Simplicity

It all started with dear Emerson from Pide Piper. I, of course, was meddling in his buisness and asking why he was mad at the world at the time, and at one point he said that he wished everything was simple like it was in middle school. So, being a good girl and all, I think “Well, following Christ makes EVERYTHING more simple.”

I suppose what lead me to that thought was that he was talking about all of these complications of the world that just distract us from Christ and that worry us, things that if we trust God with, will melt away (or so it says in Matthew 11)

But it ISN’T that simple, is it? I' was never saying it would be easy, I’m talking simple. Follow scripture = simple. Live by rules = simple, right? Then you look at all of these theological debates and fights and all out denomination splits over the ‘simple’ stuff, but in all honesty, look at the scripture and do what it says.  Love those who hate you, witness to those around you by loving God and being a light, forget the weird stuff of the world like drugs and sex and such.

It’s not easy. I never said  it was easy. But there you have it. Can I dumb it down for you any further than that? At least, those are the answers to the things he was talking about. (And no, I didn’t say exactly that to him)

It’s interesting, how we water things down. Like with my ‘almost no carb’ diet. First week, I’m alright, I’ve got this. Now, I’ve had almost 3 desserts in the past 3 days. (Not cool) It starts with a ‘Oh, this isn’t so bad,’ and an ‘I’m allowed to do this…’ and don’t forget the ‘just one’ that turns into ‘just two’ that turns into ‘what’s another gunna hurt if I’ve already had this many?’ How is it any different than what we do here when we hear the simple diet?

“No sex.”

‘Well, it won’t hurt if it just do this with him…’

“Don’t lie.”

‘You know it’s for their own good if I just say…’

“Don’t swear.”

‘Crap is'n’t such a bad word, is it?’

Is it?

“Give to the poor.”

‘Are they really poor?’

“Help the orphan.”

‘I’ve got that car loan…’

“Give to those who need you!”

‘I can’t!’

Liar.

“Love those who hate you!”

‘Why should I?’

“Because I said so.”

‘And?’

It’s this entire back and forth chase, what can I get away with? Well, if He didn’t stop me from doing this, then why not?

And if we’re not doing what God says, i.e. worshiping with our lives, then what are we doing the bidding of? Who or what are we worshiping? I read Neil Gaiman’s book “American Gods” a couple of years back, and it just came back to me tonight. It’s set up so each god exists if someone worships it, and it is only as strong as how many people worship it. The old school gods have been forgotten and now the new gods are coming into power, the American Gods. T.V., money, sex, drugs, fame, all sorts of gods are, of course, coming to power as people devote themselves to them.

I’ve heard preachers speak on this kind of topic, heard them talk about how we devote our time on other things instead of God, and therefore worship them, how we dedicate our lives to silly things. I’m not sure it’s ever hit me like this before though. The more we feed these things with our devotion, you know the more they grow in our lives. How big is our devotion to food? How much time and thought do we spend on our clothes? Do we work so hard, so many hours of days of years making money for ourselves to hoard or spend on frivolous things, or do we give to those who REALLY need it?

Jeeze, I’ve been convicted of this so many times, but when will it really hit that these things can’t be our gods and we can’t spend so much of our short lives on them! They stay here! Just fyi, they don’t last and they won’t make us happy. I’m honestly scared that if I give too much I won’t have enough for myself, I’m not smart enough and don’t have enough self control to trust myself with that kind of slim money. I will save until the future and give what I can then, when everything is sorted, but until then, I need to focus on the important. I need to make sure I know who God is and what is not.

But who can tell you if he is who he says he is? Who can know the wonders or mysteries behind that façade he puts up day in and day out; the outward treachery of friends, forgotten ones, and knowns? Who’s to say he’s telling the lie correctly?

When do the riddles begin to have a meaning? When can I find out where to begin? when I look around at the mess surrounding me all that I can find is slacks of yarn with no rhyme or reason, no ending or beginning. Why do I have to keep guessing my way around this entangled knot? I want to know the answers but I can’t even find the questions.

when do the trees start to talk and gain their wisdom from silence? what can the flowers and the grass teach me that doesn’t have a sound? why can’t I see what I lie about between the orders of rose and cardania?  When will I know what to ask the trees as they sigh away from the wind that rushes them off to more important things than I? Why can’t I simply ask what I mean to know and hear what I mean to listen?

I need silence before all of this, and my mind is too full of cobwebs to let the echoes still themselves.

Given to Grief

I give, for grief, a small section of my brain, to ward off the bigger comings of repressed memories that would engulf me at once if not let out slowly.

I give, for grief, a small portion of my heart, because I can’t let it go and know that there is no possibility. I’ve tried to chip away that piece, but it’s my heart. It insists on staying whole.

I give, for grief, a small whisp of my soul, loving my beloved mother who will never give me back the years she stole out of spite through a bitterness. The cities are warm in comparison to where the heart my soul lies within.

I have given, for grief, a lot should it add up. My mind, my heart, my soul, it seems to have won. And yet I will never be given to grief, for I am not my own to give.

Next day reflections

Because of our vision and how it works, we see one layer of the world. One, thin, single layer. God can see countless layers of the world, the rays of light, the color of darkness, the wind in the air, the spirits we walk in and among, the layers our souls are made of, each and every one. We see one little layer, the flesh of our skin, we see the texture of a shirt, the bright colors of a comic book, and yet we can't even see all of it! Most of it actually. Did you notice the trees on your way out the door today? How many times did you see someone you knew today? What's the color of your house? So many things we don't even see on our own plane of vision. It's practically impossible to stimulate your brain with so much information at all times. (I say practically because I refuse to say impossible)
So if we're so limited in such an already limited vision, how can it be that God sees everything in our field of vision, plus every other possible vision? He is so infinite!! Just sitting down and think about this simple fact puts things into an amazing perspective, doesn't it?

In pyschology we're learning how the eye works and what we really see is just a bunch of waves, the colors depend on the length of waves, etc. All that we see is just stimulation. Look at the desk, that wood painted plastic and what we see of it is just a thin layer of waves, even though no matter how hard you look at it, it never changes. Look around. It all seems somehow less concrete. Everything that I see is just what my brain translates what it sees into. My 'real' is not so solid anymore.
Now think about what God sees. He doesn't just see the visual surface of anything, He sees the light, the rays, the beams, the constant vibration of matter, the force of gravity, how thin our reality really is, how we think we have such a solid hold on it, how we don't.
Reality seems... thinner now. Well, at least the physical reality does. I wonder what would happen if I looked through this lens for too long.

To Toni

I do want you to know,
You are a beautiful young girl. You may get trapped in what this world wants of you, or what you -think- it wants of you, but I want to break that right now. I look at your profile picture and I see this marvelous beauty, eyes perfectly shaped and complexion flawless. Hair straight as a pin and curved just so around your face.
Then I look into my memory of the frizzy haired girl with the big grin and the glasses. That grin that reached the eyes and broke the 'perfect shape' and made it into something even more fabulous. The hardy laugh that came from the gut and left you nearly breathless, the quick wit and humor that came from a sarcastically curled grin and showed through the eyes behind the glasses, shining with something more devious than mischief. The genuine feelings that bore through those eyes. -That- is what beauty is.
Your picture and my memory bring together the picture of your beauty, but only one will bring to view your nature and strength and courage -everything- that I love about you. Please believe me and never forget that.
I love you my dear little Toni. I wish you the best on your next year in your journey and will be here when you need me love.

Always there, Never noticed

I happen to be reading “Someplace To Be Flying” currently under the recommendation of Black. I also happen to be on a “Sorcerer’s Apprentice” kick as of a few days ago. I have happened to find a stark difference between the two.

When I was young, as most children did or so I believe, I was want to have daydreams about finding an awesome power coded in my DNA, brought into the light at the height of when I was needed and of course rescue those close to me and such. There was always a monologue about the powers and how it’s different and so on.

Now, as I’ve noticed with Someplace To Be Flying, there are never monologues. Whoever is involved with the Old Folk and has the spirit of an animal never really tell people. The off hand person might snoop around and such, but they never get a straight answer. There is no glory in it, there is no incredibility of the gift they have; there is simply what they are. When someone finds out about them, their scope of the world might be completely frazzled and now off-kelter, but there’s nothing to do about it. It simply is, nothing more.

The Sorcerer’s Apprentice is the kind of story I used to relish (and still do if the movie is made just right, as is so). Simple: kid has powers, world revolves around him, he saves the day, only a few people know. Awesome. He gets the monologue with the girl, very short and to the point (not my style, but he did it well) and he continues on with his powers, learning more about the world that has been introduced to and they all live happily, excitedly, ever interestingly after.

There are no monologues. There are no powers that can be seen with the naked eye and easily explained through a monologue. There is a chance happening-by-er who might or might not understand. Once they are gone the legacy is stopped. Few people who know pop up around the board, believers coming in and out of existence, but more likely than not they take it to their grave silently. The few and far between.

With The Sorcerer’s Apprentice, the sorcerers have always been around, only a few and very far between. They go out of their way to hide their magic and not be noticed. Their monologues are mandatory. For Someplace To Be Flying, there is no way to even bring it out into the open. Any who would try to give their monologue run the high risk of an insane asylum. So they continue, unnoticed and but always there. Living just as they would if their society of the gifted were on their own, and to anyone who might become curious, well let’s just hope they enjoy riddles. 

So who are they?

Wake up Little One

In the car we hurry to the gas stop, praying the fill up will be smooth and quick, retaining any heat the car might have accumulated before it’s turned off. She breaths and falls into herself, nearly collapsing in her seat. She feels the strings of a puppeteer. "

“Wake up little one.”

The strings bounce her limbs an inch or two off the ground repeatedly, but no higher. She continues to clear her mind to fend off any possibility of it forcing a conclusion to the strings layed out before her.

“Wake up little one.”

Time seems to want to move onto the next thing, she certainly does. She waits as she’s bounced over and over.

“Wake up little one.”

The voice speeds it’s consistent chant. It never varies, never slows, just continues.

“Wake up little one”

She searches for another meaning.

“Wake up little one.”

She thinks the worst of what this might be.

“Wake up little one.”

This seems a set up for manipulation

“Wake up little one.”

What else could puppet strings mean?

“Wake up little one.”

She stops.

The strings slow.

“In the name of God the Father, in the name of the Lord of Creation. In the name of Jesus Christ. In the blood of Christ I bind anything and everything off of me that is trying to manipulate me. Anything and everything of ill intent be gone.”

She waits.

The strings grow gently taught.

“Wake up little one. Wake up.”

Miles Up

Miles Up

Above one layer of cloud cover I close my eyes against the plane window, shelter them from the light with my hand, and open them to the night sky. No stars to appear as of yet, but below, just below against the grey and mist are hints of lights. As if someone had walked the clouds carrying a leaky pail of foslouresent pain in hand 20 years ago and now the dull memories of the slips remain. So many cities. So many clouds of life. Each new from the next, yet each the same pale shade of glow.

Our world is fallen. For the past five years I’ve lived with my mother who would constantly quiz me on how bad of a person my father was, yell at me for reasons beyond my knowledge, and constantly paint me as a terribly irreputable child who understood nothing and needed to learn respect. My days consisted of laying in bed, eating all meals alone in my room, trying to hold onto a semblance of a social life online, and my children’s theatre practice. While my physical restraints were slowly rising, I was trying to accomplish something that would assure me that I had some sort of intelligence and wasn’t a brain-dead beat knick who was worth anything. But in this world we encounter a God who is many things.

God is merciful. I remember many nights when I would scream to God, “Why is this happening to me?! Why not someone else?? Why me!!” I could feel him patiently listening and when he knew I had cried enough, I remember him lulling me to sleep for the night, which was a rare treat in itself, seeing as I was an insomniac.

God is love. There were five years of my life where the only social interaction I had was at a children’s theatre. It was there I learned that love is what makes life livable, no matter the circumstance. They all loved me as a family and accepted me, however I was. I loved each and every one of those kids, and it would show. A couple of times when I said, “I love you!” They would retort, “Brynn, who don’t you love?” and I wouldn’t have an answer for them. It was within this last year that I learned all love comes from God and the only reason I was able to love unconditionally was because it was a gift from God, and I used it well.

God is all knowing. I will never forget how the first meeting with my father in three years went. I had held an anger towards him since the divorce and wanted him to know that I was hurt, but no matter how angry I was towards my dad, he could always make me laugh within the first two words out of his mouth. I believe God knew how much I would need my dad despite the long and horrible separation from him, and he planned our personalities the way he did so that we could pick up right where we left off.

God is hope. I went to a residential hospital for my diabetes and dysautonomia a year and a half ago; within the year I moved in with my dad, I had gotten a GED, taken the ACT and scored a 27, started college classes, held a 4.0 all year, gotten and held a job for 7 months, earned a driver’s license, plugged in with a college age church group, found a family within the church, and kept a steady worship and meditation with God, all while keeping my blood sugars controlled. If that isn’t the merciful healing touch of God, then I don’t know what is.

I hear a heartbeat that isn't mine
It thrums through my head few beats at a time
It comes to knock through the hallows of my mind
Then leaves with warnings of others of its kind

Leaves until I've barely forgotten
its erractic pace
Then pounces on my memory
And awakens a dull pain
Thrumming, popping, demanding attention
To stop
And listen to it
Although it has nothing to say
That I havn't heard before

Here goes the heart drum
There comes the silence
Only until I've forgotten
And I need reminding
once again

I hobble inside from the cold with Piper dragging me by her leash. "Ruby won't listen to me." I say as I kick off my sandals. "She's in the back."
"Get out there and get her!" my mom growls from the couch.
"But she won't listen to me." I try to try to explain slowly, hoping it may sink in.
She readjusts herself in her blankets. "Lie to her. Tell her 'cookie'."
By this time I had learned not to be exactally sympathetic towards Ruby when it came to listening to me. I gather my sandals and trudge outside again.
By the time I come back inside my mother had already gotten up and fixed the food for both dogs. "What are you doing? You should be resting! Get back in bed!"
"Don't you tell me what to do. I'm the adult here."
I sigh and give up, flopping on the chair across the room. "You know you should be drinking gatorade. I'll go get you a glass..." I didn't bother getting up, already knowing her reaction.
"No. Don't you tell me what to do." she walked back over to the couch after separating the dogs and putting their food down. She layed down with an 'ooph.'
"You need to eat. I'll get you some soup?"
"What I need," here we go. "is for you to take care of yourself!!" she started rearranging her blankets around her.
"I am...and that's the thing..."
"Oh no." she sighed. "What is it?"
"Well, the thing is, I really am taking care of myself...really well actually."



This was started in December of '08. It is now September of '10 and life has changed dramatically. I believe this was a time I had tried to ask my mom to let me start taking classes in highschool. She told dme that if I felt better at that moment, if I was getting better at all, then it meant that I had been lying to her the entire time and that I had always felt well enough to go to school. She told me that if I wanted to go to school to live with my dad (the ultimate in tretchory and woe) and I could be happy as a clam being in classes full time, which is not what I had proposed. Two years later and I've obtained my GED and passed an ACT with flying colors. No highschool period. Gift of grace much? Well, at any rate. I wish I had finished this, but don't want to try. Maybe another time. Probably not.

"I may be 15 minutes late." said my mother as she past the baseball feild in our hunkered down jeep.
"Again?! You're kidding me!"
She frowned and her voice grew louder, "I have to do something, alright? This is all for you you know!"
There she went again. "Alright, alright!!"
But that didn't help. She was in a pretty bad mood.
"Ugg." I slouched in my seat and tried to think of what I was going to talk about with Carli.
When we got there it was already dark and my ass was in the process of being frozen off. "Be downstairs when I pick you up." I looked away from her and rolled my eyes.
"Alright mom, see ya then."
When I finally got to the top of the stairs of my dance company, I slouched down against mine and Carli's weekly spot. I knew I was half an hour early, but I really didn't care. At least I wasn't late.
My thighs hurt from playing soul calaber with a ddr mat on Friday, so I knew that dance was gunna be hell. I probebly should have stretched before doing anything, but ignored the fact and simply started reading my book. It was the hardest book to actually keep up with, besides Monster by Frank Peretti, so after around 2 minutes, I put it down and went in to see the younger girls dance.
I walked up to the teachers and one of the teachers, not mine, raised an eye brow. "Do you have a leotard on?"
"No- but only because I was really cold, and especially because of my dysautonomia...."
"No leotard, no dance." she shrugged and continued to put on her sneakers.
"W-what? You mean I can't dance at all today?!"
"That's the rules." I stared at her, slack jawed and everything. "But I'm not your teacher. If you were in my class I wouldn't let you dance at all. But I'm the strict, mean teacher."
She's a bitch and she knows it. That's just wonderful.
I looked at my teacher and she sighed. She said that since most of my classmates don't even wear leotards and since I usually wear mine anyhow, that I'd be fine.
I walked into the hallway just in time to find Carli running up the stairs and I swear she had been crying. She dragged me into the stairwell and started ranting, like I had done to her so many times before. I comforted her, made her laugh a few times, until we had to go into the dance room and start class.
Nothing much happend after that. One of our family friends picked me up instead of my mom and we ate out at Ruby Tuesdays so that she could talk to my mom while I talked to her daughter.
I went back to their house with the daughter after we ate so that my mom and her mom could talk more.
My mom and I got home and I headed for the basement, as usual. As I ran into my room, I stopped in my tracks at the sight of my homecoming dress. It's borrowed from my friend, and extreamly really pretty....
No one was online and there was nothing else to do, so I slipped into it and took a look into the mirror. Of course my stomich was sucked in, but it wasnt that bad on me. It had a purple aligator pattern running all over it and the skirt came to about my knees. I went up stairs and walked up to my mom, "Whatcha think?" I said with a smile on my face.
She looked at me, "You're sucking in your stomich. Don't, then let me see it." I frowned as I let it go. "Not that bad...."
"But it looks good while I am sucking it in...."
"You won't be able to all night."
I smiled, "I can try!"
"No. You can't do it all night. It's impossible."
My smile was lost and I turned around to dissapear into my room once agian while thinking, 'Thanks for letting me try mom.'