אש

Frantic Hebrew shouts filled the early morning air, and smoke crept into my lungs. The shouts increased in volume until they arrived at my door and pulled me from my bed. All I could understand was "Fire." Fire. Fire. I snapped awake and saw the thick haze hanging in my flat. We were rushed down the stair and out. Out into the could mountain morning. We waited. And huddled for warmth and all was chaos. Three sooty firemen were the only ones who treated us with any civility. They had rough faces and kind eyes. But then again I wouldn't know, none of this took place in a tongue familiar to me. For all I know it could have been more rockets launched from the North arriving at my doorstep. 

It happens to some. 

This life is so fleeting. 

the tree

                                                                                                 the tree

one warm autumn day two loving hands tenderly planted a tiny seed in the rich brown earth. these hands cared for the seed and provided plenty of love and water and day by day it grew and grew and grew into a strapping young sapling. 

and the seasons came, and went. new life grew, and old life passed on.

the strapping young sapling grew in height and saw more and more of the world each day. his eyes became wide with the allure of adventure. he looked out to sea and longed for the beauty of the waves and to be tossed in the intensity of the storms that rolled in off the sea. life out there looked so big and bold and exciting. 

after a while, the young tree's mind was always off at sea while life transpired all around him. beautiful birds nested in his thickening branches and filled his ears with their song. friends climbed up his back and talked long into the thick summer nights. but he was elsewhere, living a life far away at the expense of the life above his roots. 

but the seasons came, and went. new life grew, and old life passed on. there was adventure and there was loss. 

then one day the same loving hands returned to the young tree, but he was off on one of his adventures and paid no attention. the tree was much taller now and growing quickly. he had even begun to bear a little fruit. the hands took a pair of shears gently to the young branches and began to trim and cut away at the green wood. 

the tree cried out in pain and anger filled his heart. he had trusted these hands, and they betrayed him. he was filled with confusion and hurt. he called curses down upon his torn and broken body. a flood of tears wetted his rough bark and his roots turned bitter and callous. 

and the season came, and went. new life grew, and old life passed on. there was great pain and darkness.

as the sun returned to the sky bitterness remained in the tree's roots. the loving hands continued to care for the tree faithfully, but he had grown indifferent. he was wounded. he took refuge in the shadow of the trees surrounding him. they spread their branches to shield him from the harsh sun, and began to share the wisdom of their years with him. 

the other trees reminded him of the faithfulness of the loving hands, and told their stories. they all talked long into the cool evenings and shared life together. little by little, joy returned to the young tree and the spring rains slowly washed the bitterness from his roots, which sunk deeper and deeper into the rich brown earth.

and the seasons came, and went. new life grew, and old life passed on. there was healing and their was joy.

by the time harvest came again the tree's limbs had grown back thicker and stronger than he could have imagined. he was so heavily laden with fruit that even the lightest breeze carried it from his branches. children laughed and played above his roots and he lifted them into the sky and shared with them all that he had.

the sweet smells of a summer filled with light rested in his branches and for the first time he felt at peace in the rich brown earth. he no longer dreamt of life by the sea, but found adventure and beauty where he was planted. 

and the seasons came, and went. new life grew, and old life passed on. there was abundance and there was life.

many days pain still seared down the growing tree's back, from the top of his branches to the depths of his roots. many seasons had passed, but some scars always remain. only now the pain did not bring so much anger and bitterness to the tree's heart. instead it was accompanied by joy and peace and fruit in the harvest. and the loving hands remained faithful to tend for the tree through every season. 

writing around

i recently had the opportunity to write for the chi alpha community blog at au.
here's a link to what i came up with on the topic of the intersection of faith and gratitude:

Where Faith and Gratitude Collide (for AU XA)

enjoy.

hello again.

So this whole blog thing?

It's harder than it seems.

Especially when life is moving a thousand kilometers a minute and it's all I can do to catch my breath. Let alone pause long enough to write, to articulate this madness into words and sentences--to crystalize some meaning from it all. 

But I am going to try, I have to. 

I've never been that person who always has something to say and share with the class. Not that I don't have opinions and observations, they just take up comfortable residence in the labyrinth of my mind rather than going about their business in the open. But it's getting crowded in there, so it's time to clear out.

Bear with me beloved readers, it's going to be a long road. 

I've waited too long for a good beginning so I'm just going to start in the middle with a poem composed as a collage and synthesis of my experiences here in Israel. It is difficult to make sense of this place, but this is a start. Every morning the light looks new and things are different, full of fresh paradoxes for my infinite consideration. 

 

                                                                                                                                                                                                     صباح النور

I look into dark eyes

in the dark faces

of dark old men

and I see what they have seen:

hate

malice

anger

war.

But the Sun shines on

sand sticks between toes

and sea salt bakes into olive skin

The air is filled with noise

to banish the beast of silence that 

boils under the surface.

this monster of

reality.

pain

defeat

pride.

On a silent reverent street 

cars cease--the air is heavy with the

repentant cries of a Nation.

But here,

Bottles crash, shouting burns through the stillness

insults bolt from mouths

and pierce hearts.

But coffee is shared in the morning.

The hot sun bakes the desert dry

and when it sinks defeated into the sea,

there is tea to welcome the moon

and mask the ugliness of the light.

the next horizon

I have spent the last two weeks sleeping on a yoga mat in a quiet, forgotten corner of Rome.
It's 4:00am and I await my taxi on the cobbled curb on Via di San Calepodio no. 7.

"Ciao."
"Ciao."
"Fiumicino, per favore."
"Prego."
"Grazie."

I watch contentedly as the streetlight shatters into the little black abysses between the cobblestones. As I leave Rome behind stars pierce the thick black curtain of the sky. A familiar and welcome sight in the midst of all this change. Today Israel is calling. I would say that today the real adventure begins but I am lately convinced that there is no adventure more real than the present moment. So this is just a change of scenery.

I have spent the last two weeks in the Eternal City and beyond, surrounded by art, beauty, and the fullness of life. I was reminded of my love for art and the way it continues to inspire and excite me. And in the case of the galleries of Florence, intimidate me.

On Il Isola di Capri I basked in the sun and again realized that few things bring peace to the depths of my soul like the sea. And I think I'm becoming less particular as to which sea. I watched God steal the sun into the sea and infect the sky with life and light night after night.

Throughout my days I was accompanied by the familiar smell of rain and voice of thunder, the beauteous universality of humor, and the equally beautiful cacophony of language. As the days wound down a slower tempo drifted from windows and curled around street corners. There was quiet in the noise and it felt like home.

But just as comfort finds me here under the dark Roman sky, Time reminds me that there is more. I am forever propelled onward by the potential of untold stories. Let us write well this story that is life.

loose ends 2.0

more tying up. more completing. cleaning out for the fresh and new. this is the emblem of a lost guitar pick molded from meaningful scraps of life. a reminder to savor the small things.

loose ends

i am surrounded by unfinished art. ideas given breath and then abandoned to half empty pages. this unfinished business leaves a bitter taste of discomfort and dissatisfaction. it crowds out creativity and leaves sooty footprints on all that is new and fresh and good. so here's to closure and completion. here is to tying up loose ends and charging headlong into the marvelous mystery that lies ahead.

"yet this i call to mind and therefore i have hope: because of the Lord's great love we and not consumed, for his compassions never fail. they are new every morning; great it your faithfulness."

lamentations 4.21-23

TRUTH.

 "For then it will seem to us that we--we four of five--have chosen one another, the insight of each finding the intrinsic beauty of the rest, like to like, a voluntary nobility; that we have ascended above the rest of mankind by our native powers. The other loves do not invite the same illusion. Affection obviously requires kinships or at least proximities which never depended on our own choice. And as for Eros, half the love songs and half the love poems in the world will tell you that the Beloved in your fate, or destiny, no more your own choice than a thunderbolt for 'it is not in our power to love or hate.' Cupid's archery, genes--anything but ourselves. But in Friendship, being free of all that, we think we have chosen our peers. In reality, a few years' difference in the dates of our births, a few more miles between certain houses, the choices of one university instead of another, posting to different regiments, the accident of a topic being raised or not raised at first meeting--any of these chances might have kept us apart. But, for a Christian, there are, strictly speaking, no chances. A secret Master of the Ceremonies bas been at work. Christ, who said to the disciples, 'Ye have no chosen one another but I have chosen you for one another.' The Friendship is not a reward for our discrimination and good taste in finding one another out. It is the instrument by which God reveals to each the beauties of all the others. They are no greater than the beauties of a thousand other men; by Friendship God opens our eyes to them. They are, like all beauties, derived from Him, and then, in good Friendship, increased by Him through the Friendship itself, so that it is His instrument for creating as well as for revealing. At this feast it is He who has spread the board and it is He who has chosen the guests. It is He, we may dare to hope, who sometimes does, and always should preside. 

Let us not reckon with out Host."  

The Four Loves 

No one says it quite like C.S. Lewis.

SEAT 13A DELTA 485 PDX

i am so at home in this seat.
i love this. i am nostalgic for flight.
looking out over the wing at a
sea of dark tarmac and blinking
lights--it is comforting to me.


it takes my mind a thousand
other places i have been
and i find joy in the going.



i see snow encrusted jetways
and breath hanging white and
thick in the winter air.


i see the morning fog swirling
around rows of wings hours
before the sun adds its stifling 
heat to the humidity of the South Pacific


i see the backs of thunderheads, 
soaring above safe from their fury
but the masked terrain is familiar to me,
etched on the canvas of my mind.


i see the ceaseless sands of the desert
the harsh landscape looks
tame and kind from here.


i see treetops. endless green
a daunting dirt runway is a brown 
swath of civilization piercing
the Amazonian expanse.


i see the Rockies' eternal peaks
beckoning me.
a challenge.


i see the ocean far below
a blue blanket punctuated by passing ships
and wind whipped waves.


it all flows back as i sit here,
my seatbelt fastened
still and at peace.


maybe it's because i'm going home--
or maybe it's just because


i'm going.