***
the face peeks
just out from the shadow of
stiff brisk brick.
nineteen degrees.
the head – its squinting eyes, its
blistered lips, cracked from wind and
overuse, its gray jelly belly –
warmed by hints of day.
the rest, though, the
body, stands motionless in the shade.
blood still moves, but flows
floe cold. toes frigid,
rigid in iceberg shoes.
hands in empty pockets, holding
nothing, warming nothing but
themselves.
***
we’ll see how this goes. whimsy often betrays.
***
last night i was certain
that i wanted
some scorching black drink brewed
fresh and only for me
and when it was done and
all the grounds were coursed through and
all the oils and sacred secrets had been
sucked out i
poured it into a cup and
set it somewhere new, different,
seemingly benign
heat scores and
time wears and apparently
together they conspire to draw
rings in unsuspecting innocent wood
at last when
undeft fingers clumsily looped into
ceramic rings to
rescue planks of ancient trees it was
too late
and already carelessness had
spent its fortune on
making some mark that
no one but me would
ever see
i hoped, more
dearly than i hope that
euclid was right, and that five hundred
billion years hence no one
still
will have heard my name
***
it’s been a while. challenges are welcome. please, shout to the heavens the horrors of this poem. it will, in all honesty, be appreciated.
***
i am not he
any longer
and yet my shadow is
as angular, black as
his was, my voice as
scratched and rasped as
his was, my words
carelessly swung
swords as were
his words, my deeds
like plowing barren fields, like
breaking rocks into
dust, sad and pointless and
empty:
so too were
his filthy sick
hands.
his folly is my
sadness, his failing becomes my
habit, his silliness my frivolity; his
each new birth means
my death
and he is born
anew
daily.
(but so too
am i;
his is merely of
air,
dust,
wind;
mine of
water, of
fire, of
spirit, unnameable un-
tameable, un-
quenchable.)
(amen)
***
***
Fiction has long been a part of my life. There have been books historically which i have read and re-read incessantly throughout my life. When i was a child and a teenager, most of these tales took the form of fantasy or science fiction. Even fancied myself a bit of a fantasy writer at one point, and i still feel as though i could set down a rather rousing epic if i put my mind and (more importantly) my heart to it. Some period of time into my early adulthood i started shifting my reading and writing interest to more “literary” fiction, whatever that nomenclature signifies. i have begun and left unfinished no fewer than five novels, having never caught sufficient steam or momentum, or perhaps having never had the requisite discipline, to see these projects through to completion. My reading in this arena has been, for a time, rather diligent at least, and there is certainly a tremendous and nameless appeal that the fictive voice holds in my heart. It is not out of the realm of possibility that i may at some point dig up from under the earth of time and business these efforts and breathe life into them anew.
Poetry has also competed for dominance in my aesthetic sensibilities, and though i have not quite had the patience to study it as thoroughly as i ought, there are still times when it seems that the only mechanism which will do a subject justice is the poem, thus as you can see i have written my fair share of them. Most of them are at the very least elementary, and some even go so far as to be downright terrible and asinine.
Recently, however, despite my traditional attachment to these slightly more artistic forms of communication, i have begun to suspect that perhaps my gift really lies in the area of non-fiction. i have never written very much of it, save on this particular blog, and even though the bulk of my posts here can be classified as non-fiction, they still feel fictitious, at least in the sense that they are driven by narrative rather than by research. i must confess i owe at least a portion of this suspicion to my wife, who first pointed out that she found my non-fiction to be my best work. Lately i have toyed with idea of working more exclusively in this domain, and it is starting to gain sway for me. i suppose what always steered me away from writing non-fiction was a lack of qualification. i am an expert in precisely zero subjects, save perhaps the subject of myself. But perhaps this is enough. Perhaps there is enough of a story in my life – and i suspect there is, not because i have lived a particularly adventurous or meaningful life, but because i have lived a particularly rebellious one – to merit its writing. After all, God has written a rather amazing story already, having provided for me time and time again despite my unwillingness to receive that provision. i think perhaps i will stay away from fiction, at least for the time being – God is, after all, a better story-teller than i will ever be – and stick strictly to writing about my experiences with Him and the recovery He has seen fit to mercifully bring into my life. Maybe in this, at last, after a year of dabbling in essentially every variety of writing and succeeding at none, i have found my calling. Time however, will tell.
The well-known adage “truth is stranger than fiction” has a less-familiar second clause, which i find even more profound than the first. “It is because,” Twain says, “fiction is obliged to stick to possibilities; Truth isn’t.” If you had asked me 30 months ago what i dreamed would be “possible” for the coming years, for my personal and spiritual life, for my career, and for my marriage, i would not have been able to even begin to guess at the current shape each of those elements has in my life. i believe that the purpose of writing is to provide insight and wisdom into the life of another, and by doing so, be a force for peace, for reparation, for reconciliation. Fiction gives us a certain view of truth through its exploration of possibilities, and poetry another through its propensity for ambitious metaphor, and both can provide some measure of universality, and thus each may, in part, accomplish the objective of establishing commonality. But God has written a truth, full and glorious, that no human word can sufficiently capture, and in my case, as it is for many of us, that truth is more compelling and more exhilarating, and thus ultimately vastly more unifying, than any story or device which we have ever conceived of or read. These stories, our stories, with all of their ugly and rambunctious and supercilious components, are the stories which people most need to hear. These are the stories that will heal, because ultimately they are not about us at all. Tell yours, and i will do mine.
***
***
These words stumble out slowly, like 2 am bar patrons, steeped in a forgetfulness wrought by intentional neglect. Productivity is always the fruit of a well cultivated garden, and this one has gone unweeded and unkempt for weeks.
***
Watched a movie the other day (which is the lazy man’s reading). Protagonist was a 30-year old stoner who still lived with his mother. Believe it or not, this actually appeals to me: there is a certain muck of the effortless life that one can rest in, and though it is sad and empty it is also safe and unburdensome. On some level, it’s not as bad as it seems. After all, the struggle to find meaning perpetuates, whether one is by worldly standards a success or a failure. If you don’t believe me, read Ecclesiastes.
Rambling, i know. i’ll get to it soon. This is what happens when you don’t write for a while: your efforts become unfocused, undisciplined, scattery blasts hoping that what they lack in precision they make up for in force, unaware that in many cases, precision is force.
***
There’s some saying about idleness. Devil’s workshop or somesuch. Chicken or egg situation here, as i see it. Not sure whether idleness gives room for the devil to work, or whether he uses anxiety and uncertainty to produce idleness. “Produce idleness” is a stupid phrase, oxymoronic and imprecise. A month ago i would have cared about that.
The question, i guess, is whether idleness is the root or the fruit. This is always the question, with any behavior. My guess is fruit, since it corresponds to the assertion that productivity is also the fruit, although one could argue that they are somewhere in the middle. Branches or vines that carry (or, more often, don’t) fruit, dependent on nourishment themselves but not ends, not terminal. It makes little sense to think of productivity as a fruit, since by its very definition it must produce in order to be itself. But just as it is not terminal, it is not original either. i know this because my own has been deeply pruned lately.
***
Lots of things i could blame. Sleep. Work. Nice weather. Video games. It has been mostly a question of energy. I have put more into work lately, and God has seen fit for a time to bless this work with success, and my store of energy is not infinite. Not really sure how people manage to have hobbies, jobs, and children all at once. Seems to me that even trying to juggle two of the three is a mere impossibility, and for many of us even one demands more of our energy than we have. Nice weather prompted me to spend more time outside recently. Can’t argue that this is a bad thing, really. I’m pretty pasty if i don’t, and it has been my only relief from idleness.
***
Video games. Wish i knew what it was about these that appealed to me so strongly. i suspect it is the element of the vicarious. Somehow by being even more idle, even more unproductive, i can still experience the thrill of being a hero, eat from the gift-basket of dedication, all without ever putting on pants. In the last few weeks i have made 20 million dollars, won both the World Series and the PGA Championship, and slain at least half a dozen dragons. What have you done?
***
Company coming tonight, which meant last night was cleaning night. Somehow the cleaning itself is not only not miserable, but almost enjoyable. The hardest part is getting up off of the sofa and getting started. Once that mountain is climbed, the actual activity is mostly descent, a slow stroll down into a lush meadow.
***
We’ve given it the innocent, innocuous name sleep. i guess this is because rheum is too abrasive a term. My eyes have been full of it lately, and it takes an hour or two before i can get them clear. Calling it sleep distracts us from the fact that it is actually mucus, and an overflow of this into our eyes usually indicates that we are congested, even infected. No wonder we changed its name.
Waking happens in an instant, and yet not. I am awake now, and shaking the congestion. It will be sometime, though, before i can see clearly again.
***
***
The first few minutes of running suck. It starts to suck, in fact, before i’ve even begun. Perhaps the hardest part about exercising for me is getting up the motivation to go. My typical exercise session (and yes, i have actually gone enough recently to call it “typical”) is comprised of four minutes of jogging/running at six-seven MPH, followed by four minutes of walking up a 7-8% incline as fast as I can walk, which usually ends up being just under four MPH, and then repeating that cycle three-four times. Now you might be immediately inclined, unless you do much of this type of exercise yourself, to think that the last cycle is the toughest. But strangely enough, as i have already said, i don’t find this to be true. It is, in fact, the first two or three minutes when my body protests the loudest: muscles that have lain dormant all day (and let’s be honest: for years before this) are now suddenly enlisted to the front lines of action, pressed into strenuous and exacting duty. A few minutes in, though, there seems to be a threshold i pass after which my body starts easing into the work, and somehow the second cycle is much less demanding, and very nearly enjoyable.
The same phenomenon is observable in macro: the first few days and weeks of beginning an exercise regimen are horrid, especially after doing nothing for years but languishing in idleness and indulgence. But now that i have a few regular weeks behind me, i actually look forward (sometimes) to going, knowing that it is accomplishing for me what it needs to: chiefly, making me have more and better time with my wife and with others around me (that is, as much as control of such matters lies within my grasp). The point is, being able to see the end result, the fruit, enables me to appreciate the journey.
It isn’t hard to see where i am going with this, especially since this is hardly the only example from the world around us. Stepping into a hot shower, the skin actually burns and reddens in response. A few minutes later, the sensation is soothing rather than painful. Entering a room that is utterly dark and flipping on a bright light can actually cause us to wince, as if under attack by the sudden influx of protons. Yet after our pupils have adjusted, light is not only not an attack but actually an improvement over darkness: seeing our way through the room keeps us from stumbling over the dog’s half eaten chew toy and face planting on the floor. I think, too, of Isaiah 9:2, a familiar quotation that points to the birth of Christ. “The people walking in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of deep darkness a light has dawned.”
What would it actually be like if, as in John 9, we had walked in darkness all our lives and suddenly had our eyes opened? We all, going from utter blackness to the brightest light of them all, would be blinded, stunned, shocked. We might have no idea how to distinguish depth, color, shape, motion. It would be a radical process of adjustment. The occipital lobe would, like my feeble legs, be arrested up into immediate action, having sat largely unused for many years.
There is a reason this verse points to Christ: this is precisely what an encounter with Him is like. When He enters our life it is as if we see light for the first time. And though we typically think of this verse in Isaiah as an expression of great joy, which is certainly is, it is also a proclamation that where we were previously blind, we will now see, but this takes tremendous healing and adaptation. In fact, our personal encounters with Him can be quite demanding, painful, blinding even, and it may seem at first as though we were worse off than before. Think of how many times the Israelites, after clamoring to be free from slavery in Egypt, bemoaned their new fate and expressed a wish that they had simply died in Egypt.
i have been there many times, and many times a day: every time He wants me to relinquish control, conquer fear, steady my heart, give instead of ignore, love instead of curse, die rather than thrive. These things are anathema to me, to my flesh. Nearly every time i am asked to do one of these things it doesn’t feel like joy, or sudden freedom, it feels, in the moment, like pain and constraint. it feels like stepping into a shower that is too hot, or onto a treadmill that is too fast.
But joy is not in immediate gratification. That is why Paul calls the Christian life a race, why he “beat[s] his body and make[s] it [his] slave.” (1 Cor. 9:27) Joy is in the long haul, the discipline, the dedication, not in the quick fix. The Quick Fix is what got us into a “quick fix” in the first place. Joy, real joy, will need to look like something different, and might very well need to look, at least at first, like something so different that it is extraordinarily uncomfortable. i must remember, we must remember, that many of us, myself chief among these, have just gotten up from our knees on the road to Damascus. We have just gotten on the treadmill of the walk, just plunged ourselves into the heat of His cleansing waters. For the most part, we are still staggering and reeling from the shock of having “seen a great light.” But given time, our skin will adjust to the heat, our legs to the work, our bodies to the strain, and our eyes to the wonder and glory of vision. After that perhaps we will enjoy the fruit of walking upright in Him, and we will see the joy of not tripping over the dog toy of temptation and face planting on the floor of sin.
***
i don’t go work out every day. Sometimes the sluggard inside wins. i am terrific, probably the best you’ve ever met, at originating excuses. i need to write. i need to read. i didn’t eat that much today anyway so i don’t have enough calories to burn. My leg still hurts from tripping over that dog toy in the dark. Whatever the reason, it is just as common, if not more so, that i fail to go as that i actually do go.
The good news is that the gym will still be there tomorrow, and i bet my key will still work to let me in.
Christ, our Key, will also still be working to let us in tomorrow. He is an Amenity that has already been provided for us as residents here. We have but to reach out and grasp hold of Him and the fruits will come. Should we fail to do so today, well, He will be there for us tomorrow. But my prayer is that as each new tomorrow becomes today, it will be the day that i stop making excuses and just go to Him.
***
Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles. And let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith. For the joy set before him he endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. Consider him who endured such opposition from sinners, so that you will not grow weary and lose heart. – Hebrews 12 : 1 – 3
***
The first time i lost a sponsor, it was disappointing and a bit discomforting, but i didn’t feel utterly abandoned. I had not wanted to make a change, but his life circumstances demanded that he cut some things out of his schedule. I was shaken a bit, but i understood. i was perching dangerously between my fourth and fifth steps, which, as anyone who has been through the steps can testify, is a considerably difficult time in the process of Recovery, and no easy thing to walk through with a new and somewhat unfamiliar person. But God provided someone who i had gotten to know fairly well, and the transition was fairly seamless, mercifully. My new sponsor walked with me through some very trying times, and helped me get all the way to the end of the steps and even was instrumental in helping me transition into being a sponsor myself. When he, too, was forced to step away from the ministry, the blow was fairly severe. He had been my sponsor for the bulk of my time there, and had become not just a mentor but also a close friend. The absence of his impact on the program and on my life was felt immediately, and to some degree i am still recuperating from that loss personally.
There were really only two people left after that who i would have felt comfortable sponsoring me, at least in our particular ministry. i was just beginning to develop a dialogue with one of them over the last few weeks when he also made the decision to step away from Recovery.
To those of you who are not familiar with the 12 step process, having a sponsor is critical. They are the person who sharpens you, encourages you, prays for you, even slaps you around a bit when you need it. Granted, these things can be found in any true community, but it is true community itself that can be difficult to find. Sure, there are plenty of accountability groups and Bible studies and book clubs and whatnot out there, and certainly edification can be and is accomplished in those environments. But for an addict, there’s something about looking into the eyes of someone who has been exactly where you have been, and seeing all the love and severity of Christ reflected in those eyes, that spurs us on to living faithfully. Without that relationship, those shamelessly fierce and unabashedly forgiving people in my life, i would not be where i am today. So when one by one they are taken from me (and frankly from many other people in the program who are, on some level, even more in need than i), i am forced to wonder at God’s motives for doing this. Three men, two of whom were founders of the program, and all of whom had unparalleled wisdom and insight, all called to leave the program for various reasons.
i have no special insight into the mind of God, but i have my suspicions. At the very least i am fairly sure i know what these circumstances mean for my life. It is true that i gained some valuable encouragement from these men. They were teachers, sounding boards, accountability partners, and men of God. And there is certainly nothing wrong with soaking in the wisdom of those more experienced, unless it begins to be a substitute for developing your own relationship with Christ. i believe God is weaning me off of the crutch of other men, and wants to nourish me Himself. It is rare that i take things to Him first. If i am struggling at work, or in my Recovery, i tend to talk to one of these men, historically, or my wife, or my brother, but very rarely do i just kneel down and spill out my guts to Jesus. i believe this is what he wants from me, from all of us. This is why He came to sacrifice Himself: not chiefly that we might be able to talk about Him to one another, though this is certainly an effect which bleeds over from His purposes, but so that we might be able to talk directly to Him; so that if we needed encouragement we would be able to receive it directly from the One who is All Encouragement. This is what He has called men to experience, and the very thing to which He is now calling me.
A similar theme runs throughout the book of Judges, as time after time God is attempting to show the Israelites what He can do, rather than teaching them to rely merely on what they can do. Perhaps nowhere is this more prevalent than in the story of Gideon, during which God weans Gideon’s army down from 10,000 men to merely 300 before leading them to victory.
My army of 10,000 is slowly being whittled away, and if i am any judge of these things at all, i would guess that it is for similar reasons. If i am to have victory in my battles, be they of character or spirit, be they personal or moral, then it is going to be He who leads me through those battles, and not my own strength, and not the strength of my army. Perhaps it is time that i start running to Him whenever i have insufficiencies, rather than to other men. While i am by no means ungrateful for these men and what they have been to me historically, they are but dim and partial reflections of the One who wants to do for me utterly and entirely what they could only do for a season.
I must admit there is something terrifying and chilling about being spiritually naked before God. Perhaps this is why i have needed mentors in my life. There was a time when i was spiritually naked before no one. Gradually these brothers have taught me the way of grace and forgiveness, they have showed me the love of Christ to the best of their ability. Now He wants to show it to me Himself.
***
Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus. – Phillipians 4 : 6 – 7
***
First, make coffee. Better yet, go get some. Public places better for some reason anyway. Observe people. No TV to watch. Something like that. Pack up the computer, power cord, notebook containing scrambled junk you’ve taken down in the guise of notes. Don’t bring anything else. Phone is necessary unfortunately. For emergencies only though. Got everything. Check again. Don’t leave anything behind else if you come back you won’t leave again. Think of a place to go that has accessible power outlets, good parking, not too crowded, few distractions. Absolutely no TVs. No shortage of Starbuckses around. (Side note: figure out plural of Starbucks eventually. But not now. Too distracting. Stay on target.) Those’ll do in a pinch, but local would be better. Connect with the city in which you live. Got it. Nearby, quiet, unknown. Grab bag. Lock door. Drive there. Use this time to plan few blessed hours of writing. Leave radio off. Distracting.
Parking is easy. Place is not popular, which is good because no one is ever there but bad because it will probably go out of business soon. For now, it is the hideout. Tables are scarce, small, nearly inadequate, but almost romantically so. This will do. Order coffee. Make yourself go to the bathroom first like a toddler just to get it out of the way. Don’t want an interruption later. Plug in computer. Open Word. Avoid habitual tendency to open the internet first. Browsers are black holes. Only use for reference later. Like the phone, emergencies only. Get out alleged notes. Start typing.
Wait.
Take two seconds. Breathe deeply. Close your eyes. Hear it. Let it come. It will burst into your mind, into your heart, it will erupt through your body into your arms and out through your fingers in wild blue sparks, in wordstorms, sentenceriots, pagequakes. It will possess your hands. Words will flow like rain off of rooftops. They will scream at you and pound the inside of your skull. They will be so ecstatic and forceful that you wlil hardly be able to record them fast enough. Soon. Inspiration, muse, call it what you will. You have touched it before, felt it’s fire, it’s divinity. You have rubbed elbows with it’s opulence, consorted with it’s trusted companionship, been held by it’s loving embrace. Nothing like it in the world.
Only wait. Any moment now.
Any moment.
Something in you says, just start typing. But typing what? No, it must be right. Must be glorious and flawless. Miraculous. Candid and astute, spewing verve and panache, wit and patience, demonstrating unequivocally that you are the writer that was destined to come. It must be this, and nothing else. Merely good will not do.
So you must wait. As long as it takes.
(While you’re waiting, open the internet. See what’s up. Won’t hurt. Just for a moment. Get right back off. Really, you will this time. Promise yourself.)
Dark outside. Time’s up. Frown. Close Word document. (Select “No” when it asks if you want to save.) Close notebook. Close computer. Close your eyes. Sigh audibly.
Try again tomorrow.
***
R.E.W.
***
***
No one here. Strange.
Daily in the seat in which i now
recline there is
a crossword sudoku man, never
looking up, but always
concentrating which looks
a lot like ignoring. i have
never spoken to him, nor he
to me. i wonder if
this chair knows that
it is me and not him
or if the table is burdened by the
crush of computer, yearning for
newspaper mornings. Or maybe
they are just as fulfilled
either way, as long as there will
only, always, be
someone here.
***
***
to my knowledge i have never
heard (though i do not speak the
language) the woodpecker or the beaver
apologize to the tree, nor the
bovine to the grass, the bear to the fish, nor the
mosquito to me. Perhaps underflesh these souls speak
in gratitude; in tiny, delicate prayers to the
offering sky or moon (as at supper i sometimes whisper
faintly — gently, mouth quavering as just before
a child’s good honest cry — my thanks to Him). If
this were so, i would not,
could not know, but to the naked eye there seems only
usury, advantage, consumption,
blood —
Strange then that i, somehow,
find the nerve, the audacity, the arrogance to
apologize to you, my love — the greenest waving
meadow, noblest catch of the river rapid,
loftiest leafiest oak of the forest.
***
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