mismeeting

i called you to ask about your day
i assumed you'd ask about mine -
faned interest as it may be
i left you feeling sad and unseen
alone

i met with you later in the day
i assumed i'd get high on memories -
distant and dead
i left you feeling sad and lost
alone

i sat with all of you tonight
i assumed i'd be seen and engaged -
not myself as i had been
i left you feeling sad and unnoticed
alone

is there anything more lonely than disappearing in a room full of people
is there anything more lonely

is there anything more sad than being seen only to vanish
is there anything i'd hide from you if only you saw
me

then came the deep of night
i sat, weeping inwardly, at your feet
i assumed i'd run to your company -
a father's welcoming arms
i left you, sulking to be unseen
alone

i left you though your hand stretched out
i hid though your eyes searched

is there anything more sad than your longing, unmet eyes
and my running, unseen heart?

pat robertson believes that a tsunami will crash into my beloved pacific northwest this year. he believes that God told him this.

i'm too angry to know what to write now...more later.

death cab for dreaming

the death of a dream can be kind or it can be cruel. the pain feels the same. the loss feels the same. the disappointment devastates the same. death is death.

what happens in the wake of death? is there denial? is there hope for resurrection? is there mourning? do all exist, conjuring a whirlwind of ambivilance and even more pain?

does resurrection really come? from the dark night can one really anticipate the sunrise? would that dreams ran on as regular a schedule as the sun.

so, today is dark. it doesn't feel like anything but darkness. i'll let it be that.

last night i told the youth at my church that i am leaving.
last week, i said good bye to my best and oldest friend.
this month, i've been saying good bye to the dreams i had for my job at the church.

right now, all i can say is that shakespear was severly uninformed if he thought there was any sweetness in the sorrow of parting.

home - where the heart is

this morning, i forgot you.

i walked with a friend - a cherished sister. i was on top of the world. my neighborhood was heaven. my life was the kingdom. the coffee tasted of eternity. our conversation turned to encounter. i laughed. i enjoyed. my heart was home - and i knew, at 24, i am lucky to know so well my home.

i sang her a sad song, knowing she's leaving. the sorrow of her leaving could not touch the beauty of her face as she wept over the song. i was home - and i knew, at 24, i am rich to know such a full home.

i left that world to meet a kingdom seeker. we left our tasks to be raptured in eternity in the dark wall of a practicum room. my passion danced with hers. i was home - and i knew, at 24, i am blessed to know such a peopled home.

from there i met my friend and her gorgeous children. they danced and sang with me. they ran to me and laughed with glee. i was home - and i knew, at 24, i am loved to know such a gleeful home.

this evening, i remembered you.
i felt trapped.
i felt shame.
i felt unable to remember my beauty.
i felt my joy swallowed by your pain.
i was frustrated.
i was angry.
i was sad and depressed.
i was not home -

and i wondered, at 24, will i ever know home?

tonight i remembered you - in your place.
i laughed.
i encountered beauty.
i joked.
i cried.
i dreamed.
i was home -
and i knew, at 24, i am wise to know such a paradoxical home.

waiting for a miracle

i have a quick mind. i think a lot. my brother has, for at least a decade, been telling me to be like him and think less. there is little i don't think about. there is little i don't think to death. for me to spend months and months not thinking about something is an unparralleled accomplishment.

that accomplishment can be broken down like a great dam...
the slightest hole and it is either immediately patched or else the flood ensues.

i have a cynical heart. i doubt a lot. for at least a decade, i have been hardening my heart to the light of hope. there is little i'm not cynical about. there is little i don't eventually despair about. for me to risk hope after devastation is an unparralleled accomplishment.

that accomplishment can grow like a mustard seed...
the slightest soil and scantest water and sprinkling of sun and a great tree emerges.

what would happen if the flood collided with the tree?
nurture?
more life?
would it be knocked by the intensity?
would the beauty of the seedling tree be lost in the waves?

or, could a miracle be born?

so, do i patch the hole and remove the seed?
do i patch the hole and leave the seed?
or do i wait for a miracle?

eschatology abounds

my job

spring semester

my celebrated mini-eschatons.