day in the Life of a Domestic Feline

From the outside, the domestic feline has an easy life.

All they need do is eat, sleep, and nap.

Sometimes the routine will change, adding playful antics.

However, this is only the human perspective.

For the feline, it is war.

It's constant struggling for dominance.

We think they're napping.

But they're waiting.

And then,

Attack!

Looking Back and Looking Forward

So I was hoping to have a finished project for these posts but it seems that that will have to wait for now. I started writing the following poem New Year's Eve so that's why it starts the way it does. However, it has become more of a reflection over how I've viewed my past year and then hopes for the one to come. I'll get to the hopes part next time. For now, I hope you enjoy and may this be the beginning of a beautiful tradition.

Looking Back and Looking Forward

Upon this dark'ning night, we wait

For the year to end,

For the new its way to wend

And memories create.

What should I say upon this day,

The last now of the year?

Should they be silly or words sincere

Or hold the tears at bay?

Yet are there words enough to hold

All the thoughts and hopes

That crossed and held like binding ropes

My life as then untold?

My words run short; my mouth runs dry;

My speech is taken from me

As I recall quite suddenly

The things I did not try.

I failed to love my neighbor

As fully as I ought;

Next to mine, their needs forgot

And for myself did labour.

I failed to love and serve my God

With true obedience,

Had acted with indifference

Towards what should have awed.

So here I sit with head in hands

Ashamed of what I've done.

Consumed with only having fun,

I shirked divine commands.

It's That Time of Year

Happy New Year, extensive internet readers! Well, to those of you who do read and follow this blog anyways. We have bid a tearful adieu to 2014, a wonderful year full of changes, challenges, and surprises, and now welcome the new 2015 with its promise of all-new adventures to come.

Around this time of year, people are in the habit of making so-called "resolutions," things they plan to accomplish at some point during the year and usually quit after March at the latest. For several years, I have chosen to not make any resolutions since I had known myself to be inconsistent in my habits and from remembering previous and numerous failed resolutions. I did try making some more abstract resolutions in recent years but success is difficult to gauge with those. However, I have seen the benefits of having a goal at which to aim even if it is un-achieved during the specified year and remains so for a while.

Therefore, I have decided to make two resolutions to which you, my internet community, will hold me accountable. Well, I'll be somewhat relying on you for one of them but it's the thought that counts, right? So here goes:
1) I will post something once a week during the weekend (Saturday/Sunday) for the year or as long as I can. It can be a story, poem, or simple musing but there should be some sort of writing piece each week. If I really want to write a novel that is anywhere near acceptable, I will need to get in the habit of writing.
2) I will read at least 1 book for pleasure each month. It cannot be something required for a class, even if I enjoy what I am required to read. The monthly book must be something separate that I do with my free time. I used to be an avid reader and I want to get back to that because reading, I think, is a dying art.

So there they are folks, my resolutions for 2015. By the grace of God, I will hopefully be able to be consistent and follow through. Come this weekend, I will have something for you so stay tuned. 2015, here I come.