These days I feel like a sun-scientist (a helionologist?) who is so focused on studying the sun that he forgets that it rises. The hooting owl knows that the sun has risen and that she must sleep. The bird knows that the sun has risen and that he must sing. Even the sunflower turns his head toward the growing beams of morning light that move so quickly over the rolling hills of Illinois.
But, like a sun-scientist, I busy myself with calculations. Tell me all about this thing called Sunrise, I say. When is it coming? What color number is the shade of gold upon the farthest hill?
My wedding is in eight months, and my soul may not fully grasp the depth of what is happening until after the ceremony, I fear. Most of the brain activity regarding the wedding is on such trivial things. Where will the reception be if it rains? Groomsmen clothes? Should I buy their shoes for them? Can any of my friends play the trumpet?
I risk losing the wonder of the changing shadows on the rows and rows of green corn that sit gloriously ordinary in front of me, yet made new by the fresh beams of sunrise light. I risk missing the teeming songs of songbirds that sing the sun from her resting place. For I am involved in something sacred--indeed something that will result in a sacramental exchange of vows and a commitment that will last a lifetime. These little plans and decisions will result in two people declaring their love and faithfulness to each other in front of all the people that have meant something great to them.
May the recurring sunrise wear away any sort of built up calculations in my head.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
8 hours.
Today is July 30th. Hello July 30th.
Today Meghan gets back from her mammoth trip to England. I say mammoth because of the length of the trip: six weeks. I also say mammoth because the desire for her to return to Wheaton felt incredibly heavy on my soul. Even as the mighty woolly mammoth, resplendent in his long and luxurious fur, creates a large and burdensome weight upon the blades of grass under his elephant-like feet, so did the desire for Meghan to return from England push me into feelings of solitariness.
And now, a poem by Dylan Thomas. Because that's the perfect companion for the epic metaphor.
Today Meghan gets back from her mammoth trip to England. I say mammoth because of the length of the trip: six weeks. I also say mammoth because the desire for her to return to Wheaton felt incredibly heavy on my soul. Even as the mighty woolly mammoth, resplendent in his long and luxurious fur, creates a large and burdensome weight upon the blades of grass under his elephant-like feet, so did the desire for Meghan to return from England push me into feelings of solitariness.
And now, a poem by Dylan Thomas. Because that's the perfect companion for the epic metaphor.
In The Beginning by Dylan Thomas
In the beginning was the three-pointed star,
One smile of light across the empty face,
One bough of bone across the rooting air,
The substance forked that marrowed the first sun,
And, burning ciphers on the round of space,
Heaven and hell mixed as they spun.
In the beginning was the pale signature,
Three-syllabled and starry as the smile,
And after came the imprints on the water,
Stamp of the minted face upon the moon;
The blood that touched the crosstree and the grail
Touched the first cloud and left a sign.
In the beginning was the mounting fire
That set alight the weathers from a spark,
A three-eyed, red-eyed spark, blunt as a flower,
Life rose and spouted from the rolling seas,
Burst in the roots, pumped from the earth and rock
The secret oils that drive the grass.
In the beginning was the word, the word
That from the solid bases of the light
Abstracted all the letters of the void;
And from the cloudy bases of the breath
The word flowed up, translating to the heart
First characters of birth and death.
In the beginning was the secret brain.
The brain was celled and soldered in the thought
Before the pitch was forking to a sun;
Before the veins were shaking in their sieve,
Blood shot and scattered to the winds of light
The ribbed original of love.
One smile of light across the empty face,
One bough of bone across the rooting air,
The substance forked that marrowed the first sun,
And, burning ciphers on the round of space,
Heaven and hell mixed as they spun.
In the beginning was the pale signature,
Three-syllabled and starry as the smile,
And after came the imprints on the water,
Stamp of the minted face upon the moon;
The blood that touched the crosstree and the grail
Touched the first cloud and left a sign.
In the beginning was the mounting fire
That set alight the weathers from a spark,
A three-eyed, red-eyed spark, blunt as a flower,
Life rose and spouted from the rolling seas,
Burst in the roots, pumped from the earth and rock
The secret oils that drive the grass.
In the beginning was the word, the word
That from the solid bases of the light
Abstracted all the letters of the void;
And from the cloudy bases of the breath
The word flowed up, translating to the heart
First characters of birth and death.
In the beginning was the secret brain.
The brain was celled and soldered in the thought
Before the pitch was forking to a sun;
Before the veins were shaking in their sieve,
Blood shot and scattered to the winds of light
The ribbed original of love.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Friday, July 25, 2008
On The Balcony
In front of the sombre mountains, a faint, lost ribbon of rainbow
And between us and it, the thunder;
And down below in the green wheat, the labourers
Stand like dark stumps, still in the green wheat.
You are near to me, and you naked feet in their sandals,
And through the scent of the balcony's naked timber
I distinguish the scent of your hair: so now the limber
Lightning falls from heaven.
Adown the pale-green glacier river floats
A dark boat through the gloom—and whither?
The thunder roars. But still we have each other!
The naked lightnings in the heavens dither
And disappear—what have we but each other?
The boat has gone.
--D.H. Lawrence
And between us and it, the thunder;
And down below in the green wheat, the labourers
Stand like dark stumps, still in the green wheat.
You are near to me, and you naked feet in their sandals,
And through the scent of the balcony's naked timber
I distinguish the scent of your hair: so now the limber
Lightning falls from heaven.
Adown the pale-green glacier river floats
A dark boat through the gloom—and whither?
The thunder roars. But still we have each other!
The naked lightnings in the heavens dither
And disappear—what have we but each other?
The boat has gone.
--D.H. Lawrence
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Noah and the Whale
i found out about this band on La Blogotheque's youtube channel (which, by the way, has some amazing Bon Iver videos you should check out).
enjoy it.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
i carry your heart with me
| i carry your heart with me(i carry it in my heart)i am never without it(anywhere i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done by only me is your doing,my darling) i fear no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true) and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you here is the deepest secret nobody knows (here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide) and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart) ee cummings |
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Let us think of patients who are ill with tuberculosis.
"The physicians put them out in the sunlight and fresh air, both in summer and in winter. There they lie until a cure is gradually effected by the rays of the sun. The recovery of these patients is not dependents upon their thinking, in the sense of understanding the effect of the sun's rays or how these rays work. Neither does their recovery depend upon the feelings they experience during the rest cure.
"Nor does it depend upon their wills in the sense of exerting themselves to will to become well.
On the contrary, the treatment is most successful if the patients lie very quietly and are passive, exerting neither their intellects nor their wills. It is the sun which effects the cure. All the patients need to do is to be in the sun.
"Prayer is just as simple.
"We are all saturated with the pernicious virus of sin; every one of us is a tubercular patient doomed to die! But 'the sun of righteousness with healing in its wings has arisen.' All that is required of us, if we desire to be healed both for time and for eternity, is to let the Son of righteousness reach us, and then to abide in the sunlight of His righteousness."
"Prayer" by O. Hallesby
"Nor does it depend upon their wills in the sense of exerting themselves to will to become well.
On the contrary, the treatment is most successful if the patients lie very quietly and are passive, exerting neither their intellects nor their wills. It is the sun which effects the cure. All the patients need to do is to be in the sun.
"Prayer is just as simple.
"We are all saturated with the pernicious virus of sin; every one of us is a tubercular patient doomed to die! But 'the sun of righteousness with healing in its wings has arisen.' All that is required of us, if we desire to be healed both for time and for eternity, is to let the Son of righteousness reach us, and then to abide in the sunlight of His righteousness."
"Prayer" by O. Hallesby
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