Rocks of Santa Barbara beware!

I have really love climbing this break.



A rock is glanced at,
a nick becomes a landing platform
for the anterior of the toe;
a bulge the antithesis for the weary forearm.

A challenge is born,
not in the summit,
but in the assent.
Body contortions become a brush,
and the physic a pallete,
to smooth across
a nick here
a bulge there.

Nothing is as it seems,
flesh turns to rock
and rock again.

We cried King

"We cried King"

by Ayinde Russell

Listen to him read it (#7)

the music is awesome too.

On a night so humble that stars kneeled at the pew of our atmosphere

Like wearied knights fallen prostrate in the court of their lord

As though the throne room of heaven had somehow settled into a lowly stable

in a desert

leaving only the most common of creatures to serve attendance of the coming messiah

And we cried King

The ground did not tremble

Continents did no quake at our savior’s arrival

Only the convulsing womb of a virgin girl

And the technonics of the plays building invisibly behind the veil of our natural realm

An opus resonating through the hallways of the ever-after proclaiming

Christ’s arrival

And we cried King

And for a moment an atlas appeared in the sky,

A heavenly compass

A breach in the firmament between eternity and us

A torch over the horizon given to help seekers navigate the distance

And winged messengers to chaperone the light

Pointing out the direction for the weary and crying “This is the way!”

And we cried King

Followed by a procession of unlikely celebrants

As mortals and immortals stood star-struck

As creator takes his firsts breaths

Clothed in rib cage and skin

Muscle and bone

Flesh and blood

Delivered to us

To deliver us

Breathing with us

To give us breath for us

And we cried King

And so I fly

Dec. 9th 2010

I feel like a bird
Lighter in flight than on a branch.
If I beat my wings, make decisions and move
then I think not of myself.
The weight of my own existence confounds me.
However, its a flightless discomfit.
And so I fly.

Today I landed - inevitable.
I return, but with no olive branch
To warm Noah and brighten the future.

Who am I?
And so I fly.

A happy new year

What do I write about when I have no incredible inspiration? Do I mention my revelations and meditations, my moments of enlightenment as I lay in the library somewhere between sleeping and reading? They were profound, and I baked in the single thought, "God loves me."

Maybe instead I'll write about the frivolities of being a college grad, having more freedom than I ever had in my life. Possibly I'll write about the look the two old ladies who just walked by gave me and my propped-up bare feet.

A frequent thing I do in my head, and when conversation slows with friends is people watch and write their possible stories. Is it the time for one?

Ahhhh inspiration finally comes... it came through the stereo, singing and giving commemoration to the grandfather of many, Father Christmas.
I am excited for Christmas. Nothing warms my heart like a peaceful rendition of a classic tune that has remained unchanged since my birth; Britney Spears doesn't fit into that category, Sufjan and his hipster favored album comes close but its too much creative liberty for me at traditional moments. Dim lights and a corner placed pine, bricks surrounding a brewing fire to match my cup of joe or cocoa, a warm voice embodying familiar lyrics, a chill to bring out the blessing of heat, a serenity rooted in knowing my Savior has been born, and a nearby well known souls to full up the room - and so this is Christmas.

Thank you for sparing my life everyday.

Paper

Springing from my bed this morning, the glow silhouetting the leaves out my window brought me a spark of excitement rather than the usual weariness of another jobless day. I reached for a fresh set of black boot-fitting jeans, unworn for weeks. Slipping them on, I filled my pockets with the necessities of the West: wallet, cell phone, keys - check. The I flung my arms in the air and leaned back for a long, inverted-cat stretch, thrusting my belly forward.

My hands nestled into my back pockets and I stood, thinking not of the past, nor the day ahead of me, not even the present - just blank. My fingers felt something - a fold of loose paper pressed in my pockets and their wrap on my back-side.

A glimmer of hope, an expectation of something great! Could it be the twenty-dollars I always hear about people finding randomly in their old clothes? Could it be an old note from a friend I had stuck close as a keepsake? Maybe an old to-do list? A supernaturally endowed note with a picture of the girl I am to marry some-day? Possibly some-sort of guide that reveals who I am and what job to pursue. Maybe it is an old treasure map of my childhood, waiting for years to once again throw me into it's mystery, and seeking after lost adventures?
It was a receipt, bland and nearly dissolved, completely white and starchy from at least two terms with my washer and drier.

I long, seek, and expect the prodigious, but keep finding the mundane.

Coping with a Miracle

Written May 17^th, 2010 (a week after the fall)

I feel like it's my fault. I sensed she was scared and uncomfortable, but neglected it and allowed us to push forward. I knew it was dangerous, but I didn't seriously think and consider the risk of our falling and the result, a result which is now a reality. I made so many mistakes - we should not have been climbing that high in that position, I should have been climbing first, I should have turned us back.

There is immense guilt. Guilt which is not affirmed or encouraged by anyone but me. I don't want to let go of this guilt, for fear that I will fail to learn from this experience, from this miracle. For fear that I won't understand the consequences and the seriousness of the reality of our dangerous position, our critically injured condition, and our miraculously preserved livelihood. I know that guilt can give the devil power to damage and destroy, in which case I hope that there I have contrition - the difference being whom one brings there thoughts and prayers to, either themselves or God.

I have been labeled a hero. I am no hero. I don't know what it means to be a hero. If a hero is someone that does what needs to be done when it is necessary, then I am not a hero. I salvaged my mistake of failing to be a hero and turn us back earlier. If a hero is someone acts on what God has naturally gifted them with, and what that person has pushed and grown to be, then there isn't much more heroism to me than many others. I don't think I particularly saved Nadine's life, I did what I thought needed to be done when it was done - I fought the black, sleepy dimness that sought to take over my consciousness, I pushed through pain of what felt like a broken leg, I stayed calm, I kept Nadine awake and talking, I problem solved amongst people with no emergency awareness or common sense, and some other details. Maybe that makes a hero, maybe it doesn't, I'm not to judge. Only the things which align with Christ make a hero.

I am a little thankful for that incident because now, when I hear tragic stories where great feats are accomplished and I ask myself, "Would I be able to do that? Am I strong enough? I wish I possessed that strength." Now, I can confidently say that I can, and I did. But would I trade this recently gifted confidence for Nadine's health and the memories of the fall and her painful cries? Yes.

But the fact is that we did fall, we are both alive, I helped, but God saved us. We are living miracles by man's standards. What does that mean for me? A large part of me says that nothing about this incident is any more miraculous than the breath of a poor man, or the flutter of a butterfly, or the growth of a tree and the falling of it's fruit. Nevertheless, the only way to describe the tragic reality of the incident so that others understand, is to label it as a "miracle."

Have I forgotten what a miracle is? Or has humanity forgotten what a miracle is? Which one is the perspective of Christ? He said he would preform signs and wonders and miracles; but he also said faith like a mustard seed could uproot a tree and replant it in a sea. Divine intervention is real; does it happen all around in every single moment? Or is it only when the physically, statistically, and expected effects are altered by God should a miracle be proclaimed?

Maybe there is something miraculous in the constant, seemingly mundane events like the sun's rising, but I also can't deny that there is something extra miraculous, spectacular, and significant - deserving of a specific label such as 'miracle' - when the laws that we humans study, live, and believe in are stretched by the divine. God must have designed to think and recognized the difference. Or maybe sin has skewed our true vision, skewed us and so we form labels and boxes which don't ultimately exist to God, but currently controls we humans. Can I now say: Therefore, part of joining in His personhood, His divinity, is realizing that those boxes and labels are not eternal realities, only temporaries. Jesus knew and understood the definition of human 'miracles', but lived in the true reality and knowledge that a tree has no real rule about where it can be planted and uprooted.

What should my perspective be? What should my action then be?

I feel like I "should" be more grateful for everyday. I think it makes sense that the air would seem fresher, and I would be more thankful for every waking moment, even more than I was before. But right now I don't. Is there something wrong? What am I missing? I have justified that it is fine and true for me, as a human, to understand that I have experienced a miracle. But I also think that a "miracle" in our terms doesn't quite match up with the eternal reality of God, but only with his finite creation of humanities reality. So where am I? Stuck in the middle?

Do I think my/our survival means that we are destined for great things? Yes. Do I think that before, we were destined great things? Yes. What do I do? How is the "why am I still alive" connected with the "what do I now do?"

The Monkey, Part II

There I sat, crunched up, legs squeezed so tight in angst that I was almost sitting on my feet, despite the lay-z-boy underneath. Guilt was heavier than ever, but he had nothing to say. When I needed a friend, this monkey seemed to care more about his own fur. As I prayed I thought about this load, how dreary all his ideas seemed, and how self entrapped I felt. Then the epiphenomenal moment came.
If I am made free in Christ, and this is true, from where does this enmeshing trap come from? It must be foreign, for I believe my heart and desires come from pure motives, a broken and contrite heart.

I swatted a flea off my fore-arm, and then smooshed another on my knee. A little certitude flickered inside, and I reared my head back with a countenance of disgust and loath.
"Guilt!!! Guilt, you have embodied your name, and emboldened yourself upon my back." Reaching backwards I took a fierce grip and held him straight armed. His attack and squeeks were nothing to the name of Jesus resting on my tongue, heart and mind. I opened the back door, and with a swift boot sent him flying. The door was locked I was resting back in my chair, cross legged and relieved. There I remained pondering, praying, and gracefully ready and free to make some decisions.

I haven't learned as many lessons as I should have by this age, but if nothing else I know I am not Jesus. I have burdens, responsibilities, desires, and convictions, but they do not match that of my Lords. I am not all encompassing, I have a role. That role is contained within the perimeters of time and space, as is my body.

The simplicity of life is reflected in my humanity.
The complexities arise amidst interaction and fronts to that humanity.
To remain simple and focused amidst complexity is an intricate process, and I need not the burden of Guilt, but of divine weights.

The Monkey, Part I

The Monkey, Part I

You know what I realized today?

I am not directly at fault for my friends in Tanzania being impoverished.

Around day four of my re-entry as I was driving around town, a monkey snuck into my car and somehow has managed to cling on my back, where he has remained for the past two weeks. The name of the monkey is Guilt. He is sin, he is not redeemed humanity with its forgiveness and freedom. But just as monkeys appear to be, Guilt is an alluring resemblance of what you might think was free, good and righteous humanity.

For a while, I didn't notice him. He was with me almost everywhere I went, and loved to remind me of my past experiences. In fact, I thought his words to be wise counsel. I had never once noticed that his speech were mere imitations, altercations of true human speech. Soon Guilt made himself quite comfortable upon my shoulders and even his fleas started to bond. As they jumped and scurried over my scalp and crawl in my ears, I became distracted from the tasks at-hand, slapping and scratching - their annoyance reveals their foreign identity.

The memories themselves continued to appear, and they would inspire compassionate action. I sought honest advice about my gifts and started considering how I could best implement them. However, Guilt's words seem to defy and provide rational contradiction to my inspiration. Saying things like, "How does counseling people here help your friends over there? What kind of widespread and lasting effect would that have? Counseling? You know not everyone has the time to work through emotions and hidden pains. Why don't you do something that serves everyone." And so I would follow these shrewd and erudite words, alter my course, and let inspiration and ambition guide. But faithfully along for the ride, Guilt didn't mind offering his two-sense, "I wouldn't spend money on that, it would go much farther in Johnson's hands, don't forget him... Whoa whoa, don't just give away so readily, how do you know your money is going to be used efficiently? Don't move, not yet. Remember you are responsible for what you have, including your experiences and relationships; neglect isn't right."

Eventually the only thing Guilt would let me do, without chiming in, was sit down and swat fleas. In this position I was most unhappy. Where do most people go when they are unhappy? Well, I for one prayed to the one who, I at one point thought, created happiness.
"How are the struggles of the children I haven't barred my fault? I wish to do something, but I know not what anymore. One action seems to be neglect towards one thing or another. How to handle who I am? And to do so in light of who and where they are!? Whoa is me! whoa is me!"
Being one man, having seen much of the world in its audacious tragedy and splendor, being miraculously alive, and being given absorbent gifts, I find myself having much more weight than I previously had.

To be continued...

A reflection on gas guzzling...

Today as I drove around town it happened again. The gas guzzling SUVs seemed to drive off the road, role down my tongue, settle in my stomach, and spew fumes making me queasy at the materialistic obsessions of our culture. This spell wasn't as bad as others, but still undesired. I don't dislike Americans by nature, and I fight to be sympathetic to those who are unaware, trapped, and even purposefully ignoring the pains of humanity and their status with the ability of change.
No, I don't hate them or myself. It is certainly a struggle, but I won't give into to abhorrent judgement. But I realized something very important today, all I am doing is battling to remain neutral, proactively living inactive. But one important thing I learned in Tanzania is that Jesus' life, and his teaching are to not remain inactive; our life is to be active, and active in love. This is my focus. Fight the good fight. "ποι¦εῖ¦τε as you would have them do to you" (the greek verb is a present active imperative, i.e. requires action now and repeatedly.)

A moment upon re-entry

I am back in the U.S.
Most likely, I'll start blogging again.
Here is a moment in my room upon re-entry. Hold me to it.


10/6/10
I never thought I would be judgmental upon my return to the states. But none-the-less it arises within me naturally, so natural its almost scary. It clouds up the conversation I am having, and is painted on all the objects I see. I say, "How can they own this? Do they not know the life they would have directly and drastically changed with the money spent for this? Wow, this is nice! Wow, there is so much!" I get upset, and think, "Who are they, who are we, who am I to have this thing here. This just isn't fair!"

I am disconcerted, but at no one and with no one directly. Who am I to place blame when the troubles stretch beyond my comprehension, and the cause far more complicated? I must not let the shock of this bipolar planet destroy my friendships in a moment of hardship and fierce words. If, and when the time comes, I must teach with gentle kindness; share my thoughts, feelings and reactions in honesty. The shock shouldn't control me, but it should certainly affect me.

I am finding myself almost addicted to change and discomfort. Because in these times, I break down, I feel the burning pleasure of re-growth. When I am faced with the sharp contrasts of my friends lives, I again see the change I have had and live with. All lives have detail, so I know their lives aren't mere cookie cutouts, but I think my cutout has now changed shape. These times are rare, the times when I process and re-adapt. I almost wish to remain here, stuck for an hour and a half as nostalgia churns with the present and into reality. It's a drug, that prostrates me, and if I didn't know God, and didn't know I could talk to him at all times in all places, I would hate the drug. But since the later is true, I almost crave it.

I know these times are precious, so I let them flow and fuel me as long as they can. I could decide to just live and do my tasks, I could turn off the engine and let the fuel evaporate after numbered days under the sun; but I won't.

I want something more with my life. I am dissatisfied with the cookie shapes of my friends, and don't want to conform and fall back into a compatible mold. I want greatness! I don't want to lead a boring life, without effect and without changing the world around me. Excellence is my standard. I have a new passion, whether it is attainable or not is inconsequential, I want to make a difference.

My friend Dan has been around me and with me for a while. I want to say he has affected lives like I have, but I don't think he really has. My former resident T. J. said to me, "There is a Tom sized shape missing at Westmont (where I first met him and mentored him)." I finally believe both of these articles. I finally beginning to see myself, and how I am distinguished.

Amidst anyone that I have spent a lot of time around, anyone I am very comfortable with - mostly my friends and family - I loose an edge my character. I am less courteous, but also less boldly challenging and upbringing. If they are not comfortable speaking in God in one way, I comply and cease to speak. I need to speak for myself, from my heart, encourage them to lift theirs and assist them in their effort. My faith is mine own, but my faith means something for theirs.