Grocery Store Man

(December 31,2021)

I first noticed your energy and spirit. You were a personable human, no doubt. Asking me about my day, smiling during the whole bit. And when I asked if your grocery-store-day was busy, you raised your eyebrows, and then your eyes, and dared me to look into them and judge what I thought based on how crazed they were. We both laughed, and you carried on with your bagging.

You had pink hair, and when I looked into your eyes, I noticed your eyebrows were shaved a bit back and purposely thinned out and plucked in odd places. I wondered if it was style that made you take that choice, a desire to be different, or maybe it was nervous habit, or a moment of panic that you had the night before when you were alone. I did not know. But it made me care about you all the more. 

We all are alone at times. It’s never an if but a when. And I wondered who you were when you were alone. Were you as spirited and enthusiastic? Or were you lonely, scared, sad? We put on fronts with people, but we all look quite the same when we’re by ourselves and quiet. When it’s just us and our thoughts. 

Whoever you are, grocery store man, I wondered who you were when no one was watching, when you weren’t commenting on my nail polish and putting on an energetic show of care and interest. Know that I am quite similar to you when I’m all alone, though we might seem quite different at a party. You silently making a meal, sitting on your bed, watching your favorite show at night, reading a book, scrolling on your phone, doesn’t look much different from me when I’m silently making a meal, sitting on my bed, watching my favorite show, reading a book, and scrolling on my phone.

Know that though you may be alone at times, you have a person or two thinking about you when you’re alone, so you’re not quite alone after all, are you? And I guess I’m not either.

The Sound Of A Clock

(March 1, 2022)

There are a few things in life that always sound the same; a clock, for example, is one of them. No matter where you are or what type of clock it is, a clock is a clock, and so it sounds as such. Cars passing on the street at night is another, and the same goes for the sound of people shuffling through an airport, or the dishes being done in the kitchen while another sits in the living room. 

Some sounds, some feelings, will always stay the same no matter where you are, or who you’ve become, or what season of life you’re in. They are good old friends (but too often, they are forgotten as we grow up because their sound is not deemed important enough to notice). But I am trying to remember, and because a clock always sounds the same, it reminds me of 15 years ago when I was a child at a sleepover, noticing that I and the clock seemed to be the only ones still awake. And though it kept me up, I always felt peace because I knew that the clock’s consistency would not change based on mine.

As we age, life pushes us to shed layers and put on others. But sometimes, we find that we have shed some layers that we didn’t actually mean to lose. We made a radical decision to rip layers off because they didn’t fit with our new understanding of the world—as a matter of fact, life wasn’t as kind and beautiful as we imagined. And so we threw those layers aside, because they had felt like lies amidst our new felt pain. And besides, we seemed to be judged by our peers for those whimsical layers anyway, so it was good to throw them off.

But I have become quite hard and sharp on the edges now. So I’m trying to remember again. I’m scavenging the floor to find some of those old layers, some of those old jackets. They may be worn and frayed, but they raised me through much of my childhood. And though, at times, the glasses were a little too rose-colored, that was sometimes a good thing because it further brought out the colors that were already there in the world (and without them, I would have been too oblivious to notice).  

So now, I’m listening to old songs I used to love in 2015 and 2016. I am taking the time to feel them all over again; I remember why I loved them. I’m re-hiking old mountains and taking the time to sit silent where I used to sit for hours, only hearing the cars bustle below. I’m thinking about memories of my younger sister when she was just 16, belting her favorite songs with her eyes closed and her mouth turned up in a smile. I’m once again driving, looking out at the trees, the clouds, the sun, the road in front of me, seeing them for what they are and what they were, symbols of hope and endless possibility. I am beginning to dream again.

I found some of my old layers (and I’m still looking for others). I missed them, I have changed, but they haven’t. They still feel like home. And now they seem to fit even better than before because now I know how to wear them. And so I write this as I lay on my couch in my living room, staring up at my ceiling, noticing once again that it’s just me and the clock who are still awake tonight.

And so it’s true, life isn’t as beautiful and kind as we imagined, and yet it is. We just have to choose to see what those rose-colored layers were trying to show us all along.

A Good Person

(February 27, 2022)

Remember that a good person was never made without another having pity on them in their state of evil and rebellion. And they most often first appeared very hostile and unapproachable. To create better people, one must always push into the darkness first to pull another out into the light. Separation will do nothing of the sort. 

In efforts of security and preservation, those who think they’re good isolate themselves because they cannot get the mess of the world on their hands. They forget that this most often accomplishes the opposite of their desire. They are not making the world a better place but only their world— a world that will grow smaller and smaller as they isolate to wash the dirt and disorder of others off their clothing. And then, the greater outer world will nevertheless grow and encroach upon their “place of safety” by taking it over and consuming it, and then it will be too late for any hopes of changing an evil and rebellious world to be good.

Love

(November 1, 2021)

I have come to realize that most terrible people are so because they have had little love shown to them in life, so they know not what it means to love. Either that, or if they were shown love, their heart was never made soft enough to receive it and let it change them. For it does take a bit of humility to accept real, honest love.

When you let love in, it will break your heart. It will find every crack in that hard, calloused rock and seep in. And from the inside out, it will tear open the stone and pull it apart piece by piece.

But then, it will reclothe the naked, crying thing, with a thick and comforting blanket full of protection, made with wrapped presents, warm drinks, and a fireplace in a hospitable home. And your heart feels seen for once. 

And once you have experienced this, you cannot help but hope to be that love-breaking, love-ripping, love-changing thing in someone else’s life.

A Word To My Favorite Artist—Responding To Your Whiteout

(April 27, 2021)

Recommended Song: anything from his “Whiteout”

When’d you stop making things that were beautiful?

Your scratching on the wall sounds more like screams in a void.

Did you lose hope in thinking you were saying something important?

Or maybe it’s the scratches that say something deeper than what I’d say I saw on the surface. 

You were singing of something I couldn’t understand,

I couldn’t figure out if it was genius or if it was mad.

Was it the exploring that you talked about years ago that you’re doing now?

Carving out a new avenue for expression, a new vein for thinking and imagination?

Groundbreakers always feel a bit strange in the beginning.

After all, they’re breaking ground, and so maybe that’s what you’re creating.

The things you used to sing and say used to move me,

But now, the only thing I hear that resembles old is your latest “Rookery.”

But I guess you’re still doing something right,

Because I wrote this while listening to Richard Russell’s “Strange Last Flight.”

We Are Insects

(September 4, 2019)

We are insects, small creatures that live and move and walk on this blue and green dust ball.

We pick our battles, collect our food, bring our portions forward. We shake our fists towards the heavens, start fights we can’t finish, “for ourselves, for humanity... for ourselves.”

We have little legs, little mouths, little heads, bodies, little emotions, little thoughts—at least when you’re at a bird's eye view, or how about a satellite view. One wonders how big we must look from the sun’s view, or another galaxy.

We are insects, tiny creatures that live and move and walk on this blue and green dust ball.

He sees.

There is one who watches these creatures in their everyday living. Yet they pretend to be quite busy and unaware of Him. Their paper piling, food collecting, world-changing, as well as fighting and yelling, are a little too great at the present moment to notice Him.

He sees.

But He is kind.

He is kind to not retrieve His very breath back to Himself, sucking it from our frail lungs.

He is patient to not untwine or crush our feeble legs that run so rapidly away from Him.

He is gracious to hear our pathetic mouths curse Him hourly, yet restrain from filling them with clay and closing them shut.

How His ears must burn, and His eyes become filled with fire as He stares at the small beings who ignore Him daily and claim to be the masters of their own lives.

“I created myself”... “I can find my path in the dark with my all-seeing eyes, unmuddled feelings, and infinite knowledge.”

For truly, who would need such a God if this were true? What freedom, what blissful self-actualization and independent triumph.

But if such a claim were wrong, or even the slightest bit off, what a tragic disaster might these little creatures find themselves running towards. They beg Him for their ruin. They beg Him to be damned. Anything, oh anything, but to trust and submit themselves to such a cruel creator who gave them the very legs they use to run from Him with. Anything, oh anything, but to thank the One who gifted them the mouths they use to curse Him with. Anything, oh anything, but to acknowledge the one who granted them the very eyes they refuse to look at Him with.

Anything, oh anything, but to love the One who originated such a beautiful thing as love and demonstrated it so nobly by coming in such little form and dying for a creation that would not—no matter the gift or the warning—recognize Him to be their God.

Coming of Age, A Subtle Thing

(August 30, 2020)

I was happy to hear you battling another great dragon again in the next room over. From the sound of it, it seemed to be quite a tough sword fight. 

I saw you in the dark room swinging your sword at the shadows as I walked up the stairs, and by the looks of your actions, exhaustion, and the level of energy expended, they were no doubt quite glorious dragons and horrific foes. 

You didn’t know it, but this was one of the last times you would play that way. I’m sure you hadn’t noticed, but over the last couple of years (as all kids do), you had fought these imaginary dragons less and less, and at this point, I hadn’t seen you battling any furious enemy since half a year ago. It is certainly happening less and less, and as we grow older, we notice less and less how little we imagine and how much time has gone by since the last time we joined the battle.

And so I sat and just listened, smiling with fondness, knowing that this fictional battle, though seeming childish, held a deeper richness that would no doubt help shape you into the courageous and heroic man you would one day become.

Silhouettes

(August 12, 2020)

I kind of have an obsession with silhouettes. When hanging out with me past 6 o’clock, you’ll usually find my eyes drifting onto the edges of mountains, to the arms of trees, or to the top points of buildings. I’ll stare at humans in the distance jumping and playing, and I swear I can hear the laughter and shouts coming from them though I’m a mile away. I know not their name or life, but I know them to be the timeless spirits of human beings living their beautiful life.

A silhouette is a meek yet bold sort of thing. It is as if the spirit of the object is humbly saying, “here I am in my truest form.” My eyes notice no color or discolor, no rip or mend, no living or dead leaf, no broken or fixed window, but simply the spirit of the object itself: the spirit of the building, the spirit of the tree, the spirit of a human. The silhouette does not ask to be looked at, it does not flicker any light at your eye, and yet, when you notice it (the edges, the bold points against the backdrop of blue and yellow hues), it’s as if the object rewards you for noticing. It shows you its truest, most basic form, a timeless form, that will be taken on again by another tree, another building, or another human after it. It no longer stands as a colorful dot on the horizon, but it becomes a part of the bigger shape of this earth; it becomes an edge to this universe.

Hope Is Greater Than Fear

(July 28, 2020)

I must remember that hope is greater than fear. For every one that desires the harm of another, there is also one who desires their protection. For every one that believes the first word on the street, there is also a critical thinker challenging it behind closed doors. For every one who schemes to take advantage of the lowly, there is one who wishes to support them in their growth and rise to glory. For every one who spreads lies for their own gain, there is also one who will seek truth even at their own loss.  And with each yelling match witnessed in media, there are also constructive conversations happening between loved ones in homes.

I do not trust the hearts of man, and yet, I trust the hearts of man. 

With every group of sheep that starts being swept away, hope still remains; sheep can think for themselves, and there are some who hear a voice of challenge and questioning. For there is always a discussion happening in the unseen, an inner dialogue within the minds of every man, between himself and himself—heart and mind. And God is also found there, and He, a part of the conversation.

The race of man is never entirely lost. Hope is greater than fear. 

But hope stays alive in our hearts only as long as we choose to have it.

Chess Pieces

(July 16, 2020)

Are we just chess pieces to the Heavenly Beings?

A game between God and Satan over who will win? And who will get the most glory? 

I am a pawn, and you, the bishop. I run into you, we speak, you say something quite profound, but expected, which makes me switch directions or jump to another square, and you likewise. 

Is life made up of different pointless encounters? Encounters that only matter in relation to the Almighty in order to bring about his victory, but in relation to us, mean and matter very little?

Has my value been forgotten, or did it ever actually exist outside of someone else’s victorious purposes? Am I valued because I was created to move from this square to that, in order to help bring the match to a fine conclusion? But once used or destroyed, taken off the board and placed back in the box to either never be played again or to be used for another's purposes?

And do I look any different from that of the other pawns? Or am I just one in the number of cheap wood pieces that sit and move within the confines and rules of the game? I am made of dust, after all.  

I wonder, above all, if I am cared for. Or if I am loved. 

I resolved to make my conclusions until a response from outside invaded my dialogue. It pierced through each and every question, straight and clear. It prevailed over all other thoughts, as a sword slaying all in its way.

“A Chess player does not die for his chess pieces.”

And there was the answer to my questions. This thought was not of me. It was an answer from the Almighty.

An Analysis on Communication

(June 2019)

We speak in codes and metaphors, Both to hide things and reveal them. To speak so frankly could be either too brash or too cheap. For most treasured things are quite tender and “worthy of some sort of protection.” To hide a meaning in hopes of one discovering.  To speak about things deeply in order for one to dig deep to understand. There is value brought in an answer that must be unearthed. For a jewel hidden in the dark is given more weight and more value when searched for all night and finally found.

The rarity of a feeling, when two feel them so rarely.  To dig and find, to uncover that feeling conceded by another, makes one cherish.   There is no tarnish. Once brushed off, it is but one of the purest and most sacred of all.  For the decoder took just as much effort to seek the matter out as the one who had sought out those rarities found within their own heart first... and then, in efforts to be known by the most daring, resolved to speak about them with such cipher, hiding it while also revealing the slightest corner, as if to send out an invitation to the most meek, yet bold, to venture forward in expedition to understand their words of code and metaphor.

I Envy Her Freedom

(May 7, 2019)

I’ve always wanted to travel. To fly with the wind and blow with the sand. To wear boots that crunch and have tough hands that climb. To have dirt on my pants and clothes that withstand. 

I watch her life. She is not tied down. Her hair is always a little tangled, and her face looks wrinkled and freckled by the sun. Her naked eyes dance because of the things she’s seen. 

I want to be her, and yet, I don’t. She’s always traveling. In fact, I don’t know if she’s ever stopped, settled, been faithful. They say she’s flighty. She’s unreliable. She wants to be where things are happening, not where things have happened. She has no roots. She’s never stayed anywhere long enough to let them grow. I’ve always kind of envied her in a sense. No obligations, no expectations, no one waiting up for you, no need to “follow through.”... freedom.

Is that freedom? Freedom from what? People?

She has people around her, but only when she wants—she finds them when they will get her from point A to point B. They have become her trains, her cars, her roads. 

She has seen many things. I have longed to have her eyes, her ears, her nose. I wish to have seen those same scenes, heard those same sounds, sniffed those same scents. She has hungry eyes that are never quite satisfied.

But maybe it’s not so much about the quantity of what you see but the quality? I am not entirely convinced, but maybe I’m onto something. To see every type of terrain and culture must be something quite breathtaking and informing... but at the same time, to have the eye quickly pass over something must also mean that you missed the hidden nuances of both beauty and ugliness found within those things.

One might be informed from their experience, but to be changed and enlightened is entirely different—this requires immersion. This requires roots to grow. This requires quality of experience; it requires time, obligation, dependency, reliability. To learn and be learned from, requires commitment and hardship. You have to sit amongst a culture to understand it; you have to participate in a community to grow from it. Observing from afar can give us an impression too easily manipulated by our own lens of interpretation. The same goes for a place. A person who walks every street will know the crevices of a city and the stones that make it strong. The one who flies over that same city will know it, but only to a certain degree—by the tops of its buildings.

So I guess establishing roots and settling in one place for a while, doesn’t mean you see less, it just means you see different. You may not see the layer of dirt that covers the mountains in the west to the valleys in the east, but instead, you see every grain of sand that reaches down far below the surface. You know each rock and pebble that tightly pushes and faithfully holds your roots. And you see and feel the water under the surface that fills those roots, making them satisfied and thriving. And these are the things that are missed when she doesn’t stay long enough to let herself settle in and grow with her surroundings. And these “pebbles” and “rocks” and “water,” are people and obligations and hardship.

But I guess a person is always giving up something at the cost of another. Quality versus quantity, and to each their own.

The Privilege of Getting to Know Someone

(March 21, 2019)

May we not forget the privilege of getting to know someone. They do not get that same privilege, being trapped inside their own mind. They don’t know how unique they are. The influence they have. The ways they impress and amuse others. They are unaware of how many people look up to them and why. They are used to themselves and don’t recognize their brilliance and originality.

But we get to experience that, something they never will. I wish my favorite of people could experience that privilege of getting to know themselves.

A Moment With Mother

(December 31, 2018)

I could feel her presence over my figure as she reached to grab the blanket resting on the back of the couch.  Her hands made little sound as she first draped the blanket on my feet and then slowly pulled it up to my chin.

I dared not open my eyes to reveal I had been awake, for that would steal from her the joy of looking after the one she had taken care of since infancy. And I dared not open my eyes, for that would rip from me the peace of being taken care of as though I was a child again. Pride is not an issue when you are receiving care while you sleep.

My Body

(December 23, 2016)

It's funny, I do think I know my body... this garment that covers my soul. Though, I have found that I know it only in part. I understand it solely because of the countless times I’ve looked over it, seeking to find imperfections in order to fix them. It wasn't till tonight that I had realized that never before had I studied my body, simply to know the perfections. Never had I looked in the mirror to study and observe my eyes, my brows, my nose, lips, cheeks, or chin.

God could have given me any arrangement of these structures, and yet He specifically gave me these ones, those that build what seems to be a face, my face. Would I know a picture of my hand, my hair, my shoulders, feet, nails, or silhouette because it was a familiar form I had looked over for 20 years, eyes trained to notice the usual imperfections? Or would I notice that it was mine because only I owned that trait? This was not a body I happened upon, but a body that was uniquely designed and chosen for my soul. I should learn it; I should know it. There is beauty held within this body. In every line, scar, and detail. This beauty to be acknowledged is not one of vanity, as if it was an accomplishment I attained. No, it was handcrafted by the one above and given to me, and it is just as much a part of this breathtaking creation as any other part. Should I not also study it in complete amazement as I would any other part of creation? My body, too, is a stunning miracle.