A Sunday Blog

I was about to lead a group. I came into the day room. A bit nervous but confident in the material, no big deal. She came up to me, angry and tearful, she was angry at me. I had turned off the phones in the room from the office, cut off her conversation with her husband who was calling in Iraq. I ended their conversation. She made her point to me, I had ruined her phone call. I tried to fix it, nervously telling her maybe she could call him back, she can use one of the phones. It was a weak, scared attempt to fix. She walked away tearful, me left in front of several of the patients in the room who are waiting for me to lead the group. I was exposed, in the wrong. I felt like shit. I felt like an idiot, unable to fix, stupid, inconsiderate. I'm an idiot. I'm an idiot. I'm an idiot.

So harsh. So harsh. The me inside of me wanted to punish. I will make up for it by berating. I will do whatever you ask of me. I will suffer, I will be nothing, just to make things nice again, just to not look like an ass.

I'm not worth paying attention to now. Why am I leading this group. They won't want to pay attention to me....

Wait. Wait. Wait. Slow down. Slow down. Slow.

Slow.



Slow.







Slow.


Look at me. Look into my eyes. Look slowly, softly. Feel. Don't spin. Feel.

Have I not already told you? Have I not made it so evident? You will fail. You will be stupid, you will be an idiot, you will be an ass. You will be an ass. Thank you Jesus you will be an ass. An ass can know forgiveness. A tightass who has everything together doesn't. When you berate yourself, when you punish yourself and try to fix, you deny my Cross.

Somewhere out of what I have known, a strong feeling, a rush of grace, came in. I made a mistake, but it would not require me to berate my very dignity as a human being any longer.

He will never break your dignity. He may break you. He may call you out. It may hurt. You may have done something foolish, stupid. You may have been an idiot. Your nature is not idiocy. He will never degrade your humanity.

He will never be reckless with your spirit. He will never abuse your spirit. He will only be reckless in his pursuit, in doing everything, whatever He can to get through deaf ears. His reckless pursuit has a strength that is so soft, it will break and then hold every piece, have every piece held and known so deeply, He could never forget one piece. He is not violent. He is not an abuser. He is fierce. Fierce in softness.

I wanted to abuse. I wanted to berate. I wanted to kill my spirit. I was spinning. I was in need of slowing down. I needed a face. I needed humanity. I needed to know it was already done. And that is so sad, because He has died, He has suffered, He has taken it on, all of it, all of my shit. It is done, all of it is done. I still don't believe it. I still want to punish, I still want to kill. I still want to deny my ass-ness.

I am an ass. Thank you Jesus. Amen.

Church

I'm attending a new church, I have been for several months now, and there is a lot of hope there for me. I was skeptical at first, and now am sold that this will be the place for the next while in seattle. It is called Bethany Community Church.

The pastor is probably the highlight for me among many others. He speaks honestly, not condescending/patronizing. He seems to get the complexity of issues and is always thinking about culture. He also has a great sense of humor and speaks in stories, he is a great story teller. There is a sense I get when he speaks that he is not bullshitting me, that whatever he is talking about he has at least struggled with in part. I'd say he's got one foot in nerd and another in cool so you can't fully peg him or label him.

His blog is http://raincitypastor.blogspot.com/.

Joy and hope are two feelings that swell up in me there, good feelings to pay attention to.

Narcissus

I have started accruing my client hours for licensure, and have been lucky enough to find a supervisor that charges a reasonable price and also knows what he is talking about.

A particularly poignant experience/thought I brought into my session with him a couple weeks ago. I thought it really interesting that the most disorganized, screwed up, sitting in unpleasant feelings kind of day on the adolescent unit for me was also one of the days I felt most connected, most able to enjoy the adolescents.

After some thoughts on narcissism's play in all of this, my supervisor brought up the original story of Narcissus. The important point he spoke was that it was not simply that Narcissus fell in love with how beautiful he was, but that he fell in love with himself.

Put differently, the main function of narcissism is not just about looking good and perfect, it is also about never acknowledging any type of same-ness with others. Falling in love with yourself keeps you from ever having to genuinely move towards someone else. If you are all good, if you are perfect, why ever get contaminated with another's gross, disorganized mess?

Thus the narcissist lives in blissful denial of any of their own shit, projecting this mess onto others who are then called disgusting.

A bit of my narcissistic bliss had been dismantled the following day in counseling. I came to work more than a bit disorganized, humbled, humbled well by my own apparent mess. I could approach these adolescents, I could understand a bit more what their struggle was, because I wasn't in denial of my own. I even held a sense of honor for them. They are at the pinnacle of disorganization, hospitalized for their present mess. They are on the edge of survival, such a tangible display of life and death.

So easy to shift from one perspective to the other. A patient can look like a deteriorated, blabbering nuisance or a fighting, courageous survivor; context paints each view. Context is being at least remotely cued into your own story and theirs. One with no story, one with no idea of who they really were, what life has really been, how they really bring themselves today; they will inevitably see a blabbering nuisance who needs to get his shit together.

And it cycles...someone who tells another to get their shit together has never had the chance to really let their shit be seen by someone else. One who has never been able to express need will inevitably despise the need of another.

"This is very important stuff. This is grounds where very good work will take place." The discussion had left me soft, soft enough for me to feel like a sponge, slowly and deliberately soaking in those words. Life in slow motion. Hard to describe those moments other than being spiritual. Time slows down. Senses feel alive. Things have weight, but the opposite of the weight of a burden. Weight as fullness, depth. I see people and the slightest facial expression feels honest. Their motivations feel honest.

These moments I step out of my critical eye, judgment no longer holding the reigns. They still don't last long, but that is ok, don't want to judge my own judgment...I know how vicious that cycle is.

Yo Mama's Cleats

Despite a tumultuous attempt to round up the troops, it looks like the birth of a fall soccer team has just begun. Getting at least 15 people to commit and pay lots of money to play soccer is a feat only those who live for this stuff should undertake (thank you craigslist).

After watching the highlights of the US-Mexico World Cup qualifying match today, I am keenly reminded that I am one of those people. Watching those goals, every one has an epic feel to them. Every one takes my breath away. Taking another look in slow motion obviously captures it the best, revealing every attempt by each team to either get that damn ball somehow in the back of the net or once again get that last touch that is just enough to push the ball wide or over the top.

And when that ball does get in there, when that net moves, the degree of elation that I know so well from my own days playing is like witnessing the impossible just becoming possible. I think that is part of the celebration, the fans and the players release that tension, that feeling of “holy shit, it actually went in!!! oh my God, that’s amazing!!!”

While we will obviously not have the intensity of a World Cup qualifying game, I can’t wait to carry some of that intensity that soccer has always held for me into the season. Yo Mama’s Cleats has begun.

Images

I welcome images.
Let’s spend the day together.
Let’s visit these spaces.
Where visions precede words.













I dream of my mind as a canvas, a canvas that illuminates the colors, a canvas that does not erase, does not filter, does not correct. This canvas an endless space of images, thoughts, feelings that are watered, that are listened to. They sprout, their roots grow wildly, every direction.

The canvas is not just pretty. There are dark images, dark things. They are awful, disgusting. They hate, they want to kill. They move sharply, they have weight, density that crushes.

I dream of full strokes. Whether of beauty or horror; they are full. They are true.

How sad is one who has no words for what festers in the soul. How sad is one who has no medium, no canvas to paint. We are creatures who must paint.

We must paint before we know what it is we will create.

How can I have eyes to see another’s canvas if mine is so tightly constrained, with only pretty pictures with half of a life to them?

Slow down the space.
Where visions precede words.
It is here.
Visions are painted.
Without the voices of fear.
Visions before words.
Are the purest form of life.

Come Home

Come home

Do you think you need to be one more thing?

Remember

who you have always been

He waits

He has waited from the beginning

His patience

and longing

together

He waits

for you to remember

who you have always been

Flash

Wanted to share my last piece of work from my last class at Mars Hill, called Selected Readings, a class where the professor is given freedom to teach in areas of their own special interest. The last day entailed each of us giving a 10 minute creative presentation on our experience of it.

One of the main ideas of the class was paying attention to that initial feeling that comes up in you when you sit with someone. Knowing how quickly that initial feeling comes and goes before thoughts muddy the waters, I often had the image of a flash of lightning and the thunder that follows. I juxtaposed that image with my own questionings and fears of who I am becoming, particularly the fear of such a strong pull to become cynical as my own ignorance melts away.

The writing ends with hope in the reminder to never forget how to feel, especially cry.

(I also played a song at the end, Fix You by Coldplay, a song that always thrusts me into feeling, and has such deep words of wisdom in the phrase, "tears stream down your face, when you lose something you cannot replace.")


FLASH


“The cynic and the optimist are the same thing,” he told me, confidently defending the former, speaking against the less popular vote these days. And while I despise conforming to shallow popularity, I wonder if I am destined for that fate, as if a black hole is and will forever be sucking me and everything else into its bitter core. That black hole, making cynics out of anyone and everything that even hints at releasing their tight grip on ignorance. I envision my diploma, held pristine on the wall behind me for all my clients to see: Master of Arts in Cynical Psychology. I wonder if my progression through Mars Hill can be best described by the fact that I now swear out loud instead of under my breath. Have I simply moved from one pole to another, the optimist to the cynic?

I remember the thunderstorms of the Midwest. I am tucked deep beneath my covers, buried within my dreams. Until the flash of light. My inner world lit up. A few moments of silence, followed by thunder.

I always wanted to see the flash. I always wished I could freeze time when my fantasy world would suddenly brighten. My tired eyes could never stay awake. Instead I would get the aftermath, the translation of light into sound, the second best, the thunder.

The thunder spoke of terror. It said, “Get the fuck away or you will surely die.”

The thunder only spoke half the truth.

The flash is terrible, this is true. The flash is also one of the most beautiful things one could ever see.

Both the cynic and the optimist are scared shitless. Long ago they stopped believing the beauty of the flash, and now hear nothing but thundering terror.

In their fear, they try to fix, mend, make sense of such terrible beauty. They are the best fixers in the world, and the worst healers. Because they have forgotten how to feel. They opt for a meek translation into their endless thoughts that try to fix what can never be replaced. The cynic and the optimist have surely forgotten how to cry.

Random, Mundane Experience #2: Safeway Bagger

I've never been one for casual conversation, especially with those I don't know, the people I would never meet if it were not for my groceries, the restaurant, the bus ride. Most of my life I have moved through the check out line of the grocery store treating the bag lady or man like the credit card reader; a simple means to an end, the necessary automated requirement for my being able to bring my groceries home.

There has been a change in me as of late, however slight it may be, to really enjoy these exchanges. Not every one, as most of them are still quite lame, more than uneventful, and that's fine. But I have grown increasingly grateful for the moments when these simple exchanges and these random people have had the capacity to make my day.

Checking out of my usual safeway line at the usual safeway by my house, a dark-skinned male, probably in his late 30s, most likely of an African decent, was bagging my groceries. I didn't really notice him at first, thinking about other things, my usual mindless stance.

However, I am happy to say I was able to see and receive a subtle invitation, however small, mundane, foolish one may assume such an exchange to be. Once finished with my two plastic bags, he brought the two holes in each bag together to form a single hole for me to grab, lifted the bags up, and offered a smile of delight towards me. I remember his face. Lit up. This was not a small offer.

I can think of a past response of mine; maybe a feigned smile, a look that says, “ok ok just give me the bags before you make us both look stupid.” A perfectly effective way to shut down any mutual exchange of joy. And, of course, staying away from any possibility to be shamed for delighting in plastic bags.

However, I'd like to say this exchange had a very different ring, as I was aware enough to notice, aware enough to receive his blessing. And I know this is true because he made my day. I remember driving away in my car, a gratitude that lasted, a gratitude that grew, lingering around, gathering strength and mass instead of a quick vanishing into thin air. It was ok to allow this exchange to make my day. Even more than that; it was great. I felt great.

My spirit was lifted, a spirit that was in a sense redefining, however small, in that very moment what I thought of people. A man I had never met, from a culture deeply foreign to me, in a grocery store, making my day. I didn't have to be in church with a mass of white people and a moving sermon. I could be blessed by this random, mundane experience at Safeway on a weekday afternoon.

My gratitude lingers even now. A man who can joy in the simplest of things is a strong man. That is not a small deal. Joy is never a small deal. Especially with plastic bags.

Graduation

My favorite picture from the graduation weekend, taken by my parents who happened to pick seats almost directly across the aisle from where I ended up sitting. It was a special surprise, and was the signifier that they were now in my space. Once 2,000 miles away when everything was going on out here in the northwest, now right across from me and my entire class at our graduation, witnessing a piece, the end, the culmination of my time at Mars Hill.

Surprise would describe that end pretty well. I wasn't expecting anything terribly moving from the ceremony. But it was good. Culminated by Dan's words, speaking of the program, the cost of moving through. It felt like finally those who heard about it got to see first hand, witnessing what Dan had to say. A crowd of witnesses. Validating to say the least. Something so powerful about public witness. I guess that's the opposite of things lurking in the dark, the truth being kept hidden in silence. How good it is, whatever it is, to move into the light, into the presence of another person, another body of people.

And for one of the first times, I felt a unity with my class I hadn't before. And I wonder even now, why didn't I feel this through the program? Why didn't I let myself feel this? (And if I've learned anything it is how I have played my own part in this...) Maybe the cost of the program, the cost of not having things tied up nicely, the cost of difference, the cost of not everyone getting along because that is reality? I don't know, but it felt pretty damn good to end with some sense of communal holding of what was, what is, who we are, what we went through.

And to end, a video from the last scene of the episode of Scrubs that signified this longing to be connected, to really be a part of a group that allows for great play, for great foolishness and acceptance and of course, love. I was in and out of watching the show, but came back in the room at this last part, and it was one of those moments where I instantly know there is something here for me.



It may be outside of reality, it may be nicely tied up, but hope has to take me beyond reality. I can be irrational with hope. No, I must be irrational with hope. I must hope like a fool. That kind of hope keeps me from stale reality, and moves me into a reality that is enchanted with whatever the hell my imagination that needs to dream wishes to dream. My heart needs much more than reality. I am much more than that. I give myself permission more than ever to have the imagination of a child.

"Who can say this isn't what happens? Who can tell me my fantasies won't come true, just this once?" - JD

Another look at prayer

The best teaching on meditation I've listened to by far.

One of my favorite lines was him describing how going throughout our day without really checking into ourselves is like the Philadelphia Harmonic Orchestra playing Mozart without tuning first.



Another thought that stood out: Awareness is like the still depths of the ocean floor. No matter what storm is raging at sea level, awareness is the stillness underneath it all.

A look at prayer

It is not a surprise to me that the dynamics of my everyday life come into play in my attempts at prayer and meditation. When I begin to enter this space of prayer, there is an anticipation in me, a desire that is also very closely linked to a demand to have intimacy. Desire can easily be confused with control.

I sit, I wait, I want something to happen. I want to feel the presence of God. I want to feel freed up. I want. I want.....I demand. Wait. Now I'm demanding. God. Where are you? Why aren't you meeting me in this time? Meet me here. I'm annoyed that you're not here. Why don't I have peace. Give me some f-ing peace, damn it...Okkkkaaayyy. Let's try that again...

And there you go, the anticipation of a space of prayer, peace, and relaxation morphed into a time of contemptuous annoyance at life. Control disguised as desire.

And yet desire cannot be feigned. Control trying to be desire will always end up short, demanding what cannot be, what can only be given by being. And true desire can only be.

Which is where in my time of prayer there is a turn. When I know I cannot make something happen, I can only wait and allow for whatever will happen to happen. When I stop demanding, and just sit, still enough to be able to hear a whisper. The Spirit speaks in a whisper.

A mindfulness podcast spoke of scientists who oddly model the spirit of meditation, because they are continually studying and researching to uncover that which they do not know. They are always on the cusp, waiting for what has not yet become but soon may be.

So similar to prayer; the space where we learn to be ok with not knowing. And this is different than simply forgetting the whole thing. That is just avoidance, resignation. Prayer is the space where one waits, where one wants, and allows this want to take them to the eager expectation of what soon may be. Waiting for the next scene to unfold. It's easy to be on the edge of your seat in a good movie, caught up in those defining moments, those points everything so far leads up to and everything past will be affected by. Much harder to be caught up in the small, in your breath, in the sensation the moment offers. And yet it is in those moments, those supposedly dull, mundane moments, where the Spirit speaks, "There is more for you right here, right now, than you can dream of, if you would only let me bless you with it."

Prayer then is receiving, the receiving of blessing, and any blessing can never be given in coercion and control. It feels like a paradox, as I create space, taking an active part in allowing. Actively receiving.

Desire and control, they come off so similar. But get closer, and it becomes obvious that true desire cannot be feigned. A poor attempt at faking desire will end up looking like a frustrated, whiny, irritated, adolescent temper tantrum when things don't go the way control wants. Prayer is the practice ground, working out this old whiny self. Instead of screaming with my hands covering my ears, I breathe my way through what is being offered this very moment, and the next, and the next. I believe laced within these breaths is the whisper of the Spirit that waits, without coercion, to see if I am willing to listen.

Sun (Room)

The last two days have been 70 and sunny. Hallefreakinluia. Three days ago my sinuses were throbbing from my fourth cold of the winter season. After two days of sun, my symptoms are minimal. No, not a coincidence, it is one more piece of data that I am allergic to cold and an addiction to airborne isn't cutting it. I need sun. Thank you Jesus it is on the rebound with summer approaching.
The biggest sign of this in my house is my recent activity in the sun room. My favorite place of the house really. As you can see in the picture, seveal big windows that look over the neighborhood, and in the distance even the Olympic Mountains. This room lay dormant in the winter, an icebox not worth the effort of warming up to a respectable room temperature. Soon the sun will provide more than enough warmth, as it did today, allowing the perfect space for good reading, conversation, contemplation, and writing blogs such as this one.

There is one other upcoming event; graduation. It feels much easier and safer to write about summer, which provokes much fewer emotions, especially those that are conflicting...

MSU vs. UNC

I've waited to post in fear of a skeptic's jinx that any rabid sports fan would fear ensuing after one talks about their favorite teams before they play...but at this point, what is there to lose??? What has just transpired in the past couple weeks is what any sports fan dreams of all their life; both of my favorite college basketball teams have made their way through the tournament and will now meet in the championship game Monday night.

The championship game. And I can sit back, relax, and soak in the experience. No need to scream at the refs, get infuriated with the little things that just don't go my team's way, and raise my cortisol to near toxic levels. Ladies and gentlemen, this time I'm going to enjoy the ride. I will now wait for one of the strangest moments of my sports life as I watch one of my teams lose the title, and one of my teams win. And don't worry, I'm definitely going to focus on the latter.

I have to say that I will definitely be biased towards Michigan State, my alma mater, maybe unconsciously because of the fact that any of my fellow Spartans whom I spent my time with in East Lansing would have my head if they knew I was cheering for North Carolina. Bros, be assured that I'm going for MSU.

I mean, what a story, the Spartans beating an incredibly good 10 seeded USC team (who won the Pac-10 tournament), the Big 12 winner and defending national champ Kansas, followed by Louisville, the then deemed best team in the country who was beating teams by 40 points. Next was UConn, another one of the Big East's best teams (the Big East was called one of the best conferences ever this year...to beat the two best teams is incredible). Imagine now, if they could pull off the championship by beating UNC, the pre-season #1, predicted to win it all before anything began. In and for a city and state that sums up the economic down turn. Doesn't get any better than this.

And they can do it. If they play like they have, they will win. Simple as that. And if they lose, well...shoot, my other favorite team wins it all...life is rough :)

But GO STATE!!!

Note to self: Play lots, like all the time

http://www.ted.com/index.php/talks/stuart_brown_says_play_is_more_than_fun_it_s_vital.html

A great explanation of the benefits of play (from a really cool website for intriguing talks like this one - TED.com).

I should listen to this every morning before I start my day. Play makes us smarter, creates the context for more trust, and even greatly improves the workplace. Oh yea it's also fun!

Safe

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B7aMrkGBDBQ

(unable to put actual clip on here, just have to click on the link)

This clip reveals something deeply significant about what is real safety, and what we really need as human beings.

The little girl in this scene is scared. Rightly so. Her dad has been out working late, leaving his 5 year old daughter alone in a scary neighborhood. He finds her under the bed and wants to assure her that she will be ok.

Every parent has found themselves in this situation. And it is what he does that is so brilliant.

He could just tell her that she needs to get some sleep, forcing her to get out from under the bed, very easily shaming her for being scared in the first place. This shaming would lead to a feeling of being missed in her fear, leading her to accuse herself for having any kind of feeling in the first place. She is left feeling alone. She is scared and alone. Now that is scary.

But what he does is not only validate her fear, he engages her world. He leaves the rational world of adulthood and moves into the heart of a 5 year old girl. How does he do this? He uses her language. He uses her imagination.

And this is what the girl needs. To simply be told that her dad would protect her is one thing. Her 5 year old brain would maybe hold some of those words, for maybe one second.

What he gives her is relationship. She is known by his ability to dream with her. Her protects her by inviting her to imagine.

That is safety. Not the circumstances. Not the facts. But whether you are with someone who can enter your world and know you through that. Safety in being known.

Safety is a space where words can be put to our experience. We need words. We need symbols, symbols that hold the medium of imagination and creativity, making meaning of what is going on instead of an unnamed dread. When we cannot make meaning of experience, it festers inside our bodies as a blob of confusion, like a parasite we cannot see but know is there because of its continual growth and disruption.

Leads me to think about artists. Often the most talented are the most neurotic. They're trying to work something out, something that is unnamed, something that needs to be expressed. And what better way than painting or making music. Unnamed meaning moves their bodies to create, funneling their confusion and desire onto a painting or into the keys of a piano or strings of a guitar. Thank God. Their work touches so deeply our own stories of confusion, allowing us to meet over something that names so well what we feel.

That is what makes the scene so touching. A man who enters the imaginative world of a child. And because of this she is not alone. She is safe in being known.

Slicer

Random, mundane experience #1: Cheese slicer

Happened to be in Fred Meyer with Eden looking for a spaceheater for her when I ran across the aisle of kitchen appliances. Cheese slicer quickly came to mind. My trip back home in Michigan reminded me of how much I loved these things. And now was the time to capitalize.

We got back to my place where I proclaimed my victory to the roommates, upon which one of them quickly opened the kitchen drawer and pulled out her own cheese slicer. I was unaware we already had a cheese slicer.

Sooo I kept the cheese slicer because it was from Good Grips which is always a good choice. And I must say, this little piece of metal and rubber has doubled my lunch satisfaction. Amazing how cheese sliced a little thinner makes all the difference.

Usually I would say this is stupid, why am I getting so excited about thinner cheese? Stupid to get excited about little things. Stupid to get excited. Better to get excited about the big stuff. The big trips. The weekends. The holidays.

Thing is the big stuff comes and goes and almost never is quite what we wanted it to be. Either too short or thinking about how great it is so much and how much it will suck when it's over that it gets over way too quickly.

Thus my proposal. Get lost in the sweet glory of a cheese slicer. Allow for celebration. Stupid, glorious celebration. Celebration that doesn't need to wait for the grand vacation getaway. So great getting excited about the small things. It's like singing in the shower, like dancing in the kitchen, like letting out a little shout that you made the street light just in time when you thought there's no chance.

And what's even better? Someone to enjoy you in the midst of your glorious over-excitement. Who loves it and joins you well in the midst. The adverse is obvious: someone telling you to stay in line, ship up, stop acting like a fool, why the hell are you getting so excited about a cheese slicer. And I would like to tell those voices that it is sad that your envy carries itself so far as to want to ruin someone else's day because yours is so boring.

Knowing very well how boring I can make the day to day, I call myself to repent to the sweet glory of slicing cheese. I invite you to join.

Wolves

"They tumble and fight, and they're beautiful
On the hilltops at night, they are beautiful
Blazing with light, is the whitest and the tallest and the biggest one
She's muscled and fine
When she runs"

Wolves are in his house, in his mind. Haunting. Hovering. Invading. Disrupting.

And then the most haunting statement yet. He describes them. Beautiful. These creatures, these creatures that haunt, they are so beautiful.

Maddening. And thus is beauty. Beauty is maddening. Scandalous. Seductive. As if it gets away with too much. That too much haunts us. Beauty haunts.

Even the way you say the word, the letters that comprise it, the first three from the beginning of the alphabet, the last three from the end. As if the letters are describing the range of life beauty is able to hold. Beauty is good and it is bad. It does not allow for a split, instead holding a complexity and spectrum of experience that will never be defined in simple terms.

We want to split, casting beauty in an over-sexed, denigrating, violent objectification of women, or over-spiritualizing beauty that is naive and out of touch with the real world, a world without real desire, pain, heartache.

Beauty is not perfection. Perfection is fragmented. Beauty is wholeness. Beauty is the mysterious winding of flaw. And one who can bear their own flaw is a beautiful person. These beautiful people are so wonderful to be around.

Beauty is dark and light. One needs the other to create, and beauty the medium in which they dance, the canvas in which one dares allow their mixing. No wonder any real creation involves risk.

These wolves. They are terrible. And they are amazing. He fears them and cannot keep his eyes off them. Thus is beauty. Thus is life.

Come with me

...get closer to that story - the story that is the story of all stories - it is the best story - it is the worst story - it is THE story - it is the story that is uniquely yours, that only you can tell - that in your telling you share in the story that encompasses all stories - the story of God - it is not whether or not it is a good story - it is whether or not you dare to tell it - evil hates the real story - evil fabricates - evil distorts - evil hides - evil lies - evil trembles when you begin to tell the truth, because you are at the center of the truth, because Christ is at the center of the truth

come - let us tell the stories that haunt us with their darkness - come - let us tell them in the light, that we may not bear the burden, that we may not bear the weight on our own - one should never have to tell their story alone

come with me into the light, i have a story i've been wanting to tell...