Walked in the corner of the room
A junk yard fool with eyes of gloom
I asked him time again
Take me in and dry the rain
Take me in and dry the rain
Take me in and dry the rain
Take me in and dry the rain
The rain the rain the rain now

If there's something inside that you wanna say
Say it out loud it'll be okay
I will be your light
I will be your light
I will be your light
I will be your light
- The Beta Band, "Dry the Rain"

I like the idea and the practice of covers. You know, in terms of music. I like the same words and melodies with another voice - a reminder the song doesn't belong to anyone. Once it is written and escapes its author's tongue, it's shared. These are songs of brokenness. Of bitterness, joy and love. The truest stories are told not by the winner, but the loser - the outcast and downtrodden. The lowly. As J.W. Baz so confidently concludes, "we don't always have the best endings, but we do have the best stories." I guess I just like the idea of Hendrix listening to Dylan. Or Denver listening to McCartney. Or Buckley listening to Cohen. You see, for me, the importance lies not in the recording, but the proof that they spent hours in the evening and early morning absorbing the angst of another, because it resonated within a space deeper than their chest.

We're all struggling. We're all lost. We're all beating the sand with our fists and thrashing at the waves - a sandstorm set loose across the shore. We're all finding peace and chasing joy. Music may be the most personal of all human creations, but somehow it finds its way to be the most communal. And then the bitter meets the sweet amongst depths of sweeping harmony.

There's something to that - the shared love. The joined perspective of viewing a mountain from both sides simultaneously. I have gradually been realizing the depth of my love for storytelling. Film, music, photography, literature, fine art, poetry, stand-up comedy, dance - perspectives on perspective. Signs of life, exposed by time. A song without the passage of time is less than silence - it is the void in which a note once existed. A painting without time is not even an empty canvas. A soul without time precedes the dirt and dust left behind. The promise these absences point to are what we so frivolously refer to as "life."

You see, it's not so much about the destination as it is the journey.

 

As children, we chose "change over time" upon multiple choice tests and assumed it to be merely an equation...only to find it to be a skeleton supporting the expressive, lively flesh surrounding it. A formula beneath its organic form. An ever expansive universe of innumerable atoms. A masterful metaphor. The grandest of perspectives. How miraculous that we not only walk and gaze amongst such a wonderful spectacle, but that we cherish, sing, write, paint observe, work, play, laugh, cry, shout, scream, shiver, bask, eat, run, jump, swim, fall, fly, fuck, sleep, drink, talk, gaze, sit, sacrifice and love amongst it. How beautiful you are. How beautiful we are. May our eyes finally widen to see each other this way. To see life in the heartbreaking condition it thrives. Growing, changing, breathing with its seasons - filled with countless moments witnessed, recorded, forgotten and missed.

If only God would open my eyes to His gaze - if only for a moment - my calloused, hardened heart would finally beat for the first time as it explodes within my cavernous chest in an overdose of the very breath of God - not so that I may feel, but so that my heart, like a shot in the dark, may echo across these broken lands to find you, so that you might hear His love for you and how it has changed my life.

I wonder if the bright white light the dying claim to see in their escaping breaths is not unlike the numbing, tingling sensation of stepping in from the cold - a few moments pass and then, at last...you're home. And you realize what that is and has always been.

The moment I find myself finally at peace, I immediately begin analyzing it, ruining the very moment I'd been chasing. Not unlike the photographer who just can't lower the lens, even for a moment, to take in the life around them, I fail to experience that which I pursue. The moment is captured, but the memory is lost. Perhaps I fear what I chase, knowing it could never fully satisfy my craving. So I forever hide behind my lens and focus on composition rather than subject.



It's called a "changeover." The movie goes on and nobody in the audience has any idea.

One year later...

Not since my last post (although you might convince me otherwise), but since the leap of faith. Last March I hopped a plane to Seattle without plan nor purpose. For those of you just tuning in, I have since chosen to live amongst these eclectic hills, for the time being, absorbing culture and nature to the best of my ability. More importantly, I'm learning to yearn for life rather than existence. The beautiful abandonment of letting go. The liberating release. Of all that I thought I wanted. Of who I thought I was. Of what is expected and planned. I'm not saying I've arrived, but that my eyes are continuing to widen as my heart continues to grow.

As I've often written, it's the changing of seasons that makes life so bitter and, at the same time, so very sweet. I love the seasons written into the earth's emotions and how they reflect the deeper currents of Truth. It is important, however, that we realize creation is not the Truth, but merely reflects it and guides our eyes in His direction. You see, life is far sweeter than what the seasons have to offer. A year is only mildly bitter and moderately sweet as the annual cycle promises another spring, summer, fall and winter. How much more would we cherish the falling spectacle of leaves if we knew it would never happen again - only to be witnessed, observed, experienced and cherished once? Or if the frosted landscape and shimmering, frozen trees would never again be formed by a trillion uniquely-ornamented, crystalized miracles? Or if the blossoming life of spring would never return after its withering death. Or if the warming, life-surging sun of summer would never again rise above the longing horizon?

How much more would we cherish these miracles if we realized them to always be once-in-a-lifetime? Such is the case of the seasons of life and the moments that pass amongst them. These instances are far more bitter, and therefore, sweeter, than the seasons' example. If only we could remember the length of a mile walked or the cold of a winter's day or the anticipation of a lover's touch. Then, maybe then, we could begin to glimpse the life God had intended for us. Embracing the bitter alongside the sweet. Watching an animal lose its life so that our family may be fed. How much more would our families appreciate God's providence if it was in the face of death? Might we then reconsider the frequency and ephemeral nature of our eating habits, and therefore, our daily lives? Life would be celebrated as it was cherished. And I think that may be the point.

Cause there's only four seasons and I'm looking for something more.
- Joe Purdy, "Four Seasons"

it is not my conscious choice to cling to wonder - it is merely my reaction to that which inspires me. much like anything sacred the human race has encountered - love joy wisdom - the act of inspiration, upon receiving its name, has gradually lost its vibrancy, its truth and its character. to inspire: literally, to breathe into. to be filled. it is my belief and heartfelt argument that i have never been more alive than amidst the natural reaction of wonderment and awe. all children possess it and yet, over time and erosion, many find their eyes, hearts and minds calloused to the possibility of uncertainty, surprise and mystery. i can think of nothing further from "reality" than the blatant impossibility of question. so ask the certain. challenge the unknown. and find yourself in the most childlike of circumstances - lost in wonder.

"to live everyday as if it had been stolen from death, that is how i would like to live. to feel the joy of life, as eve felt the joy of life. to separate oneself from the burden, the angst, the anguish that we all encounter every day. to say 'i am alive, i am wonderful. i am. i am.' that is something to aspire to." - the art of racing in the rain

i am often skeptical of happiness. i often cannot accept its existence within shallow circumstances - amidst the ignorantly frivolous perspective in which angels are adorable babies, sitcoms mirror daily life and popular culture is worthy of a spoken word. there is, however, a sacred place in my soul for the person who encounters the heartbreaking reality and, at the end of the day, still has the courage to laugh. this week my dad was one of the 603,000 who lost their jobs in the past month. despite his calamity, his voice was unwavering in its hope. he is sobered by the moment, but far from distraught. i will forever be proud of my father. our story as a family has always been one of providence at the eleventh hour. it seems only right for god to continue to write our paths with a familiar stroke.

"I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I needed to be." - Douglas Adams

as physics has taught us, the leap is almost always followed by the fall, which to my utter amazement and jubilee, is quite wonderfully vibrant in seattle. this week marks six months since our wide-eyed arrival. blessings continue to pour - along with the weather of this coastal town - drenched by the grace of god.

lately i have been wrestling with life's greatest mystery - love. it has come to me through observation that, contrary to my previous belief, love is not, in itself, a verb. nor is it the frivolous feeling our society has mistaken it for. nor is it an obligation. it is my realization that love is not merely an action by itself as i cannot literally "love" someone in the same way that i can "push" or "carry" them. there is no single visible attribute or definable characteristic. love is neither feeling nor action, yet it can be felt and disguised. it is the invisible brought to light through the dust of our hearts, bones and bodies. it is truth brought to life through our very steps, breaths and actions. not merely through our bodies, but our being. it is the miracle, the choice to drench our actions with intent far greater than the immediate. when the eternal is realized in our action. when the soul is considered, if only for a moment. when the harmony between creation and creator is protected - bringing heaven to earth, as we have been called to do.

it is through observations, experience and wonder that any doubts to the depths of life, story and the god-spoken narrative are shattered. not a day goes by that i do not question my faith and the developing worldview through which i am learning to love and reason. but i am comforted by this as i believe more is revealed in the question than the resolution of its answer. fade to black and the credits roll - and there i sit in darkness waiting for the clear resolution i fully know is not hidden between the names. as if i were to look to the heavens only to see the universe shrug its shoulders. we can scream. we can sing. we can shout. we can leap. we can beat the soil with our fists. still and silent, we stand, wide-eyed and awestruck beneath gaseous giants and streetlights - only to find our chests can do nothing but tremble in laughter and humility.

casting myself like a stone, i have landed far from many whom i have grown to love deeply. for much of my life, i have often found myself in social situations where i could easily disappear and the moment would remain unaltered. it is a most humiliating realization - almost too great to bear. then i find in my isolation those moments - those beloved - that have formed me. much like the creator's loving hands, they have shaped and guided this life i have the arrogance to call my own. it is these shared experiences that bind. without these, the fabric of our very story would disintegrate. it is these binding moments that have revealed those integral to my life. i am eternally grateful for these lives i have been woven beside. many of you will never read this, but at the end of our days you will know these words were written for you. bless you. my heart aches - and i can't imagine a more beautiful circumstance.

Life.

Our everyday juxtaposition. Both epic and small. Both strong and delicate. Resilient and fragile. Certainly significant and sometimes silly. Warm and cool. Peaks and valleys. Light and shadow. Heartbreaking and gut wrenching. Love. War. The peace encompassing the storm. And here we are, caught in the balance of it all. I have found during my short life that all one can do in the face of such hilarity is to either laugh or cry.

And I think both are perfectly acceptable responses.