Metronome

The wind is swimming around me

lapping up against my cheekbones

splashing into my hair

I sense it settling as a presence around my neck-

did it realize I was under-dressed

and decide to improvise a scarf?

These days are taffy

I can feel them being stretched, prodded-

these bricks would tell me to be still

Time's slow gait is palpable and sweet

impermeable to distraction-

the cinereous city ground asks me to slow down

the delicate dancing sound of

some abused shard, skipping across the pavement

accentuates my thought patterns

I'm not walking-

not drumming-

I'm dancing to the world's metronome

The child united

Peace feels frothy, and I would know,

Like marshmallows disintegrating in chocolate

The snow can drip from my hair, but I am safe

Locked in this blanket; my mind tucked in a book

Peace is water, and I would know

Suspension in the cool body of molecules

Catching me, flowing around me, I am safe

Floating in a pool of ethereal; my mind muted by pressure

Peace is stillness, and I would know,

I used to be one with the entire world

and I knew the secrets, I listened

To the wind, the trees, that creek in my yard

Peace is the dance, and I would know

My spirit and I waltzed our way to Europe

And at a hidden wishing well, I spilled

My silent prayer to ripple the water

Peace feels smoky, and I would know,

Like the Orient and Tolkien dancing in dad's pipe

The distant thunder in his voice, and I am safe

Locked in his arms; my mind tucked asleep

God is: a storyteller

I wrote this entire blog last night. But it died. Burned. Lost in the intergalactic web.

SIGH.

So here goes... take two.

The storyteller image of God goes way back to my childhood. See, as a child, I was really strange and abnormally pensive. I would spend a lot of time meditating and just sitting outside listening. Seriously, an extraordinary amount of time. I would ponder about eternity, try to grasp the complexity of God's lack of a beginning. I would debate in my head whether we have free will or if God is omnipotent and omniscient. Seriously. That is what I thought about as a kid. That's weird. When I was three, I came home from VBS, infuriated, saying, "Mommy, bad men at church killed Jesus." Days later, I came home in tears, "Mommy... I killed Jesus." That was the moment I entered into a strange relationship with God. It has blossomed into something glorious.
Just to further define the picture of my odd thoughts growing up:
"It was to be one of those bedtime for which my four-year-old daughter, Amanda, was famous. This time I was stumped. "Does God love Barbie?" she asked, with an earnestness that made me wish for her sake that He did. Not wanting to burst her bubble and not wanting to lie, I punted. "What do you think, sweetie?" She reasoned that He probably didn't, since dolls didn't have spirits. We were both satisfied."-Julie Evans (my mama)

I just feel like such a bizarre person when I think back on this stuff. Point of this all is that I used to get extremely bogged down on God-thought. I would become frustrated, and stumped, and so had to create an image in my head to solve it all (or at least distract me).

I decided that God was an old, mysterious man. He'd have a white beard, and would have the aura of the bookstore owner in The NeverEnding Story (BEST MOVIE EVER). I would picture God sitting in the middle of a murky nothingness, holding a gargantuan novel in one hand, and a pen in the other. I have always been a writer, and when you are lost in writing, time doesn't really pass. It either stops or you have left it. You are in this other dimension (the creative dimension?) and time does not exist. That helped me solve what life would be like without time. Then I would just think about all of the things God would write. Each molecule would at least have its own page. I would have an entire saga. God wrote down every minute detail that would happen in life. Thus, I reasoned he was omniscient and omnipotent. However, any writer knows that the character does not always do what you planned them to do. You say, "I want you to swing in, save the princess, marry her, and live happily ever after." But somewhere along the way Satan messes with it and instead your character develops a fear of rope and thus cannot swing, does not save the princess, and dies a bachelor. Free will. That explanation is good enough for me.

God is a storyteller. He's the man in Arabian Nights who is the master storyteller. He is the man who can captivate an audience in the first sentence. He's the man who is so good at writing, that we forget we are living out his story.

God is: a pacer

Apologies, as I definitely promised this post to be up a couple days ago. Life is a busy thing.

It's going to become very clear that I am a stalker kid. I find people-watching calming and thought-provoking. I like to wonder about their lives and what they are thinking about. The last post was about me watching a painter and how I related him to God's peace. A while ago, I posted a poem about a man who paces. He is the subject of the second comparison.

Across from my second-floor apartment, there is a bookstore. This bookstore is my favorite place in Clifton. It is a quiet, old-smelling escape from the noisy street. Above this bookstore is an apartment. The four windows are directly across from my three windows. In said apartment, there is a man. While knowing nothing about him, I am convinced he is at least creative. He only comes out at night. And when he does, it is not to party or do typical idiotic things. He just paces. The two windows on the right belong to his kitchen. And he just paces through them. And drinks water. And his cat stares back at me.

Once, though, he ventured into the left room. The light was finally turned on. And he paced, and paced. And then sat down and furiously began doing..something. I decided that from the movements of his arms he was either typing or playing the piano.

Honestly, I kind of like to think of God like that. There's an aura of mystery about him. He is just a faceless man, in a tiny apartment, constantly preoccupied with the matters of the world. He has already written the story, and is waiting to see how we play it out. Sometimes, there's a hurt in the pace. Sometimes, we choose the wrong route. And Got gets hurt. I like to think that God stays up battling sleepless nights to think about us, to help us. Maybe he's pacing angrily, or sadly, or impatiently, or just thoughtfully. But it brings this rather human aspect to God that I like. He's just eagerly awaiting us to come up the stairs to meet Him face to face. And sometimes, he likes to stop and write a special sunset or an intricate cloud formation-just to make our hearts stop and look. Sometimes, he likes to play music, to write us a song. And that's when we suddenly notice how beautifully composed the seemingly random noise of life is.

So, that's why God is a pacer. I promise I'm not a horrible stalker, I just enjoy staring out the window, observing life from a distance. And then feeling how curious it is to step out and join that life.

Next up: Storyteller :D

God is: a painter

This past week, I took on the position of "Assistant to the Production Assistant." Official, right?

I was helping my lovely JennFrennd at the high school event, "Pneuma." It's just two hours of really intense God time, and it's different every time. This night was a worship night.

Besides finding out that I actually am half-decent at changing the lyric slides, I thought a lot about uniquely defining my relationship with God. Alton, high school pastor, asked us to write down three words that define Jesus. Mine were painter, pacer, and storyteller. And there is a story behind each.

Painter: There's something you should know about me. I worry constantly and have an anxiety disorder (GAD). It will happen, on occasion, that I freak out to the point of having a panic attack. One afternoon, this happened in the middle of psychology class. I have learned to keep calm, and so talked myself home. I tried all of the calming down methods: yoga, music (Enya or Sigur Ros), warm drink, trying to sleep. But it wasn't working because of this group of stupid people by my apartment. They're always around and they are LOUD. The only way of communication they have is apparently by yelling. If they texted each other, it would be in all caps. The aggravated tones were getting to me. That's when I looked out the window.

A painter was balancing on a ladder a little ways from me. I watched him, like a proper creep, for a long time. Somehow, he was calming to me. I started to breathe and relax. That feeling is as close as I can humanely relate to the way God makes me feel. A lot of my super intense God time seems to focus on rest. I don't plan it that way, God just does it. And afterwards, I feel as though I've been sleeping 100 years. I'm thoroughly refreshed. That is why this painter symbolizes God for me. He was slow and methodical in his movements. He took his time, and repositioned himself to make sure everything would run smoothly. He even took a smoke break. Plus he was painting the background of this building. God's like that: He spent all of eternity (except not, because that's a measure of time, and I'm talkin' bout before time) just creating our story. He stepped back, and made preparations for things that would go wrong. And after he created, he rested.

Focusing on that painter's slow, careful movements is soothing in the way that God's story, slowly and carefully painted, brings peace.

Tomorrow, I'll talk about the pacer :)

The Outline

It's clear that the things
We have thunk in our heads
Are a lot worse than
The words that we've said

I'm trying to read the pavement:
Decipher the messy splatter
Where your head met the ground.
The truth is what you meant:
Not the clunking clatter
Of your lip's coded sound.

Though there was caution tape
We were reckless
It was a closed case
But we were curious

This never should have been a scene
Tried going but the light's not green
They took chalk and drew the outline
Can't press charges, we're out of time

~~~~~~~~~~~
Not my best work, but I'll figure it out. I need Matt. He always figures out the reality of the melodies. (It's a song. Yes)

A little poem candy

Some Outside Help

Focal point is lost
Falling, dreaming, running after
Somehow, ignoring the cost
And writing with an unnamed lead.

Stand up, and make the fresh clot bleed
In a grave, miles back, I lost some things
An innocence, a dream, an untamed breed
From when childhood mated with reality

The chain was strong, but I'm an escapee
The traps have been set, the holes covered
Soy debil; the cold, wind feels free
My own chains are strong, but I have the key.