Randomness and Ruminations

i moved.

2010-02-22T00:33:00.001-05:00

the aftermath

2010-02-07T13:38:00.000-05:00

i come to you, foolishly, wisely
asking for change.

you drop a silver coin in my hand, saying
"such as this you will become."

and the tremors begin.

i want to be brave. to be righteous.
to be untainted, to be free.

to love, to know and be known.

to mingle my soul with yours.

but it seems that the hellish traces of my fractured self
can only be burned away and consumed
by the most harrowing of fires
with a gravity and smoke
that crushes the spirit
at least for 24 hours

and it starts now.

i've dragged the blackness into my lungs
and tumbled far beyond any normal human's reach.

i've marred myself
and you in the process.

and still here,
in a tangled heap
where tears melt and freeze
in disconcerting polarization
i crack under the pressure

still
a faint draft cools my tongue
a whisper, a sliver of hope rushes forth
and i see the muddied stars crashing and birthing and exploding overhead
and i think i trust you through the process.

i want you to brush the hair out of my eyes
and peer beyond the mortared defenses
and deep into my shame and wounds
with clarity and grace.

i want to feel your arms enfolding my neck
and the small of my back
while our breath mixes and blends
in silent intimacy
and you,

never loosening your grip on me.

the vegetarian chronicles

2010-01-26T15:59:00.004-05:00

I am chronicling the switch.

I've slowly been easing myself into it. My interest was first seriously piqued on the night of Obama's election in 2008. A friend of a friend (who now works for PETA) started sharing with me why he was a vegetarian and urged me to consider it for health and spiritual reasons. I sort of was intrigued and ended up reading a lot of the literature he gave me, but at the end of the day, a filet mignon or a pulled pork sandwich (plus sweet tea!) sounded just too good to pass up. I also had recently read Skinny Bitch and was appalled at the amount of antibiotics apparently pumped into the animals that I was later eating, and also just the general treatment of animals. I even had a dream about being surrounded by piles of meat and had no desire to eat it. I seriously considered switching to vegetarianism, even tried it for a couple of days, to no avail.

For Lent in 2009, I at least gave up red meat for 40 days, which made my backpacking trip throughout Australia, the land of cattle and shrimp on the barbies, a little bit of a challenge. I survived. I even found one vegan burger and fries in Melbourne (which I can't remember the name of anymore, sadly enough) that I found to be just as tasty as anything from Five Guys, my fave hamburger joint. Halfway through the trip though, Lent ended and I was back to eating hamburgers and chips and amazing chicken pad Thai and fish and chips, the Aussie way.

Toward the end of my stay in Australia, I finally learned how to grill. The couple we were renting a room in a flat from had a gorgeous gas grill on a terrace overlooking the neighborhood south of downtown Sydney, and I was thrilled that I had finally learned how to perfectly grill chicken or steak. This love for grilling followed me home back to the States, where I was reuinted with the ChickFila sandwiches, Chipotle carnitas burrito bowls and Longhorn filet mignon that I loved (and had missed so dearly while I was in Australia).

Follow me through Thanksgiving of 2009, where I enjoyed a perfectly cooked turkey (recipe courtesy of Giada di Laurentis). Christmas dinner consisted of the traditional lechon (pork cooked Cubano style, for the uninitiated) and piles of fried shrimp and chicken parmesan. I would feel a pang of remorse when I thought about how I had wrestled with becoming vegetarian prior going to Australia. The aforementioned PETA friend (the one from Obama's election night) would post links and articles on facebook about cruelty to animals and I would read them, and immediately regret reading it, knowing I was accountable for the information I had just read....

This new year, however, my friend Jeanne recommended I watch the documentary Food, Inc. (Visit her blog for more info). This sparked the old flame of responsibility and health and environment-conscious living. I became frustrated at large corporations for manipulating virtually most of what gets funneled down into grocery stores and restaurants. This was only fueled further when I sat down in Borders one afternoon and began to thumb through Fast Food Nation, which chronicles how a combination of socio-economic conditions led to the development of the fast food industry and largely influenced the way meat was produced. I began to remember (and actually believe) that I have a daily responsibility to care for the environment and live compassionately.

So over the past few weeks, I've been trying it out, easing myself into it. Eating meat 2-3 times a week, rather than 2-3 times a day. But this past week, I finally made the general switch (and commitment) to at least be vegetarian for three months.

I'll let you know how it goes. I'm not craving meat today in anyway so at least that's a good sign. Also, if you have any help or advice, please let me know. I went grocery shopping today for the first time with specifically no meat in mind and it wasn't as hard or as tempting as I thought. I do think eating out is going to be difficult...

But we shall see.

you have used 3 continues.

2010-01-26T11:00:00.001-05:00

Lately, I feel like I have been increasingly put in scenarios where I am forced to be direct and not apologize afterward for being direct. Conflict resolution. Honesty. Confrontation. Accountability. Character growth.

All of these have been colliding into my life in various relationships, at an exponentially growing rate within the past 2-3 months. I told a good friend of mine recently, it's almost to the point where it feels like a game. A continuous quest or RPG where I am completing various objectives and puzzles and growing stronger and dying and being reborn, gaining coins and lifes (1 ups?) and propeller hats along the way. Every now and then I'll beat the castle and savour the moment of triumph, only to have the princess whisked off to another world.

And so the quest continues.

I'm slowly learning that I often apologize for things when I am not responsible, and don't apologize and get defensive when it IS my responsibility.

Diplomatic, peace-making Mel is learning the ropes of this honesty business and it's none too fun. How do I grow without being reactionary and pendulum swinging to the opposite extreme?

But I am starting to see the patterns a bit clearer. And feeling the growing pains again. It's good but it's hard. And not nearly as fun as Super Mario world.

But it IS almost getting to the point where it is happening so often, that it is comical.

I started to laugh about it today and it felt pretty good.

portrait of an artist by a landscape.

2010-01-22T08:38:00.001-05:00

She knelt on the shore, tracing the shadows of the clouds upon the grains of sand. It was as if the sky and sea all appeared to conspire to draw her here, if only to sympathize with her restlessness under the unforgiving sun.

It had been awhile since it had even occurred to her to come here, but last night's dreams left her unconstant and unsettled. She had never felt an ounce of regret--ends justifies the means?--but recent events made her realize how so much of her current laceration had spiraled back from this moment. Conversations, hesitations, silences all seemed tethered to this singular constant in time.

She longed to whip out a pair of scissors, slash through and watch them float up through the atmosphere, but they were so entangled and intertwined, she wouldn't know where to begin. She had dedicated her life to accumulation and it would feel so damn good to let it all go.

Every look, a chasm.

Every breath, an ocean between them.

I heard the fatigue in your voice, she thinks. And I get it.

She wonders if she has tortured herself enough, concludes she hasn't, but then relentlessly lets herself off the hook one more time. And always for the wrong reasons.

Sure, grace is amazing.

But not when we're holding Her hostage.

dismantle, repair.

2010-01-18T00:38:00.004-05:00

trying to pull together thoughts from tonight.

earlier today, i was consumed earlier with a piece of melodrama inside my own head.

this week, ironically, has been great. i've had a wonderfully full week of catching up with friends, having sparkling conversation over lunch or coffee, depending on the day of the week. i've melted into jovial circles of people enjoying the taste of beer or the smoke of a pipe as we said our farewells to friends bound for foreign countries. i've laughed over romantic comedies; i've jostled other people over video game controllers as we try to rescue the princess once again; i've enjoyed multiple glasses of wine and good food and good conversation; i've created and strummed and sung and had emotional catharsis; i've been reunited with jack, my favorite terrorist killer from one of my favorite television shows. if anything, this past week has been a microcosm of the spectacularly unbelievable grace of which i've been a recipient.

i've felt grateful, joyful and unbelievably content this entire week.

despite all my past involvement with missions and orphans and street kids, for some reason, i didn't let the news of the earthquake sink into my awareness in any way. i've tweeted about it, i've emailed friends who are involved with mission work in haiti, i've donated some funds, i've acknowledged the suffering, and shaken my head sympathetically at the horror and tragedy.

but it still seemed like statistics. i've felt removed and disconnected from the emotional reality of it.

that all changed tonight.

at status tonight, two young men spoke about their experiences in haiti since this past tuesday. they were working in an orphanage outside of port-au-prince when the earthquake hit. they stood on the stage and told their story. and slowly, the reality of what had happened in haiti started to unravel before my eyes. i could smell the stench of death as they described driving through port-au-prince, surrounded by stacks of dead bodies. i could feel the terror and confusion and shock in the tears of young orphans and street children. i could see the emptiness in the shocked, listless stares of the people trying to make sense of the destruction. the pain became real to me, not just hypothetical.

the piece of melodrama inside my head seemed to vaporize, swallowed up by the immense suffering of a million voices crying out to jesus for help, for aid, for anything.

this is a time for prayer, for listening, for action, for compassion. i am sick and tired of allowing apathy and inaction and indecisiveness and self-absorption and overanalysis to dictate the rhythms of my day-to-day. i realize sanctification is a lifelong process but i am recognizing more and more that i am being drawn into the fray, into the action and i can no longer ignore the throbbing, the fire that has been burning for quite sometime now. i feel God increasingly dismantling me, exponentially over the past few months and i am scared to death and excited and lately it feels like life is constantly spinning out of control but that's because it IS, but it's my control that it's spinning out of and it ought to. because God is ultimately the one in control.

tonight, i remembered a scene from elie wiesel's haunting novel "night." wiesel witnesses the evil of innocent people being mass murdered, most horrifically on the gallows. upon seeing innocent people swinging from the gallows, a bitter voice cries out in anguish "where is god?" and someone replies, "he is there. on the gallows."

for some, i know they think god is dead. or at least indifferent or powerless. or maybe even a monster.

but for me, that scene has always meant that god is indeed on the gallows, but only because he is suffering right along with the people. i believe that christ is never more real and more present than among people that are suffering deep and unspeakable pain.

i have no answers; i don't think anybody does.

but for now, i want to pray and listen and be ready to act at any given moment.

Isaiah 61

1 The Spirit of the Sovereign LORD is on me,
       because the LORD has anointed me
       to preach good news to the poor.
       He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted,
       to proclaim freedom for the captives
       and release from darkness for the prisoners, [a]
2 to proclaim the year of the LORD's favor and the day of vengeance of our God, to comfort all who mourn,
3 and provide for those who grieve in Zion—
to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes,
the oil of gladness  instead of mourning,  
and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair.
They will be called oaks of righteousness, a planting of the LORD for the display of his splendor.
4 They will rebuild the ancient ruins  and restore the places long devastated;  they will renew the ruined cities  that have been devastated for generations.

stardust, sex god and satan.

2009-11-18T10:31:00.002-05:00

I'm sitting in Stardust Coffee and Video, this indie trendy coffeeshop in Orlando. There are shelves and shelves of old VHS and DVDs lining the walls. The room is set up sort of like a school cafeteria with long metal tables and functional white plastic chairs to match. Kate is entertaining house guests from Virginia and suggested we come join them today. I normally have my weekly meetings with Mitch at Starbucks, so I asked him if he wouldn't mind changing it up this week and meeting here.

The day started off with breakfast with Jeanne at Cracker Barrel. And also her telling off some shady adjuster on the phone from the unnamed insurance company she works for. Kate kept coming to the front porch, alternating between eavesdropping and giving me a play-by-play commentary of Jeanne's smack down.

We're both so proud.

Still sitting in the coffeeshop and waiting for Mitch to get here, I just finished reading Sex God by Rob Bell. My friends Josh and Jeanne have been telling me forever about how great this book was, but every time they tried to explain the gist to me, the gist always sounded weird. "Endless connections between God and sexuality" seemed a bit scandalous.

But it's good. And it got me thinking a lot. About relationships. And freedom. I'm journaling, watching the people around me, sipping too-sweet earl grey tea.

For some unknown reason, my Bible flopped open to I Chronicles 21. The first words I read were "Satan rose up against Israel and incited David to take a census of Israel."

This sentence struck me as a little weird. Why is David keeping tabs on how many soldiers had suddenly being labeled as satanic activity? Seems a bit heavy handed.

After all, David is warrior king over all of Israel. He is commander-in-chief, famous for leading a special fighting force of "mighty men," defeating Philistines and other neighboring warring nations. It seemed natural (and shrewd, even) for David to keep a running count of how many men he had. It's just keeping inventory. It's just smart.

The problem is, lately I have been realizing how playing the comparison game can be incredibly destructive.

And we all play it.

Somehow, what begins as harmless observation can slowly but insidiously begin to play upon our weaknesses and insecurities.

"She's more ... than I am." "Look at how much .... he has." "Why does everybody else seem to...?" "I wish I were married." "I wish I were single."

On and on. It's difficult, if not impossible, not to compare ourselves to other people, to complete strangers, to our friends, to our families. Either we are aching for that which we do not have, or we are finding our identity and security in how much we have in comparison to other people. We allow comparison to shape our choices, influence our relationships and give us a sense of validation.

We invite in the hierarchy and it destroys us.

In Chronicles, the story goes onto say how David ordered his right-hand man Joab to take the census. Joab protested, but he was overruled by David. So Joab went throughout Israel, counted the troops and reported back to David. Somehow (the Scripture doesn't say how exactly), David had a moment of realization that this was probably a bad idea. He acknowledges this, then God gives him three options for his punishment. And all three options (famine, sword or divine plague) involve a lot of death. David opts for something that doesn't involve an outside party coming in, so the Lord sends a plague to Israel. 70,000 people are slaughtered. And then on top of that, God sends in an angel to destroy the entire city of Jerusalem. As the angel was apparently about to wipe out the entire city, God suddenly called the whole thing off. But not before 70,000 men are killed and who knows how many families completely devastated from this loss.

Why all the destruction? It seems a bit extreme or irrational of God, perhaps. Crazy, even.

The truth is, I think God knows how comparison distorts our perspective. It destroys us. So in a very tragic way, maybe the destruction somehow equaled the magnitude of David's offense, not only against God but against himself.

David rose up from the obscurity of being a shepherd to being king over all of Israel. He defeated the giant Goliath, the Philistines, the Moabites, the Ammonites, the Arameans, the Edomites in a series of swift, merciless battles. He began to amass an enormous army as thousands began to rally behind him. And at every turn, he acknowledged God as the source of his victory, even bringing the ark of the covenant into the city as a recognition of God's glory and presence being the reason for every triumph. He always understood that his strength and identity was in God.

When David decided to take a census, however, something very subtle was changing within him. He began to shift his trust away from God and toward himself. Toward comparison. There's nothing inherently wrong with being wise and shrewd, but his actions revealed the truth of his motives. His identity was no longer in Yahweh-Nissi; it was in the strength of his own army.

I often wonder how often I take census in my own life. When I compare my abilities, the strength of my relationships, experiences and it either leaves me with an insufferable sense of pride or an self-destructive sense of inadequacy. Abilities, relationships and experiences are good things, but it's so subtle and destructive, how often embracing them can so quickly replace gratitude and humility with a sense of fear, pride, insecurity and inadequacy. I am struggling to relinquish my tendency to compare.

And this is one of the many reasons I really do adore God. He destroys the hierarchy. In Christ, there is ultimate inclusivity. And security. A constant invitation to simply draw from His infinite love and grace where there are no conditions, no fear of abandonment. The invitation to know God, and for Him to know us, every messy, human inch of us, and be loved unconditionally. That height and depth and width of the kind of love astounds me. It's unheard of.

Yahweh-Nissi. God is my victory. Through Christ, He is my strength, my source, my identity, my security and I don't need to compare myself to anyone.

And neither do you.

the astonishment of God

2009-11-04T09:32:00.005-05:00

Throughout all of the Gospels, we constantly read about how the people who encountered Jesus were astonished. They were amazed and captured by His power to heal, His spiritual authority, His teachings, His ability to expose the motives of the Pharisees, His defiance of social or cultural expectations, His claims of divinity. We often talk about being amazed by God or amazed by grace. And these of course are right, necessary, beautiful and worshipful reactions. Yet it never occurred to me that God Himself could be amazed.

There is, however, one time any Gospel writer uses the word "astonished" to describe Jesus. It happens when he encounters a centurion, a Roman soldier who seeks him out and implores Jesus to heal his sick servant. Jesus offers to go to the servant and heal him. But the centurion declines his offer, stating that he is confident that Jesus need only "say the word" and his servant would be healed. He responds to Jesus, saying, "For I myself am a man under authority, with soldiers under me. I tell this one, 'Go,' and he goes; and that one, 'Come,' and he comes. I say to my servant, 'Do this,' and he does it." Like the regimented soldier that he is, he understood Jesus to be a man of authority. He intuitively understood that somehow Jesus held the very power of life and death in both the supernatural realm and the physical realm. He knew in the power of the unseen could affect what was seen, and that this power could defy the limits of space and time.

"When Jesus heard this, he was astonished and said to those following him, "I tell you the truth, I have not found anyone in Israel with such great faith. I say to you that many will come from the east and the west, and will take their places at the feast with Abraham, Isaac and Jacob in the kingdom of heaven. But the subjects of the kingdom will be thrown outside, into the darkness, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth."
Then Jesus said to the centurion, "Go! It will be done just as you believed it would." And his servant was healed at that very hour"

In short, Jesus was astonished. The Greek word used for "astonished" here is "thaumazo." This is the only time this word appears in Scripture. The "thaumazo" means "to wonder, wonder at, marvel, to admire." For the first time, this story struck me as an incredibly poignant moment. I was suddenly fascinated by this idea that the image of the invisible God, the Logos, the ultimate Truth and Reality manifested in a human being to actually be astonished at something.

I am currently enrolled in a Worship Leadership class at Florida Christian College. Simultaneously, I've been keeping up with my friend Greg's Theology of Worship class that he teaches at his home church. So I am learning that there are all of these smart and fancy theological words that smart and fancy theologians have when it comes to the language of God, words like "transcendence" and "immanence."

To put it simply, transcendence describes those qualities of God that exist above our concepts, ideas, categories. These are the traits of God that transcend time and space. Traits like his independence, his unchangeableness, his omniscience (all-knowing), his omnipresent (present everywhere). "Immanence" refers more to those qualities that relate more to humanity and his involvement with creation. This includes traits like wisdom, goodness, love, etc.

There seem to be a lot of human traits that we share with God. According to Scripture, humanity was created "in the image of God." Within the creation of that "image" God instilled in us qualities that He himself has and that we have a capacity for, including wisdom, goodness, love, patience and will. There is an enormous, infinite chasm, however between God's more transcendent qualities and what we actually experience, such as omniscience, or all-knowing.

Because God is all-knowing, God does not have "faith" in the traditional sense. Unlike humanity, He is not subject to uncertainty or unknowns. Since He knows all things, He doesn't necessarily have "faith" in anything.

This seems so divergent from human experience. We experience uncertainty all the time. I felt this so strongly when I was in Australia earlier this year. Every day, Walt and Jeanne and I would wake up in a different hostel, and we only had vague ideas and loose itineraries about where we would go and what we would see as we road-tripped around the continent. With that immense freedom that comes with traveling, there is also the instability and anxiety of unknowns. When Jeanne and I moved to Sydney, we knew few people and had no idea where we would live or find jobs. Then, upon moving back to Orlando, we initially had no idea where we would live or find jobs. Even now, I live in a constant state of uncertainty about my circumstances of what the future holds.

This is why faith is so beautiful and difficult at the same time.

However, until recently, I never thought about the flip side of this philosophical coin: God, being all-knowing, does not experience faith Himself. This is one trait that He does not share with humanity. Since He is sovereign and knows all things, He has no need for faith himself. And so, maybe God is actually astonished by faith? Could God actually be impressed by faith?

I think so.

And it's not in a condescending "Aw, is that cute!" the way a father would be "impressed" by his daughter learning to tie her shoes or something. This is an actual astonishment, a thaumazo. God marvels and wonders at people having faith.

Over the past few years, I reacted against blind and ignorant faith, and chose to embrace doubt and skepticism for a season of my life. Faith seemed the easy route, the uninformed route, what people do who have no idea of the bloodstains and injustice of church history, the suffering of the world or even cultural and historical context of Scripture. Culture today declares faith to be the enemy of reason and that doubt is the source of true liberation for humanity. Even in churches recently, I have noticed a tendency to elevate doubt and cynicism over faith.

I love in Kierkegaard's "Fear and Trembling," how he argues that faith is actually a more difficult, higher plane of existence than doubt, and actually worthy of this deep astonishment. He delivers a beautiful passage on Abraham, named "the father of faith" to all future generations. He describes the impossible faith behind Abraham's choice to obey God and sacrifice his son. Kierkegaard writes: "...but Abraham was greater than all, great by reason of his power whose strength is impotence, great by reason of his wisdom whose secret is foolishness, great by reason of his hope whose form is madness, great by reason of the love which is hatred of oneself."

While I was at Hillsong Church, they launched their Faith Hope and Love album recording, and so these themes of faith, hope and love seemed to penetrate the culture of the church. Hearing the basics of faith and hope preached week after week, I began to realize something was breaking down within my own heart, in regard to remnants of cynicism and doubt that still remained. I began to remember how difficult and beautiful faith can be. I witnessed firsthand what incredible faith and vision can wield a powerful influence in the world. I began to actually believe in faith again, despite its inherent difficulties.

And yes, if you believe in Jesus and have committed yourself to following Him, you know these difficulties I'm talking about. You feel this all the time when you can't seem to make sense of circumstance, when prayer seems stagnant, when change doesn't seem to be happening. A life of faith is absolutely hard. It's not easy by any means. We don't have complete knowledge. That's what makes faith faith. That's what makes hope hope.

I think that's exactly why God, in His infinite wisdom and knowledge, is still astonished by it.

Faith is not an experience God Himself has. It's something that He in his omnipresence that He does not relate to. And maybe he got a glimpse of it again, as Jesus, marveling and wondering at the faith of the centurion.

So it is incredibly beautiful to imagine God as being one who marvels and delights in us as we engage in our faith. It's kind of like enjoying watching someone else dance, even though I myself cannot move in that unique way.

Andrew Peterson wrote a song several years ago called "No More Faith." In it, he sings about the day coming when only love will remain, because the need for faith and hope will pass away.

I say faith is a burden
It's a weight to bear
It's brave and bittersweet
And hope is hard to hold to
Lord, I believe
Only help my unbelief

Till there's no more faith
No more hope
I'll see your face and Lord, I'll know
That only love remains

Uncertainty will pass. The unknown will become known. And here will no longer be any space in this universe for faith and hope, because Reality will overwhelm and cause our three-dimensional existence to expand and explode into glorious eternity and infinitude.

May we live bold, astonishing lives of faith.

"Now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love." [i corinthians 13:13]

from the corner window seat on Orange and Kaley.

2009-11-03T11:24:00.001-05:00

The great Christian revolutions come not by the discovery of something that was not known before. They happen when somebody takes radically something that was always there' (H. Richard Neibuhr)

I was reading Titus this morning and was kind of struck at the introduction of the book. I just recently learned this (yeah, yeah I know I'm a late bloomer. This is what I get for skipping out on Bible College), but all of the epistles in the New Testament are introduced in the same fashion, typical of correspondence in 1st century Palestine. The author identifies himself. If it's Paul, you can be sure that his introduction usually includes an incredibly long run-on sentence in the original Greek and likely translated into English. It includes the name of the person to whom the letter is addressed, which in this case is Titus. And usually it includes the traditional blessing of some form of: "Grace and peace to you from God the Father and Christ Jesus our Savior.

A couple of things recently occurred to me. First, this is bizarre in American culture because when we typically write letters (which, if you still are fortunate enough to have people in your life who actually still write handwritten letters then good on you, mate!), we say "to whom" first and then there's the body and text of the letter and then we conclude with "from" or "sincerely" or "much love" or "cheers", etc. It's flipped. We do it backwards. So finally realizing something as insignificant as the structure of New Testament letters made me realize how personal and intentional and fraught with purpose all of these letters are. I know whenever I write a letter it's usually because I am particularly moved and inspired or frustrated or angry and want to communicate clearly my thoughts and perspective on any particular matter to a specific person. This is why I love literature like Oscar Wilde's De Profundis or Rilke's Letters to a Young Poet or Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.'s Letters from a Birmingham Jail. There is a personal intent and honesty and urgency in letters that is different from blogs or books or memoirs. There is a beautiful, naked eloquence about personal correspondence.

The second thing I observed is actually that this 1st century style of writing letters closely mirrors the way emails are set up. In fact I can only imagine the Book of Titus being prefaced by this way:

From: Paul, a bond-servant of God and an apostle of Jesus Christ, for the faith of those chosen of God and the knowledge of the truth which is according to godliness, in the hope of eternal life, which God, who cannot lie, promised long ages ago, but at the proper time manifested, even His word, in the proclamation with which I was entrusted according to the commandment of God our Savior.

To: Titus, my true child in a common faith

CC: The rest of the world

Subject: Grace and peace from God the Father and Christ Jesus our Savior

Okay so maybe the CC thing is a bit ridiculous. So before you shake your head at the initial cheesiness of this, this whole idea of how correspondence is set up in the first-century culture has really has made me contemplate who I am and how I interact with people. With a clear "From" and description of himself, Paul not only has an incredibly strong sense of identity, but an eternal perspective and a story which affects his decisions, his life purpose. He boldly and clearly identifies himself as an apostle and He affirms the faithfulness of God, both personal and corporate. He lives through the certainty of his identity. Over and over we read about how Paul has all the necessary qualifications: He was a Pharisee, a teacher of the law, one endowed with leadership ability and incredible spiritual authority. He is naturally charismatic. And yet, all of these things he considers to be "rubbish, that I may be found in Christ."

He doesn't find his identity in external strengths that society esteems or even internal strengths that could give him a sense of superiority. He finds his identity in the eternal love. And all his energy and ambition and pursuits are focused and channeled to one end: God's glory and his kingdom.

Not only that, I recently discovered that that greeting of "grace and peace" prefaces nearly ever single letter that Paul, Peter or John ever wrote. It appears 13 times and always at the beginning of the letter. At first, I always dismissed this to be some kind of standard greeting, something nearly devoid of meaning. Like how people politely say "God bless you" when somebody sneezes. It always kind of seemed peripheral, like the phrase was just thrown in there to sound religious and proper.

But I realize what kind of transforming power that greeting can have if the intent behind it is genuine. I can't say that I approach all of my relationships and interactions with people with this underlying theme of "grace and peace" informing my every action.

How would actually living through the reality of grace and peace, allowing an understanding and experience of grace and peace to reform and reshape my identity and my relationships with other people? In this case, I would not merely be following a list of religious rules or being guilted into acting a certain way out of obligation or fear or compulsion. But rather, I would be living through the new creation that I am, the identity that God has given me, a Spirit-created heart that is fundamentally different from the habits and intuition of this world. Allowing God's grace and peace to overflow out of my life into the lives of other people has radical ramifications.

I think far too often, we as believers neglect the gospel of grace. We become far more concerned about asserting our own opinions, standing on our soapboxes of theology and philosophy, finding our strength by excluding rather than including, clinging to our perceptions and preferences at the expense of unity that we forget the fundamental truth of the gospel: grace.

And I of course am the first to admit that I am guilty of this.

One thing that I've become increasingly aware of within myself is to be increasingly self-critical, almost to the point where I tend to assume responsibility for things that I shouldn't. I apologize unnecessarily. I assume all of the blame when blame should be shared. This has become increasingly obvious in the way I fail or disappoint the people in my life.

In effect, I don't have grace for myself.

Or sometimes the extreme opposite becomes true. I endlessly excuse myself and other people's faults, avoiding God's gentle but firm reminder that He is here not to make me feel better about myself but to slowly recreate me as a new person.

Both tendencies, I've realized, is massive evidence of pride. What looks like selflessness can actually be a passive way to hold God and other people at arms' length. What looks like tolerance can actually be an avoidance of conflict, born out of fear and insecurity. These are things that I am working through and I pray for continued grace.

I'm still wrestling through the ramifications of this, but I do believe that at least God is calling me to begin with prayer. It's clearly not my purpose to fix other people or impose my view on them or to convince people of this or that. Rather, it's simply to serve in love, allowing grace (a sober acknowledgement of brokenness and an unconditional acceptance of it, which I can only do because I myself have been the undeserving recipient of such grace from God) and peace (active reconciliation and restoration) to reform my perspective, my actions, my motives.

So if anything, like Paul I want to find complete security of my identity in God. To find my disordered loves and idols and misplaced securities to be swallowed up in His deep and utter love that He has lavished on me in Jesus. I want to allow His perspective and love for me redefine who I am, rather than be subject solely to the whims of culture, experience, my childhood and relationships. Like Paul, I want to have that eternal perspective of grace and peace affecting me, transforming me, redefining me.

So please have patience with me when I fail as I undoubtedly will. This pattern is doomed to repeat itself from the Garden all the way to the City.

But thank God for Jesus. Seriously.

Grace and peace to you all.

"The kingdom is eternal, the gospel of Jesus becomes internal, and that becomes visible externally in the world." -Pastor Joel Abell

at the taco bell drive thru

2009-10-25T23:44:00.004-04:00

after a long day of food and wine festival, status and rehearsal, jeanne and i pull up into our default late night dive which you might have heard of: taco bell.

where: drive-thru of some off-the-grid taco bell in kissimmee. this is probably the world's most inaccessible taco bell. an entj did not design the layout of the parking lot to taco bell. 13 right turns later, we arrived at the drive-thru.

taco bell guy: (to jeanne, handing her a water and a pepsi plus some change) here you go, ma'am.
jeanne: oh, you don't need to "ma'am" me.
taco bell guy: excuse me?
jeanne: you don't need to "ma'am" me. (insert southern belle charm)
taco bell guy: okay, sweetie. (returns 2 minutes later with our order of one chicken burrito, one bean burrito-no-sauce-no-onion and one soft-taco-with-no-lettuce) here ya go. you want any sauce, honey?
jeanne: mild and fire, please. thanks, doll.
mel: yes, thanks, sugarpop.
taco bell guy: you have a nice night, sweet cakes.
jeanne: (laughter) g'night!

Back to My First Blog Love: Dexter

2009-10-21T23:04:00.009-04:00

So many of you know that from the days of Yore (and Yore was a very important era in colonial America, as Rachel Green would attest to), I used to provide frequent, in-depth analyses of episodes of Dexter. Seasons 1 and 2 miraculously unlocked the floodgates of inspiration and I took great pleasure in dissecting nuances, analyzing characters and hypothesizing potential plot twists, all with the fervent zeal of a new lover.

Sadly, the well-intentioned, promising but (in my humble opinion) poorly executed mess otherwise known as Season 3 decisively ended my love affair with blogging about Dexter.

Thanks to this past pivotal Season 4, Episode 4 "Dex Takes a Holiday," Dexter Blogs and I are now officially an item, reunited.

Speaking of which. Relationships. Relationships in this series have ironically always proven central. Dexter's relationship and view of Harry continues to evolve, especially now as Daddy Harry serves more as a spirit guide, a moral conscience. Well as morally conscious as a man who trained a serial killer to hide his true nature can be. Harry is the Obi Wan Kenobi to Dexter's Luke Skywalker. You can almost hear him whispering in Dex's ear, "Run, Dex, Run!"

And run, he might have to, though not in the traditional sense. In Season 4, the writers have cleverly taken us down this pathway of exploring what domestic bliss, with all its suburban restraints and charms, will do to Dexter and his stealthy extracurricular activities. I've loved every second of seeing Dexter squirm, not necessarily from the cat-and-mouse game of possibly getting caught, but how his own choices and lifestyle seem to be working against him. It's almost like Dexter is a Grand Master, playing chess with himself and checkmating himself all the while. It's not the police or prosecuting attorney out to get him, expose him, or even kill him. It's about Dexter's choices to come a father, a husband and an integrated member of civil society that keeps Dexter on his toes, sweating every possible minute.

In some ways, this show is becoming a surprisingly incisive, dark humored take on the American dream and the sanitized, suburban American way. It almost makes me think of the mid-life or quarter life crisis pandemic that seems to hit a culture overwhelmed with the curse of too many options, and a universal assumption to assert individualism and personal self-fulfillment.

But I digress.

There were so many great moments in this episode for me. When Quinn told that reporter (or Smokin' Hot Reporter Lady as some of my guy friends have unfortunately labeled her) to take a hike (Quinn can be such an IDIOT sometimes); when Lundy's six sense kicked in and he knew something was fishy about John Lithgow swooping in and "accidentally" dropping his keys (I loved this by the way: ultimate confirmation that Lundy really does deserve the title of Rock Star Serial Killer Catcher); when Dexter had a moment of clarity, an epiphany while he had that cop lady Saran Wrapped and cocooned to the table; when Deb decided to go for it and went with her heart, like she always does. Even the slightly cheesy but somehow sweet storyline of La Guerta and Angel struck a tender chord for me.

In most of these cases, each character's choice to either commit or quit relationships they are in seems to shape and define and propel both their destinies and other people's destinies on collision courses with each other.

It seems to be general consensus that Lundy indeed probably died instantaneously, while Deb will live on, although not without a serious fight. And we can only assume Dexter will have a fire lit underneath him once he hears his baby sister was shot. I am looking forward to a final showdown between John Lithgow the Trinity Killer and Dexter.

I love where this season is going in terms of plot, theme, character development.

Oh yeah, and my favorite theme music is back.

I really can't complain:)

books i want to read. and also finish reading.

2009-09-30T08:28:00.011-04:00

I decided to post a list of books I want to read on my blog, because chances are that I am going to forget if I write this on a text document and save it in my computer somewhere. These are books that have recently come across my path or come recommended to me. I am probably going to add to this list later.

Currently In Process
Shantaram (in process) by Gregory David Roberts: First recommended by Carolina on her blog, then raved about by Jeanne after her endless quest to find a used copy of this book in bookstores throughout the Australian continent, I think I heard Jeanne laugh and react more times during this book more than any other. I initially developed a fascination with Indian culture while at university, and the idea of an Aussie convict in India and Afghanistan just sounds great. I'm finally in a regular rhythm of reading this book and I love it now, so hopefully it won't take me months to conquer this massive +900 page beast of a book.

The Seven Storey Mountain, autobiography by Thomas Merton: Something about reading Philip Yancey's Prayer book sparked within me the desire to pick up this book which has been sitting on my shelf unread for a good year. It's interesting to pair a fictional autobiography (Shantaram, heavily based in reality and the author's life experiences) with an actual biography.

The Two Towers/The Return of the King by Tolkien: My reading of this series has been in process for years. Literally. I read The Fellowship and half of The Two Towers and never finished Return of the King. I think something about traveling and having an incredible, arduous journey around the world and back has made me want to re-visit these books and attempt it once again. In other words, I'm back in the Shire and would like some hobbits to empathize with.

Want to Read:
Here and Now/Wounded Healer by Henri Nouwen: Seeing Brennan Manning and Philip Yancey and generally anybody awesome relentlessly quote this guy has made me want to read more by him. I just finished In the Name of Jesus which was a short read. There is so much truth and wisdom in that book. Simple, too. The trick is actually living it out. Which, incidentally, I have not figured out.

The Moviegoer by Walker Percy: This also has been sitting on my shelf for a year, maybe more. Came recommended to me years ago by my friend Mo, on account of its themes of grace and colorful setting in New Orleans. Being in Savannah, GA this weekend made me want to read some good hearty Southern literature.

Everything That Rises Must Converge by Flannery O'Connor: In the tv show LOST, "Jacob" was sitting on a bench reading this book shortly before John Locke fell out of the 10-story building. That's reason enough for me. Also, my friend/former bandmate Ryan has perpetually recommended me anything by Flannery O'Connor. Also going along with the Southern theme...

Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky: Another Jeanne Cannon recommend. Also, I would love to compare and contrast the themes and characters with other Dostoesky books I've read. There are only two of them that I've read. But still. I love Russians and I'm discovering that I may have a little (or a lot) of Russian deep in my soul.

Crazy Love by Francis Chan: My youth minister friend Josh endlessly raves about this book.

Surprised By Hope by N.T. Wright: Somebody told me a long time ago that I should read this. And I am suddenly out of my no-more-theology-books phase. Plus I know N.T. Wright is that shiznit and I just need to read something by him.

With Christ in the School of Prayer by Andrew Murray: I think this is Andrew Murray's Mere Christianity. I've only read one Andrew Murray book, a lesser-known book called The Ministry of Intercession, but I haven't read his main book. Philip Yancey has recommended him too. A good follow-up book to the last one on prayer.

One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez: I am sure I tested the fates by shipping this book back from Australia to my Floridian doorstep two months ago. Literally shipped it. It traversed perilous waters and waves to make itself back to me after an arduous 2-hour journey. I at least owe it to the book to give it a fair shot, after only reading the first 48 pages of it and being thoroughly confused.

Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury: Read the first chapter and the prose is captivating. Always good to throw in some eerily prophetic science fiction into the mix. Also Ray is the bomb. I'm pretty sure I read short stories by him in high school but now I can't remember.

Catch 22 by Joseph Keller: Because I use this phrase occasionally. And I have no idea why.

maybe I should stop blogging and start reading.

Tybee Island, Georgia.

2009-09-27T09:27:00.004-04:00

Tybee Island, Georgia.

Jeanne and I decided to get up and run 10 kilometers this morning. She shuffled through the covers to wake me up at around 6:30 a.m. I had been dreaming of a time in the not-too-distant future when people started distrusting meteorologists and started listening to and interpreting the patterns of bird calls to predict the weather. It seemed like a futuristic science fiction novel in which common people begin to whisper conspiratorially that we must return to the ancient ways and rebel against soul-sucking technology. I had been leaning by a window with opened shutters listening to the birds outside my window when I suddenly felt someone shuffling through the covers, jabbing me awake. "Wake up, Mel. It's 6:30."

Still groggy, I slapped on my running clothes, silently cursing my recent decision to run a half-marathon in December. We slipped outside of our beachfront hotel room. We stood by the front of sign in front of the hotel on Butler Avenue, the main street that winds along the coast of Tybee Island. I caught a glimpse of the sky, still dark, but slightly tinted with a pink glow, the beginnings of a beach sunrise. Jeanne must have seen it too, because she suddenly said, "This is gonna be a good run."

Funny how the sky can change your mind about things.

As we stretched, I looked at the sign that said "DeSoto Beachfront Hotel: Tybee Island's only beachfront hotel! Come enjoy our beachfront pool." Guess they wanted you to know the hotel was on the beach front.

We started jogging on a gravel path that wound around all sorts of old beachfront homes, the kind of unpretentious, cheerful houses dripping with polite Southern charm that you imagine have creaky floorboards and rusty hinges. The paint is chipped, following years of being salted by the sea and warmed by the Georgian sun. They are draped and shadowed by oak, sycamore and sugarberry trees.

The streets crossing this lone gravel path have names like Anderson and Campbell and I imagine small clans and families settling in these houses by the sea. I imagine barbecues and house parties and weddings. When we passed through Savannah yesterday, we passed Liberty Avenue, an impressive boulevard sheathed in a canopy of oak and Spanish moss, with sentinels of enormous mansions of colonnades and wraparound porches lining the street. Jeanne commented on the history of the boulevard, saying, "These houses saw Sherman."

We are separated only by two centuries.

The thing I noticed about Tybee Island is that there are lots of conversation areas. It's as if this island was discovered and settled solely for the purpose of conversation in mind. Wooden park benches, deck chairs, cafe tables in patios lined with tiki torches and Chinese lanterns. Lots of intimate, well-worn spaces gradually carved out by the gentle erosion of time. I noticed a pair of wooden deck chairs perched on a dock that nestled its way through a swamp of tall sawgrass. Even trailers of row boats and skiffs lining the driveways evoked images of friends, families and lovers sharing hazy sundrenched days together. I do love how the sea breeze and sand seem to conspire to cling to everything. The blades of grass, the gravel, half-submerged fences by the sea, my pockets, my hair, my clothes.

The gravel has ended and we have made our way back to the main drag.

We raced the fences lining Butler Avenue, passing a row of churches that suddenly seemed brighter. Jeanne pointed to a whitewashed, wooden building with a sign that said "The Optimist Club. We wish you a safe and prosperous stay."

"Wonder where the Cynics Club is."

"Across the street."

"I imagine it's easy to be an optimist when you wake up to the sunrise every morning."

"Yeah, especially a sunrise on the beach."

I read a caution sign that said: Slow Church Zone. I laughed.

I saw a flock of seagulls escape and veer off through the trees, rising and disappearing into the sky. We passed through a grove of trees, and even through my headphones I could hear cicadas screaming for my attention. They overpowered the electric guitar and drums blasting through my iPod.

I felt a sudden burst of energy. I suddenly remembered my meal from the other night, which included a cilantro potato salad. I thought of all those carbohydrates and felt an affectionate surge of gratitude toward my dinner last night. "Thank you, potato salad," I cheered out of nowhere. I looked over at Jeanne. She is oblivious to my triumphant shout to potato salad, fully absorbed in her own solitude, set to the music of her iPod.

We are on the homestretch. I see our beachfront hotel with the beachfront pool by the beachfront sign in the distance. My feet are rebelling, grumbling and interrogating me as to why I haven't bought thicker socks. But my endorphins are in ecstasy.

This was a good run.

smash the universe for the sake of itself.

2009-09-23T22:48:00.000-04:00

epiphany

the reason i am so frail now
is that my whole identity has become bound up
in one not You
the reason so much hurts these days
is that part of me is driven by
fear.

fear of loss of something that is good
but something that has perhaps become
an ultimate thing.

this is what has caused the insecurity,
the mistrust, the fear, the emotional turmoil, everything.

this is why these things sting,
the words,
the prospect of others,
the comparison
and the crisis of self.

so Spirit...
shatter this within me; break this apart
wrest this from my desperate grasp

this is the one thing before me right now
that is capable of rendering all of the moments up until this one
meaningless.

if i succumb
when my foundation becomes Another,
than the One disappears

Reduced.
Betrayed.
Denied.

identity both there
and in us
it is the source

Idolatry

is the source of my pain
my frustration
my fragility

this is,
quite simply,
a chain.

break the chain
let me walk in freedom

this wasn't a problem before
because it wasn't
only when I've allowed a good and beautiful thing
to supplant
the Good and Beautiful One

I surrender this to you
i quit it.

i am tired of grasping this idol.

let this die
and fall from my grasp

you are the only One worthy of my worship
my obsession
my destiny
i've gone from looking at the horizon to
looking at Another

i can take criticism and not be crushed
i can give criticism without crushing
because of the grace God has shown me through Jesus

extraordinary patience.

there is nothing between us now.

[romans 8:38-39]

Invisible Children, Orthodoxy

2009-09-17T11:36:00.013-04:00

Wednesday night, I attended The Element's presentation of "Together We're Free," a documentary released by the non-profit organization Invisible Children. Invisible Children was founded by three guys who traveled to Uganda in 2003. With naive hopes of capturing some of the Sudanese conflict on film, they instead found themselves witnessing the atrocities of war, as committed by rebel leader Joseph Kony and the LRA. Over the past couple of decades, they have kidnapped thousands of young children and forced them to become soldiers and kill. Since Invisible Children released their film in 2003, a movement has been steadily building throughout America and around the world to apply pressure to the Ugandan government and U.S. to end the war.

"Together We're Free" chronicled the journey of thousands of volunteers who demonstrated solidarity with the kidnapped children in parks and squares in 100 cities throughout the world on April 25, 2009, an international event known as "Respond." The volunteers were "kidnapped," and could only be "rescued" by a local politician or celebrity bringing awareness to the issue of child soldiers. The volunteers would refuse to leave, defying city ordinances and the limits of overnight permits until someone of prominence gave voice to this critical issue. The film is really about ordinary people actively taking charge and effecting change.

Because of the efforts of Invisible Children through "Respond," the issue of Joseph Kony now has the potential to finally be introduced into Congress this year as an official bill. Currently, a petition needs to be signed by 250,000 people to make it into Congress.

Watching the film, I was truly amazed and excited that the passion and energy of thousands of young people around the world can accomplish.

The word "responsibility" is thrown around a lot, that I often forget its most basic meaning: the ability to respond. This is essentially the rallying cry of this next generation. With wireless Internet and instant access to information all around the world, our social awareness level has rocketed sky high, higher than any other previous generation. Because of Twitter or a Facebook link, I can know literally within seconds of major world events of earthquakes or invasions, as well as pop-culture fiascos, like the death of a major film star or Kanye West's rude, self-promotional outburst.

With the convenience of instant access comes an overwhelming sense of responsibility, or the ability to respond. The bar of action and response has been raised infinitely high, because we essentially have two choices: action or apathy.

I somehow think that our generation will either be forever thinking through, ignoring or acting on the implications on the infinitude of awareness, in regard to everything: poverty, the environment, politics, health care, spirituality. And there are things that are closer and more immediate: a neighbor that needs help or a friend who needs someone to talk to. Some days this excites me; other days it terrifies me. Awareness comes with an enormous price tag. I have a responsibility to thoughtfully consider these issues, and eventually shift or make choices as my response.

Because of the documentary the other night, I began to remember my own personal journey with Invisible Children and Uganda.

My own encounter with this issue of child soldiers did not begin last night. It began in a library, of all places. While I was a student at the University of Florida, I used to work at the digital library center, snapping photos of dusty, archived newspapers to be put on microfilm. Many of the newspapers like The Daily Nation and the Monitor came from Uganda. My friend Matt worked with me in the library, and asked me if I had heard about Joseph Kony of Uganda. I told him I hadn't, and he immediately began to show me stacks of articles that detailed the atrocities of war. One article estimated that 50,000 children had been kidnapped and forced to kill over the past 20 years. I remember sitting there, stunned at the injustice and also completely shocked that the global media had failed to report this holocaust.

Later that year, my friend Sydney and I were invited to lead worship at a prayer conference. After the prayer and worship time, the speaker announced that they were screening a film, and all were welcome to stay behind and watch. As I was packing up my keyboard and sound equipment, a young guy approached me and introduced himself. "I'm Bobby."

He asked me if I was going to stick around and watch the film.

Distracted by sound equipment, I gave him a non-committal "Maybe." Then I remembered that Sydney and I had dinner plans to meet with a friend of ours, so I told him we wouldn't be able to stick around.

He cracked some joke about coming to dinner and grinned at me and I could have sworn he was hitting on me. I figured he was some amateur, wannabe filmmaker whose only aim was to seduce the young women of America with his wiley, artistic ways. He thrust a DVD into my hand. It was a copy of the rough cut. He looked me in the eye and said, "I'm giving you a free copy. On one condition. Promise me you'll watch this."

Oh, this guy is good. I wanted to laugh at him, because despite his seriousness, he was still simultaneously smiling and winking. I couldn't take him seriously.

He gave me his card and said, "I'd love to know what you think of it." He scribbled his personal cell phone number on the back of the card and handed it to me. Wow. I came to lead worship, and I came away with a guy's number. Awesome.

I hastily stuffed the DVD in my purse, and it lay there for days, virtually forgotten. Almost a week later, my roommate Kyara, Sydney and I were sitting around our living room. Suddenly, Sydney said out of nowhere "Hey, whatever happened to that DVD that guy gave you? Did you ever watch it?"

"No. But we should."

"Let's do it."

So for the next hour, we watched the film Invisible Children. We were stunned. Wrecked. Outraged. And immediately motivated to do something about it.

We immediately called Bobby. (I think I had to dig his number out of the bottom of my purse. Good thing I didn't put it in the trash). The three of us crowded over my cell phone as we put him on speaker phone and asked the simple question, "What can we do to help?" Bobby shared their vision of bringing an end to the war and helping Ugandans rebuild their broken society and communities which have been absolutely devastated, physically, psychologically and emotionally by the rebel conflict.

He simply told us at this point, that we should share the film with as many people as possible, raising awareness and the profile of this movement. Over the next couple of years, Sydney, Kyara and I organized screenings of Invisible Children and facilitated forums on how best to address this situation. We were involved in the Global Night Commute and Displace Me events. I decided to sponsor a child from Uganda that was living in Gulu, specifically in regard to the child soldier problem. I watched Invisible Children grow--in my own limited perspective--from an awkward conversation and a free DVD into a worldwide movement that has resonated throughout college and high school campuses and churches, reaching the very steps of Capitol Hill.

Eventually, however, my attention and active support for Invisible Children gave way to Hananasif Orphanage, with whom I had a more personal, direct relationship. But even now, I haven't really done anything in support of Hananasif in the past year. I would chalk this up to being in Australia. But now it feels like I am at a crossroads again, trying once again to reconcile all of these causes and issues that are vying for my attention. I want to live a life that is consistent, full of integrity, and at least on the trajectory of love, justice and worship of God (Micah 6:8), despite how often I can and will fail. I am not looking to be perfect, by any means.

I have had many conversations with friends lately about the possibility of change. It is easy to look all of these issues squarely in the face and feel terrified of the weight of responsibility, at the seeming impossibility of change, especially when we so consistently fail at changing even ourselves. In his book Orthodoxy, G.K. Chesterton proposes the idea of an irrational optimist, as opposed to the pessimist or the optimist. According to Chesterton, the pessimist sees only evil and endlessly chastises the world, "but he does not love what he chastises." On the other hand, the optimist will see only good and endlessly excuse the world, leading to complacency: "he will not wash the world, but whitewash the world."

The irrational optimist, however, is somewhat of a paradox in regard to his view of the world: "Can he hate it enough to change it, and yet love it enough to think it worth changing? Can he look up at its colossal good without once feeling acquiescence? Can he look up at its colossal evil without once feeling despair? Can he, in short, be at once not only a pessimist and an optimist, but a fanatical pessimist and a fanatical optimist? Is he enough of a pagan to die for the world, and enough of a Christian to die to it?... He is ready to smash the whole universe for the sake of itself."

One thing that keeps me convinced that change is possible is simply this: I see it. I see my friends and family grow and change, I see myself change. I see redemption. I see hope. The very foundation and premise of Christianity is rooted in the possibility of change, of something being renewed, transformed, made new.

A story that began in a Garden shall end in a City.

So maybe I AM an irrational optimist.

on teleportation. among other things.

2009-09-08T20:48:00.016-04:00

My friends who know me well know that I have at least two irrational desires.

The first irrational desire is to have a pet pegasus. Now, I realize that all scientific and historical evidence appears to suggest that these magnificent creatures are in fact mythical; however, this is precisely why I would want one. I would be the only person in the universe [to my knowledge] to own one. I would have an adventurous (albeit windy) mode of transportation, and a beautiful animal for a friend.

The second irrational desire is to be able to teleport. I cannot even describe to you how many times I have wished this power for myself on a regular basis. After an absurdly late night downtown, I would often wish to teleport so I would not have to make the half an hour drive from downtown Orlando to my house all the way in the boondocks. I would have instant access to anywhere in the world at the snap of a finger. I wouldn't have to deal with train tickets, bad airplane food or jetlag.

In addition to many ongoing conversations in the past of our superpowers and what they would be, Jeanne and I would frequently realized how handy this superpower would have been in Australia. In fact, if we were still able to teleport, I would probably teleport myself right now for some hot surfers, a decent cappuccino, some vintage shopping, maybe a Hillsong service or two and some serious beach time. Then at the end of a glorious Sydney spring day, I could teleport myself back to the comfort of my American bed.

While we were in Australia, we would frequently dream of the ability to teleport to America. We'd blink and in a momentary flash, surprise our friends by teleporting ourselves into Backbooth for 80s night on a random Friday, or maybe to Chickfila for some much-needed sweet tea or chicken nuggets, and definitely back in time for my mom's graduation or an impromptu family reunion.

I remember road-tripping through Australia with Walt and Jeanne. Once we left Sydney after our initial 12-day stay there, we hopped in a car and drove south of Sydney. That first day of driving turned out to have its own series of misadventures, since neither Walt nor Jeanne had ever driven on the left side of the road. Not to mention the right side of the car. I'm pretty sure we got lost multiple times, trying to find the Princes Highway which would eventually lead us south through Wollongong and on through to our first memorable stop of the Pacific Coast road-trip: a tiny town of Bermagui. Population: 220.

On our way to Bermagui, we stopped at several places along the way. Whenever we saw a seven-mile beach or set of cliffs or read about some sight (tessellated rocks, anyone?) to see in the guide book, we'd instantly pull the car over and have a look. I loved the utter freedom to simply revel in creation, to be immersed in the vastness of the world, to feel swallowed up in it. Even when sights turned out to be not-so-glorious (note to future Lonely Planet travelers: the blowhole at Kiama is not all its cracked up to be), many times, it's the unexpected that becomes glorious. Like the time the night sky caught us by surprise and showed off for us as we stopped our car on a bridge in the middle of nowhere just to look up at the stars. I could have sworn the stars were reflected in the glassy, dark water that surrounded us.

I've been contemplating the word "fear" in the Bible. The Greeks have three words for fear. Many times, the word fear can mean come from the Greek deilia, which means timidity or cowardice. The kind of fear bred from insecurity, mistrust and anxiety.

However, many times, when that word appears in Scripture, it comes from the Greek word eulabeia which means to be in utter awe at the reality of something. The "fear of God" is not a Bible-thumping, judgmental, white-bearded, wrinkled old man shaking his finger at us: rather, the fear of God is a response to a sweeping, breathtaking panorama, an all-consuming, glimpse into Something that is Truth. Something that is real. Something that makes our souls come alive at the sound, sight and the very hint of Its presence. Scripture says that "angels long to look into these things." I heard pastor Tim Keller of Redeemer Presbyterian Church in NYC describe this "longing" as being equivalent with "obsession." The gospel is so complex, compelling and at once incomprehensible that angels are obsessing over it, wondering at the marvel and mystery of it, and utterly unable to grasp it in its entirety.

That's the kind of awe I feel when I crane my neck up to look at the myriad of stars over Bermagui one night. Or the time when I am sitting on a balcony of a raucous hostel in Cairns on Anzac Day with two friends, deeply moved by uncensored words and intimate revelation of self.

As much as I ardently wish for teleportation, I am realizing more and more how necessary are the detours, the unexpected and the silent, despairing moments when I'm left wondering if I'm worth anything or any good to anyone. It is within these moments that I can truly know the extent of someone's love. Or Someone's love. One kind of fear (the awe, which, is actually the only appropriate response to Love) negates the other. My identity and purpose, my very soul's source is rooted in perfect Love. If only I could consciously grasp that on a daily basis...

I love what Lander posted in his blog here about progress. He exhorted readers to: "Hold onto the progress you have made." Progress does not allow for an instant gratification culture that sometimes feels like it is on a trajectory to teleportation. Progress has brilliant moments of insight and beauty and wonder. But it also includes difficult moments of doubt, it is in those moments where I have to flee from the allure of emotions and perception and cling to truths that I know, visions I remember, and dreams that are sealed up in my memory. These things cannot be truly learned or grasped in an instantaneous moment of teleportation.

So yeah, I'm pretty sure even teleportation is overrated.

But not the pegasus.

leavin' las Oz

2009-09-02T23:45:00.014-04:00

Tonight, Jeanne and I had a three-way Skype conversation with Alexey, our Russian friend from the land Down Under. We've had several missed calls to each other over the past month and haven't had much of a chance to catch up with him. He caught us up on all the things he's been up to: he finished his class, he got his motorbike license, he picked up the violin, which he hasn't played since he was a young boy. I suddenly remembered all of the bits of Australia that I had unknowingly discarded. It was as if they were bright and shiny souvenirs that I had discarded, but suddenly discovered tucked away safely in a forgotten shoebox.

It's really strange how the memories of a place can be wrapped up in the friendship with one person. And it isn't until you're around that friend that you unlock all the memories you have of a place, of a time.

I remembered how fast and crazily Alexey swerves and parks his car, defying all laws of physics when doing so. I remembered how his bird Petrovich can speak five languages. I remember him telling us stories about growing up in Russia and how it wasn't cool to play a violin, and Russian boys think it's better to pick up a gun than a four-stringed instrument. I remembered when he took us to his "favorite spot" at Maroubra Beach on a windy Sydney winter night and we shared sandwiches and split a beer while the wind bit our noses and whipped around our feet.

For some reason, I suddenly remembered our last bittersweet weekend in Australia, when Jeanne and I decided to drink every last drop of Sydney, splurging and renting a car, visiting the Northern Beaches, down to Watson's Bay and the South Head, wandering one more time through Bondi Beach and its fabulous market, going to three Hillsong services, eating a Lebanese feast with Dave and Bec, and amazing flourless chocolate cake in some restaurant in Glebe.

Every moment was cherished. Every conversation we knew would be our last. Every moment of music we drank in, greedily.

Jeanne just wrote a blog which I found to be very thought provoking. She quotes the lovely Brothers Karamazov, a certain question between two Russian brothers. She wrote about this idea of leaving and saying good-bye. And how we let good-byes shape the way we treat people. The way we treat life.

A dear friend of mine is wrestling with some severe health issues. She seems so aware of her fragility, her mortality, these days.

"I could die."

Without warning, this thought suddenly shot through my heart as I sat there listening to her: We all could die. We're all an inch away from death, in many ways. A slip in the bathtub, unexpected cancer, a wreck on the highway. Death, I imagine, is a lot closer then we would like to pretend. The possibility of death hovers around us constantly whether we realize it or not. Maybe not a grotesque caricature like the Grim Reaper, but certainly as an unwelcome, unpredictable guest.

This afternoon, I sat in stand-still rush hour traffic in the pouring Florida rain and decided to sync my iPod with my Macbook. Probably not the smartest thing to do in traffic. The thought occurred to me that I could probably die doing that as well.

I wonder if we could truly wrap our minds around how close we were to death at any given moment, would we realize how close we also are to life? The same inch that separates us from death is the same inch that so often separates us from truly experiencing life with freedom and purpose.

I've just spent the last five months traveling throughout a country where many people dream all their lives of going. I quit my job for an adventure and I found one. I [literally] hiked through canyons, road-tripped through a coastal highway, went skydiving, swam in the Great Barrier Reef [one eye infection later], slept under the stars of the outback. Surely I, the world-traveler, would have a firmer grasp on living life to the fullest?

I don't. In fact, I'm learning more and more how much I have to learn, how inadequate I am, how I so often fail at loving people the way Christ loved people. Just because I've loved a beautiful country to the fullest extreme doesn't mean I've learned how to love people in the same way. I am learning--by God's grace--I am learning. I have learned about faith, hope and love from a beautiful church community in Sydney. I have learned about saunas and exuberance from a crazy Russian. I learned about family from a Polish Puerto Rican and about friendship from a Irish Georgian. I have learned from families and hostels and houses and memories scattered all across Oz's rugged terrain.

But it certainly is strange, after all this traveling, to have been returned to a place of unknowing at the very place I started at. And so many of the lessons I learned unexpectedly over the past few months are being put through the fire. To the test. Repeatedly.

I don't want to have to leave a place in order to love it. And I don't want to have to miss [or lose] people before I love and appreciate and know them as they are.

prayer + unknown

2009-09-02T13:49:00.000-04:00

"Prayer is not a means of removing the unknown and unpredictable elements in life, but rather a way of including the unknown and unpredictable in the outworking of the grace of God in our lives."

-Ray Anderson, The Gospel According to Judas

looking up at you from the flat of my back

2009-08-30T17:07:00.007-04:00

This past weekend, I drove with Mim and Jeanne to attend the Hillsong United Encounter event in Miami.

To be honest, I have had a lot of trouble over the past few weeks adjusting to life back in Orlando. Don't get me wrong: I've much enjoyed re-connecting with family and friends. I enjoy $2.50 movies and cheap books and ChickFila and quality salads and good Mexican food. I love late nights with with friends on front porches and not having to explain what LOST is to an Aussie for the millionth time.

But over the past couple of weeks, the sharp contrast between American and Australian culture has simply irritated me. Depressed me, even. America just feels the annoying neighbor that's just loud and flashy and rude. I've also felt creatively dry. Every time I've sit in front of my piano or with my guitar or in front of a computer screen, I feel like I am forcing myself to be profound and interesting, and have simply turned up dry. I haven't been blogging because I quite honestly do not feel like I have a whole lot to say, or at least anything that people will find remotely interesting.

I love my church community here in Status, but sometimes I feel like the the significant attitude and paradigm shifts that I felt like I was beginning to catch a glimpse of while in Australia have simply slipped away, swallowed up once again by a cynical, let's-hold-God-at-an-intellectual-arms-length-so-we-can-be-simultaneously-being-cool-and-articulate-mindset (wow, that's a lot of hyphens). The vibrancy of the hopeful, believing, life-changing attitude that seems to pervade the entire Hillsong Church--and it really is infectious--seemed to dissipate within a few weeks of being back home.

In essence, the very thing I was afraid of since coming back to Orlando was coming true.

On top of that, I still have no job. There are a few prospects that are promising, but since I have been looking for a job since June, the strain of uncertainty and unemployment has begun to wear on me. And it shows. I've felt emotionally fragile. I've sobbed. I've overanalyzed. I've become anxious.

I had a moment earlier this week when I felt refreshed and I was secretly grateful that this moment came prior to going to Hillsong Encounter. I did not want to rely on an event or a program to lift my spirits or give me an "emotional high." In His own way, God reminded me that He is still sovereign.

But by the time Friday hit, I was ready for Hillsong.

Going to Miami this weekend felt like I was momentarily teleported to Sydney. Seeing leaders like Brian and Bobbie Houston and the Hillsong United team, it was like being back at the City campus in downtown Sydney. There was something comforting about Aussie accents and even hearing them talk about the city and church in such a familiar way. I attended all the worship sessions and even attended a couple of breakout sessions, one on songwriting with Joel Houston, Brooke Ligertwood and Matt Crocker, and the other with Jad Gillies (worship leader of the Hills campus) and the entire Hillsong United team for an in-depth discussion on worship leading.

Saturday night, they closed the event out with an intense three-and-a-half hour session of praise and worship and a message by Scott "Sanga" Samways, who absolutely KILLED it. He preached with such passion and authority on the significance and power of the blood and sacrifice of Jesus.

Saturday night was basically a Hillsong United "Greatest Hits" love fest. If you have never been to a Hillsong United concert or event, let me warn you: it involves hopping. Lots and lots of hopping. And punching the air with your first.

Superficially, at least.

It also involves God knocking you on to the flat of your back.

Take Saturday night. They played all of the really high-energy, fist-pumping songs like "No Reason to Hide" and "Your Name High." They also did the epic songs like "Tear Down the Walls" and "With Everything", songs that have become personal favorites and anthems over the past couple of months. Hillsong also did well-known faves like "Mighty to Save" and "Hosanna."

Toward the second half of the set, they started playing "From the Inside Out."

This song has been shelved recently in my iPod playlist, mostly because it's an earlier song and because there are lots of new songs to be excited about. I kind of forgot it used to be one of my favorites, along with "Hosanna." So when they re-introduced the song, complete with a funky new riff, it came as a surprise.

I was not prepared for what happened in the next few moments.

It was as if all the uncertainty and disappointment and emotion of the past few weeks came crashing down on me during the song. The lyrics took on a whole different meaning for me as I stood there next to Jeanne and Tiff, underneath the brightly colored lights.

The lyrics, which I have heard dozens and dozens of times before, go like this:

A thousand times I've failed, still Your mercy remains
Should I stumble again, still I'm caught in Your grace

A thought suddenly struck me. Although I felt like I was experiencing a fantastic--even exhilarating time this weekend, something within me was unsettled, unhappy with my own attitude, knowing something needed to shift. In this moment, I felt my attitude completely stripped down. I became intensely aware of my flaws and weaknesses and insecurities, the reality of which has been laid heavily upon my soul lately. I constantly see my selfishness play out, a sharp contrast to the selflessness and life of service I believing the Spirit of God is continually molding me toward. Combine this with the fact that I had just heard Sanga preach passionately about the sacrifice of Jesus, I felt like a new believer again: in wondrous amazement that I could ever be included in anything significant and redemptive that the Lord was doing in the world. I have felt the suffocating, stomach-turning weight of failure, and I realized for the thousandth time, how much I am in need of grace that can only come from God.

Your will above all else, my purpose remains
The art of losing myself in bringing You praise

One of the major things I came away with from Australia was a call to re-enter the worship leading sphere, this time with more focus and purpose. Over the weekend, I have become intensely aware of my need to learn. Listening to Brooke and Jad and Joel and the rest of the team speak about their experiences and perspective, I realized that despite all of my experience and knowledge and background, I have so much to learn musically and spiritually. I sensed the Spirit once again returning me to a place of humility and unknowing. I feel completely inadequate and completely in touch with the extent of my brokenness.

Everlasting, Your light will shine when all else fades
Neverending, Your glory goes beyond all fame

By the time we sung these words, I was absolutely bawling. And although I have cried a few times in the past few weeks, I absolutely cannot remember the last time I have been in utter tears while singing to God, and BELIEVING what I'm singing to Him.

These words suddenly seemed alive and pregnant with meaning. They seemed to articulate all of the struggles I've had recently with remembering Australia, holding on to the things I've learned, and being worried that I wouldn't change. Or the truths that I've become so confident and sure of would simply fade away in time, leaving no real mark upon my life.

For the past few weeks, I have struggled immensely with the idea of leaving Australia--particularly Hillsong Church--behind. I remember even a couple of weeks ago, Jeanne expressed to me that she missed Australia. I casually shrugged and said I didn't miss it. And I didn't. At the moment anyway. Because I wasn't thinking about it. Or maybe I was trying not to think about it.

But since then, I've realized I have become so attached to the way I see faith expressed and lived out in the hearts and lives of the people I met and observed. The atmosphere there is absolutely charged with belief in transformation. I've had many conversations lately with a few close friends on the possibility of transformation. In Orlando, it's harder to believe that change is possible because a spirit of doubt and cynicism seems to prevail here sometimes.

I sense God doing something powerful and miraculous in the midst of the church in Sydney. I have become so inspired by and attached to the positivity, the vision, the vibrancy, that I forget that the purposes and glory of God far outweighs cultural differences and preferences. Even hearing Brian and Sanga and others talk this week, I see how passionately committed they are to the community in Sydney. The deep love and commitment they have for the church back home is so incredibly apparent.

Those lyrics instantaneously made me remember that the glory of God far outweighs and exceeds even Hillsong Church. I have been relying so much on this church for a sense of purpose and connectedness to God. The hope and vision and perspective imparted to me on a consistent basis really did help elevate my awareness of the Lord. I realized the fallacy of my thinking in letting Australia and Hillsong fade from my memory, from my grasp. The glory and fame of God far outweighs the platform and reach of even Hillsong Church. As far-reaching and influential as that church is, it pales in comparison to the power and possibility in God. In a sense, God stripped even Hillsong Church away from me in this moment, and overwhelmed me with the magnitude of His presence that is eternal and steadfast and infinite and beautiful.

And the cry of my heart is to bring You praise
From the inside out, Lord, my heart cries out

With no true, extended amounts of alone time for the past six months, I realized that that has significantly altered my ability re-engage intimately with God. As a result, I haven't approached Him as often or as honestly or relationally as my soul obviously needs Him through continual acts of worship and devotion. It's not simply time clocked in or things I need to do: it's a complete attitude shift. Although things I need to do are clearer: in terms of worship leading and serving and investing in people, I remember over and over again how important it is to stay bathed and immersed in the Source. Every act of love or service I do is rendered meaningless if I am not doing this as a result of intimacy with and worship of God, through Jesus and with a sensitivity to the Spirit.

God did something significant in my own heart the final weeks we were in Sydney. I was reminded this weekend that vision is a long-term thing. Something that will require commitment, perseverance, patience and prayer. So much of the transition back here has been governed by my feelings and preferences, and I have to remember that God's perspective of His kingdom is so much grander and beautiful than my own.

And that these things are possible.

From Shantaram

2009-08-08T11:35:00.002-04:00

"The starving, the dead, the slaves. And through it all, the purr and rustle of Prabaker's voice. there's a truth that's deeper than experience. It's beyond what we see, or even what we feel. It's an order of truth that separates the profound from the merely clever, and the reality from the perception. We're helpless, usually, in the face of it; and the cost of knowing it, like the cost of knowing love, is sometimes greater than any heart would willingly pay. It doesn't always help us to love the world, but it does prevent us from hating the world. And the only way to know the truth is to share it, from heart to heart, just as Prabaker told it to me just as I'm telling it to you now."

-Lin from Shantaram, by Gregory David Roberts

a two-fold dream

2009-07-20T01:29:00.000-04:00

I dreamt I was on a naval ship. At first, I thought the evacuation siren was a drill, but then I saw the dark, mechanical army above me, advancing in clouds. Bomber aircraft soared overhead, and the place I stood was enveloped in flames. Fire rained down, and wreckage fell from the sky, crashing down twisted, burning, smoking metal all around me. I did not see, but I sensed death and suffering all around me.

In the aftermath, the captain struggled with the question of whom to save. In that moment, I could tangibly see our perspectives diverge. It was as if I could see both through his eyes and my eyes simultaneously.

Through my eyes, I could clearly see a woman struggling to stay afloat, not far from where our ship had stalled, crippled by the attack. Despite the darkness and the thrashing sea around us, I could hear her voice, calling out for help. For rescue.

And it was within our power to do so.

Yet through the captain's eyes, the woman was thousands of leagues away. A mere blip on the radar screen. He tried to tell me she was too far away, and there was no sense in rescuing one so far off, with so many around us who were dying, struggling to stay alive.

The dream ends with a soul drowning in logic and resignation.

I dreamt I was in a house with friends, many friends. A thief somehow circumvented our awareness, stole into our rooms and cleaned out the entire house. Everything of value was taken, except for my piano and guitar. My friends and I gathered at the house to take inventory of what had been stolen and to move our possessions to a safer location. I went inside to retrieve my keyboard and guitar. For once, the keyboard did not feel heavy under my arm. I carried it quite easily. As the footsteps of my friends retreated upstairs, I suddenly felt a dark presence around me. I could sense the thief was still in the house. And I was alone. I hurried outside to rejoin my friends, and suddenly felt safe as I stepped out into the light, and into the presence of familiar faces.

I wonder at these dreams, because they seem so far removed from the emotions of today, of this weekend. I feel peaceful, thankful, full of resolve. And yet I felt the torment and struggle and destruction, as I became Theft and Death's sole witness and survivor.

A friend wrote to to me that worship is the most powerful weapon against the enemy, an enemy that seeks to steal, kill and destroy.

Perhaps this is why, I somehow emerged from the scene of a crime unscathed, armed only with instruments to be used in praise and illumination of Truth.

"...a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair."

this will soon be over.

2009-07-11T05:02:00.001-04:00

This will soon be over.

Sometimes you think I am not listening. You tell me so. And you are right. My mind wanders, I tell you. I am glad this admission of mine throws you off the scent somewhat, because I'd rather you not know how deeply I've furrowed these caves of mine, carving out infinite space for meeting with you.

In this vast underworld of mine, I slow down all orbits and revolutions, only that I may greedily prolong these moments.

I am helpless to stop it.

I have tasted the salt of ferocity crashing upon the shore, of sweet eucalyptus drifting and dancing through the treetops. I have inhaled this scent, which my lungs have desperately fought to memorize. These self-portraits can never show our deepest colors, how brightly we shine. Or how our intertwined paths wind through cities, across bridges, down grocery aisles and subway escalators, across tidal pools and beaten-down sidewalks, through alleyways and up through sanctuaries. They all resonate with the sound of our breath and our banter, our yearnings, fears, musings and hopes. The biting cold that settles deep within our marrow shall soon evaporate, swallowed up in the heat and its thickness.

I am fearful I will lose this certainty. That Doubt might brazenly usurp Hope's throne, after such a brief but breathtakingly glorious reign.

But perfect Love does not merely cast out Fear--it vanquishes it.

So I will sing its annihilation, like the foolish dreamer that I am.

in a constant state of learning

2009-07-10T20:02:00.001-04:00

Yes, it's true.

I am coming home to Orlando at the end of the month. There were a lot of factors playing into this seemingly unexpected decision. Finances, jobs, missing home, and several other internal reasons that I may or may not get into. But whatever the reasons, I feel as though I've crossed from one vista to another, and have a unique opportunity to stop, take a rest on a bench, and contemplate the scope that lies behind me and before me.

Martin Luther once famously said "All of life is repentance."

Repentance is a continual return. Re-orientation. Perpetual redemption. A shift toward God, and away from self. This is an art that is never mastered, but always catalyzed by the Spirit in a tried and true, ancient way that somehow never fails to surprise. I'm finding that often God interacts on a profound, mysterious, intricate level with our own free will and decisions, orchestrating things to bring us to transformation and growth.

Repentance reminds me that I am not the Teacher, but the student. I must constantly shift and adjust my attitude in light of how God is moving in my life and in the lives of people around me.

I feel like I am in a constant state of learning. This trip in Australia if nothing else has brought me to a constant state of humiliation, where I confront again and again how little of life I know and understand.

I am not saying I have mastered any of this, only that my eyes have been opened, and my vision clarified just a bit more in light of my experiences.

From Australia, I am learning how beautiful and vast this world is. I am learning generosity, and hopefully how to worry maybe just a little bit less.

From Walter, I am learning the incredible importance of family, and how crucial it is to love, appreciate and spend time with them.

From Ellie and her family, I am learning openheartedness and warmth through shared meals and board games.

From Michael Ondaatje, I am learning again how writers can capture truth and beauty through language. How they make words sing.

From Tim Keller, I am learning to come to grips about what the Bible says about marriage, what I truly think, want, and believe about marriage, and how I want to be a better friend in all of my relationships.

From Christian, I am learning about a spirit of generosity and servanthood and kindness.

From Hillsong Church, I am learning the importance of reconciling an intellectual faith with a passionate, spontaneous, emotional faith. I am learning the joy of inclusive love, kindness, hospitality. And I am acknowledging the power of openly worshiping and declaring truth and faith and hope. I am learning refreshment and joy.

From Jeanne, I am learning the necessity and redemptive power of constant communication and friendship. I have learned the importance of constantly investing in people, how to be honest, vulnerable and consistent. And how to be more efficient:)

The feelings and emotions I believe that I currently have regarding Australia and this constant state of learning (repentance) is something that I know will fade in time. However, I am praying that God will help seal these experiences and knowledge within my heart, that they will be deeply internalized, worked out in the details and decisions of my life.

Jeanne has declared the following to be her favorite Hillsong song. I actually finally listened to all of the lyrics of the chorus early this morning and I was stunned at how the words and melody and music together so simply and beautifully captured this idea of redemption and transformation and growth, in light of God's glory.

Your Name is Glorious, glorious
Your love is changing us, calling us
To worship in Spirit and in truth
As all creation returns to you

May our hearts be set upon and continually transformed by this incredible truth.

"How great is the love the Father has lavished on us, that we should be called children of God! And that is what we are! The reason the world does not know us is that it did not know him. Dear friends, now we are children of God, and what we will be has not yet been made known. But we know that when he appears,we shall be like him, for we shall see him as he is. Everyone who has this hope in him purifies himself, just as he is pure." I John 3:1-3

the sky exploded

2009-07-05T18:26:00.000-04:00

One evening,
the sky exploded.

It rained fire and light upon us
And we felt time and space wrinkle
for the briefest of moments

We created fire of our own
on cool, clear nights
Forging and welding us
Knitting us through and through
to joy and smoke and heat
on the far side of this floating island.

The explosion rocks the universe
Rending it
We peel the night back
And examine the stars
and the nights from which they fell.

That was after the night
I dreamt we drifted
as a mist through your mansion
Your secret labyrinth
Conceived and carried and birthed by you

Although it was not quite you.

We wandered, winding through mirrored hallways
Lamp-lit tunnels fragrant with your ardor and mystery
Sensuously draping the tapestried walls
like garments flung off
in the heat of night.

Last summertime
We watched you perform from afar
And you,
You transfixed all.

You seduce time and physics
While the audience waits in exquisite torture
tense and enthralled
like the eternity that looms
in a prelude to a kiss.

the orange tree grows in but a breath of a moment.

You produce marvel
and splendor upon splendor
You confounded all.

Yet as we tread lightly upon
these marble hallways of your dominion
I see the trick

Beautiful, yet not cheapened
in its simplicity

You and I,
we laugh in delight
in clarity
in joy
in understanding

A shadowed figure haunts our steps with his cunning
He, too, peruses
As lost in his reverie
as we.

I corner him, daring to pull back his hood
to find a guileless face
And horror falls away
with this soul recognition.

And even here,
In this dreamworld,
I am reassured

That things will be all right.

the astronomist

2009-06-25T08:37:00.001-04:00

It is blasphemously cold tonight, but that does not concern her.

She slips out of the window, planting her bare feet in the blanket of snow of the overhang. The thin green flannel afghan is all that shields her frailty from the intrusion of the wind.

The crescent moon hung low in the sky, the better half of it shrouded by the shadow cast by the earth. She glances up, knows the metaphor painted in the night sky is reflected in earthly caution, in contrivance. She knew someone once who only allowed certain bits of brilliance to be reflected in his words and actions toward her. The meaning, the motive was always shrouded.

Whether this was perception or reality, she did not know. At least with the rotating, spinning, revolving bodies in the universe, there were discernable laws of gravity and energy governing their motion. Calculation and observation could always be counted upon to unveil some kind of understanding or new theory.

Paradoxes and paranormal. Seems to reflect the dual, contradictory nature of quantum physics.

The moon, however shrouded and mysterious, still seemed familiar and true when compared to the infinitely burgeoning universe.

She swings the telescope to focus on two distant points of light. One burns brightly, hard and bright and blue. A brilliant star in its prime. The latest observation and mathematical calculations conclude the star is barely 5 million years old. It has been burning, emanating energy, pulsating and releasing light and heat into the cold and dark of space. Nearby planets and moons find themselves gravitating, settling in toward it, compelled and seduced by its youth and brilliance.

But again, this does not concern her.

Lingering in its shadow, the star is dying, a nebula unfolding and collapsing and surrendering to the chaos and order, dictated by physics and time. As the light and dust swirls together, she imagines a lone astronaut soaring through its tendrils, ephemeral and gentle. His ship brazenly floats past the point of no return, seduced and thrilled by thoughts of death, and of immortality. He is fascinated, obsessed, slightly suicidal, but mostly passionate. He is searching for life, for the power to master his destiny and his love.

The terror of exploring the universe shrinks in comparison to pushing on through the mystery of another human being.

She shivers, draws the blanket closer around her, thinks she should go inside.

But she remains outside for a few more moments, luminous, lonely and wholly captured by the myth unfolding above and within her.

the orchard

2009-06-23T09:05:00.001-04:00

She stood among the dirt and leaves, sweat dripping from her brow. The garden and the trees and flowers shimmered around her, shivering in the wind with delight. The fragrance of the orchard rose up lazily, playfully up into the air.

Round and round the plot of land, swirled a high stone wall, breached only by a swinging, ivy-grown gate.

A few had dared to enter, even fewer had been welcome, but she always took immense pleasure in showing stray visitors the intricacies and complexity of the orchard in its design and intention. Spontaneity and improvisation burst forth, evidenced by certain random flourishes wrought by a steady, distracted hand. Both erratic and impeccably structured, chaos found its soulmate in beauty. Blossoms and fruit of all colors dotted the canopies and limbs and boughs of gnarled, twisted trees, sunning marvelously in the brilliance of daylight.

She never turned anyone away who might chance to knock on that gate, although most would never make it past the first winding row of arbors. These casual connossieurs marvel at the fruit, some even bold enough to pluck a fat, juicy apple from the boughs and admire the sheen and polish they saw from afar, though seemingly up close. And soon, the momentary admiration, genuine and deliberate, would be forgotten in an instant.

Others strolled beneath the leaves and scent and sun, wishing to take their time. These moments, she adored, eagerly inviting them to sample additional flavors. The soil was well tended, the condition of the trees scrupulously cultivated, and the color, quality and freshness of fruit meticulously monitored. Sometimes, she would give up contrivance, surrendering with a laugh that echoed like a tinkling bell, and the leaves all rustled in sighing agreement.

Even a few imps managed to scale the gate, tumbling down in a clumsy, haphazard, uncontainable frenzy, surprising, annoying, though eventually delighting her.

One or two chose to breathe deeply, lying beneath the branches, staring up at the midsummer sky, smelling the earth and vapors released so cavalierly, idealistically into the atmosphere, the pungent and sweet aroma drifting into the breeze, mixing and blending with floating dandelion seeds, then merely drowned away by summer rainstorm or whisked off into oblivion by a sudden wind.

But for you, she swings the gate open wide, wider than any other soul that has dared to venture through this beautiful, chaotic, unmeasurable mess of an orchard.

Yet your eyes see only locks, bolts, daggers and angelic swords of fire barring the way. She has reacted before, and called down fiery angels in the past, but they never obey her whim anyway. The gate has served its purpose she designated at its creation.

I passed by there earlier this week, quite puzzled and strangely moved to find the gate torn down.

Perhaps one day, the earth beneath this not-so-secret orchard may one day find its path, beaten and beautiful with the footprints of those beyond her own choosing.

hope is cynicism's antithesis.

2009-06-18T07:13:00.005-04:00

Since Jeanne and I have been in Sydney, we've had numerous opportunities to attend Hillsong Church. I have listened to Hillsong music and worship CDs and DVDs since at least middle school, and my appreciation for their music was renewed in the past few years thanks to Hillsong United. I'm grateful for not only experience the atmosphere of worship at this church, but also meeting people and joining the community here, which has been so pivotal to our transition to life in Sydney.

A few weeks ago, Jeanne and I attended a prayer event at Hillsong Church. The entire Hills Campus was packed out, filled with thousands of people who simply came to pray and worship together. As usual, the music and worship was incredible, energetic and passionate, as I've come to accept as norm from this church, as they are known all over the world as a church that worships God with passion and excellence.

Coming from Status at Discovery Church, my experience at Hillsong often seems worlds apart. This prayer event event made me contemplate the differences I've noticed in all the different Christian churches and organizations I've been a part of over the years. On the bus ride home in the evening rain, I pulled out my trusty moleskine notebook and began to jot down all the observations I've made about these organizations and my experiences within them: Status, Hillsong, the Restoration Movement, Campus Crusade for Christ, Desire Street Ministries, Reformed churches. As I began to write and brainstorm, rather than emphasize all of the weaknesses and flaws which I have often been so quick to point out and pick apart, I began to recognize how important each of these strengths were. And each group has them.

Here is a sampling:

As I began to write these lists, I became aware of the differences. I love how the Christian Church/Restoration movement is so passionate about learning Scripture. I appreciate Campus Crusade's emphasis on training people for evangelism. I am grateful for Status for allowing me to be part of a community that is open-minded and filled with creative, intellectual types. I love the tradition, liturgy and intellectual challenge that Reformed theology has taught me. I value how Desire Street Ministries/Rebirth International have taught me how social justice and care for the poor are not merely peripheral issues to the kingdom of God. And I love how passionate and emotional and honest people are about faith here at Hillsong, and how this church has had a global influence.

I also began to realize how many of the strengths also become weaknesses when pushed to the extreme. I realize how an emphasis solely on doctrine can become legalistic. How cultural relevance and open-mindedness can often foster jadedness, cynicism and doubt. How an emphasis on the blessings of God can turn into prosperity gospel. How evangelism alone can neglect a life of true discipleship and social justice. How an emphasis strictly on social justice and care for the poor can replace rather than be the manifestation of truth. I recognize all of the potential pitfalls and actual flaws.

But I'm at the point where I am weary of criticizing and constantly evaluating what I think is lacking in churches, and I am more or less concerned with my own attitude. I am extremely humbled by my own inability to proclaim truth, to be joyful, to be emotionally honest about God and am slowly realizing that I am in a place where I want to learn from the community here at Hillsong. For all of these potential pitfalls and actual flaws, I'm just grateful for the community that is so welcoming, emotionally honest and incredibly fixed on simply proclaiming truth, living it out, and serving.

I am weary of exclusivity and doubt and legalism and permissiveness and fear and pride and everything in between that I see being lived out in churches and communities. But I am far more concerned at this point with my own heart, attitude and place within this marred, beautiful, flawed mess known as the Church. I want to be open to hope, to actually proclaiming truth, to serving and simply being sensitive and obedient to the Spirit in the day-to-day.

"Therefore, since we have been justified through faith, we[a]have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ, through whom we have gained access by faith into this grace in which we now stand. And we rejoice in the hope of the glory of God. Not only so, but we also rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not disappoint us, because God has poured out his love into our hearts by the Holy Spirit, whom he has given us." Romans 5:1-5

Invisibility

2009-05-28T07:46:00.003-04:00

II Corinthians 4:16
"So we do not lose heart. Even though our outer nature is wasting away, our inner nature is being renewed day by day."

Today, I read an article by Richard Foster, author of Celebration of Discipline. In it, he describes this verse as expressing tenacity, "we do not lose heart"; realism "outer nature is wasting away"; optimism "being renewed"; and progression "day by day."

But the main emphasis and thrust of this passage focuses on the "invisible nature of the undertaking to which we are to give our lives."

Lately, I have been frustrated with the idea of the hiddenness of God. The truth which I have been wrestling with is epitomized in Romans 12:2: "Do not conform any longer to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God's will is: his good, pleasing and perfect will."

I have always believed in the fundamental truth and promise of this particular verse. I believe in the physics of it, the mechanics of it. In theory.

Yet it seems, the longer I live and the more I experience life and see of this world, the more I encounter confusion and complexity, with no specific voice, no writing on the wall, not even an inner voice. It's been all process, internal revelation, a slow burning transformation that rarely finds its way to the surface. It seems no matter how hard I strive or surrender or even fail or abandon, I cannot seem to gain clarity on a specific path or vision, the way most others seem to.

And I know comparison is a dangerous game to play. I recognize the fallacy of such thinking.

But it seems that former dreams and visions and passions have shed their idealistic fervor and have been more or less placed on a spiritual back burner of cynicism and a reality check.

I often forget the invisible nature of this kingdom of which I am supposedly a part.

I forget that God is Spirit, and that His most intense, glorious and divine work is often done in the invisible--not the visible--realm.

I have to remember this on days when I feel like all my preparation and experience has come to nothing.

On days where dreams and visions that once seemed so vibrant seem to have been swallowed up in the culture and chaos and confusion of life.

When it seems that for all of my most valiant efforts (and also lack of any effort at all: I am guilty of both extremes), my own end goal is ultimately thwarted. This goal, poetically enough is often, unbeknownst to me, an attempt to control, rather than to surrender my own will and purposes.

Despite the constant call and command to manifest the life of Christ before us through love, community, service, I am compelled to now balance this manifestation with an understanding of an invisible, greater spiritual reality.

And it is this hiddenness of God that supposedly holds the greater blessing. This is what all the saints were commended for, as we read in Hebrews 11 and 12.

Richard Foster writes: "Faith involves an entering into the knowledge of the invisible, spiritual world and a living on the basis of that knowledge. And as we do this with regularity and persistence, we will discover that "our inner nature is being renewed day by day."

Though this does not necessarily grant me any more specific direction (with no proverbial light shed) in regard to career or vocation, this is enough to silence the pessimist in me at least for today, replacing my slip shod cynicism with minute amounts of hope and faith. And to also trust that ultimate reality--centered both on an invisible, all powerful Creator as well as a living, breathing, fleshed-out God Man--is some unique combination of both mystery and clarity.

While discussing my frustration with all of this yesterday, my good friend Chalis told me: "I wonder these things too, sometimes. And maybe I'll wonder them until the end. Or maybe purpose just unfolds as we go, and God is more the one laying it out, instead of us nobly pursuing it."

Perhaps the real journey simply lies in day-to-day pursuit of God and God alone-not even his gifts, blessings, or even purposes-just Him.

What Chalis said struck a chord with me deep within my soul because she reminded me that this trajectory of faith is neither a noble, idealistic pursuit, nor is it a resignation to cynicism and unbelief. It is simply a constant surrender, a laying into the wind of the Spirit to simply KNOW Him, to trust that relationship that He himself builds, initiates, and causes to grow.

I am now aiming to follow a trajectory of faith, rather than infinite resignation.

portrait of the artist by an easel

2009-05-12T18:35:00.001-04:00

First, blank.

With all the pure vision
of the glory self in mind
a far-off, luminous sight
Now, shrouded and mysterious
by an eternal, ephemeral cloud bank

Creation begins.

A singularity
A kiss
A brushstroke.

Then, with pure and tentative movements
You, slowly and deliberately
Pour Your colors deep into me

Every earthen fiber
and golden sunrise
I breathe in Your breath
still gasping
through
rough edges of
a stiller rougher canvas

Swift and risky
and always tender motion
is the dance of Your hand
upon me.

Sometimes harsh angles
Overlaid with softer curves
Soon,
a pattern, emerges,
Intricate and beautiful

and I imagine
in my mind's eye
Passer-bys pass You by
and, overlooking your shoulder,
Scrutinize the surface
and marvel at the making
critique the composition
and wonder at the source

while still You paint on.

the pattern, oft hidden from their eyes
as well as mine
unfolds in the rarest of times
and the cloud bank rolls its chaos away
but only too briefly
to reveal
in one breathtaking moment of clarity

that,
(like the angel trapped in marble)
we are ever-chiseled and ever-freed
by Love and Truth

and we are all works of art
in progress.

the universe (infinitely expanding?)

2009-05-09T02:39:00.000-04:00

I waved hi at you.

The universe, eternal in its expansion.
I reside here, trapped in a bubble which will never quite reach
yours.
You waved at me through galaxies
and planet rings and dying stars.

The sadness hidden in your confident gaze
pierces my soul,
sending twinges and tiny pints and packets
of regret

Because of this shared knowledge
you and I, our paths collided
one sweltering afternoon.
And together we stared down the beast.

Laughing, resigning, with a carefree grin,
and a seared conscience in tow
You tore after the beast, chasing her
down, across the galaxy,
passing through a rift in the sky
where the universe is rent apart
and through that tiny, impenetrable tear,

you disappeared.

The planets danced and sparkled
and you found solace, in skin upon skin
in breath and tears
mingled together.

I stood watching part of myself
tear through the night sky
marveling at your path
twisting out of sight,
departed from mine.
until you were nothing but a memory
a conversation on a darkened porch
a gaze I once held
a voice I once recognized,
and loved.

since then, I've paddled along
quite calmly
along a starlit river
never once sensing my world
to be muffled with
so animal a presence.

that universe pulls farther and farther away from me

and I watch, waiting silently
as it stretches on by.

on Romans 12...

2009-05-05T20:05:00.003-04:00

I've been incredibly thirsty for Scripture lately. Traveling throughout Australia has brought a lot of wonder, beauty, enjoyment deep into my soul lately, but there's something about the incessant transience of life that occasionally makes it difficult to find true moments of reflection and solitude. And so I've felt that lack in the past week, leading up to the past few days.

I'm reading a book called Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Mitchell. Following a personal crisis, she traveled through three countries (Italy, India and Indonesia) in order to connect with herself and something divine, through food in Italy, meditation in India and love in Indonesia (so the book says... I haven't gotten to Indonesia yet).

I've appreciated this book because in its own quirky way, it's forced me into a place of self-reflection. Not overanalysis, which I've been incredibly guilty of over the course of my life in various times. I'm realizing more and more that while introspection has its merits (this coming from a someone who has been journaling since the age of 7. True Story!), often overanalyzing situations, other people and their motives and even the innerworkings of my own mind has the potential to be incredibly destructive. Overanalyzing, I'm slowly realizing, is often a symptom of my attempt to control situations and other people, rather than a genuine search for truth and understanding that transforms.

THAT kind of truth is what I'm thirsty for.

Before I left for my trip to Australia, my good friend Josh lent (indefinitely?) me a book called Invitation to Discipline by M. Robert Mulholland Jr. I think he initially gave it to me due to my ongoing obsession with all things Myers-Briggs. It's a book about spiritual formation, and incorporates Myers-Briggs as a means for understanding our own tendencies and how they relate to spirituality.

I'm not going to get into it right now, but suffice it to say that this book has been sinking deep into my consciousness over the past couple of months. It's the kind of book that you digest slowly over time. And must be internalized. And I highly recommend it to you, my lovely readers, who stalk my blog, unbeknownst to me.

But, as a warning... only read it if you are prepared to get your butt kicked.

Anyway, I was reading something simple in Romans, and it caught me off guard. It's a simple verse: Romans 12:12. It says "be joyful in hope, patient in affliction, and faithful in prayer."

Seems innocuous enough. But then I realized what each of these simple commands does. All three of them combat three specific dangers. Three specific tendencies that seem so prevalent in our culture: cynicism, bitterness and self-sufficiency.

"Be joyful in hope..." combats cynicism. I'm learning over and over that hope is the antithesis of cynicism. I still believe that hope firmly rooted in reality is not a blind optimism, nor an avoidance of harsh reality. If Christ really is who He says He is, than hope is the ONLY thing that can truly deal with reality. I've long looked at the eventual destinations of two separate trajectories, those of a heart fixed on cynicism and a heart fixed on hope. One mars the soul, while the other uplifts. And helps the soul find its true identity.

"patient in affliction..." counters bitterness. Suffering and affliction has the potential to ruin a person. It can break a man's spirit, cause the most open-hearted person to retreat within herself, and feed desires of vengeance and hatred and an unforgiving spirit.

But as Jesus shows us through His life and death, suffering and affliction also has the overwhelming potential to redeem and transform. Suffering can either break your spirit or bring you incredible freedom. I think of Martin Luther King Jr. or Nelson Mandela or the apostles or Oscar Wilde locked in their cells of suffering. Suffering in those cases led, not to bitterness or despair or destruction, but to freedom and a revolution of the spirit and transformation of entire communities of people. Choosing patience over bitterness in times of trouble heals the soul.

"and faithful in prayer..." combats self-sufficiency. Humans are self-sufficient, bent on our own way of doing things, asserting our own control and fixing things the way we like it. Prayer bends and breaks us out of this self-absorbed mode of living, and puts us in a posture where we are humble and listening to Someone who is more powerful and infinitely more loving than we can ever be. Prayer brings us into a conversation where we are not trying to control things, but rather, being led into a relationship with God: a relationship that transforms and heals us and actually brings about CHANGE.

I share these things because I realize how easy, how unconsciously easy it is to slip into any one of these three modes of living. This is when I truly see how counterintuitive and countercultural Jesus really is, and how a life fixed on following Him and loving Him ought to look. People within the church as well as out of the church can just as easily succumb to cynicism, bitterness and self-sufficiency. No one is immune to this.

But this is what I love about Christ and what He calls us to: it's like any other relationship. There must be communication, constant vigilance, but also time to breathe and just be. It's always changing, always dynamic. Things shift, and there are always potential weaknesses and tendencies to be aware of.

So yes, for now...Mel in Australia will Eat, Pray, and Love.

Cheers.

books and falling from the sky

2009-05-02T23:11:00.000-04:00

We are at Airlie Beach, on the northern coast of Queensland in Australia.

We're staying at Backpackers by the Bay, a small, laid-back hostel that seems perfectly fitted for this breezy, tropical weather. It sits on a hilltop that overlooks Boathaven Bay, a curved shore that hugs the blue and green water which is dotted with dozens of sailboats.

There are stencils of tiny blue fish and sharks sponged around the room. Our sliding glass door is open to bring in the afternoon breeze and I can see a clothesline from the top of my bunk bed. Shirts dancing in the wind.

Walter is reading the English Patient by Michael Ondaatje. I bought this book for Jeanne for her 28th birthday while we were in Adelaide. First she read it, then I read it, now Walt's reading it. The first book of this trip that MJW is reading.

We attempted to watch the film. Jeanne, formerly excited about the movie, was utterly disappointed with the film, calling it a "bastardization of the novel."

That book was like a fine meal that lasted over the course of several days. The words by themselves were compelling to read. Michael Ondaatje has taught me to slow my pace in reading, to allow my mind to slow to the speed of the author's pen. Difficult in my Instant Message, blog-skimming, web-surfing mind, but it's well worth the extra time.

The English Patient is a feast for the senses. So many beautiful passages. There is a stark eloquence to it and I love all the main characters.

On the lower bunk, Jeanne is reading Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov. I hear a gasp below me and an barely imperceptible "Oh my God" escape from the bunk below me. I lean over the bunk and look at her quizzically.

"He just had sex with her!" she said incredulously.

"Are you doing okay down there?" I've not read Lolita but I know the intensity of the subject matter.

"Yeah."

I return to my book. I am reading Oscar Wilde's De Profundis. Barely 12 pages in but I already love Oscar more than I did when I read all of The Picture of Dorian Gray.

With the breeze, the quiet, and the sudden realization that I can once again use my eyes. And I am grateful.

I remember last week's stay in Cairns.

Cairns initially was not kind to me, but that was mostly my contact lens' fault. I strongly advise against sleeping with your contact lens in your eye, should you ever find yourself on an overnight Greyhound bus trip from the middle of the Outback to the northern coast of Australia...

Just sayin.'

Cairns--originally MJW's El Dorado--was this gleaming haven of our deepest Aussie longings come true: it housed our lofty dreams of skydiving, scuba diving, snorkeling, beaches galore, whitewater rafting.

Unfortunately, that was before bacteria attacked my eye, rendering me incapacitated for a few days. This infection necessitated daily trips to the hospital--I became very closely acquainted with the resident ophthalmologist in Cairns Base Hospital.

Finally though, after Walt and Jeanne's endless patience with my perpetual state of waiting in hotel rooms, hospital waiting rooms, and everything else, Cairns began to unfold to us in all its glory.

Exhibit A: MJW go skydiving. We opted--almost spontaneously--to go skydiving over the city on Wednesday afternoon. I had an 11 a.m. appointment at the hospital, I explained to our tourism booking agent downstairs at the hospital. She told us that we could go that afternoon immediately, or we could wait until Friday morning for a jump over the beach, which was a good 2 hours away.

While jumping over the beach sounded fantastically cool, I was certain I would lose my nerve if we didn't decide to go immediately. The three of us were watching the video overhead that showed happy, crazy people jumping out of airplanes left and right.

Jeanne and I trade information, trying to make a decision about plans.
"We should book the 4:30." "But what about going on Friday? That way we can wait and not rush. Plus doing it over the beach rather than the city sounds way cooler" "But the weather's supposed to be rainy." "Oh good point." "Let's do the 4:30." "How about we do the 3:00 in case you get out of your appointment early enough." "That sounds good."

We ramble on, then make an executive decision. Meanwhile, Walt is sitting in his chair, suddenly very (and uncharacteristically) quiet.

I ask him about this later. He told me he was silently hoping we'd go on Friday instead of today. I laugh at him. I'm just as scared as he is.

An appointment and lunch and phone call later, a dingy white bus pulls up in front of our hostel and a bright eyed, toothy Aussie greets us. "Going skydiving today?"

"Yep, that's us!"

They whirl us just a block down the street to the skydiving office. They pair us up with our skydiving guides and we begin to get suited up. My partner is Jason, a slightly hyper dude with a long braid. All three of us opted for the DVD/handicam option, so our guides are documenting every step of our skydiving adventure.

Suddenly, we're in a plane and we take off and I realize: there's only one way off of this plane. And it's an open door on the side of the plane that says "EXIT."

Walt and Jeanne and I freak out, squeal, smile, laugh nervously and wholeheartedly soak up every second of our ascent.

Jeanne goes first. She's got her arms crossed and her head braced back. She and GJ suddenly just roll and fall out of the plane. Jeanne disappeared. My best friend just fell out of a freakin' airplane, I realize. I look at out the window, hoping to catch a glimpse, but she's long gone.

Before I know it, it's Walt's turn. He's already slid up to the edge of the plane. One, two, he's gone.

I am the last one. Suddenly, I'm sliding to the edge. Jason asks me if I'm ready. He counts, and suddenly we just roll out of the plane, easily and lightly. As we're falling, I'm trying to scream, but I quickly realize when I do that I can't breathe. So I stick with trying to smile and keep my mouth closed at the same time and fully wrap my mind around the reality that I am freefalling through the sky.

Falling is not quite what I imagined it to be. Nothing like a roller coaster.

I'm pretty sure I gulped down part of a cloud on the way down.

Jason taps my arm about a half a dozen times before I realize it's okay to stop clutching my own shoulders and let my arms out, Superman style. I can't believe how much fun this is. Not scary at all once you're falling.

The chute opens and we are jerked back and suddenly we're spinning and I can see all of Cairns, blue and green and shining in the sun.

I smile and I think, this is the city I've been missing, holed up in a hotel room all week. I give a shout out to Chris Slankard in my handi-cam ("Yes, Chris, Mel is in the sky," a tribute to our endless Scattergories debating. Jason lets me grab a hold of chute and lets me steer for a bit. And he tricks me into violently spinning.

"Well, hopefully we don't crash into that powerline."

WHAT? I see Jeanne and Walter below me, turning lazily in the wind with their parachutes. I see the field where they descend. I glide into the field, nice and easy.

I remember one of the guides asking an exuberant Walter (he picks up Jeanne, then me, spins us each around in his excitement) if he would do this ever again.

"I'd do it again right NOW," he says gleefully.

All three of us are glad we got DVDs of our trips, because the moment of freefalling was over too quickly.

I realize, after a week of simply eating, waiting in a hospital room, not sure if I would see out of my right eye again, and being generally frustrated and homesick, that I'm happy to be alive again.

And I like this Cairns.

the wind on the water (part ii)

2009-04-27T20:44:00.001-04:00

This is disconcerting.

This unraveling of self.
Like ribbons unwinding
Intertwined
in an unpredictable wind
How instantly
currents of air
Ripple through us
Changing us.

I read of desert winds
that rape and mar the land
the harmattan of the Sahara
the aajej of Morocco
and dust storms
that conquer men
and the knives they unsheath

and I read of
secret winds,
untamed winds
unnamed winds

This, here
in my backyard
is but a sudden, casual breeze.

Upon my own distinct piece of fragility
I traveled far in my mind.
Imagine myself cast upon the wind and the water
Kissing droplets of rain and dust, alike.
I find solidarity with
such fleeting elements.

You disappear, I disappear.

We are magicians, all.

We whisper enchantments
Words exquisite
And in a charming, playful flourish
Or in one cold, hard stare
One grand, sweeping motion of showmanship
A magical, invisible wall forms
Enveloping, shielding you
Wrapped in a silent, motionless
cocoon of being
and solitude

For the briefest of moments.

I followed your steps
across tidal pool rocks
matching your path
but I find
I could not quite keep up with your pace

and I feel so small
sitting by the ocean
sitting next to you.

You bear your past
On skin, on soul
a secret you keep for yourself
and I will revel in my unknown
the same as you do.

In the end
These paths
of wind, of water, of rock
and Silence
are the frailest of walls
yet a singular thread connects us all

and Love,
please remember

that things are better
so much better

when you are around.

seeing double

2009-04-27T05:28:00.001-04:00

The wind shifts on the balcony, carrying whispers of arrogance and playfulness and spontaneity toward me, washing over my face, cooling my skin.

I study the image in the looking-glass, bemused by the foreigner I see.

She is a tourist. She is a wanderer.

She is human.

The scathings of travel shows clear upon her face, like a soldier weathered to the bone from war. Skin bronzed by the sun. Hair lightened and whipped by the wind, salted by the sea. Body washed over with the scent of a thousand cliffs, deserts, flowers, beaches.

I am lost. I am fragrant.

She remembers home. Casts a longing backward glance at the trail left behind her, littered with images, with memories. We were warm, inviting faces huddled around a crackling fire. We were intimate conversation dissolving into the silence and darkness of a room. We played artist and philosopher on pleasant, sun-kissed days on patchwork blankets on grass and colorful and vibrant markets. We bathed carelessly in both sun and cold and sparkling water of springs and parks. We were sweaty and exuberant in our dancing and singing until 2 a.m., the hour when all our voices became hoarse with joy.

By 4 a.m. we still found strength, made room for more.

Swinging her gaze forward to her surroundings, she realizes that joy has persisted, but transformed, becoming more unrecognizable. It is wider, more expansive. It has blossomed. It has shriveled. It has hardened. It has softened.

Of course, the view has changed. The looking-glass tells all, her ailment lashed clearly upon her face, her eye. Her vision is encased in a tangled, watery web, shrouded by an unseen, microscopic force. Blurred, reddened and sobbing, her eye casts a look backward at the trail behind her, full of doubt and uncertainty.

The other eye, clear and focused, perseveres to read these beautifully formed words, to unapologetically soak in the mountains and splendour of a magnificent reef, to dwell on the lovely, soulful, darkened shadows of her two ever-present, constant companions, to imagine a secret home and haven by a beach, lined with palm trees, a sailing opera house, a white-blue harbour. This eye dreams and streaks forward through imagination, like a meteorite brilliant over a desert night sky, and toward an ever-unfolding horizon before her.

Yet both eyes see that the risk has paid off thus far, both in the visible world and in the invisible soul.

And in both realms, she rejoices.

So she rests for now, offers up a breath of gratitude, of hope.

Selah.

Mel's Greatest Meals of All Time

2009-03-14T21:38:00.005-04:00

I've had quite a few memorable meals in my life time. Jeanne often disparages my inability to pick "favorites." When it comes to picking favorite movies, books, colors, memories, favorite ANYTHING--I typically am dumbfounded and at best can only come up with a "favorite realm."

I do however, have very clear favorite meals.

Some of the top meals of my life include:

-Barbecue Pork sandwich at Ridgewood BBQ in East Tennessee. Not only was the sweet tea unbelievable, this place introduced me to the glory of putting coleslaw on a pulled pork sandwich, slathered right in there with all the sweet barbecue sauce. This was also my first taste of fried pickles. I've only had fried pickles maybe 3 or 4 times since then and they do not even come close.

-I'm not sure how much of this was actually because of how phenomenal the food intrinsically was in and of itself, or perhaps it was more of a relief and release after driving up winding Tennessee mountain roads and feeling sick, only to be greeted by fresh mountain air and a quaint Mom and Pop place at the top of the mountain: Shirley's. This was just a regular country cooking place served family style. I was with the Chambers family and there was just something spectacular about eating the piles of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, corn, biscuits and a half a dozen other side dishes on top of that mountain. The sweet tea there was also phenomenal. Tennessee's been mighty good to me.

-One of the best meals of my life was at a fantastic place called Sweetwater Tavern near Washington D.C. My aunt and uncle treated Jeanne and me to filet mignon. I've had a lot of filet mignon in my life--even finally getting to taste filet at Texas de Brazil and Ruth's Chris Steakhouse, two well-known, highly acclaimed steakhouses. But those steaks do not even compare to the glory of this filet mignon from Sweetwater Tavern. It was cooked Pittsburgh style (this was also the first evening I learned of this steak cooking technique) and it was perfectly accompanied by garlic mashed potatoes and a Caesar salad. I seriously never wanted that steak to end. The meal concluded with a Chocolate Waffle. Do I really need to say anymore about that? Jeanne and I concur that this was definitely one of the best meals of our lives.

I had another one of my favorite meals this weekend.

Our gracious and lovely host Susie sent each of us off on errands in San Francisco prior to our journey to Muir National Woods and Sonoma valley. Jeanne's task was to procure a large non-fat latte. Mine was to enter the gourmet Marina Market and hunt down the following items: bread, three kinds of cheese, fruit and salad as part of our picnic lunch in Sonoma.

I roped Walter and Tiffany into my grocery expedition. I initially felt slightly intimidated from the get-go, as Susie seemed to be a bit of a cheese connoisseur. And she seemed fairly specific about the bread. Undaunted, we blasted through the front doors of the market, and I sent Walter off on a mission to get some bread, Tiffany for some grapes, and I sought to conquer the deli.

I looked at row after row of gourmet cheese, racking my brain for something that everyone would like but would still be gourmet enough for our connoisseur Susie. I had watched enough Food Network to know what I was doing though.

I hear a voice with a thick Russian accent come up behind me. "Will zis suffice?" the voice drawled in heavy, accented syllables. I spin around. It's Walt, with a huge grin in his face, and a fistful of Russian Rye bread. Rye bread? No way. Guess I should've been more specific.

"No, maybe something a bit plainer..." I was distracted, trying to focus on what soft cheese I should get. The yellow sharp cheddar looked promising, but I still need two more kinds of cheese. "Try and see if you can find something else."

I bend over the rows of cheese, trying to look for something a bit milder, and I found a white organic cheese that looked pretty good. I added that to the stash. Still looking for a soft cheese, Walt comes up behind me again, this time holding a simple French bread. "What about this?"

"Oh, sorry.. I should've told you. Susie suggested something with maybe herbs or something. Maybe pick out something else?"

Walt walks away in a huff, justifiably annoyed at my pickiness. Or perhaps his ineptness. Either way, the bread simply wasn't quite right yet.

I settle on a soft, spreadable cheese with garlic and herbs mixed in, and decide to help a brother out. I stroll over to the bread aisle, and find Tiff and Walt standing and staring before the rows of bread.

I spy a rack of freshly baked bread with different herbs, finally settling on olive bread. I get some chicken caesar bowtie salad and then head back to the car, mission complete.

Our picnic lunch in Sonoma Valley at the Benziger Winery was perfect: bottles of Pinot Grigio and Zinfandel, an olive tapenade spread, three kinds of cheese, olive read, white French bread, green grapes, strawberries, chicken caesar bowtie salad, apples and finally...dark chocolate for dessert.

Heaven on a plate.

This definitely ranks as the fourth best meal of all-time.

And I'm still looking for number five...

from the vineyard

2009-03-14T11:56:00.003-04:00

"Now let me sing to my Well-beloved
A song of my Beloved
regarding His vineyard."
Isaiah 5:1

This whole passage has deeper meaning and imagery for me now, having just visited a vineyard. We visited Benziger Winery in Sonoma Valley yesterday afternoon. We had the most perfect picnic lunch of wine, three kinds of cheese, Tapenade (delicious olive spread), fruit and dark chocolate. Our tour guide showed taught us about the biodynamic process of growing grapes in this region of California. It's this intricate process that's designed to maximize self-sustainability and holistic development.

I loved Benziger Winery because of this organic, biodynamic emphasis. There was such harmony and rhythm in harnessing the natural processes of the ecosystem--between fertilizing with natural compost, using good insects to regulate the harmful ones, even maximizing or minimizing the amount of sunlight depending on what type of grape you want to produce. The carefully-planned, well-thought out meticulousness of it struck me. There was such extreme care and order and precision given to the development and maintenance of this biodynamic process, simply to unleash the power and beauty of nature to produce fruit.

I loved having the simplicity and complexity of the winemaking process in my mind as I read this. It made me think of how carefully and intentionally God shapes and arranges circumstances to work through His people, to bless His people and to romance them into a relationship with Him. He says "Now let me sing to my Well-beloved; A song of my Beloved regarding His vineyard" in Isaiah 5:1. God gives such intentional care and love into this process, from clearing the stones, to planting the choicest vine, to building a tower, expecting it to bring forth "good grapes."

There is such agony and frustration when He says "What more could have been done to My vineyard That I have not done in it?" in verse 4. And out of frustration, the prophecy is made to destroy the vineyard, to burn it down, to trample it, to lay it to waste. I tried to imagine what that would have looked like at the gorgeous winery/vineyard we visited yesterday. The sunlight and blue skies were absolutely perfect and the vineyard looked so pristine and peaceful. To contemplate what its was destruction would look like was extremely unsettling to me.

Because of Israel's misuse of the vineyard--the passage warns repeatedly against drunkenness and intoxication--God threatens destruction. I think of course he's referring to actual drunkenness. But I think the greater reality is that there is a drunkenness that comes with squandering and misusing God's purposes, plans and gifts for our lives. A vineyard represents order and growth and abundance and enjoyment. Life. And when humanity comes along and abuses this order and grace--either hindering its growth or by overindulging in the abundance, we miss a very real, tangible opportunity to engage with the Father and to enjoy Him as He intended.

We lose the Garden all over again.

This whole passage actually makes me contemplate the things in my life that I have been given stewardship and responsibility over: my relationships, my gifts, my experiences, my choices--and wondering if I am giving them same order, love and intentionality that is expected of Jerusalem and this vineyard. And the fact that I should live and act, not motivated out of fear of destruction or wrath, but because of this beautiful picture and life--a thriving vineyard that is an expression of God's love and provision and intricate purposes--that the Spirit is constantly inviting us in to experience.

Grand Canyon adventures

2009-03-09T22:37:00.001-04:00

This morning got up early to watch the sunrise over the Grand Canyon. Despite the fact that Walter confirmed Gary's assertions that he does in fact snore, I somehow had a restful evening.

I will however be using ear plugs tonight, courtesy of Jeanne;)

We hiked down the Bright Angel Trail, descending below differing layers of rock--some fragile and powdery and others porous. Jeanne said the lower layers of rock are called Pre-Cambrian. Walter just said it was "one thousand years of geology," shortly before declaring that it was "his canyon," matching his ENTJ domineering complex with maniacal, diabolical laughter.

Either way, the view was stunning. Scraping powdery snow from the cold (and often muddy) ground, Walt and I had an impromptu snowball fight, and we let Jeanne get caught in the crossfire. This was shortly after snow began to fall.

We took a trail off the official beaten path. We passed a lady perched on a rock under a tree. She was contentedly reading a book. I imagined her an enigmatic sage or oracle, giving us fair warning of dangers ahead on our trail. We finally reached the end of our hike, and sat on a rock that overlooked the canyon.

This trip has been marked with incredible vistas and beautiful colors. Despite how ridiculously cold the air is here--low twenties with a wind chill factor of who knows how much lower--I've enjoyed just being here and soaking in the views. There are many.

We drove 25 miles east of our hotel to the Desert View which includes a replica of an old watchtower and a view of the Painted Desert and Cedar Mountain. We stopped inside a snack bar to take refuge from the cold. Jeanne brilliantly surmised that they should have hot chocolate and indeed they did. We sat and watched people pass by--impish children with funny hair flopping in the wind, smiling old women with erratically colored socks, frazzled Japanese parents chasing after runaway children, pairs of men and women (we imagine them to be best friends of 40+ years), and even crazy Scottish tourists. It's entertaining to imagine people's stories and what relationships and circumstances brought them to the Canyon with the company they keep.

I'm sitting in the car, heading north on route 64, the Grand Canyon at our backs, and the ocean of air still swelling all around. The wind here sounds like an ocean and the canyon is the sea. Jeanne is singing softly under her breath while Walter sleeps in the backseat. Vegas looms before us and we are soon leaving natural beauty for manmade glitz.

To be continued...

autopsy

2009-02-25T12:14:00.005-05:00

I've been contemplating a lot the divorce that so often occurs in our culture between the heart and the head. So many times we use our logic to unravel complexities of faith, life, theology. It is so easy in our culture to comfortably analyze and blog and spit out information and Scripture and arguments that don't necessarily transform our lives, relationships or attitudes on any deep or meaningful level. I'm learning more and more (and over and over) that knowledge is not just an intellectual assent to an idea, but a deeply-rooted way of living that proceeds from our inner life. It translates into outward behavior and choices.

Proverbs 2 says:
"My son, if you accept my words
and store up my commands within you,

2 turning your ear to wisdom
and applying your heart to understanding,

3 and if you call out for insight
and cry aloud for understanding,

4 and if you look for it as for silver
and search for it as for hidden treasure,

5 then you will understand the fear of the LORD
and find the knowledge of God.

6 For the LORD gives wisdom,
and from his mouth come knowledge and understanding."

I got in a minor car accident last week. I hit my head so I wanted to make sure I didn't have a concussion so I checked myself into the ER. While I was sitting there on the hospital bed, my mind began to wander and I wrote this.

autopsy

hush, now.

we creep along in the dead of night
the moon scowling at our mischief
or perhaps we only imagine
its suspicious disdain

stealthily, secretly
we grasp and pull
your broken body from the tree
carry you deftly
and importantly
away, away
from familiar claws

that we might perform
your autopsy.

she reasons and interprets
with methodical glee
at the moment of your expiration
when you breathed your last
that the confusion and the loss
bellowed deeply from the bowels of hell
as a cry for the scarred and the lost
and the abused
and a rousing wail
against the plastic
and the whitewashed
and the unchanged

i think she's right.

but upon her life
you leave no so much mark
only a philosopher's kiss
hollow and rational
and reasonable
which stales the air
and dwindles passion

silently divorcing
her heart from her head

i watch her
hearken in her own illusion
of you but in part
and never in whole

i see your image
torn asunder
a mass of throbbing, pulsing
flesh and veins and bones
disembodied
in cold calculation

and i find
as i diagnose
her pitiable, blinded state
and mine

that we have quite dissected
the wrong Being.

Scattergories

2009-02-25T11:47:00.008-05:00

The best game of Scattergories. Ever.

I love my friends.

Application Approved!

2009-02-21T20:14:00.004-05:00

Queensland Tourism approved my application for the Best Job in the World! Yippeeeee!:)

Jeanne and I are coming in a little bit later in the game, but if you want to help either of us win the Island Caretaker job (ooh sounds like we're applying to be Jacob or Pretty Eye Guy of LOST), please click here and watch the video and rate us. The more viewings and higher ratings, the more we're likely to attract attention and votes.

Thanks for taking the time to rate us!:)

Jeanne and Mel's Island Reef Job application

2009-02-20T10:06:00.010-05:00

My dear friend Jeanne and I are applying for The Best Job in the World, hosted by Queensland Tourism in Australia. We are joining 30,000+ people from all over the world who are also applying for this job.

The job? To live in a 3 bedroom house on an island in the Great Barrier Reef. Explore the island, snorkel, swim, hang out on the beach, go hiking. And write and video blog about it.

Oh, and a nice pay check of $100,000.

I know.

This is a long shot, I know since the chances of us beating out other 30,000 people are slim, but seriously, Jeanne and I are already traveling to Australia, leaving in March 2009. The job is slated to last from July-December 2009, about the time we were thinking of moving to Byron Bay or Gold Coast or some other lovely coastal city and finding jobs waiting tables, bartending, or fruit picking with migrant workers. Or sheepherding.

No, really.

This Island Reef job is really a public relations tool to help boost the tourist industry in Australia, which, like the rest of us living in this poor world, is caught up in worldwide recession.

Jeanne and I have been planning this 3-6 month (possibly up to a year!) trip to Australia since August, so we are basically the poster child for Australian tourism. Currently, we are planning to start off in Sydney next month, head to Darwin and Ayers' Rock, then fly back to the southern coast (dip down to Tasmania for a bit) and work our way up the eastern coast, with Cairns and the Great Barrier Reef as our final destinations.

I remember telling Jeanne back when we first heard about this job that when we applied with the video, that all we had to do was just be ourselves. And treat the Australian Tourism Industry like it was some cute guy that we are trying to pick up. Haha;)

There are lots of marine biologists, Xtreme sports people, dolphin trainers, tour guides, etc. applying for this job who probably have a lot more experience than we do. But, I really hope that the fact that we are traveling there anyway to just soak up life and enjoy the beauty and culture of Australia (and actually quit our 9-5 jobs in order to do so!) will speak volumes to them.

Even if we don't get this job, we will be video blogging and writing about our adventures the whole way.

And we will also be looking for our personal "Drovah":

(see: Hugh Jackman in Baz Luhrmann's film "Australia" for further reference).

Anyway, so here is the video. Hope you enjoy. And I will post the link to the website as soon as I receive approval so you guys can start voting for/rating our video!

Cheers!

-Mel

Things I've Lost

2009-02-17T14:57:00.000-05:00

Inspired by Jeanne's recent post.

-a $1,250 savings bond which I received as prize for winning an essay contest in 9th grade. I don't remember what the essay was about but I should have put that puppy in a safety deposit box. I don't know where it is now and it would sure come in handy for my upcoming Oz trip...
-too many goldfish. I lost my first two pets (Bubbles and Blackie) to disease and grief. Blackie died because he was sick and Bubbles died of a lonely heart, I'm pretty convinced. They were soulmates. I think.
-Two grandparents that I never really knew. My mom's mother died when I was 6, and I only have two distinct memories of her. One of them involves her making me a peanut butter/honey sandwich. I wonder if that's why I like them so much now. I never met my grandfather and I wish I had, but he died in the Philippines before I could meet him. My mom tells me that my personality is a lot like his so that intrigues me even more. I know you should feel like you had something to begin with in order to lost it, but I feel the loss nonetheless.
-My favorite silver butterfly necklace somewhere in Tucson, Arizona. I think this happened around 9th or 10th grade. We were staying at a resort in Tucson and that was the last time I ever saw that necklace. Gosh, I loved that thing.
-I think i've also lost self-consciousness or at least a significant part of it. I used to care in the extreme about what people thought about me and was bothered by this, probably more than a normal person. I still get offended every now and then if I think someone's perception is out of whack, but generally I really don't think twice about it. I am who I am and I'm pretty comfortable with that.
-my favorite treehouse. (my only treehouse). my dad helped me build this in the central maple tree in our backyard in New Jersey. I also had a rope swing. Many, many hours spent dreaming up in a canopy of trees.
-Innocence, yes. I have cynical bouts still. A constant battle. But I feel like I've rebounded from a 2-3 lapse into extreme cynicism and now I strive to move forward in hope. This battle is dynamic, and always changing on me. But it keeps me on my toes and for that I am grateful.
-many good memories of college. I blame this on the fact that I didn't have a digital camera until my last year in college, and even then I only used it sporadically. Sometimes I look back at college and only see a blur of classes, activities, practicing piano and some routine or schedule that I think I had. I feel like so many amazing, fun, random wonderful things happened with many amazing, fun, random wonderful people, but I don't remember half of it. Mostly because I don't see many of these people anymore and there's no chance for reminiscing...
-my ability to remember things without writing them down/recording them somehow--I think this is why I recently I've taken to taking photographs, writing journal entries, recording video blogs, making quote lists. I used to have a superb memory, but I think it's deteriorated into nothingness.
-my ability to sit still in solitude and enjoy life without needing to check email or facebook or my phone for texts or update my twitter to let the whole flippin' world know what I'm doing. I'm looking forward to Australia to be a break from all the constant communication and just BE.
-a deep friendship that was super important to me. People fade in and our of your lives for reasons and in seasons and that's to be expected, but this particular friendship should not have dwindled to its current form. Lately I've been thinking about it a lot lately. I doubt you'll read this but if you do... We've both changed exponentially and I am still holding out hope that we can find each other again in our new selves.
-my friend Chris to a deadly car accident my sophomore year of college. We were great friends freshman year, and he was a constant companion. He faded out of my life sophomore year and I wish he hadn't and I wish I had been a better friend to him that second year. Rest in Peace, Smalls. You are still missed and loved.
-several bets to Jeanne, where I end up owing her dinner or money in some form. However Walter and Carolina have inspired me to be a bit more creative in coming up with stakes for our bet-making. So I'm working on that;)
-the 8th grade spelling bee at Rock Lake Middle School. I came in stinkin' first runner up. Because I couldn't spell diphthong. Still don't even know if I spelled that right just now.
-my ability to be sensitive and emotional to most people: translated into wanting to cater to people. I used to be a super oversensitive person and used to overcompensate for that. I still think I'm fairly empathetic, but generally I've swung the opposite way and become a bit more logical in the way I approach emotions and people.

What have you lost?

LOST, Mel's back from the dead, etc.

2009-01-28T23:18:00.006-05:00

Hello bloggers.

For those of you who have been faithful reading this blog since its inception in 2006, I want to congratulate you for making it this far, having stuck by me through all of my crazy phases (musical theater, movie reviews, Dexter, Firefly, travel-blogging, and all other randomness that the title of this blog encompasses). My most recent phase has been dipping into the realm of short stories and poetry, due to the wonderful forum of backlight.org.

However, I fear some of you may have assumed that I have lost my regular Melissa blogging voice, amid fantastical tales of sculptures, pagodas, dragonflies and the like. Never fear, I still exist. I and my voice.

In honor of the recent return to Lost, I wanted to revist some of the questions I had the season finale of Season 4 in my previous blog entry here, as well as perhaps address some new questions which have arisen since Season 5 commenced exactly a week ago.

My former Season 4 questions:

Is Claire dead?
I still stand by the theory that Claire died in the cabin explosion, which explains why she was hanging out with creepy Jack's Dad in Jacob's shack. Her enigmatic stare and her obvious lack of concern for mothering Aaron leads me to believe that Claire is actually dead and whatever we see of Claire is just one of those crazy corporealization things that the Island tends to do, materializing people that are actually dead.

Where did the Island go?
Now we know that the Island (or at least the people on it) are now skipping through time. Trippiness to the max.

Is Jeremy Bentham really John Locke?
Yes, I was skeptical at first, but now I realize that the Oceanic 6 (and maybe John Locke himself?) coined the term Jeremy Bentham as a reference for Locke to use off the island, to maintain the lie that everyone on Oceanic 815 died in the original plain crash. I think now the real question is not whether or not Jeremy Bentham is John Locke, but how dying (and apparently cryogenically freezing himself in a butchery?) will save the Island and the people living on it. Hmm...

By becoming the Head Honcho Other, will Locke now become evil and manipulative like Ben?
I don't know if there is anymore validity to this theory. There DOES seem to be two dueling of destinies going on. One, between Locke and Ben, living parallel lives leading up to their appointment as leader of the Others. The other dueling of destinies is between Ben and Widmore, which i will get to in a minute...

Why didn’t Locke just strap that heart monitor to his own arm? (Jin might still be alive:()
Moot point. He didn't know that the heart monitor had anything to do with the bomb. Sad for Jin.

How the heck has Richard Alpert not aged?
I am more and more intrigued by Richard Alpert (or Pretty Eye Guy as Jeanne's sister calls him). He doesn't seem to age and he apparently has had a long-standing position of authority among the Others for decades. I want to know where he came from and why he doesn't age. My question from before as to whether or not Richard himself time traveled (due to his uncanny interest in John Locke from birth) was decisively settled in tonight's episode.

Is Sun trying to wreak revenge on Ben, her dad or Widmore? Or all three?
Hmm I'm a little fuzzy on what happened last week, but she seems to be trying to play all three of these suckers. No offense, Sun, but I think you're biting off more than you can chew at this point. Interesting to see how this corporate battle plays out. Sun is going to be a key player in the Ben vs. Widmore conflict, I'm wagering.

Will Jack find redemption? (and finally shed that Grizzly Jack beard?)
I believe he will find redemption. And he saved off that God-awful Mountain Man grizzly beard, so that was a relief. I think I cheered when he did that in last week's episode.

How will Jack get everybody to go back to the island?
Funny how the more intriguing question now is how will LOCKE get everybody to go back to the Island. I've wavered in my interest in Locke throughout the seasons. He's been kind of a percolating, slow burn kind of character, but this season, the writers are really letting it rip as far as John Locke is concerned.

Was Charlotte born on the island?
I THINK this was answered. Actually, right now, I'm a bit more concerned as to why she is the only one whose health seems to be adversely affected by the rigors of time travel (and possibly radiation from the hydrogen bomb?) I think her inability to cope with time travel has something to do with the fact that she has earlier childhood ties to the island.

Is Sayid Jack Bauer incarnate? (those were some wicked, flippy leg mano a mano moves)
I think he is. And if you disagree, check out the nasty butcher knife in the dishwashing machine action from last week.

How has that time-traveling twist really been at work during the past four seasons, unbeknownst to us?
I think this will begin to unravel. Now we know that a time-traveling Locke influenced Richard Alpert to seek him out as a sort of chosen-one for the island.

How exactly did Ben go from his little ice cave to the middle of the Tunisian desert?
Time travel/teleportation. Now we know. When and where in Lost is completely relative.

How can Desmond really expect not to be found by Charles Widmore?
Again, moot point. He strode into Widmore's office with confidence and resolve (not to mention a wicked awesome coat and scarf), sooooo different from the deferential, insecure Desmond of several years ago. I love how much Desmond has changed. And they named their kid CHARLIE. Ah, I miss Charlie Pace.

What are the whispers!??!?
I really think this has something to do with the time traveling aspect of the show. Past, present and future colliding will allow for some crossing of communication lines on the Island.

How does Ben control the Smoke Monster? Will Locke have the same power? What IS the Smoke Monster?
Talking with Jeanne and Alecia tonight, i realized that I am more interested in the duality playing out between Widmore, and the Smoke Monster is one of the ways this is working out. If Widmore truly is the one funding the Dharma Initiative, it seems to be this epic battle for the soul of the Island between Ben and Widmore. Widmore builds a security fence to keep out the Smoke Monster, an apparently effective device. Ben summons the Smoke Monster to kill Widmore's men in retaliation for killing his daughter. I don'tk now if we'll ever figure out exactly what the Smoke Monster is.

But ESPECIALLY now that we know that a young Charles Widmore was originally one of the Others, this demonstrates even more how obsessive and invested Widmore truly is in the island. He apparently lived and knew the Island inside out as a young man. However, assuming he eventually funds and directs the Dharma Initiative, it will be interesting to see how and why this war between the Hostiles/Others and the Dharma Initiative people played out.

Who is Jacob?
I really am beginning to at least consider more and more that Jacob has something to do with John Locke. Perhaps Locke IS Jacob. I don't know. But now that we know this entire season is dedicated to Locke skipping through time and influencing the past and trying to get the Oceanic 6 back to the Island, it's entirely possible that he influenced Jacob in some way.

And Widmore possibly has no regard or respect for Jacob (as is evidenced by his suspicion and dismissal of Locke's claim to know Jacob), although I'm not quite sure what that means.

Will Sawyer and Juliet hook up (eww… please no)?
They still might. But actually Juliet has grown on me now. She can apparently expertly handle a firearm, AND she can speak a dead language and keeps proving over and over what a valuable, smart, resourceful team player she is. I know she wants to get back to her sister and nephew, but, wow. She kind of looks like she belongs there on the Island. And if the writers play this right, a Sawyer/Juliet thing may actually work. But he's still smitten with Kate clearly, so that ain't happening anytime soon..

I am continually amazed at this show.

Other random thoughts....

-Faraday's mom MUST be Eloise Hawkings a.k.a. Creepy White Haired Lady from the jewelry shop.
-Penny's got a huge target sign on her back. I hope she survives. For Desmond's sake.
-I want to know why Aaron is so important to the island. First, the psychic tells us he must "not be raised by another." But now, the Claire vision (assuming the Island conjured this vision) told Kate not to take Aaron back to the island. Kate's raising him (she's the "another" in question now) and that apparently is against the Island's design or wishes.
-Are we rooting for Ben or Widmore? Or neither?

So many questions.

If you all have any theories to contribute, please share:)

weather report

2009-01-26T07:18:00.002-05:00

lately
moments seem sweeter
colors, sharper and more vivid
laughter, more heady and pure
and Time,
far more precious

like rare drops of rain
falling soft and pure
upon the lonely, cracked earth
my thirsty soul revels
in the deluge
and i am
drenched in love
in song
in art
in complete and utter
JOY.

these tiny treasures
spill and splash upon my face
soaking, enthralling my spirit

rejuvenation.

quick, love
let me dance
let me drown
before they dissipate
only to return to the sky
as a mere mist
a vapor

a beautiful, immaterial dream.

i'm confident they shall return to me again
whether in a flood
a summer storm
or morning mist

though whether here or there
or when
i cannot say

but until then
i tilt my cup toward the resplendent sky

and pray for rain.

If these walls could speak

2009-01-23T10:47:00.002-05:00

If these walls could speak
They'd whisper sweet apologies
With regret in their stone-cold eyes
For the limitless heights to which they soar
Come with a terrible price
Crush and melt a man's very own soul

If these walls could speak
They'd sing a solemn dirge
For the weary backs upon which they were built
Chains and anger clanking in the bitter winter wind
Brick and mortar held together
By the stale, sickly sweetness of blood and sweat.

If these walls could speak
They'd send me their stealthy, sotto voce tones
Warning of shadows pacing the watchtower
Bastard enforcers of fate, of fear and self-loathing
Their rifles aimed at pulsing, throbbing, messy hearts
With an executioner's glare

If these walls could speak
They'd resound with all the insanity
And the howls, the riots, the unspeakable acts
Behind translucent sheets, under tables and behind closed doors
Upon the maimed, the marred, the unforgiven

If these walls could speak
They'd pray down that invisible hand
To carve their sorrow and shame
Upon my flesh and bone
With their haunting tales of angels and demons
And beautiful, fallen ones
Wrestling, warring for human hearts.

If these walls could speak

I'd silence them all.

If only Grace would pour her light down upon me
To melt the steel, the limestone, and the razor wire
Dissolving the patterns, the lies and the illusions constructed
by my imagination.

If these walls could speak, why,

They wouldn't speak at all.

on prayer: troupe

2009-01-22T15:17:00.002-05:00

we are quite the act, you and i.

a dance
a tango
a messy, freeing entanglement
of arms and legs
of hips
of breath
of movement

your hand upon mine
and upon the small of my back
while
rhythm and passion
intertwine
and i lose control
over and over
and under
and beneath
fervent summer nights

we inherit the risk
and the whirlwind
while we shimmer together
drunk with wine
with words
with intimacy

the stars blink and smile
and watch our shadows
glide across the floor.

still, my love,
i have traded you in

and i assume the role of master
innocently, maniacally
pulling your strings
jerking your movements
twisting your head
into a garish, ghastly
tarantella

how i shape this discord
to harness your motion
to choreograph your steps
to contrive and conform into

a safe, pleasant, harmless thing

where i always come out on top
and i rule the world

and so i emerge
perfect and scar-less

a heartless being
a lifeless doll

shake me up, my dear
before i rob myself again.

Short Story: Quest

2009-01-13T19:11:00.005-05:00

I went urban exploring for the first time with a small group of friends. Toward the end of our little adventure, an intriguing red velvet wooden box caught my eye. My friend Brian retrieved it, I imagine my friend Jeanne felt as intrigued as I and I promised both I'd write a story about it.

Here it is.

I had heard rumors of the hidden world.

The boy perpetuated the mystery, the intrigue. He claimed to have discovered a portal to an alternate world, but I did not believe him. All I had seen was an empty field and a long white wall that stretched to the long dirt road. The local townspeople had an unwritten contract with all the village inhabitants: No one crosses the wall.

The wall, he declared, is the doorway. We must only pass through it.

Breathless and nervous with energy, he had the glazed look of a boy who had traveled far and wide, to the deep and high places. He insisted on the magic of the place, that we should follow his steps.

I and my friends, we debated on whether we should follow.

Like the Pied Piper, his lilting song of confidence mysteriously compelled us across the field, and before we knew it, we were at the brink of the secret place. The forbidden wall.

I saw no opening. How shall we pass through, we demanded.

He said nothing. He only smiled and leaned forward, nodding at us to do the same.

Hesitant, I touched the wall, then followed suit. A whoosh of bright light enveloped me and I felt propelled forward.

Felt my atoms swirl around, connecting and reconnecting, attaching and detaching, and the light shimmered around.

Suddenly a cold shiver rocked my body and we crashed through an invisible barrier.

Reeling from the shock, I slowly stood up and looked around, amazed.

How the scenery had changed.

Our band of explorers filtered into the courtyard, wide-eyed and exhilarated at the unknown and mysterious that was ours for the taking.

Yet the decay and havoc greeting us both jarred and filled my senses. I imagined the clash of civilizations, of technology, of cultures. Obscenities sprayed in red and black upon the plaster and stone echoed of other wanderers and vandals who had passed before us. Miniature seas of broken glass lay in glittering sheets upon the broken cement and weeds. The chaos of the landscape seduced us into our own personal forms of delight and mischief.

Still, the echos of the place that once was filled my imagination.

I envisioned fantastical dragons swooping down from the burning sky and an emperor robed in regalia to a cheering throng of spectators, swathed in red and cold and a brilliant array of fireworks exploding across the evening sky. I smelled jasmine and burning incense and perfume. I felt an atmosphere, charged with electric anticipation at the crowning of the emperor's new queen.

With these visions in our heads, we raced and flew from rooftop to rooftop, defying gravity, striking brilliant poses against the clear blue sky. Scaling giant rock formations and scrambling up vine-tressed walls, impromptu and amateur acrobats straining and striving only for a new perspective, a heightened panaroma. We roamed the open-air faux temple, a pantheon and graveyard of fallen gods, now profaned with the juvenile scribblings.

I understood, then. The magical world was not one of a noble quest or a daring rescue. There was no ring to find and destroy, no dragon to slay and no palace to defend. The glory of this place was in the brokenness and the decay. The unlicensed freedom it brought.

We split off in various directions, confident we would find each other again. We raced back and forth calling forth to one another, yelling in triumph as we discovered various treasures. These treasures transformed us. One found a thick wooden stick swathed in bright crimson. Leaning upon this staff, he became suddenly wise, a sage with soft, twinkling eyes of wisdom. Another found a broken horse hoof in the dark recesses of a cave. He became a daring warrior, hitting targets with precision and mightily shattering rocks and roof tiles with defiant glee. Still another found a brilliantly pink lotus, and she transformed into a beautifully regal lady in waiting, rose-colored satin and silk robes. Yet another found the frayed edges of a worn map. She became an astute, celebrated cartographer, charged with unlocking the mysteries of the farthest reaches of the empire.

I looked on at my companions with envy at their discovered treasures. I had still not found mine.

The magic of the day seemed to dwindle with the setting sun. As shadows lengthened, we trudged back to our starting point, retracing our footsteps to the white wall.

I noticed the halo of light surrounding before I saw the box itself. It sat atop the rooftop, gleaming in the sunlight.

I wasn't even sure how the box was loosed from its original hiding place. I could see sunlight striking the red velvet, brilliantly illuminating it among the broken tiles, dark and splintered window frames and jagged glass shards of the long-abandoned pagoda.

The boy, noticing my enchantment, said nothing, only smiled. He sprung and leapt, lighter than air, upon the tiled roof, freeing box from its lofty hiding place, handed it to me. I wondered at its mystery, tracing the worn, frayed edges, intrigued by the mystery locked inside. I tapped the side, listening to the satisfying echo of the hollowness.

I wondered at its purpose. Had some passionate love letter, or some tear-streaked confessional been tucked away in the hollow for safekeeping? Had it housed spice packets or cigars or some trinket from a merchant ship? Had it been the sacred hiding place of a child, full of mundane treasures that spoke of warm summer days beneath the cherry blossoms?

I ached to know. I looked for an opening but it was sealed shut. I tucked it away in my satchel, intent on unraveling its mystery in private, away from my fellow travelers.

We reached the threshold and I braced myself for the journey home, the wrinkling of the universe across a infinite, seamless fabric of time and space.

I watched my companions disappear one after another through the wall. I was the last to go. I pressed my body against the wall and braced myself for the icy shock, the disassembling of myself. Nothing. Puzzled, I leaned forward again. I only felt the warmth of the wall.

Panicking, I imagined myself trapped. I dug around in my satchel for my knife, thinking I could cut or scrape my way through the wall. My hand brushed against the soft velvet of the box.

Suddenly, I understood.

Why I could not pass and why the sunlight of this place seemed to illuminate the box for me and for me alone.

Quite alone, I knelt down, knife in hand and gently pried open the box. With some effort, I gingerly separated the top lid from the bottom frame, cutting away through layers of dust and disuse. I lifted the top and peered inside. I saw dark green felt lining the bottom and the sides, but no treasure. No keepsake or locket or partially burned letter. I felt along the inside, hoping for a secret lock or catch or spring inside. I pored over every inch of the box with the delicate care of a surgeon, but found nothing. I thought I had smelled the faint odor of crushed flowers, but shook my head at my overactive imagination.

Disenchanted, I tossed the box aside. I laughed out in derision, at the mystery unraveled, the thrill gone. It lay upon the broken stones, dulled in the receding sun.

But then, a thought.

I picked up red velvet box again, suddenly charmed by its lack of pretense. Shall I merely abandon my treasure? Dare I discard it? After all, it had faithfully carried the stories of its journey toward me upon the gentle breeze, which had long eroded with time and moth and rust. I tasted the salty winds guiding the sails of the merchant ship that brought it here from afar. I saw the glitter of jewels and spices it once held. I smelled the perfume of the heartbroken lady who kept her soul's secret locked away in there. I felt the wood of the teak tree her lover had chopped down to carve this box for her, to burn and bring her warmth with fire, to build their secret haven.

And it was mine.

I felt myself transform.

With a secret smile upon my lips, I stepped through the wall, leaving the box behind.

I caught up with my companions later.

Tension, Dialectics of Thinking and Philip Yancey

2009-01-09T09:24:00.008-05:00

Tension. Lately, my heart has been overwhelmed with the intricacies of human thought, motivation and behavior. People perceive situations and process information and experiences so differently, it's a wonder the world hasn't yet exploded (or imploded) from the chaos and pain this tension creates.

I discovered the dialectics of thinking my freshman year of college. In an oversimplified explanation, this is the general concept: For every idea (thesis) there is an opposite idea (antithesis). A reconciliation of these two ideas in a paradox creates a new idea (synthesis). For all of the dialectical theory's flaws when applied to economics, political systems, philosophy and everything else, I do see this kind of thinking played out in the mechanics of faith, introspection and relationship.

Over coffee with a friend the other evening, she drew attention to one of my quirks: I tend to explore ideas from every facet, embracing the extremes and truly contemplating them, trying to reconcile the validity of two opposing arguments. This makes me come across as remarkably inconsistent and indecisive, as I am always adapting when new thoughts or opinions are introduced.

Open-mindedness to a fault.

I've been wrestling with this aspect of myself more and more recently, trying to understand and expose both the pitfalls and glory of such a mindset.

I am a firm believer that for every Truth or Value, there is not one but TWO opposites. That every value is the mean of two opposites. This tension plays out beautifully in the story of the gospel. Faith and works. Grace and freedom. Jesus, both God and Man. God, Three yet One. Kingdom, both here and not yet.

It plays out in relationships: logic and emotion. alone time and community. Vulnerability and boundaries.

We are constantly living in a state of tension, trying to reconcile opposite ends of the same paradox.

I tested nearly 100% N on the Myers-Briggs test. Meaning, in my own thoughts and in my relationships with people, I'm usually [constantly] unraveling meaning and dissecting motives and searching for underlying patterns in everything. It can be exhausting. And it can get me into trouble, especially if I began to perceive things that are not really there. I think I've toned down in this a lot in the past couple of years and have been able to just let go and live in the moment and not be so concerned with unraveling other people's motives or reading into people's reactions. Other people--friends past and present--have graciously [but brutally] shown me that the reality I perceive may not be the same as the reality they perceive. Or more importantly, reality as it is. It's been hard, it's been challenging, but extremely necessary.

But the extremity of this tendency of mine does resurface.

And I'm realizing more and more: we're all approaching True Reality from opposing perspectives and trying to meet each other on some common ground.

I'm in the middle of reading "What's So Amazing About Grace?" by Philip Yancey. I'm moving through the pages slowly than I typically do, trying to savor the words and wrap my mind around the truth. As much as I have thought about [and experienced] grace over the years, I do not believe I have contemplated it to this intense degree. It's really kind of earth-shattering to me, how the patterns of grace are so contrary to the patterns of ungrace that are ingrained in the DNA of the world. Yancey talks about the "atrocious mathematics of grace," explaining this as someone giving up something that costs them everything to someone who deserves absolutely nothing. And how unnaturally far and removed that seems to be from our own day-to-day experience in the economics of being human. I've understood that idea theoretically, maybe even theologically, but translating the atrocious mathematics of grace into every day relationships and attitude is a bit staggering to me.

I'm still processing. The implications are overwhelming.

So far, 2009 has been this crash course in communication and perception, revisiting and reworking the validity of intuition. 2008 was a wonderful year in which this tendency of mine learned rest and restraint.

It'll be interesting to see where this leads in the upcoming year...

Short Story: The Sculpture

2009-01-02T14:55:00.008-05:00

This was my accidental foray into a genre known as magical realism. I say accidental because I did not even know that magical realism was a genre until my friend Billy enthusiastically informed me. Gabriel García Márquez (of 100 Years of Solitude) is apparently a recent famous author who is known for this genre, although I have yet to read any of his novels. According to Wikipedia, magical realism is "an artistic genre in which magical elements or illogical scenarios appear in an otherwise realistic or even "normal" setting."

This is my exploration of the tension between reality and idealism, specifically rooted in Western cultural assumptions of romantic love.

I went to the Gallery today.

I had long anticipated this moment. Though it had been months since I had last been to the Gallery, the image of the sculpture burned unmistakably clear in my memory. In my time apart from the sculpture, I often took pleasure in re-creating the memory in my mind.

The statue stood in the center of the enormous circular rotunda, set with windows which poured a steady waterfall of light to its central figure. Grand and majestic, he rose from the dais like a mythical god. His marble form was poised and alert, and every stone muscle, taut with discipline and strength and resolve. His flawless proportions elicited a sense of order and grace. His face, perfect and glorious, turned slightly upward. His impossibly blueish eyes, though marble, seemed to radiate a natural source of light from within. He gazed enigmatically, piercing the souls of all who looked up on him.

Years ago, the statue had been carefully restored and transported to the gallery from its former dominion, from the ruins of a temple, somewhere in the Mediterranean. For centuries, throngs of adoring patrons flocked to the statue, eager at the prospect of catching even a glimpse of his famed beauty. Lines formed and wrapped out the Gallery door and down the street, nearly for miles. Frenzied tourists descended upon the gallery in gaggles of haphazard lines, elbowing impatiently for a chance to have their photo taken with him, though no photograph could do the sculpture justice.

Scholars, historians and even philosophers endlessly debated over its creation and the wonder of its meaning, though none could pinpoint or unravel its mystery. Capturing the wonder and imagination of even the most famous and skilled artists, the renowned statue had inspired poetry, symphonies, and even an opera by one particularly enraptured soul. Curiosity piqued at what music this sculpture would inspire, I went to hear it for myself last autumn.

I remember sitting in the velvety opera hall, allowing the beautiful tones of the arias to envelop me and cause my spirit so soar, even for a brief moment. Yet even as the applause and excitement of the evening receded, I left the opera hall disconcerted, for I had realized the terrible, beautiful truth: All such attempts to capture the immortal were flawed and hollow at best.

And it was if this sculpture encapsulated the very Ideal locked away in every human heart.

I remembered my own early mornings of stolen moments and lazy afternoons I would spend in the gallery. I came as often as I could spare these moments. After all, the ever-changing sunlight altered each attribute, highlighting the subtleties and inspiring contemplation and an infinite myriad of emotions. Mesmerized, I would spend hours in front of the sculpture, studying it from every angle. The contours of the marble sculpted perfectly resonated with something stored up in my own heart, though I could not quite define it.

His beauty unsettled me.

Sometimes I brought my guitar, strumming softly, allowing the sculpture’s beauty to wash over me and motivate my soul as I plucked the strings, singing and humming almost unconsciously. Occasionally (though I am certainly no artist) I brought my sketchpad, merely allowing the infinite lines and shapes that I saw reflected in him to impress themselves upon the blank sheets of paper. Still other times, I brought my diary, scribbling imperfect scrawls of poetry and impressions upon crinkled pages. I could never re-create anything remotely worthy, but I could immerse myself in this. In him.

I felt I knew this sculpture as intimately as I knew my own heart.

This is how my feet carried me toward him today.

Breathless with anticipation, I pushed through the glass double doors of the Gallery that I knew and loved so well.

The clean, white corners of the display hall created a light, airy sense of space. A blank canvas, no doubt, upon which each visitor projected her deepest, most sacred dreams.

Today, the moment of reunion was even more glorious and intimate than I imagined. The gallery was deserted, save for a lone soul sitting on a bench, though I barely noticed him at first. Dust motes swirled and floated around the immense statue like delicate snowflakes, shimmering as the multicolored sunlight streamed in through the upper windows.

I slowly circled the stone statue, marveling and reveling in the moment of being reunited with my treasured sculpture. In a rush of emotion, all the memories of the hours I had spent in that room came flooding back, overwhelming me.

So absorbed was I in admiring the statue, I almost didn’t notice the young man sitting on the bench. He was sitting thoughtfully, his posture both relaxed, clearly enjoying the peace and tranquility of the room. Only briefly distracted by him, I returned my gaze to the statue.

The boy spoke, suddenly interrupting my thoughts. “Do you like it?” he asked.

Irritated to be disturbed in my thoughts, I hesitated. Though unruly locks of hair partially hid the boy's face from me, I realized the sincerity of his tone, that he sought a genuine answer. I thought of how to answer his question honestly. For truthfully, the thousand emotions and impressions betrayed my utter fascination and ardent obsession with statue, rising and burning within my chest, I thought I might burst. “I do. Very much,” I said simply.

The boy seemed to read the complexity of my expression. He nodded. I felt inexplicably understood.

“Do you know the artist?” he asked.

“The artist? Of course, I do. The artist is…” Suddenly, I was shocked to realize and remember that for all of my hours in the gallery, I did not know the artist’s name.

And nor did anyone else. For though archaeologists and scholars had relentlessly tried to discover the identity of the sculptor, all efforts had come to nothing.

The mastermind, the beautiful, sensitive soul behind this work of art remained a complete, utter mystery.

“I do not know,” I sheepishly confessed.

"I know the sculptor." He leaned forward. “I can tell you the secret. Do you want to know?”

Intrigued, I stepped closer to him. Forgetting myself and all sense of etiquette, I suddenly realized that, more than anything in the world, I yearned to know the artist’s name. “Tell me.”

Delighted, a slow, mysterious smile played upon his lips. He leaned toward me, inches from my face and whispered, “No one. And everyone"

Incredulous, I laughed, amused at the absurdity of his claim. "That is impossible."

Still, he insisted, "No one. And everyone. I should know. I was there."

Illogical paradox, I fumed. “This statue is thousands of years old! It is ancient, and you are so young. You are only a boy!” Disgusted, I pulled my face away from his and nearly walked away.

Suddenly, he turned to face me fully, and I was shocked at what I found, staring into the infinite blue of his tender expression.

Looking into those beautiful, ancient, all-seeing eyes, I suddenly understood. For his glorious, piercing gaze was an incandescent window into another universe that held all the mysteries of this world. Of my heart, of every heart.

At once, I knew his words to be true. This was indeed the soul that had witnessed the creation of my beloved sculpture.

Suddenly I felt quite small. "Why are you here?" I asked, both intrigued and intimidated by his presence.

"Vandalism," he replied merrily.

"Vandalism?" His words did not quite register.

"Truthfully. I came to destroy the sculpture." He gestured to a sledgehammer at his side, which I had not noticed until then.

My heart cried out in protest. "Destroy it?"

His eyes danced and sparkled, but not unkindly. "Why, yes."

A indignant fire rose up within my chest. I momentarily thought about grabbing the sledgehammer from him to defend the sculpture I loved so dearly. "But why?" I nearly shouted.

He sighed softly, a beautiful, ancient sound. "Its essence is Real. The most Real there is. Is that not what drew you here day after day?"

I trembled slightly, feeling utterly exposed at his words.

"Oh, the essence is certainly very Real. But the statue itself is not. This Sculpture is a mere refracted reflection of reality. The partial refraction is swallowed up in the beauty of Reality."

I uttered a quick, derisive laugh. "Not likely." But I stood motionless.

"Consider how many hours you've spent here, lost and mesmerized in the beauty of this trinket, this trifle. Despite its utter perfection and the obsession it creates, you remain unsettled. You know you do. For it is the false perfection that disconnects you from the true Reality."

He handed me the sledgehammer. "Go on. Do it."

I stood frozen, sledgehammer in hand. How could I destroy it? The sculpture that I adored and lived and breathed for? Turning toward the boy, I reared back, feeling the gravity of the moment. I thought about crushing him.

No one. And everyone.

I turned slightly, closing my eyes, allowing the momentum of the moment to propel the hammer forward.

I heard nothing but the sound of shattered glass falling around me like drops of rain.

I saw nothing but soft, blueish hues and tones of the boy's eyes explode in brilliance, flooding the Gallery at the sound of the breaking.

I felt nothing but the marvelous surge of joyous intuition as the other universe descended in the Essence unleashed.

And I was stunned to discover at last, how fragile the sculpture really was.

Remembering, Re-Creating 2008

2008-12-31T07:21:00.020-05:00

I was looking over my 2008 LOST calendar and looking at the dates and events I had marked down, mapping out my life for 12 months. I decided in celebration of the New Year, that I'd ruminate/highlight/chronicle the most memorable parts of my life as it unfolded in 2008.

A quote from one of my beloved discoveries of the year, Radiolab Podcasts: "All remembering is an act of creation."

This is not an attempt to be eloquent or deep. This is solely my mind taking inventory and indulging;)

So here's to Re-Creation of 2008.

January:
-An overnight, whirlwind of craziness to NYC to do an OaKs show and interview on WNYC's Public Radio International. Hauling my 500 pound accordion through the subway and streets of NYC will not rank high on my list of favorite things to do. But flying up to NYC for 24 hours is probably the most rock star-ish thing I'll ever do. Our "meet-the-press" session felt strangely like an episode of Flight of the Conchords. Meaning nobody came. And thanks to an uncensored interview with the folks of Uncensored Interview, I discovered that I intensely dislike being on camera. Ironic, since I know thrive off of video blogs, nearly 11 months later.

February:
-An awkward but necessary camping trip (which later actually turned out to be refreshing) where I finally met a ton of people at Status, despite attending for more than a year and not ever getting involved. Three lovely people (Josh, Lauranne and Jessica) broke me into community that week and the rest is history.
-Erin's 21st/Black and White birthday. I just remember laughing a lot that night and having a lot of "appletinis." For some reason, I remember playing the opening bars of "Smoke on the Water" with a few other people by blowing on open bottles of root beer. This was also the night of the best game of Catch Phrase. EVER.
-A road trip to Kentucky and Tennessee with 7 of my favorites. We took a gazillion pictures, played in snow (some for the first time), stayed in the most amazing cabin ever, endlessly played Phase 10 and Skip-Bo, made pancakes. Playing that crazy Untangle game in the hot tub took far longer than it should. Also I will never forget not being able to tell if it was Erin or Michelle lying to me during Mafia. I remember sitting on a sun-warmed porch overlooking the mountains and thinking that for a few days anyway, I wanted to live on top of that mountain forever. And the drive through the Smokey Mountains on the way home looked like Narnia.

March
-Recording the OaKs Songs for Waiting album. Well this began much earlier, but it culminated finally this month in our OaKs CD release show at the Social. I loved the challenge of figuring out vocal lines, collaborating with the guys on harmony and Wurlitzer parts. The producers and artists I've worked with have always been firm believer in the homegrown, grassroots approach and so I've always loved standing in front of those mikes and pop filters, with nothing but a pair of headphones and the warmth and wood floors of somebody's home, rejecting the stark sterility of a recording studio. On the CD release night, I remember bright lights and lots of friends cheering and jamming my heart out.

We started to feel like a band.

-Traveling to Austin, TX for South by Southwest 2008 and playing the Fanatic Promotion showcase as well as several day parties. Again, those day parties felt extremely Flight of the Conchordish. Bands and sound checks and bars and wandering through vibrant, pulsing city streets. Feasting on tangy Texas BBQ our last night there on the remote outskirts of the city was heavenly and I will not forget that evening that saw me drink my first bottle of Fat Tire.

The Hotel Cafe showcase at The Parish changed my life. The conversations, the ease, the intelligence of songwriting and the camaraderie onstage showed me a new way of being a singer/songwriter.

April
-Mostly a blur of more OaKs shows in Tampa and the Social, a birthday party I should have gone to but didn't, and endlessly fun evenings of The Office, LOST, Scrabble and Apples to Apples at Oscar and Jodie's

May
-Seeing Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova (from the movie "Once") live in Atlanta for a show. Beautiful, soothing music. I only wish our seats could have been better. But hey, the flight was free. And coming off of their Oscar for Best Song, I'd say the evening was slightly legendary;)
-the one month I was actually consistent with going to Sphere to talk about Disappointment with God, led by Jeanne and Tiffany (little did I know where these friendships would lead...) I'm starting to actually see people, and not just let them float around me in a blur. I walk away from these discussions refreshed, challenged, intrigued.
-FMF festival: blue men, bright lights, confetti, and an ease into the routine of set-up. Later that week, an early night cut short led to Cheyenne Saloon and Ceviche.
-the last show with The OaKs, though I did not know it then at the WMNF Tropical Heatwave show. Think SXSW, except the audience is mostly hippies.

June
-OneRepublic concert--I think I can trace the true beginnings of my hanging out with Jeanne, Tiff, Les and Su to this evening. Piano keys pounding, cello sighing and crazy awesome subwoofers. Music owns the night.
-Ingrid Michaelson concert--I got to sing onstage with her for two songs. I will never forget that. This evening was exuberant and legendary, but only in my own mind.
-An evening where everything fell into place: a rodeo where we learned about the extent of animal cruelty and that nobody really dresses up for rodeos, coloring in the kids' menu can bring hours of entertainment at Bennigans, and hanging out with friends can be fun even though the movie is super lame.

July
-Trip to New York City to hang with Paige and Jenny on July Fourth weekend. I remember Jelly Beans, endless shelves of books at the Strand, rooftop fireworks in the rain, taking shelter under a crowd of umbrellas, flying through the air and hanging out on rocks in the middle of Central Park, drinking coke and amarettos in some supposedly trendy club that played lame music. Endless photos, wandering and laughing.
-sitting in Books a Million with Becca and poring over an Atlantic Monthly article and having our minds blown. We sat in the parking lot, contemplating mystery and feeling suddenly very small. I can always count on that girl for amazing conversation.
-a inexplicably memorable day at the beach. sun and sand and waves and foam and strawberries and baby sharks. a day remarkably beautiful in its simplicity.
-a Black and White party of mayhem, strangely potent green liquid, dancing, red boots and bonding with Leslie through laughter.

August
-another random party. Laughter and absurdities and recorded voicemails on the back porch. My Filipino Freestyle was born, my purse was stolen, the ground was wet and the couch somehow managed to survive it all. Even to this day.
-A wedding. I reconnected with an old friend and found that I missed him much more than I imagined I did.
-trip to DeLeon springs: sun, canoes (I remember it felt strangely like being in an episode of LOST), pancakes that were worth the two-hour wait, plus the most amazing bacon ever. I still remember lying beneath the sun and trees and thinking I wish I could bottle up moments like that forever.
-Meteor shower in the open field near our house. Oscar helped me acquire this fire pit, which turned out to be the best investment I made this year (apart from my Macbook), as it has proved to be the central focal point for many a social gathering this year. New friends and old friends bonded over s'mores and iPhones, mixing and blending on blue tarps and blankets. I saw beautiful lights flash brilliantly across the sky all night long.
-Tiff's birthday, despite horrid Tropical Storm Fay; Happy Hour at Friday's, B.B. Kings and Cowboys and Wall Street Plaza. We had a fake bridal shower wedding, and then flipped quarters and ate hash browns at Waffle House until almost 4a.m.
-D.C. with Jeanne: I ate the best filet mignon of my LIFE, wandered capitol hill and stayed in an amazing old Colonial-era house with tons of character. I loved the wandering, the exploring, [the eating:)] and the conversations.

September
-evenings of book discussions over C.S. Lewis.
-lots of running by misty, orange and pink sunrises, endless political debating
-crazy trying to cram 5 people into a photobooth at Bar-B-Q; playing Rock Band live to Journey
-I believe this is when Jeanne and I bought our ticket to Sydney. Though I may have gotten the date confused? Regardless, I discovered someone who was just as restless and keen on leaving and having an adventure. The rest is history. (Or at least, a history that is still being written...)
-trip to St. Pete for beach and Salvador Dali

October
-I wrote Slide. Starting to find the secrets of writing decent hooks. But only just.
-The Mel version of Hiphopapotamous was born after Midnight Mass. Also, I got caught in a rainstorm while running this weekend. "Primal connectedness to nature."
-The first 80s night at Backbooth for Walt's birthday. As Jeanne so eloquently put it: "I saw flashes of fluorescent lights, people shaking it, and pearls. There were silly boys and funny old men. The next thing I saw was a photobooth strip, memories in a memory. Birthdays are best celebrated like this."
-the Longest Best Day ever: Muse Theology with Chuck deGroat, volunteering with Praxis kids at Give Kids the World, and then dancing the night away for Jahred's going away party.
-Aquatica--blissful day in the sun and water with beautiful friends.
-Halloween Party--chaotic, haphazard evening of fire, dancing moose, alter egos, Clue Characters, ukeleles, guitars and blue tarps
-Food and Wine Festival-
-Seattle- my first trip to the West Coast/Pacific Northwest. An evening of skee ball, hash browns, paper telephone, and almost making it to the club in Portland with the 80s dancing on a trampoline floor. A beautiful dream that may yet come to pass.

November
-Election Night--another evening of fire (sort of an ongoing theme of 2008), marshmallows and video blogging.
-Finally running the 10K! I felt exhilarated, learning I could run and talk at the same time (thanks, Dana) and my body felt like rejecting all junk food forever. For all of 30 minutes. This feeling was shortly followed up by a glorious chocolate chip waffle.
-Disney at the Swan and Dolphin with the girls. Escape from reality. This is where Texas de Brazil daring was officially born.
-New York City--a whirlwind blur of the Statue of Liberty, the Financial District, finally seeing Chicago on Broadway, and scoping out Justin Timberlake's restaurant. Conversations on planes, in parks and on city streets.

December
BK's birthday brought a memorable evening of Mongolian BBQ and conversation with my three favorite ENTJs (well Sonny MAY be an ENFJ).

A Cuban-Filipino Christmas with the family: amazing Cuban food, an evening of Scrabble, exchanging gifts. I forgot how much this quality time with family is necessary and central to my life.

I finally finished The Brothers Karamazov, a goal several years in the making (unfortunately).

Stardust gig/night of IHOP: probably December's most memorable evening so far (still banking on tonight;). And for this reason:

I'm realizing more and more how beautiful the people and relationships around me are. They're difficult, but rewarding, if I take the time to take off my blinders, my comfort level and actually engage with people and pour into them and just take the time to notice and be invested and be involved... well, it's not even about a reward. It's just LIFE.

I've never regretted a single spontaneous late night, initiating a necessary [or just enjoyable] conversation, spending time with any one person, taking a random trip somewhere new and exciting. Ironic, since I am going to an "I Hate '08" party tonight, because I truly did not hate 2008. It's been a remarkable year of new friendships, renewed friendships, discovering (or re-discovering) community, putting into practice all the hard lessons of 2007, learning to be vulnerable, remembering to give, to write, pray, to surrender, to create, to be still, to make time, to be completely present where I am, yet to plan and to dream. I'm not perfect and don't claim to be--I cringe at the flaws but celebrate the growth. This year has been probably one of the most enjoyable and remarkable years of my life.

Part of me is bracing for the storm, because I know that this only a season, maybe even an aberration, but for now, the main theme in my heart is [unceasingly] gratitude.

Stardust Gig/IHOP Video Blogging

2008-12-23T11:00:00.008-05:00

I played an acoustic show this past Saturday night at Stardust Video and Coffee near Baldwin Park. My friend Chase Patterson (of the one-man band named Solaseria) invited me to come open up for him. I've seen him perform there before and I remember liked the venue, I've been jonesin' to play a show lately and try out some of my new songs, so of course the decision to say "yes" was basically a no-brainer.

Since I am the anti-stereotypical band member, I of course showed up to the venue early and had an hour to kill, so I ordered some food. They have a mad awesome chicken pesto sandwich which I devoured.

The main thing I was excited about was my new friend Kirk joined me for my set. He sings, plays acoustic guitar and violin. I always prefer to surround myself with other musicians when performing. Even when Syd and I used to play out, we always preferred playing with Dav (on drums) and Lauren (on violin) and occasionally the great Kris Karlsson when he could grace us with his amazing guitar skills. Also playing with The OaKs a lot has made me appreciate even more the chemistry and creativity of collaborating with other musicians.

I was super sad because I lost my favorite guitar pick that night. During sound check, it slipped from its place wedged between the guitar strings and fell into the abyss also known as the cracks between the stage. What are the odds? I was bummed because it was a guitar pick I got at SXSW this past year. And it said SXSW '08 on it. Ah well.

The stage was a little crazy. Jeanne said it looked like I was singing inside a bleeding heart. You decide.

Overall, I was happy with how the show went, and even more happy with how many people came out to see the show. I really want to try and release an album before I leave for Australia, even if it's a short 5 or 6 song ep. On top of the other ten thousand things I need to get done over the next couple of months.

I did make another infamous video blog, which I will post below. I've decided I'm going to start posting the video blogs here as well. Anyway, this latest one involves me and seven of my friends (Walter, Jeanne, Brian, Sonny, Alecia, Les and my sis) and late night escapades at an IHOP somewhere in Orlando.

Why I'm Going to Australia. And other Randoms.

2008-12-17T16:03:00.007-05:00

I suppose now that I've formally submitted my intention to quit my job, I can now officially blog about the beginnings of this newest adventure of mine.

Yes, the rumors are true. My dear friend Jeanne and I are temporarily moving to Australia as of March 2009. We booked one-way tickets from L.A. to Sydney (by way of Fiji).

A lot of people have been been asking us why we're doing this. Particularly my mom, who just about passed out when I informed her of my decision.

Why am I going? Valid question. If I were you, I'd want to know, too. In my initial attempt to genuinely engage each person I talk to, I've inadvertently and unfortunately come up with a lot of stock answers for this question. You'd be surprised how few people actually ask "Why?" Maybe the coolness factor of Australia precludes any further questioning. As if I need a REASON to travel to Australia and New Zealand, right?;)

But in the off-chance that someone DOES ask and pushes me beyond my usually "Just to travel and see the world" answer, I usually just say joke around and say something along the lines of "Because we can" or "We have an opportunity to" or "We're young, single and unattached" or "I just want an adventure."

There is truth to every single one of these answers. Yet none of these replies seem to fully encompass my true motivation.

Especially amid a struggling economy, and in light of the fact that both of Jeanne's and my job recently gave us major raises and increased responsibility even in the past month, this flight of fantasy around the world probably seems a bit irresponsible. Maybe even ungrateful, at least in light of the financial blessing in a tight economy that God provides through our jobs. And Jeanne and I have both wrestled with the ramifications of that reality recently.

I'll admit, life has shifted around a lot for me over the past five or six months in unexpected ways, since the suggestion of Australia was planted in my brain. A year ago, you would have found me unequivocally longing to ditch Orlando. If it weren't for my band The OaKs and the distinct possibility of a achieving musical success for a time, I admit I probably would have left a long time ago. I was considering seminary, working harder on music, heading north or west or someplace different. 2007, as many of you know, was not the greatest year in my life. And with few personal attachments to Orlando (other than my family and a couple of friends), about a year ago, I was poised to leave for anywhere.

I suppose I've become a bit of a nomad over the years. I tend to become close with people really easily and quickly, mostly because I've adapted to the transience of life. I've had to say good-bye to far too many good friends, likely with the possibility of never seeing them again. And although my introverted self used to want to just shut down and become an independent floater/loner (so much easier that way), I've inexplicably found myself drawn into relationships with certain individuals and groups. And I constantly sense God inviting me into meaningful relationships, with no agenda and or timetable or crazy expectations on my part. Just a freedom to step into communities and relationships and see what develops from there. To learn from other people who see things differently than I do. To completely be where I am. And that sort of journey has been what's defined my relationships with people over the past year, whether through FCC, Southside, work, Status and other spheres within my life.

For someone who is constantly scanning the horizon, this slowing down and living in a state of being and being completely present in the moment has been a HUGE step in personal growth for me. The city that I had been itching to leave for so long has become a city that I love, and one that holds a lot of good memories for me.

Somewhere along the line, this plan to go to Australia coalesced along the way, and I found someone else who is probably as nomadic as me to share the journey with. But I've discovered that over the past 5 or 6 months, my motivations for wanting to travel have changed. And over the past few months, the reality of what it would mean to leave family and friends behind and step into an unknown began to hit me. God has stripped away a lot of my selfish notions and attitude of self-involvement. I even contemplated (and wrestled considerably through much fasting and prayer) if I was to even still go through with this trip.

While my initial reason for wanting to go was merely "wanting to escape," this motivation eventually transformed (and is still transforming) into a desire for inviting in a change of pace, change in comfort, a challenging adventure and a season for reflection, or to be incredibly cliche, a time of soul-searching. I love experimenting, pushing the limits of who I am and seeing how much I can grow within any given context.

I'm not expecting to hear from God any better over in Australia than over here in Florida. That is not the point of this. I am beginning to believe and embrace more and more that God calls us to be exactly where we are. Right now, that's here. And I'm digging in. A few months from now, it'll be the open road Down Under. So I'll dig in there as well.

But this is what I am most anticipating in Australia: stripping life of the routine and predictability and seeing how God speaks into that. Fully expecting Him to, just as He has here in Orlando.

I'm expecting this trip to be exciting, yes, but also incredibly difficult. For the first couple of months anyway, Jeanne and I will be roaming the continent and are not going to have any sort of consistent community. We are fully aware of the issues tied to that and so for those of you who love and know us well, we definitely want to be soliciting your prayers over the next few months here.

We both intend to read and write and create along the way. (I either need to bring a guitar or find one in a pawn shop over in Australia, or else I'm gonna go nuts). The tentative plan is to eventually settle down in the Gold Coast (south of Brisbane) temporarily and find jobs and get connected to a community there. And after that, we've dreamt of everything from London and Tanzania to Italy and South America.

But plans, as you well know, are always up for revision.

I fully realize that it would be the ultimate touch of irony (and humility) if I were to somehow end up back in Orlando after only a few months. And given the community and friends I've been blessed with over the past year, that would actually be an amazing, wonderful thing.

So if that's what's in store, I'll invite that possibility--and a thousand others--with open arms.

Two of My Favorites

2008-12-12T13:17:00.005-05:00

Sara Bareilles (on the keys) and Ingrid Michaelson (on the uke) singing "Winter Song" together. The first video is the songwriting/recording process behind the song. The second is their recent performance on Jay Leno, also with Mai Bloomfield from Raining Jane on cello.

Making Sense of Twilight Nonsense

2008-12-11T15:48:00.007-05:00

My dear friend Jeanne already posted an excellent, thought-provoking blog about Twilight, the book and movie series that has dominated my time as of late. I have never had my opinion of something shift so dramatically in such a short amount of time. I went from literally being in love with Edward Cullen on Tuesday night to being completely disgusted with the entire series on this past Wednesday morning.

Reluctantly, I went with my friend Leslie and my sister to go see the movie Twilight over Thanksgiving break. I literally knew nothing about the series, only that it was some teen fantasy movie about a high school girl falling in love with a vampire. I had heard nothing but rave reviews about the series, even from women my own age whom I respect intellectually and spiritually. Still, I was skeptical because it seemed to be so trendy. Not to mention cheesy. I watched the movie with my arms crossed, fully expecting to hate it.

I was surprised at how much I got caught up in the story, and despite a cheesy line here or there, I found myself actually liking the protagonist Bella--she seemed to take cheesy dialogue and at least breathe some life into them--and I fell head over heels in love with Edward Cullen, the vampire. I walked out of that movie, strangely surprised at how much I enjoyed the film.

Leslie bought the first book of the series and began reading, although I initially had no interest in reading it. A few of us got free AMC movie tickets, so we decided to use them on a second Twilight showing, since Jeanne hadn't seen it. I discovered that I liked the movie even more the second time and actually wanted to read the books now. So I began to read Book 1.

I have to say the book itself is far more seductive than the movie. In the film, I admired Edward because he became so protective of Bella. The book explores their connection a lot more and you begin to realize that Edward's sole concern is protecting Bella and being with her and finding out what's on her mind. There's something so incredibly alluring in that kind of single-minded devotion and this (plus the fact that he's perfect physically, wealthy and drives fast cars) that millions of teen girls, 20somethings and middle-aged moms are totally obsessed with the series.

The second book is honestly what dramatically changed my opinion of the series. I didn't find it to be that interesting or compelling, at least from a written and technical standpoint. The last 200 pages are exciting plot-wise, but the reappearance of Edward which I had been anticipating the entire book almost seemed anticlimactic. Mostly because I began to realize how unhealthy the relationship between Bella and Edward really is.

And this is the danger, I think, in these books. They portray Bella and Edward's relationship as ideal, and it FEELS ideal if you allow yourself to be emotionally caught up in it. However, the obsessive, all-consuming, jealous relationship, not to mention poor communication (Bella and Edward could've seriously avoided this whole drama of Book One if they had just communicated clearly:P) IS unhealthy, despite its initial appeal.

One article phrased the series' appeal quite well:

"She [Bella] is purposely made as featureless and ordinary as possible in order to render her a vacant, flexible skin into which the reader can insert herself and thereby vicariously enjoy Edward's chilly charms."

Jeanne recently joked that she knew the best way to make a million dollars: Create a bland, female protagonist and then create an impossibly perfect man so that all women can live vicariously through aforementioned female protag. That's basically what these romance novels are.

I probably could do that, although I feel as though I would lose my soul in the process.

My friends Dan and Serenity have created a wonderful, humorous little website called Stuff That's Better Than Twilight. It has a few more article links posted on there for more insight as to why this series--while entertaining and good for a little romantic escapism--can also be incredibly damaging and give distorted views on what real love is like.

I think this series--and other romantic books and chick flicks that are similar--are truly emotional porn. They do for women exactly what pornography does for men: setting up unrealistic expectations and ideas about love.

I love how Jeanne stated it in her blog:

It really IS porn for women. It sells the lie that this is what love really is, when it's in no way representative of LOVE. The gaudy replica of the truth. It always sells SO well, and we sometimes forget the why: It plays so well on our heartstrings that can be tuned only to Christ.

To readers of the series, particularly women (because I honestly can't imagine a guy willingly reading these books anyway): Please, PLEASE. If you read these books, read them with discernment and full awareness that the deep longing in your soul can only be fulfilled by God and Him alone.

And so ends my roller-coaster emotional Twilight saga.

And yes, I'm going back to Karamazov:D

Breakdancing Elves

2008-12-09T13:59:00.012-05:00

Friday night, I attended the Singing Christmas Tree spectacular event at First Baptist Orlando on Friday night, as part of a Christmas outing for work. The sheer size of First Baptist always overwhelms me whenever I walk inside its doors. I'd gone there for various events and concerts over the years, the most recent being the Hillsong Conference a year ago when they came to Orlando.

The title of the program (Singing Christmas Tree? Really?) already had me skeptical of this presentation. But when the Ryan Seacrest lookalike who doubled for the emcee took the stage and start belting out the "Imagination" song from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, I felt my cynical bone already starting to throb. Then came the two dozen full-grown Raggedy Anns barreling down the balcony steps, spilling onto the church floor in a sort of garish, manic parade. That didn't help any. They were quickly joined by an army of dancing bears, ballerinas, cowboys (think Woody from Toy Story) and toy soldiers that marched stiffly (but in tempo).

Did I mention the breakdancing elves?

Okay, so they weren't break-dancing. But they definitely recalled late '90s boy band moves. (Actually, that part was pretty entertaining I will admit).

I think the whole event was meant to elicit a sense of wonder and imagination, and it did.

I wondered who had imagined this fiasco up.

When I heard Ryan Seacrest-Look-Alike croon a melancholy tune that wrestled with the question, "If Christmas never came," that was the last straw. Mostly because the answer was "There'd be no candy canes to lick." And I am not even joking.

Inevitably, a blog entry began to form in my mind. Full of ranting and raving.

But since I've had a week to process and moderate, I realized that I could poke fun at something I personally found disconcerting, but there was a separate issue at work.

First, I can't fault the technical excellence and execution. Especially from a musician's standpoint. The choreography was good, the 40-piece orchestra was top notch, the solo violinist was stellar, the singing was incredible. Also, the second half turned more traditional with interesting choral and orchestral arrangements of well-worn but beloved Christmas tunes. THAT lifted the evening off the ground for me. And by the end, the presentation really seemed to have found its soul. The final numbers were actually quite moving in its portrayal of a more global acknowledgment of Christ's birth, rather than the American version of the holiday.

But I think the reason I reacted so strongly against the program (or at least the first half of it... and it really DID improve with the second half) was how it so readily appropriate Western assumptions about Christmas. This extremely seeker-sensitive program assumed that the audience assumes that the holiday is primarily about presents and candy and decorations.

It's as if they're using American Christmas culture to "sell" Jesus, using fluff and candy canes as the selling point. I get frustrated when churches use programs and spinning wheels and pizzazz to market Jesus, as if He needed an extra push. As if His very existence and presence on earth weren't compelling enough.

The gravity of Christmas is sometimes lost on us. And I certainly put myself first in line among the apathetic. The One who spins universes in His hand and breathes star fire confined Himself to the weak, helpless frail frame of mortal humanity.

And we get excited about hanging garlands.

It's frustrating.

The story of Jesus and Joseph and Mary has been retold so many times onstage and onscreen, that the weight of the moment sometimes so harmless and serene. It all seems so innocuous, doesn't it? The cooing doves, the cows standing over the baby Jesus like silent sentinels, the star above the stable. A silent night.

But as the Nativity scene played out onstage Friday night, for some reason, a radically different image began to form in my mind and imagination. I remembered Revelation 11, in which a dragon chases a woman bearing a child across the wilderness, relentlessly hunting him down, while an angelic army, led by Michael battles it out for the souls of the earth. Although there are differing interpretations on what Revelation 11 actually means, one theory is that THIS is the true Christmas story playing out in the supernatural realm. An epic battle for the destiny of mankind was being fought that night.

I know this blog entry makes me seem like the Grinch--and I tend not to get caught up in the "holiday spirit" until a couple weeks into December (unlike my sister who starts busting out Christmas music in September). So I'm about due to start getting into the swing of things. I probably should start decorating;)

Seriously though, if anything, the evening made me appreciate even more the extreme depth and gravity that the meaning of Christmas encompasses.

So I guess I can thank the breakdancing elves for that;)

The World Forgetting, by the World Forgot

2008-12-02T07:36:00.012-05:00

Thanks to Jeanne (and by default, Cole), I have been listening to WNYC's Radiolab podcasts lately. So far, I've listened to the ones called "Choice," "Emergence," and "Memory and Forgetting." You should really check out the podcasts. They're about an hour long, so save it for the commute or something;) I'm not going to get into it completely but here's a quick recap:

"Choice"--through the exploration of several interesting scientific experiments--explores how the brain makes decisions, almost always influenced by external factors. The conclusion? "The notion of a conscious will is an illusion." I had some issues with this one, because I believed the experiments focused on solely sensory/empirically-based decisions, not ones in matters of relationships, politics or religion. But still an interesting one worth checking out.

"Emergence" explored the concept of spontaneous order, first focusing on an ant colony, of how complex order springs from a conglomeration of mindless, brainless insects, and then how different personalities of cities and local neighborhoods develop.

To me, the "Memory and Forgetting" podcast has proved the most interesting by far. They explore a series of memory experiments performed on rats. One of the scientists discovered that by introducing a drug at a specific moment when a memory is being created, that you can actually ERASE it. Even more intriguing is that AFTER the memory is being created, when the subject attempt to recall that memory, introduction of the drug at that specific moment of "memory creation" actually ERASES the memory pattern entirely.

WHAT?

One of my favorite films of all time is Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, a film built on the fictional premise that there is a medical clinic where you could go to in order to have memories--likely painful, hurtful ones--completely erased. However, I had always dismissed the idea of actually erasing specific memories as complete science fiction.

What the podcast revealed is that this movie was released two years after this scientist published his findings, that it is actually possible to erase a specific memory after it has been created. At one point, one of the podcasters says "An act of remembering is an act of creation," meaning, that there is no secret vault or brain RAM locked away inside of ourselves that hold a "true memory" of reality. Everytime we remember an event in the past, our brains are actually re-creating the memory, so that what we "remember" will never be completely accurate. And the specific drug inhibits this memory-creating process for that specific event, if the memory is tied to a specific impression or trigger. So the memory is essentially "erased," even though that terminology is slightly inaccurate.

The podcast also explores planting false memories (scary stuff) and included examples from law school of how faulty eyewitnesses can be.

Jodie and I tried to plant a false memory in Oscar last night. Didn't work.

The podcast concludes with a unique case of amnesia. Interesting story which, again, you can should check out when you've got the time...

Jeanne asked me if I would ever want to have painful memories erased, and what kind of person I think I would be if I were walking around with only happy memories. I've actually thought of this before because of the Eternal Sunshine movie, but I've always concluded that I would want all my memories intact, the lovely and the painful. Anything less would be a half-life.

Maybe that's simple, maybe that's naive, but eradicating any memory of suffering--in my opinion--would diminish the importance of joy. My pain and suffering--as minimal as it may be compared to others--in addition to the happy memories has made me into the person I am. Memories may be hard and painful but they belong to me.

Not to mention, there's something within me that rebels against that concept because throughout history, God has always emphasized the art of remembering. He commanded altars of remembrance everywhere along the 40-year trail of wandering among the Israelites. His prophets lamented how Israel had forgotten where they came from and who they are. Christ--breaking bread and pouring out wine said--"Do this in remembrance of Me." Christ, whose sole purpose in coming to earth was to redeem through suffering, some of His last words were essentially: "Remember...The good AND the bad."

There's a pattern of redemptive suffering in Christ's life that I'm still trying to work out the implications for in my own life.

And I need my memory in order to do that.

Dexter again

2008-12-01T10:44:00.005-05:00

So I know I am going a tad blog-happy today. BUT. I had some more thoughts regarding Dexter that I did not comprehensively explore in my previous blog. I mentioned in a previous blog entry how the Seasons 1-3 compare:

Season 1 focused on Dexter the Monster and how he came to be. Season 2 focused on Dexter--still a Monster--but struggling for survival and learning to deal with the Dark Passenger. Season 3 has focused primarily on the corruption of the system, and how that begins in the monsters in the people around him, most obviously Miguel Prado. This season, more than any other season, I believe, has raised serious ethical questions on justification of murder, motive of the murderer and how the cause of justice becomes twisted to serve the Monster's own inner appetites.

The central themes of each of the two previous seasons culminated with the "Dexteration" of one of the characters that brought these themes to a head. In Season 1, Brian a.k.a. "Icey" serves as a foil to Dexter's Monster or Dark Passenger. We have the classic example of unrestrained freedom vs. freedom with restraint, the battle between the code of Harry and the codeless Icey. The tension between these two codes is battled out in Dexter, who ultimately chooses the Code of Harry over his own brother. And so, he kills Icey in the final act.

In Season 2, Dexter struggles to evade the law and simultaneously deals with his own frailty (evading capture) and humanity (evading his Dark Passenger). He considers abandoning his "code" altogether, and experiments with an "addiction-free life." This plot is moved further along with the introduction of Lila a.k.a. Pyro. However, Pyro turns out to be just as addicted as Dexter, and quite unable to manage Dexter's Dark Passenger, let alone her own, Pyro sets herself up to be the perfect candidate for Dexter's code. Solution: Dexteration. By syringe. In Paris.

Season 3, Dexter breaks new ground by not limiting himself to the code. In fact, he fights Harry all the while, who no longer appears in flashbacks, but in re-imagined conversations in Dex's head.

In Dexter, a clear pattern is emerging: The Code of Harry, which has ensured Dexter's survival is continually challenged, a plot which is brought to a head by the inclusion of an external character: Icey, Pyro and now Miguel. In the first season, Icey challenges the Code. In the second season, Dexter tries life without the Dark Passenger AND the subsequently the code for awhile, to no avail. In the third season, Dexter himself challenges the code, abandoning it and pushing the limits, which escalates with the character of Miguel Prado.

The central questions and intrigue to the remaining two episodes of Dexter Season 3 seem to be:

1) What effect will Miguel Prado ultimately have on Dexter's perception of Harry and the code? Dex touched on this briefly in the past episode. He seemed to recognize Harry's wisdom all along.

2) What kind of end will Miguel Prado meet, as we know he must inevitably? Will he fall victim to Dexter's knife just as Lila and Brian did? Or will he see justice served unto himself in a court of law?

3) Now that it seems that Dexter accepts the wisdom and value of the code, despite Harry's flawed parenting, what will that mean for Season 4 of Dexter?

4) I am still waiting for Debra or Rita (more Deb, than Rita, because I do not believe Rita could not handle the truth at this point) to discover Dexter's true identity. I cannot believe that the writers would have that much potential stored up for a revelation and not ever use it. This too, would affect Dexter's use of the code, although I'm not sure how. Harry obviously withheld the truth from Debra for his own reasons; however, would would the Jiminy Cricket Harry of Dexter's imagination say to him if Deb was in on the secret too? How would that affect Dex's code. Would it affect Dex's code?

5) Even though I am still wondering how the plot is going to resolve itself (i.e. how does Dex get away from the Skinner (I'm guessing Dex kills the Skinner and the law gets Miguel), how Miguel gets caught, what are all these loose plot ends that may need to be tied), I think I am most intrigued by how the events of Season 3 will shape Dexter's code, his perception of Harry, and how exactly Miguel meets his death.

Visualizing the Bible

2008-12-01T10:12:00.004-05:00

Props to my band buddy Greg for posting this link. It's called "Visualizing the Bible" and National Geographic named this as one of the best science images of the year. The bar graph running across the bottom represents the 66 books of the Bible according to number of chapters. The lines extending back and forth represent the cross references in Scripture, demonstrating the "intertextuality" of Scripture, or "the shaping of text’s meanings by other texts." It's amazing how visually stunning this looks. Check it. And also check Greg's blog while you're at it;)

Dexter, Status, etc.

2008-12-01T00:08:00.005-05:00

1) So I fixed Google Analytics on my blogger page this week. What can I say, I like to stalk you people who stalk my blog and don't leave comments;) I think the new layout helped with the HTML code problem I was having. So I hope you enjoy the new layout (I will continue to tweak it I think, although I'm sad to say goodbye to Oscar's Happy Yeti in a Cave). And hopefully this will motivate me to be a more faithful blogger. Sometimes it's easy to get discouraged in blogging when I don't think people are really reading. Comments and Google Analytics keeps me motivated to more consistently blog, so here's to more of that...:)

2) Status was muy interesante tonight. Kate spoke this week--the one who's been basically coercing me into/keeping me accountable for finishing The Brothers Karamazov;) She spoke on issues I have definitely not heard from a pulpit or a stage auditorium or even a rebellious emerging church book before. Probably the only forum I've heard dare broach this topic is an occasional facebook note from one of my peers.

Basically, Kate took the opportunity to re-imagine the monologue that led to the martyrdom of Stephen, as chronicled in Acts 6 and 7. Stephen speaks the history of the Israelite nation back to the Jews, a tale well-worn but perhaps gone stale from dry, rote recitation and familiarity. She boldly re-imagined the conversation for American Christians in the 21st century, challenging us to consider what cultural blinders we have on today that prevent us from truly having our "faith expressed in love." The topics were not easy and I do not envy her in bringing forth that conversation in so public an arena. Yet, these things must be discussed: the stigma attached to gay marriage and abortion within conservative evangelical circles.

In the recent election, Florida voters recently voted to recognize marriage as a legal union between a man and a woman, upholding a "traditional" view of marriage. Politics is a strange animal, because the passionate opinions and often intensely personal ideals fueling the political machine completely eradicate any relational element from the process. In confirming Amendment Two, Floridian voters had the luxury of imposing morality on a certain demographic without any relationship occurring. This is something I have been pondering ever since I listened to Cole's oof podcast on Libertarianism and Socialism. He pointed out that the reason socialism doesn't work is that it takes a very benevolent, altruistic concept--redistributing wealth among the poor--almost mirroring the Christian ideals --and divorces it from the relational element, the very thing Christ came--as a Man no less--to restore. Socialism quite closely approaches the nature of the kingdom of God, then completely abandons it by the lack of freedom and free will attached to it.

In the same way, this recent amendment that was passed was based on a good intention to endorse a concept that does approach the kingdom of God--reconciling a lifestyle with an ideal--but in legislating this concept, it completely alienates the one against whom the law was intended. All within a non-relational context. By eliminating relationship from the process, the motivation propelling the amendment nullifies the very thing it set out to restore--a relationship.

It's one thing to check off a morality police box. It's quite a different thing to have a loving relationship with someone within that lifestyle.

Ever since I read Philip Yancey's The Jesus I Never Knew, I have been wrestling with the concept of what Jesus truly dealt with when He was tempted in the desert: He rejected the temptation to fall back on His divinity as a means to escape suffering. That in itself is a concept that could take years for one soul to truly work through. But Jesus also rejected political power, an idea which the American church at large MUST deal with, if we are truly going to follow Christ and be His bride, the way the early church in Acts was. They rescued babies from the rocks; they didn't hold picket signs outside the temple of Artemis. They fed and clothed the sick; they didn't walk by and say "That's terrible" and then sit back in apathy. Neither blind apathy nor intolerant legalism have no place within the kingdom of God.

These are ideas I continue to wrestle with, because they intersect with decisions I make about how I align my life with the kingdom of Christ.... Needless to say, I am glad Kate brought up these issues. I really appreciate how it wasn't necessarily this mind-blowing conversation, but a real, engaging, thoughtful opportunity to deal with some hard truths about the church and ourselves, while leaving room for the Spirit to move an act out in our conversations and processing. It's easy to talk theology about how things ought to be. It's a very different concept to live out a life and make decisions based on truth that's been internalized in this manner...

3) Dexter commentary: Only 2 episodes left! I probably have much more to say on this past episode, but I WILL throw this one conjecture out there. Up until tonight, I had fully assumed Dexter would, as I like to say "Dexter" Miguel, or finish him off with the usual rubber gloves, apron, plastically decked out venue with a blade of his choice. This, after all, is the typical fashion in which the writers have brilliantly chosen to dispose of the two characters thus far who have been able to see and embrace Dexter as he is.

But now I'm seriously wondering how poetic it would be if Miguel were sentenced by the flawed legal system he had come to despise, if that corrupt legal machine were actually to get the better of him and for once, administer justice to the one who so clearly invites and taunts it. A huge part of me is hoping that LaGuerta figures out Miguel is the murderer and nails him fair and square, the old-fashioned way with indisputable evidence in a court of law. This would be the perfect end for a man who used justice as a platform for his own base, sinister desires.

Contemplation

2008-11-30T10:05:00.003-05:00

So I'm in the middle of reading the Brothers Karamazov. It's been such an interesting character/ideology study so far. I'm only about a third of the way through at this point, but this passage stood out to me for some reason. Smerdyakov, the old servant's son (or so we think) has begun to show his proud, insolent side, and Fyodor (the old, drunk buffoon father whom I'm assuming is going to eventually be whacked by one of his three very different, very complex sons) is definitely insulting him. The narrator describes Smerdyakov's tendency to become lost in thought:

"There is a remarkable picture by the painter Kramskoy, called "Contemplation." There is a forest in winter, and on a roadway through the forest, in absolute solitude, stands a peasant in a torn kaftan and bark shoes. He stands, as it were, lost in thought. Yet he is not thinking; he is "contemplating." If anyone touched him he would start and look at one as though awakening and bewildered. It's true he would come to himself immediately; but if he were asked what he had been thinking about, he would remember nothing. Yet probably he has hidden within himself, the impression which had dominated him during the period of contemplation. Those impressions are dear to him and no doubt he hoards them imperceptibly, and even unconsciously. How and why, of course, he does not know either. He may suddenly, after hoarding impressions for many years, abandon everything and go off to Jerusalem on a pilgrimage for his soul's salvation, or perhaps he will suddenly set fire to his native village, and perhaps do both. There are a good many "contemplatives" among the peasantry. Well, Smerdyakov was probably one of them, and probably was greedily hoarding up his impressions, hardly knowing why."

I don't know how crucial this passage is going to be in the grand scheme of the book, but I really liked this section for some reason.

Dexter blog revived

2008-11-25T01:17:00.008-05:00

After a long hiatus from blogging about anything Dexter-related, I am resuming.

To be honest, I had been more or less disappointed with Season 3 thus far. I should know by now that the whole structure of a Dexter season is about 66% plot set up and about 33% pay off. The problem is, with the previous seasons, the writers tossed us a bone or two much earlier in the season, rather than waiting until practically the last minute.

What I like most about this season, is that the past couple of episodes have been quite relevatory of Miguel Prado's true nature, forcing us, the viewers to shed whatever preconceptions or assumptions we had about Miguel. Now, we're forced to look back in hindsight and look at Miguel through a new set of lenses. I haven't wanted to go back and totally dissect and analyze an entire character arc since President Logan in Season 5 of 24. I want to see how the development of the character Prado has contributed to the plot set-up..

The season has gotten much more interesting as we delve further and further into the character of Miguel Prado. Up until this point, we've been led to believe that Miguel was a bit of an overzealous, self-proclaimed member of the Justice League, irked by the depravity of the system and justifiably ridding Miami of the scum of the earth. Now we realize more than ever how dark and twisted Miguel's true nature is.

One of the most interesting things about this season has been the disruption and apparent reinvention of Harry's code. Season 2 left us with the impression that Dexter, jaded by Harry's inability to handle the "monster he had created," would abandon the code in new ways.

1) He abandoned the code first--albeit inadvertently--in the first killing of Oscar Prado, the main impetus for Season 3's plot arc. He killed someone spontaneously without any assurance of guilt.
2) He intentionally abandoned his code yet again with the whole key lime pie incident with Camilla. Again, the ethical lines are blurred as the show tangles with question of euthanasia. Also, the episode turned me off to key lime entirely. And I wasn't a huge fan to begin with.
3) He breaks the code yet again by tag teaming with Miguel Prado.
4) Dexter seems to be ignoring the Skinner completely, which would seem to be the most natural choice of prey for Dexter.

I mentioned this in a previous Season 2 blog, but it seems that any time someone who comes along and at least partially recognizes Dexter for who he is: Brian, Lila and now Miguel, they are always at odds with Dexter's code in some way and Dexter inevitably ends up killing them. I see no other path for Miguel, other than this ending him in being Dextered.

Interestingly enough, I think this season more than any other season has explored--not so much the darkness (or Dark Passenger) within Dexter himself, but rather in those around him. Season 1 focused on Dexter the Monster and how he came to be. Season 2 focused on Dexter--still a Monster--but struggling for survival and learning to deal with the Dark Passenger. Season 3 has focused primarily on the corruption of the system, and how that begins in the monsters in the people around him, most obviously Miguel Prado. This season, more than any other season, I believe, has raised serious ethical questions on justification of murder, motive of the murderer and how the cause of justice becomes twisted to serve the Monster's own inner appetites.

Some interesting plot points/questions to consider:

1) At what point did Miguel become aware of Dexter's true nature? Was this immediately after Oscar Prado was killed? Or was it after he stumbled upon Dexter killing Freebo?
2) Has Miguel figured out that Dexter is the Bay Harbor Butcher? This seems reasonable to assume. His close relationship with LaGuerta may bring about some hidden connection Miguel may have with Doakes. Miguel may have known all along that Doakes was not the Bay Harbor Butcher.
3) Is there a deeper connection between the Skinner and Miguel? We are assuming at this juncture that the Skinner wants nothing more than to settle the score with Freebo. His chosen victims all have a link to Freebo. If Skinner finds out that Freebo is already dead, how would that change his motivation to kill?
4) Since it appears that Miguel has been manipulating Dexter all along, what is his end goal with Dexter? Of course, we are assuming that he wanted all along to learn the ropes from Dexter, but something tells me there is more to it than that.
5) What is the true line that separates Miguel from Dexter? Most obviously, the code separates them, but they seem to now be motivated by an insatiable need to kill. Miguel seems enthralled with the power trip it brings, while Dexter, it's an appetite that needs to be sated every now and then. Miguel is hotheaded, driven by personal agenda--seen best in his crusade against Ellen Wolf. Dexter never makes things personal. His victims are carefully, coolly chosen.
6) Why has Dexter not gone after the Skinner at all? He's been so distracted with Miguel this season, it never crossed his mind to hunt the Skinner down. Very odd. I wonder if that will change.
7) What did Miguel do when he was along with King? I wouldn't put it past him if he let King escape somehow so he could kill him himself.
8) LaGuerta is obviously going to become more important to the climax. How and to what end will Miguel manipulate her? I think it's safe to say he already has...
9) Where's my favorite crucial plot point music? Come on, writers...:(

So, although this season may not be the most quotable or thrilling, I have to give the writers major props for making it the most complex and interesting season in terms of ethical questions raised. The constant scenes with Harry, the juxtaposition of Dexter's nightly extracurricular activities with a wedding and baby on the way. Miguel and the Skinner playing the foil to Dexter. So many plot intricacies to consider...

My First 10K

2008-11-10T10:18:00.008-05:00

Back from a long hiatus of uninspired blogging, I finally found something I believe is blog worthy...

I finished my first ever 10K on Sunday. Jeanne, Dana and I ran in the Florida Hospital 10K in Celebration. I had often attended these running events as a supporting friend or family member when my dad has run his marathons or Paige has run her half marathons.

This time, I attended as a runner, which was a huge accomplishment to me. If you told me 4 months ago I would be running a 10K, I would have laughed in your face. (And if you know me, you know that's true...;)

In preparation for this 10K, Jeanne and I had been following Hal Higdon's Novice 10K training program, although we modified it to suit our needs. For instance, I was not cool with following a training schedule that didn't even have me run 6 miles at ALL prior to the race, so we definitely incorporated that into the schedule. Also, the second to last week--supposedly the most rigorous week in which you're supposed to push yourself--I ran 6 miles on Sunday, 5 on Tuesday, then approximately 6 miles again in Seattle. Also, I know averaging 11 minute miles is really slow, but my main goal in running this was to simply run from start to finish without stopping. I think now that I've finished a 10K, if I ever do one again, I would work harder at improving my time.

I discovered a few things while training that last week.

-First of all, I LOVE running in the cold. When we had that cold snap in central Florida on Tuesday morning, I feel like I could run forever. That theory was further confirmed when we went running in Seattle. I don't know why, but I feel much better running in 50 degrees, or even upper 40s as opposed to upper 70s or lower 80s. That Sunday I ran with Jeanne, I had a ROUGH time, mostly because a) I'm not used to running around lots of cars and traffic b)The sun was beating down and there was no shade c) I was not familiar with the route. It's so interesting how so many factors play into whether or not you have a good run.

Running Seattle was by far the best experience for me. Jeanne and I ran a trail that runs next to the University of Washington campus. The first couple of miles were lovely, running on a trail with a canopy of yellow and red autumn leaves over us. Then the trail took us by the river and under some cool footbridges. The route was incredibly scenic and I had Death Cab for a Cutie's "Plans" to keep me pumping for nearly an hour. Good memories of running in Seattle:)

-Also, I discovered DURING the race that I actually can run and talk at the same time. Whenever Jeanne and I have run together, we both put on our iPod headphones and barely talk to each other, except for pointing out something funny every now and then. Also, Jeanne likes to run like Dwight from the Office occasionally, which always makes for good entertainment.

Dana joined us for the 10K, and she is a huge proponent of talking. I found that although it was difficult to sustain talking toward the end of the race, it made the first 3-4 miles incredibly enjoyable. I didn't need to use my headphones for the entire race. And now I have a new friend:)

-I was intrigued by the competitive speed walking which sounds as legit as Olympic curling, but I was further shamed when a few overzealous competitive speed walkers actually PASSED us, we who were running. So I stand corrected.

-I had hoped somebody would have shot a gun into the sky to start the race. That was my wish. Sadly, that did not happen.

-Also, I wore my lucky pants. They haven't failed me yet. See below:)

The Lure

2008-11-07T10:33:00.001-05:00

How quickly I throw in the towel.

I confidently (arrogantly?)
cast my line
The lure lands lightly
Breaking up the placid water
Stirring the pool

But only ever so slightly.

Jerking the line around
I strive to anticipate your desire
The lure dances and glitters
Bobbing up and down
Flashing in the sunlight
So swift, so easy

So noncommital.

I keep my soul safely on shore
While this lure
This disembodied self
Swirls, leaps and tangos
Skimming across the surface
Drunk with my own beguiling

But, you,
Having none of it,
You plunge
and dart away in quite a hurry.

Cordially, though.
but too cordially.

So swiftly
So frenetically
That it can hardly be called a retreat.

Love, let me see you.

I'll show you me
If you show me you.

Last night, I dreamt
We dove into the river headlong
Plunging, delving
Dying
into the beautiful deep

you watched me heal you
And I watched you heal me.

But on this sundrenched day
we are disembodied selves
only acting out our fear and shame
In charms and lures and games

From opposite shorelines.

Fusion

2008-11-06T13:52:00.002-05:00

The story: This poem was born out of thoughts and conversation from atop the Space Needle on a beautiful Seattle evening.

I was hoping this would be a song, but for now the thoughts are a poem.

The idea for this started when I stepped out on the observation deck of the Space Needle and was greeted by a trio of musicians, playing violin and guitar, with no one around to listen but me. Their audience was the merely the city below.

Other conversations inspired this poem, but the image of those musicians silhouetted against the night sky, instruments in hand, with no one to hear them but the city below was just a beautiful picture to me.

We sat atop the world.

Glittering like a jewel in the evening
Full of possibilities of pain and pleasure
The stars found themselves mirrored
In the glimmer below

Or was it the other way around?

I heard violins and guitars
Strummed and plucked
For pleasure none but their own
And their gypsy tunes drift
Carefree and lustily
Like a fine, sweet smoke.

Despite their warmth, I shivered
And retreated inside behind glass doors
Where the view is less brilliant
But far more manageable.

A lone, fragile thread
Starting to unravel
As words unconsciously
Eased through the cracks
Of a contemplative heart
Belying the calm, pleasant facade.

A lovely contradiction, to be sure
In which notes resonated
with only the slightest discord

I heard your counterpoint
Rising and falling
In a broken double helix
Straining toward tension
Longing for release
Meeting in brief, rare moments of
Synchronicity

Yet the harmony and beauty
Become enmeshed in the discord
In the disconnect
In the contradiction.

This rebellious fugue haunts me
And while it reverberates indoors
Upon these glass walls
There is no chance of dissipation

For I hear it gently ricochet
Against my spirit
Again and again

And I hear its source
And I become it
While it becomes me

And through the glass window
I hear strains of that gypsy melody
Play on and on outside
To serenade the shining city below
With its unfettered bohemian spirit

And I think to myself

Maybe I should invent a new genre.

another video. I'm a lazy blogger lately.

2008-11-03T11:21:00.001-05:00

please watch this: even and especially if you hate politics

2008-10-22T14:10:00.002-04:00

If you're like anybody else, you're probably sick of all the political talk lately and you've probably made up your mind on who you're voting for. I tend to bow in and out of politics talk at my own whim, but this is an important video to watch.

This is the first video of six segments. If you watch the first one, you'll find links to the remaining five on YouTube.

Thoughts?

My Songs: A Tribute to My Friends

2008-10-15T14:23:00.002-04:00

Over the years, I've had a lot of humorous, heartbreaking, poignant and lovely encounters with beautiful people. And over the course of these friendships, I've often been inspired to write songs, some serious, some not so serious. I've often said that although I am not easily impressed, experiences and people often do make a deep impressions on me. And musician that I am, these stories and impressions often find their way into songs.

It suddenly occurred to me that I really have been blessed over the years to have crossed paths with some truly amazing people. And I know that these are just simple songs, but looking back on them, I hope they do these inspirers justice...
I decided to post the stories behind several of my songs.

Although I am not posting the lyrics in their entirety, I will include choice lyrics for your reading pleasure;)

P.S. For future reference, if you are really good friends with or date a songwriter, chances are you will likely end up in one or more of their songs. Or a dozen. It's inevitable.

You've been warned.

Enjoy.

Spoon Guy: Kate Lundberg

I wrote this song as a high schooler at a Christ in Youth Conference at Milligan College in Johnson City, Tennessee. Kate and I had both been eyeing this really cute guy all week. (You know how those Christian camps/conferences are breeding grounds for such ogling). Anyway, one morning at breakfast in the cafeteria, Kate and I were getting Apple Jacks from the cereal section and both found ourselves stunned to be eye to eye with this guy over the stacks of silverware. So we dubbed him Spoon Guy. Which birthed the famous song in all its naive, cheesy glory. The heart of the story and the week at the conference and my concept of theology as a 16 year old is best summed up in this line: "Spoon Guy/I'm all alone/Spoon Guy/I like your cheekbones/And If I never ever see you again/ There's always heaven."

Sacred Story: Bethany Miller-Winfield

I wrote this as a graduation present for Bethany, my small group leader/mentor/friend who kind of took wide-eyed-freshman-me under her wing during my spring semester at UF. I remember sitting next to her on a train from Birmingham to London and we had some honest beautiful conversation about who knows what, but I just had this moment where I realized I was grateful to have her in my life. Since she was graduating this year, I wanted to write her a song for some reason. It wasn't until Christine and I took a random, spontaneous road trip to Jacksonville to the mall there to get a Build-A-Bear because Gainesville did not have a single Build-a-Bear store and I sat in the back seat with my guitar and finally penned this song. Props to Christine for helping me with some of the lyrics. "I captured this memory of you/put it in my pocket; but a picture can never tell a sacred story"

Intricate: Paulina Calle

I worked in the back section of the UF library, among stacks of dusty, yellowed newspapers. It was my job to microfilm them. One beautiful October Day, my co-worker Paulina came waltzing in, exuberant about the perfectly crisp, blue skied- weather we were having and gushed, "I'm in love with the day." I so loved that line, I spent the rest of the day in that dimly lit camera room writing a jazzy, chill song in my head. "Love is intricate like that/it pierces the hand that has chosen and woven the threads...I'm in love with the day/I don't want to move/but I know I can't stay/Let me be/in love with the day"

Silhouette: Amanda Cooley

Every November, Amanda and I had this ritual where we would go to downtown Gainesville for the annual Art Festival. We wandered around, drank Billy Bayou's cream soda (endless refills), checked out our favorite pottery section and just generally soaked in the weather, which never failed to be stunning the day of the art festival. Amanda had gone through a lot one particular year, in regard to health and heart problems, and I have all these memories of seeing her weak and sick one moment, then bursting with energy and life the next. I love the line from Anne Lamott's book Traveling Mercies that says (paraphrased) that God is in the business of doing "alchemy," of taking something common and unremarkable and making it golden. I loved the idea of alchemy, and I saw it expressed in Amanda's life. "Silhouette of beauty yet to be/This rumor of You making all things new/is coming true."

Autumn Rain: Max Lee and Chris Small

My piano studio buddy Max lost a friend of his in a car accident a few years ago, and I wrote Autumn Rain to kind of commisserate with him in the confusion and sense of loss he was experiencing. Even though I had never met the friend who had died, his story and watching him deal with the loss affected me deeply for some reason. A few months later, I lost my good friend Chris in a car accident. Even though I had written Autumn Rain prior to his death, I still felt like that song also belongs to Chris. We miss you, Smalls. "I'll be okay with unfair this time/'cuz you're dancing on air/and I'm wondering if I'll get to dance with you there/Where the world's like the rain/and the rain is right again"

Soni's Song: Chalis Stefani

My friend Chalis spent several months working for a missionary organization in Haiti. I remember she wrote this beautiful letter, describing her friendship with a young boy named Soni. Although the Creole-English language barrier was significant, they still connected through other ways. As Chalis was preparing to leave Haiti to return to the States, Soni spoke to her in Haitian Creole the words "Le ou prale msonje ou/domi pa kontan/domi pa kontan." In English, this means "When you leave I will remember you/And I will sleep and be sad/Sleep and be sad."

Nobody Needs to Know: Sydney Schaef

The very first time I met Sydney, we worked on writing a song. I guess you could say that first encounter set the tone of our friendship for the next few years. We were constantly sharing songs with each other, asking each other for feedback, bouncing ideas off of one another. I think, more than anyone, Sydney has affected my songwriting, in terms of lyrics. I learned a LOT from her. Oddly enough, I had never really written a song inspired by her until this one though. I wrote this after she shared with me a really hard truth about herself. I so appreciated her transparency and penned this song later that week. "Your laden heart darkened my door tonight/Poets can dream/prophets can sing/but I can only scream inside/I can hear you now/I can see you now."

My Favorite Things (the remix): Jeanne Cannon

Okay, so Rodgers and Hammerstein may have written the music. But I take pride in the fact that I was able to come up with so many alternate lyrics. So Jeanne was having a really rough day at work, and I thought of this past Sunday morning at First Watch, our favorite breakfasting joint, when we all pretty much broke our self-imposed "no sugar" rule and delved into sweet Tea and Coke like it was nobody's business. Leslie joked that we should re-write My Favorite Things to list all our favorite things via song. And we have many, many favorite things. Some might call them addictions. Anyway, I took it upon myself to do just that, and have forever immortalized a beautiful Sunday morning brunch in a song. "Dancing and shopping and buying new shoes/Scrabble and Scramble and games you can't lose/Aviator glasses and Bret and Jemaine/Just some of the good things that help keep you sane/When your job sucks/When boys are lame/when you're feeling sad/just simply remember your favorite things/and then you won't feel so bad"

A Tiny Tragedy

2008-10-09T07:40:00.002-04:00

This past weekend, Jeanne told me she accidentally killed a lizard while trying to free him from her home.

They have way too many lizards that lurk outside their back patio door...

The same day she told me of this incident that led to the unfortunate demise of this creature, we managed to successfully free another rogue lizard, death-free with the aid of a broom.

So, without further ado, I give you: A Tiny Tragedy, a poem by mel

Here, lizard, lizard.

I shall free you from my home.

'Til you are squashed by my good intentions

(just like Lennie Small did).

Smashed to guts and innards
by a narrow glass prison

Also known as
a door.

To me, a benevolent passageway to freedom
To you, a suffocating Alcatraz of death.

Crushed, by your finite mistrust
of my infinite stature and design.

Oh, well.

Better luck next time.

Backlight.org

2008-10-08T10:52:00.004-04:00

I apologize for the long stretch of radio silence that has dominated this blog of late. Much of my attention has been directed to my latest obsession: Backlight.org, a new website that my friend Jonathan Lipps co-created with his friend Brad Wolfe.

The site is a really cool concept: it's a creative outlet/forum for people to share their artistic works (be it poetry, film, songs, stories, visual artwork, etc.) and the inspiration behind them. You can comment on other people's works and then perhaps even be inspired yourself!

Currently, inclusion in the site is available by beta invite only, but if you're interested in joining just let me know and I'll send you an invite! You should check out the site.

My URL on the site is: melissarenee.backlight.org

Check it like it's hot.

The Return of Dexter

2008-09-29T13:04:00.001-04:00

Season 3, Episode 1: “Our Father”
Thanks to the season premiere of Dexter last night, I think I may be re-instating/reviving ye Dexter blogs of olde.

So last night after Status, Leslie and I barely made it back to the house after a Chipotle run in time to make the opening credits. I am glad I didn’t wait around for a fresh batch of pork carnitas, because we seriously would have missed the beginning of the episode. (Good call, Les).

Okay, anyway, this is the first time I’m watching Dexter in real-time and not in DVD or Showtime on Demand or illegal websites. Needless to say, I was pretty stoked.

So here we go.

The title “Our Father” for the season 3 premiere seems quite apt, as one of the main emerging storylines seems to be the juxtaposition between Deb and Dexter and their relationship with Harry.

Deb’s daddy issues have worked themselves out in a variety of ways: her relationship/break-up with Lundy, sporting a new ‘do, and the talented, relentless force with which she tackles her job.

At the end of season two, it appeared that disillusionment with Harry appeared to have catapulted Dexter into a new direction, in which he is no longer the student, but the master, capable of quite possibly hammering out his own code of ethics. The close of season 2 seemed to suggest that Dexter was more than ready and willing to abandon Harry’s stringent code.

However, in the light of what Dexter calls his first “spontaneous kill”—in the heat of the moment and arguably in self-defense, he killed a man, although he was not sure of his guilt at all. And of course the deceased just happens to be the brother of one of Miami’s biggest, most prominent prosecutors. And so Dex realizes the pragmatic benefits of the code, despite his own desire to rebel against Harry, as he himself is no paragon of ethical integrity.

I sort of had mixed feelings about this episode, but then again the premieres of Season 1 and 2 didn’t necessarily grab me right away. I was actually relieved that Matsuka or whoever didn’t find Dex’s tooth, because this might seriously be a repeat of Season 2 with Dex trying to constantly evade the law.

I was kind of bummed that the show didn’t really give any kind of nod to Doakes or the Bay Harbor Butcher business of last season. I think some things are unresolved. But I’m sure all of those threads will come together in time.

I think it’s hilarious that Dex is going to be a dad…I was seriously wondering what was up with the overabundance of scenes with Dex/Rita getting it on, but then I guess they were just trying to show where Baby Dex came from…

The issues that Dex thought he could put aside with Harry are definitely going to resurface again as Dex contemplates his own impending fatherhood. Definitely looking forward to that.

And the kid has GOTTA be a boy. I am calling it right now.

Okay, I can’t remember any specific quotes so I’m gonna let those go for now. I am SO bringing my Macbook next time so this blog can be a bit more informative. Sheesh.

Myers-Briggs

2008-09-24T16:42:00.012-04:00

Okay, I honestly don't remember what triggered this recent obsession with the Myers-Briggs personality types (possibly the MyType application on Facebook), but lately my friends and I have been analyzing our personalities up the wazoo. In fact, this is what entertained us for nearly an entire car ride home from St. Pete Beach to Orlando.

If you're not familiar with Myers-Briggs, the personality types are broken down into four categories:

Extraverted/Introverted (where you draw your energy from, either people/activities/things or internal reflection)
Sensing /iNtuitive(how you process information, whether through concrete fact or abstract patterns)
Thinking/Feeling (how you make decisions, whether on logic or value-based systems)
Judging/Perceiving (your lifestyle, either structured or open-ended)

Not that any person is confined to any one description, but in Myers-Briggs, a four letter combination of these different functions result in your "personality type." I have this book that they gave me at work that breaks down the 16 personality types, giving descriptions of each type.

To see oneself utterly eviscerated for all the world to see in neat, tidy bulletpoints is both liberating and disconcerting. Brings equal amounts of incredible normalization and humiliation.

And it kind of makes me want to crawl into a hole with my inadequacies.

But what the heck, it's time for a blog about it. Might as well.

My personality type is INFP, a.k.a. "the Idealist." Introverted, iNtuitive, Feeling, Perceiving. The description is fairly spot on, although I think I've become more of an extravert in recent years. And I've become more of a logical (more Thinking, less Feeling) person. The cold, cruel world is squelching all the emotion out of me...;)

A short description of an INFP:

Quiet, reflective, and idealistic. Interested in serving humanity. Well-developed value system, which they strive to live in accordance with. Extremely loyal. Adaptable and laid-back unless a strongly-held value is threatened. Usually talented writers. Mentally quick, and able to see possibilities. Interested in understanding and helping people.

And this part was scarily accurate, if you have any interest and time to read... it's kinda long. But I was actually disappointed that I was so predictable in my INFP-ness.

Anyway, do you all know your personality type?

Someone posted on facebook the more "negative" description of the personality types, which I found pretty entertaining. According to this website, I am a "Fanatic." Mwuahaha...

recording update

2008-09-19T16:02:00.006-04:00

So despite the fact that I have been a proud Macbook owner for a couple of months now, I have only recently been putting said Macbook to productive use in recent weeks via Garage Band. I recorded a couple of newer tracks recently, which I've uploaded to my myspace at www.myspace.com/melissareneemusic. So if it strikes your fancy, please check it out. Lately I've been uploading and deleting tracks like crazy, so pardon me if my myspace seems a little ADD at the moment.

I am a novice recording engineer and I'm learning as I go, so my tracks are rough at best. I intend to enlist the help of older, wiser people who are old hands at this when I'm further along.

Also, I'm forgetting how spoiled I was when I had lovely Martin guitars an arm's reach away last time I laid down guitar tracks in David Lipps' Spareroom Studios. I need some new guitar strings for my Breedlove, and even then, I'm not really a fan of how Breedloves sound in a recording session. Ah well. There's just something about Martins that sound so sweet. The Breedlove is a bit too treble-ly. But I guess I gotta work with what I got.

I must confess I've gotten a bit crazy with the recording, perhaps even obsessive. The other night, I came home quite late and my sister was already sleeping, but I just HAD to record. However, Miriam gives me room and board at a fair rate and as I did not want to awaken her from her slumber, thereby jeopardizing our favorable financial dealings, I had to find a way to muffle the sound...

...So I closed my bedroom door, stuck a towel on the crack to block out sound, went inside my closet, shut THAT door and stuck ANOTHER towel on the closet door to block sound, plunked my Mac down on the laundry basket and recorded some vocals in there. On the laundry basket. In the closet. Oh yeah.

Anyway, I thought it might be fun to blog about my recording misadventures as they occur. So keep a look out for more updates.

The newest tracks are:

The Chain: My cover of Ingrid Michaelson's song. Since it's not available anywhere (Ingrid hasn't even released a recording of it yet), I thought it would be fun to record it myself. Hope she doesn't sue me. I've already changed the lyrics to her "The Way I Am" and re-recorded it for all of cyberworld to see...I bet she's regretting letting me sing with her. haha.
Caution: My newest song. I recently took it down, but I will be uploading it again fairly soon.
Hello, Daineal: This is the first song I've written on the ukelele, which I am way excited about. Also, this one is kind of an inside joke, which, if you really use your noggin, I'm sure you could figure it out (Hint: read the lyrics). I ain't gonna spell it out for ya.

And for the record, the lyrics are "Hello, Dai, hello," not "Hello, die, hello."

I am not telling anybody to die.

That would just be rude.

Thoughts on Passion Week, the True Vine, etc...

2008-09-11T23:45:00.014-04:00

Ever since I read the "Temptation" chapter of Philip Yancey's book The Jesus I Never Knew a couple of weeks ago, I've once again been catapulted onto this journey of rediscovering the humanity of Jesus.

Since January, we've been going through a series known as "The True Vine," this nine-month saga of going through Scripture and trying to understand Jesus and discovering the implications of His life and how that affects us. In many ways, the sheer length of the series has prompted a whole gradient of emotions and reactions from me over the course of nine months.

I remember feeling refreshed, overwhelmed and staggered by things I was learning. I remember journaling about truth I was learning, facets of Jesus' personality I'd never considered, familiarizing myself with first-century Greco-Hebraic culture and making those historical connections that breathed life into the story of Jesus in a new way for me. I remember coming to some very specific conclusions about the way I was choosing to live my life, and desiring to surrender in deeper ways.

The length of time also allowed for a season of neutrality. Maybe even indifference. Cynicism, for sure and maybe a little boredom. Nine-months of anything seems like an eternity in our culture of instant gratification. So the sheer length of time meeting my own frailty and undisciplined self--and also the fact that at the end of the day this series is still a program run by imperfect people with all our limitations--all this together was an inevitable recipe for a bit of hard-heartedness on my part.

But since reading that "Temptation" chapter, something has reawakened within me. Yancey describes how Jesus responded to each temptation of the devil in the desert with Scripture. It almost seems like He passed the first two temptations with flying colors, quoting Scripture left and right and resisting marvelously. But the third temptation to come and and establish His identity, refusing to worship the devil by simply settling the matter of His divinity once and for all "struck a nerve" with Jesus and He responds with force, saying "Away from me!"

The forcefulness with which He says that never really occurred to me before. That something could actually strike a nerve with Jesus.

I hate how we've anesthetized Jesus' humanity sometimes and we act as if Jesus coolly and effortlessly resisted every temptation flung His way. The passion with which He yells "Away from me!" to Satan or rebukes Peter with a harsh"Get thee behind me" or agonizingly cries "Father, take this cup from me" and realizing how interwoven all three reactions are never really clicked in my mind before. In each of these three moments, He wrestles with His divine ability to simply do away with the hard road and take the easy way out, in which He could choose to act out in His divinity and escape pain, escape suffering, and demand worship by simply revealing Himself to be God in the flesh.

Instead, He chooses to fully embrace the humanity and all the terrible, messy emotions and limitations that come with that condition. He resists so forcefully and passionately because this is in fact the greatest temptation... to empty Himself of divinity and all its privileges and powers and actually choose the way of suffering and of love.

Since reading that chapter, I've been seeing everything through that emotional, extremely human lens. Hearing stories on Sunday night of people's lives that have been truly transformed through an intellectual, experiential and emotional journey of following Jesus; getting up early on Tuesday to enter into a time of meditation and contemplation; hearing Cole give a spontaneous and creative rendition of the incredibly human thoughts that might have been racing through Jesus mind on the day before His arrest, knowing what He was about to face; sitting in a darkened room tonight around tables covered with bread and wine; even being unceremoniously jolted from reverie by a fire alarm in the middle of hearing Scripture read; all these moments have created an increasingly tangible experience for me.

And His resistance and subsequent choice to embrace suffering and love completely and totally exposes my utter failure to follow suit. I identify with these disciples who still don't totally get it and come across as dumbfounded, defensive, arrogant and bumbling--yet somehow lovable--idiots.

The cross is not merely an obstacle or hurdle to get through to the kingdom. It is the way of the kingdom.

That's a heavy statement. And one that I don't fully comprehend, even after all these years...

Free-IQTest

2008-09-09T00:18:00.002-04:00

Free-IQTest.net - Free IQ Test

Hmm... somehow, I do not believe this is accurate.

Life Lessons from Super Mario World

2008-08-26T23:34:00.013-04:00

Tonight, while playing/watching others play Super Mario World on Supernintendo last night with Walter, Alecia, Leslie, Chris and Jeanne, we realized that there are quite a number of valuable life lessons to be gleaned while braving the tricky, tempestuous, two dimensional world that is Super Mario.

Lesson # 1 - Embrace the mantra of "Duck and Run!" Sometimes, the best thing to do is just duck and run, and leave those silly, basically worthless gold coins behind so you can avoid the flaming flowers of death or pesky ninja turtles. Leslie claims this theory enabled her to survive and hold her own as the youngest child, as she elbowed her way past older brothers who made fun of her for not being able to keep up while playing Mario.

Lesson # 2- Kind of goes a long with Lesson #1: "Don't get greedy." When you chase after falling stars when you should really just cut and run and finish off the level, sometimes such rash, greedy behavior makes you fall right into a boiling pit of lava. Pick your battles, child. It ain't worth it.

Lesson # 3- For Mario 1, "You are nothing without Flower Power." Without Flower Power, you're just a miniature bug waiting to be squashed. Flower Power is key. You can shoot everything that moves. 'Nuff said.

Lesson # 4- "Watch out for the teeth. And killer fish." They're tricksy and they'll get ya every time. Literally.

Lesson # 5- "Sometimes your best friend will ditch you, leaving you to fend for yourself. And make you go into the creepy ghost house all by yourself." Man, when Yoshi's around, everything's great! You can hop around higher, have him eat every enemy in sight and you can generally rock at the game. He is, however, as fickle a friend as they come and will turn tail and run as soon as you fall off. It might be a friendship of convenience, but hey, sometimes it happens. People (as well as the race of Yoshi) are flawed. Disappointment will come. You'll just have to learn to deal.

Lesson # 6- "Patience. A solution will present itself." When you are navigating through the scary, never ending tower of ever-changing walls and it seems like there's no way up or out, a solution will come. Everything you need you have. Just be patient.

I think that's it. Even if it's not, my brain is way too overloaded from the juxtaposition of C.S. Lewis and SuperNintendo to think anymore...

Good night, friends:)

on Facebook, Art and the "law of delicacy"

2008-08-22T12:59:00.014-04:00

The phenomenon of Facebook notes intrigues me. And allow me to perpetuate the vicious circle by sharing my views vis a vis a blog entry.

I guess the reason for this recent fascination was brought to my attention for a couple of reasons:

1) I believe one of the benefits of Facebook notes is this window it gives into the mind, psyche, opinions, etc. of our friends that we typically wouldn’t glimpse in such an instant, streamlined manner. Many times, I’ve been inspired, challenged, spurred on, entertained, or helped on to internalize some truth or consider an opposing perspective as a result of reading the often brilliant and sometimes random musings and creations of my fellow facebookers and bloggers.

2) My friend Jeanne recently brought to my attention Kierkegaard’s “law of delicacy” in regard to artistic expression, in which “an author has a right to use what he himself has experienced, is that he is never able to utter verity but is to keep verity for himself and only let it be refracted in various ways." More on this in a bit…

In regard to Facebook, I suppose it is here that the thin line is drawn, between being an open forum of opinion for social commentary, political debate, pop culture love fests or simple informational exchange on one hand, and on the other, being a platform for artistic expression.

I believe the hodgepodge nature of Facebook notes causes a thin line to be drawn between art and life. The beauty of facebook notes for poets and writers out there is that there is an immediate audience and immediate feedback. The downside, however, is that when poetry and creative writing intermingle with social commentary and personal opinions in Facebook notes, a type of illusion is created: that the poem or short story is, down to every last iota and brush stroke, an exact transposition of the artist’s personal truth.

I love this idea of the “law of delicacy” because it frees the artist to avoid being bound to whatever actual reality in which the art is based. Under the law of delicacy, the aspiring artist takes a step beyond mere “personal expression” into the actual realm of ART.

As a dabbling songwriter and writer, I find that it is often multiple emotional, inspirational threads in my life that coalesce to form the Vision. It is not any one incident or relationship or person that “inspires.” It’s countless impressions, perceptions and experiences that every once in awhile beautifully collide, giving us eyes to see the Vision, and the tangible means to free that Vision into pen and paper or lyric and melody via the tools of hyperbole or metaphor or meter or structure or narrative, much like Michelangelo sitting for days upon days in front of a plain slab of marble before he finally “saw” the angel within that must simply be freed and chiseled out.

And because of its inherent complexity, the source of inspiration may be analyzed and conjectured, but never quantified or settled upon.

After watching Finding Neverland (one of my favorite movies) the other night, this was made even more obvious to me. Whether or not the scenes portrayed in the film are based on actual experiences that J.M. Barrie had, it is interesting to see the translation of stark, tragic but poignant reality into the whimsical and imaginative world of Peter Pan.

It became glaringly obvious to me, that there IS an imaginative leap that occurs. Though we may never precisely know the "verity" of Barrie's emotional and psychological landscape, he nevertheless allowed that landscape to be refracted through the beautiful, timeless lens of Neverland.

And it is this “law of delicacy” that helps the artist walk the thin line between self-indulgent honesty and false contrivances, making that imaginative leap from inspiration into art.

the Abyss

2008-08-20T22:42:00.025-04:00

I am tumbling.

Down, down, down.

The sensation is pleasant at first.

The feeling of weightlessness seems euphoric.

Then, suddenly, Terror grips me

I feel my windpipe constrict

Reeling and flailing

I kick and struggle and resist

but to no avail.

Jagged rock and clods of dirt grasp and cling

Bite and scratch unrelentingly

I feel my bones crack and wail

I taste warm blood upon my lips

And I cry out

But produce no sound strong enough

to carry toward the light that has long since receded above

The pit in my stomach yawns in enormous dread

Like a giant chasm

Helplessness.

And so I,

I succumb

to Gravity.

Blackness.

Disoriented.

I wake. At least, I think I do.

Unconsciousness slips away, then returns

like a lingering wave upon the sand.

It's so hard to tell.

I know something's broken.

My jaw? My ribs? My arm?

But the panic has seared all pain

And coalesced into a numbness

My eyes strain, willing to see some form or shadow.

But, perceiving nothing,

I quickly lose heart.

The same old Terror seizes me.

I stumble, hands outstretched

Scrambling, clamoring for the edge, a wall, a stone

Anything.

Where are my bearings?

What are bearings?

There is no north or south, nor east, nor west

Words lose their meaning down here.

The falling has warped all sense of space and time

I blink.

The fluttering of my own eyelids is the only sensation and signal I can perceive

There is no light down here.

Day 14.

I have memorized the walls.

Some of them, anyway.

They stretch before me, these alien cavernous canyons

Taunting me, evading me.

I struggle to climb and grip the sides

But I know better by now.

I have fallen too many times to count.

Convex, concave

The sheer height and angles prevents me from what I desire.

Escape.

Day 21.

My eyes have not adjusted.

In fact, they're probably useless by now

but I have learned not to need them.

The walls that I have loathed

Have become familiar.

I know their grooves, their nuances.

I dare to explore

Creeping along, sometimes sprinting ahead

around corners and nooks and quarries.

I am in uncharted territory, but it matters not.

By now,

I can anticipate their turnings, their leanings.

Day 39.

The loathing has passed.

It is Loneliness, and not Terror that grasps for my attention

But I pay her no heed.

I recall days up Above

The smell of new shoes

and of filet mignon

The soft murmur of in low-lit rooms

The thrill of new conversation

and uncovering the mystery of Another

Navigating through

Insecurities and quirks

Phobias and defense mechanisms

and being bound by memories

by obligation

by preconception

and self-consciousness.

And I recall

the pain of learning to unveil myself

in the presence of Another

and

unlearning Fear.

I fight exhaustion

drift to sleep...

I am stunned to wake and realize one morning--

if it can be called that down here--

That this Abyss

has always been part of my world.

split second view

2008-08-19T10:07:00.002-04:00

panorama

as when the clouds roll back,
revealing for an instant
a mountain's snow-capped splendor
and majestic charm
in momentary clarity

'til a mere twist and tilt of the earth
by mist and meteorological certainty
by the whim of a delicate wind
it is shrouded again

dissipates

yet burned
upon memory
and longing

these days
the glint of the horizon
gleams sharper, purer
and catches the pink-tipped sunrise
with ease
and casual resolve

an imperceptible smile
plays upon its lips

anticipation.

My Summer of Movies

2008-08-15T16:05:00.005-04:00

I just went back and tried to think of every single movie I've seen in the theater since May. It's certainly been a crazy summer for movies.

Expelled
Prince Caspian (2x)
Indiana Jones 4 (2x)
Iron Man
Sex and the City
Kung Fu Panda
The Happening
Wanted
Get Smart
Hancock
The Dark Knight (1 in IMAX, 1 in regular)
The X-Files Movie
Pineapple Express
The Incredible Hulk

This seriously has to be my own personal record for movies seen in one summer.

And I haven't even seen Wall-E yet!

Way Down in Po-Dunk Town

2008-08-09T16:27:00.007-04:00

So in preparation for my upcoming Perseids meteor shower watching party (keeping my fingers crossed for clear skies...), I was hunting for a fire pit or fire bowl to purchase or borrow for the evening. I mean, what's a night under the stars without a fire and some s'mores, right?

I initially contacted my friend Rick from church. I vaguely remember that he and his wife had some kind of brazier/fire bowl on their back porch, but could not recall exactly how portable it was. I emailed him, asking him if it would be possible to borrow. He kindly informed me that their fire bowl weighs a good 300 lbs, so unless I enlisted the help of a small construction crew and a light crane, I probably would not be able to use that one.

Slightly bummed at that closed door, and even more disconcerted that my observational powers/memory had failed to recall that their fire bowl was even that large, I turned to Google.

After a bit of Googling, I realized that a standard fire bowl purchased through a store like Outdoor World easily costs $99. The cheapest one I found through an online store was $69 and would have to pay for shipping. No Sirree.

As a last resort, I decided to delve into the sketchy world of craigslist. I have only purchased used books through craigslist before, and this was through someone who works at my office, so it wasn't totally unknown.

Much to my delight, I found a used fire bowl, slightly charred but decent enough looking for $15. I saw the charring and a bit of dirt inside, but I realized that such blemishes were acceptable since I would be building a fire in it, not serving punch. I contacted the seller, saying I was interested in buying, and she immediately proceeded to give me directions. She said the place was located in "Bithlo."

I had never heard of Bithlo, but I immediately scrambled for pen and paper and tried to jot down the directions as she gave them to me. In the back of my mind, I was slightly curious why she didn't simply give me an address so I could mapquest the directions myself.

Then she said "Make a left on Sixth Street and go past Belvedere and we're the second trailer on the right."

Oh. That's why she didn't just give me an address. Sketch.

However, I was overjoyed with this little bargain, that I decided that a little foray into the sketchy side of town would be worth it. So I told the nice lady on the phone that I would come pick it up Saturday. She said, "Great, we're having a yard sale on Saturday anyway, so there will be people coming through." Wonderful.

Last night, I was relaying this story to Courtney and Oscar, the full weight of the sketchiness overtook me and I realized it would probably be wise to bring someone along on this little adventure. Oscar informed me that Bithlo was basically four junkyards and a bunch of trailer parks and he kindly offered to accompany me (especially after I mentioned the yard sale) to be my protector should something go awry in Sketchy City, so we planned on an early morning.

The next morning, we were driving east on Colonial, I began to feel like I was less in Orlando and more in the bayou. We followed the directions and ended up at the trailer. The yard was covered (littered?) with exercising equipment, rocking horses, appliances, toys, knickknacks, paddywhacks, and all manner of odds and ends. It really looked more like they had this stuff randomly strewn across their lawn and just decided to post a sign (white letters painted on plywood).

Wow.

Also, there wasn't anybody out and about, only one guy who kept coming in and out of the front door. I told him I was there to pick up the fire bowl. I really wasn't sure how big it was, or if it would even fit in my trunk, but it was the perfect size and it fit right in my trunk. Oscar said I could light the fire in my trunk if I wanted to. I told him that was a good idea, but I'll pass;)

Anyway, sucker for yard sales that he is, Oscar wondered if we could stop by another yard sale that we had seen coming in, so I thought, sure why not. So we did. I didn't think there would be a whole lot there, because I mostly saw little kid's clothes and My Little Pony and Polly Pocket ware.

They did have a litter of 8 week old puppies that they were giving away for free. They were so cute... I definitely would have taken one, but Miriam would probably kick me out of the house. I did play with them for a good 10 minutes though.

I ended up finding and buying a breadmaker for $7. So hopefully I will use it. hehe;)

In the end, my foray into Sketchy City/Po-Dunk Town a.k.a. Bithlo turned out to be quite enjoyable.

Now I just hope the rain holds up and the skies are clear to make this whole adventure worthwhile;)

Dex and Icey: mimetic rivalry?

2008-08-08T16:06:00.004-04:00

Preface: Again this is one of those blogs, where if you haven't seen Season 1 of Dexter, you really shouldn't read this anyway. I mean you should... but only AFTER you watch Season 1.

Seriously, go away. Go watch it right now. And then you can earn the right to read this blog.

I mean, I really tried to word this so I wouldn't give anything away, but you never know...

Okay, here goes...

Last week, I finished reading Darkly Dreaming Dexter by Jeff Lindsay. This is Book One from the book series upon which the television show was based. The book was well-written, but I much prefer the television show. I felt like the television show had more leeway to breathe and develop interesting character arcs. It really capitalized on the emotional and dramatic potential of the book. The show goes places the book doesn't.

Thanks to Jonathan's blog entry on The Dark Knight and Rene Girard's theory of mimetic rivalry as well as Jeanne's astute observations during TDK, I realized that this could possibly be yet another example of mimetic rivalry woven all throughout Dexter, although perhaps on a microcosmic and not a macrocosmic scale, the way it seems to be in Dark Knight.

"Mimesis" means, quite simply, "imitation." Girard's theory is that rivalry develops when we mimic or imitate other people's desires. Like Jonathan summarized, "This naturally creates ever-building conflicts (which he calls scandals), and these scandals mount and mount until a moment when there is so much intrasocietal tension that people come to the verge of the "war of all-against-all", since the only logical conclusion of "mimetic rivalry" is murder."

Dexter is fascinated by the work of the mysterious Ice Truck Killer (whom I've affectionately dubbed "Icey"… Yes, I've affectionately dubbed a serial killer. Pray for my soul). Dexter admires Icey and is enthralled by the possibility of someone just like him out there, an elegant, more refined, "playful" and daring version of overly-cautious self. In a sense, Icey also is fascinated by Dexter. I found it interesting that in the book, Icey is described as actually looking exactly like Dexter. There's definitely a theme of dualistic rivalry throughout, although not quite of the epic proportions in TDK. Both Icey and Dex desire the same "object," which is to find validation for their twisted nature. The desire to be "free" to embrace their true selves.

I don't think the rest of Girard's theory perfectly meshes with Dexter, but it certainly is interesting to think of how their mirrored desires makes them enemies in the end, rather than allies. They are the same, whereas one has a code and the other one doesn't. Like the Joker, Icey sees Dexter as bound by the rules of society. In the jail scene, Joker tells Batman that he doesn't need to live by the code or the rules he's made for himself and that he shouldn't have rules. Joker also tells Batman that they are alike and that Batman is not like the cops and shouldn't talk like them. In a way, Joker and Batman have more in common that Bman would like to admit. But the thing that separates them is the code.

Same as in Dexter.

Anyway, reading the book made me want to rewatch the last couple episodes of Season 1 and I found myself having way more sympathy for Icey this time around. I think the first time I watched it, I was so disturbed and disconcerted by his kidnapping of Deb (which, granted, is call to be disturbed and disconcerted) but I feel like I kind of missed the other narrative thread running through the story...

...Which was this idea that Icey and Dex found both identity and isolation in their roles as serial killers. Icey was only being "playful" with Dex in the way he was kind of "courting" him throughout Season 1. But it was the only kind of playful that can possibly exist for a 4 year old boy, traumatized by seeing someone slaughtered before his eyes and carrying the bloodbath around with him for the rest of his life.

I think it was interesting because as twisted and distorted as this might seem from our perspective, Icey's desire to be validated by Dex (and vice versa) is really not any different than the fundamental human desire: which is to be seen and known as we truly are and not rejected. And more than that... to embrace who we really are in light of that acceptance.

Some might call experiencing that sort of relationship "love" although I don't know if love as we understand it necessarily translates into serial killer lingo.

But in the end, that's all that Icey wanted. That's all Dex wanted.

So yeah... definitely felt more sympathy for Icey this time around. Weird.

Scrabulous: say farewell to an era

2008-08-05T15:43:00.014-04:00

So last week, I was dismayed to discover that Scrabulous had been disabled on facebook until further notice. When I logged in to Scrabulous, I was greeted by this little harbinger of depression:

Granted, I haven't been obsessively playing this game as much as I had in the past, but there was certainly a time where I had 10 games going at once with different people. I had a list of about 20 bingos I had gotten since joining November 2007. I was proud of my 40-8 record, dang it.

The Scrabble-beta application--backed legitimately by Hasbro--is cutesy and takes some getting used to. Not that I want to get used to it anyway. And even though I added application, I'm probably not going to use it.

My friend Matt termed this not-so-smart business move by Hasbro as "lame." According to Matt, this term is broken down in the following manner:

Lame: "Someone makes a better product and instead of paying them for it, you issue an injunction and then make everyone use your crappy version of it." And you inevitably frustrate Scrabulous' 500,000 loyal, daily users .

And I reiterate: it's true I haven't been using Scrabulous so much nowadays. But there are things I will miss about this online Scrabble experience, which could continue with Scrabble-beta, but will never retain the former glory that is and was Scrabulous:

whining with Becca about how the Scrabble fates continually insist on doling out to us either all consonants or all vowels
threatening use AEON on Becca for the umpteenth time
feeling like I'm playing with Carrie Bradshaw and Jimmy Fallon when I play Carrie B and Jimmy F
teaming up with Carrie to defeat Jimmy
defeating Jeanne my Nemesis, even though she knows many more obscure 3 letter words than I do
yes, even never ever beating Ellie. Not once. Guess they make them smarter in Australia...?
seeing this little bit of happiness during my work break:

Yes, I am saying farewell to the golden era of Scrabulous.

But look at the bright side, Corporate America. By giving Scrabulous the axe, Hasbro singlehandedly boosted your workers' productivity in one fell swoop.

Catherine's story

2008-07-29T07:58:00.008-04:00

This was on the main page of the Washington Post website this morning. It caught my attention because it was about a woman who had escaped the infamous rebel Lord's Resistance Army (LRA) from Uganda. I remember when I first heard about the atrocities of abducting children...

I used to work in the back room of Smathers Library, shooting old newspapers from East Africa and Latin America and putting them on microfilm. Exciting, I know. Anyway during freshman year, Matt was the one who showed me old newspaper clippings and headlines of the Ugandan war, which of course I never knew about. Looking back on this, I think this was one of the incidents that eventually led me to pursue courses in African studies, particularly with an East Africa emphasis. I honestly didn't believe Matt at first when he said that 50,000 kids had been kidnapped and that this had been going on for a decade, but there were the facts... laid out on crinkled, yellowed newspapers that hardly anybody would ever look at again.

Of course, many young American students became familiar with the plight of the child soldiers and sex slaves of Uganda thanks to the Invisible Children movement, which exponentially ballooned while I was a student at UF. I remember attending the Global Commute, hosting IC parties and even a benefit concert or two... Wow, seems like such a long time ago.

Since moving back to Orlando, I've sort of felt not as connected to all this, especially with no fellow idealistic students to spur me on. Diffusion of responsibility and all that. Ugh.

But this story caught my eye because it's about the what I think is the harder part... Post-trauma. What do with the freedom? With empowerment? These are the questions that it's easy to forget to anticipate when one is caught up in the idealistic wave of fighting social ills.

This story is about Catherine Ojok, a woman pretty much the same age as me who spent years as a sex slave to one of the army generals. This is a link to a short video of her life post-liberation.

The video reminded me of a couple of things this morning, resurfacing some emotions and ideals seem to have slipped off my radar as of late:

I hate injustice.

And I want to see people free. In every way.

Anyway, I hope you'll take the time to watch the video. It's only about 6 minutes long.

Cheers.

On Signs and Miracles

2008-07-24T12:03:00.006-04:00

So my friend Josh gave me permission to repost this as a blog entry. He posted this as a myspace bulletin earlier today. He received the following question from one of his students: (my words are all in purple, so as to avoid confusion)

The Question:

I finished Mark and now am in Luke, now my question is, why does Jesus do miracles, but afterwards say not to tell anyone what He has done? Also, why when He casts out demons, why does He tell them to be quiet and not say who He is? But why would He say to be quiet and not say what He has done or who He is, wouldn't He want people to know?

I remember that we briefly touched on this in our "Disappointment With God" sphere earlier this year. I thought Josh brought up some excellent points in response, which I've posted below.

The Response:

Hey friend,

Glad to see that you're really digging into the Gospels! Also, these are some great questions. I'm going to be reading up on some real answers for them, but until I get that done, here's my first perspective on it (and remember, this is just my own uneducated opinion;) There were a number of other alleged miracle workers around the same time as Christ. They gained a following and they start mini-revolts that were soon suppressed. Jesus, on the other hand, didn't come to start a physical revolution - that wasn't his goal. He was here to lay a foundation for a revolution to happen. Let's face it, Jesus could have come down here and wowed people with all of his powers, but He didn't. He kept His powers in reserve. This makes me believe a couple things about his miracles (I actually prefer the word 'signs' to 'miracles'):

1) Jesus' miracles were a declaration of who He is, but they weren't intended to gain a following. Every time Jesus started gaining a following, He purposefully scared them away with His teachings. For instance, it says that at one point that 5000 people were following Him (probably shortly after the 'feeding of the 5000') and that he then told them that they would have to 'eat of His flesh' and 'drink of His blood.' That freaked most of them out and they bolted. In fact, Jesus then turns to His disciples and says, "are you all that is left?" This ties into my opinion about the foundation Jesus was trying to create. It's easy to impress people when you can stop the sun - but Jesus wants people who are dedicated to His TEACHINGS not His SIGNS.

2) I like calling the miracles 'signs' because I think that's really what they were. Jesus could have come down and healed every single person in the world - but He didn't. Why? My guess is that He simply did signs as a sign, or verification, of who He is. It's kind of like Jesus' ID or fingerprint. He would do a sign and then teach. The signs got people to listen to what He was saying. In addition, I think that He did some of His signs just to illustrate a point. Scholars debate on this, but it seems that many of Jesus' signs reflected miracles that were done by great leaders in the Old Testament.

It's almost as if Jesus is saying: I have the same power (and more) as these men who you consider so amazing! Those are two of the big reasons why I think He actually did these signs. In concern to asking people not to talk about it, word spread anyway, didn't it? He asks the blind man not to talk and the guy goes and tells everyone He knows. I think that Jesus wanted silence because (in His words) His time had not yet come. It wasn't the right time to reveal who He was. I think that time was the resurrection. I think that His raising from the dead was Jesus' declaration to the world that He was more than just a 'miracle worker,' He was the Son of God. Previous to that declaration, He didn't want anything interfering with the Foundation that He was building. So, to sum up:

Jesus used His three years of ministry as a time to build a foundation for the Kingdom that was coming.
Signs were used to illustrate points and get peoples attention, not to build a revolution.
The one sign He broadcasted (and told everybody else to talk about) was His resurrection. This was His declaration of revolution.

Anyway, might not answer your question - but hope that it gets you to think ;) And maybe I gave you way more than you expected...who knows!

I think Josh did a great job of responding, but I just wanted to see if anybody else had anything to add.

I ultimately can't circumvent the fact that Jesus Himself said that a "wicked and perverse generation" asks for signs, and that no sign will be given except the "sign of Jonah," which is a prophetic reference to His death and resurrection.

Eugene Peterson's "Christ Plays in Ten Thousand Places" has an excellent section on the topic of signs. The whole book is stinkin' amazing, actually.

Anyway just wanted to see if you guys had any additional thoughts. Please share:)

The Joker and the Deceiver

2008-07-23T11:55:00.009-04:00

So I did my American civic duty this weekend and watched The Dark Knight this past weekend. In IMAX. Then I went and saw it again last night.

Jonathan posted on his Twitter blog to go watch TDK and then read the works of Rene Girard. Intrigued by a possible connection between TDK and some French anthropological philosopher, I hunted down some online excerpts from his work “I saw Satan fall like lightning" at Jonathan's recommendation...

This excerpt from Chapter 3 in particular struck me:

“If we listen to Satan, who may sound like a very progressive and likeable educator, we may feel initially that we are "liberated," but this impression does not last because Satan deprives us of everything that protects us from rivalistic imitation. Rather than warning us of the trap that awaits us, Satan makes us fall into it. He applauds the idea that prohibitions are of no use and that transgressing them contains no danger.”

This brought to mind the hospital scene between Harvey Dent and the Joker, where the Joker—the self-proclaimed “Agent of Chaos”--seduces Harvey into this “liberation,” this anarchy and chaos as a way to expose the plans and pretenses of humanity.

Seduction then destruction.

Also this part:

“The Crucifixion is one of those events in which Satan restores and consolidates his power over human beings. The shift from "all against all" to "all against one" permits the prince of this world to forestall the total destruction of his kingdom as he calms the anger of the crowd, restoring the calm that is indispensable to the survival of every human community. Satan can therefore always put enough order back into the world to prevent the total destruction of what he possesses without depriving himself for too long of his favorite pastime, which is to sow disorder, violence, and misfortune among his subjects.

The death of Jesus thwarts the satanic calculation.”

This is based on the idea that virtually in every culture, this distorted need for a “scapegoat” inexplicably arises. Whether it’s a primitive human-sacrifice-driven culture from ancient times, or the current political smear campaigning, somehow it’s ingrained in our natures to arbitrarily shift blame in circumstances especially when we ourselves are culpable. In a recent conversation, my friend Josh (who is also a youth minister) cited this tendency as no different from church disputes in which people typically shift and assign blame. Like the Joker in TDK, Satan is a master of manipulation and discord and achieves a particular triumph when humanity chooses to unleash cathartic violence on an innocent, be it the witch hunts of Salem, the lynch-mobs of the Jim Crow era or the pogroms of Nazi Germany.

I love how Girard points out that in the ultimate scapegoat moment in history—namely the crucifixion of Jesus—is where Satan banked that he had made his ultimate triumph in the violent, insatiable madness of the mob. And yet how Jesus’ death “thwarts satanic calculation.”

I found Heath Ledger’s performance as the Joker to be completely riveting. Anytime he stepped into a scene, I found myself paradoxically mesmerized and disgusted, from the smeared make-up to the reptilian licking of his lips. But the most compelling--and darkest part--of his character had nothing to do with physicality; it had everything to do with the seductive quality of his philosophy as a bringer of chaos and destruction. Or simply a man who, as Alfred ominously observes, only wants "to watch the world burn."

Anyway, the film--apart from containing one of the most flippin' amazing (literally) stunt truck sequences I've ever seen--had a lot more to offer than special effects and action. It was a penetrating look into madness and evil, how quickly society can be seduced by it, and the moral and ethical complexity of freedom.