lion rebel

What makes someone believe they have something to say to the rest of the world?

Everywhere you look you find people twittering about what they ate for lunch, blogging about the moral justification for any sort of political expanse, or commenting on someone else’s blogging refuting or praising their meager attempt to provide insight.

I ask this question because, as I stared at the blank page before me with nothing to say, I realised that I no longer felt like I had anything worthwhile to say. Why did I write all the words I’ve written or speak aloud all the words I’ve spoken in the past? Did I think I had something better to say? Out of all of history, with men like Napoleon, Emerson, Moses, Jesus, and Obama, how did I suppose that I had a clearer vision or a higher insight?

Why did I speak in front of people? Because it’s easy. Why did I write? Because it’s far easier than speaking, with no immediate audience to impress, no posture to maintain, no constant pressure breathing down your neck causing you to sweat.

I have always loved music, but for whatever reason, have never pegged what I loved about different artists. The other day as I was listening to The Civil Wars I was trying to figure out why they could use a steel guitar to stir my emotions [if you really know me, you know that the steel guitar is not usually associated with music I like]. When suddenly it hit me – I like The Civil Wars because of the passion they convey. I like Mumford and Sons because of the desperation with which they sing and play and perform. Sure, I like good music for the sake of good music; but the artists I cherish are those with passion.

You can find passionate speakers and writers, but they’re not quite conveyed the same as passionate musicians.

And that is what I have lost. Passion. Passion which gives me energy. Passion which enlightens me. Passion which propels me forward rather than dragging me along for the ride. Passion for living. Passion.

For me, it is as simple as that. [Which is also extremely difficult].

The atrocities of man are so overwhelming.

Being married to my wife has been an interesting thing; as I’ve grown to love her more and experienced more of life with her, I have encountered an incredible phenomenon. Women, of all sizes and shapes, personalities and circumstances have become increasingly beautiful to me. And don’t get me wrong; it’s not a sexual thing.

When my wife was pregnant with our firstborn, I was absolutely enamored with her beauty. The radiance of her existence shone through every moment I have been with her. And it was shortly after that, that I suddenly discovered the true beauty in women. The beauty that comes from within, not in their pretty hair, or their masqueraded make-up, not in their legs, their rears, or the dangling earrings shimmering from their ears. But the beauty that is within them that has been granted them from God.

I sit at the coffee shop some mornings astounded by the gorgeousness of God’s creation. His architecture is perfection.

Yet today I have heard two different stories. Two stories of two different women who have been violated. Two different women who I know and can say I love. Two stories of atrocious proportions.

And I get sick in the head. My stomach vomits disgust disguised as breath. How can a creation so wonderful be tainted with such an ugly sin.

The tears may not be dribbling down my cheeks, but my soul is weeping sorrowful, stain-inducing tears.

I am putting forth more effort than I feel like I have today. Which is probably the antithesis of what I usually do. … [the ellipses is for my lack of productive thought for a good ten minutes, while I stared at my screen with nothing forthcoming.]

A long while later now, I have decided to keep going. Usually, it is when I push through, that my best stuff comes out [I guess we’ll see]. I generally have no hesitations about my life; I am quite content with my circumstances and relationships…but occasionally I find that I envy those who have no “strings” attached – none of the same responsibilities that I have. There are mornings that I miss sleeping in, evenings I miss staying up late, parties I miss attending, cigarettes I miss smoking, and friends I miss doing nothing with.

And don’t misinterpret this as my lamenting my life, or being down in the gutter. Don’t read into this that I hate my life, because, the truth is nothing could be further from the truth. But to deny the existence of those sorts of feelings would be to deprive my life of the ups and downs I experience. And though I am desperate for the ups and abhorring of the downs, without them I would be lifeless. Without them I would suffer an intolerable fate: existing without being.

I don’t want to make the cheesy comparison of “the Journey,” so I won’t; instead, I am recognizing every day the value of participating in every aspect of my life. Instead of seeing the hopeless situation my family faces everyday, I see the end result of what will be gained when we reach the golden stage. I am recognizing the value of going “further up and further in.” Honestly, I don’t have a clear picture of what that end result will look like – I just know that it will be heavenly. That it will be beautiful, provocative, luscious, and mind-numbing. And I am so looking forward to that.

Unfortunately, my words don’t feel like much of anything today. The pulse of a kick drum and the tinkering of a guitar do much more justice to the world today, than these words I dribble forth. Lack of production. And the words blur into fuzz as I drift away from the page.

But even the music sounds muffled and distorted. I move my arms from the keyboard, and, “Voila!” the sound changes. Hairy arms covering speakers do not make for a good sound experience. Plus, it’s poor speaker placement, Dell. When will you learn?

My computer died yesterday. Too many knocks to the head, I suppose. Which is why I am using this Dell Ispiron | E1505. It feels big and bulky under my fingertips. Awkward. Regardless, Death makes things new again. My wife said to me this morning, “You can be excited about your new computer – even if we don’t really have the money.” I muttered something or other, and someone else called, so the conversation ended.

The thing is, I should be excited – I should be ecstatic. And somewhere deep inside I am, I just…can’t put words to it. And it’s not really that I am sad that my computer died; it’s more of the fact that this isn’t how I wanted it to go down. I wanted my computer to “pass on,” or be able to be passed on. But a fractured screen and click, click, click is not something you pass on – unless you’re an idiot and a jerk. I wanted the new one to be a grand celebration.

My dad told me awhile back that whenever my grandpa, who died when I was about five, would respond whenever he was asked what was new with, “Babies.” And then he died, so then the only thing new was Death. But then, 7160 miles away and two years later, my sister was born. With Death came Life.

I know it is probably ridiculous to compare the lack of function of a computer and the arrival of a new computer with the realities of life and death – but I don’t care. That’s where it is today. Death = Life. You could draw the biblical principle too, but if you already can do that there’s no need to explain it, and if you can’t, well I hope that someday you can [also, you’re probably not reading this right now, either].

All at once the world is cruel and ugly, while maintaining a sense of grace and beauty…

Occasionally, it passes through my mind that I should be careful what I say on here. It is much easier for me to “speak” through these words than in real life, unless I’ve been able to rehearse my speech and not have anyone else talk back to me. The moment another perspective enters the fray, I must stop speaking and contemplate the new view. Otherwise, I just make an ass of myself.

I wish it could be wholly selfless of me – my art of listening – but it’s not. The truth is, it is mostly selfish, because I want to say the right thing. Even now, as I write, I struggle with finding the right thing to say.

The saying goes, “The pen is mightier than the sword;” but all too often I feel disarmed when I write. Perhaps it is my own vulnerability coming out; or perhaps I don’t know my own strength. When I was a teenager, my mother constantly scolded me because I was rough with everything: friends, couches, tv remotes, doors. She said it was because I didn’t know my own strength – but I think it was because I didn’t have a clue. Which is still how I feel…

Once, when I was 17 and was checking myself out in the mirror, my father told me the only image he remembers of himself is when he was 17. Of course I thought he was ridiculous; how could you not remember what you looked like as you age! But when I think of myself (and not just my physical self) I still think of myself as I was back then. Only now it is with a twinge of the knowledge I have gained as I have gotten older.

Regardless, it’s not as bad [getting old] as I thought it would be. Though I can describe perfectly what I thought it might be like, it has been an incredible experience. And I don’t want to waste it with foolish words. I want to aptly describe it every time.

My existence has been beautiful – my pain has been real and my joy has been complete. Though there are things I wish I had done differently, there’s never been a moment when I would change a single thing. When I look to the skies at night, all I can see is the brightness of the next day shining near.

It’s only as bright as you make it out to be…

It’s as if a dullness has crept into my cave of an office. Long shadows extend from the wall ornaments, old guitars display their hardened necks, while the short lamp on my desk provides most of the light. Truth is, I like it this way.

I reflect on the past few days [which really have been the same as the last few weeks, and months] with joy. Nothing has changed, nothing could be better. I would be lying to you if I didn’t say that it would be nice to have a job; but I wouldn’t be doing you a service either.

You see – I don’t lie…well, I do, just not when I write. I suppose that’s why some people think there’s something wrong with me. Honestly there is nothing wrong with me – I am just a normal guy with a lot of things wrong. Sounds like a contradiction, but if there were nothing wrong with me, then there would be something wrong with me. You see what I mean?

Perhaps it’s confusing. Regardless, all I am trying to say is that when I write, I don’t tell lies; when I write, I write the whole thing – no holding back…which I find I probably do more often through the computer screen than in “real life.”

Forgive me, if I am too abrupt, or too real, or too honest. The truth is, though it seems I am despairing, I’ve never been better. The truth is that I wouldn’t want it any other way than the way it is because this way I know I am not in control. I know that he is. The more I think about it, the more I am nearly confused, all this contradicting of terms and phrases and “truth.” I mean to cause no stir of panic, which is probably what happens when I write. Perhaps that’s even what I intend unintentionally.

As the sun has gone down, I know that my faith and my hope have not. “The night has fallen, I close my eyes and imagine, a tiny glimmer flickering on the horizon…”

[Seriously, if you haven’t listened to Aqualung’s “Memory Man,” you’ve got to get yourself a copy – and good luck with that because they’re not making it anymore…]

“Everyday living my life like it’s over…there’s a tiny glow, that won’t die and won’t leave us alone. Start shining, the sun is rising.”

There’s nothing like a soft trumpet in the background to bring out the hope in your eyes…

I don’t know that I have ever felt so unsure in my life. Every morning I wake with a job that I love that doesn’t pay enough. Every morning I carry my 3 month old downstairs so that my wife can sleep and I hold her, gazing at her sleepless eyes, taking in her soft moan cries.

A few short hours slip past and my 2 year old awakes. She wants a drink. I want a job. Or I don’t. So I get her a drink and as I pour the juice into her cup I fantasize about making it as an author so I can stay home and work. Later in the morning, while I sit at my desk at work and ponder the reality I face, I wonder if I could ever make money selling music. Absentmindedly I scan the online job websites – I’ve seen these jobs a hundred times already, but I still come back for more. For more nothingness to fill this uncertainty, which only makes it larger than life.

As the days pass by, these same thoughts strangle my mind. So I create – I write and design, amateurish, but it still is something to do, something I can do.

I know I could do anything you asked me to – but no one’s asking. My wife says I need to be the one asking, but there’s nothing out there worth asking for, at least I think so.

I need a rainbow today. I need the clouds to go away.

I prayed this morning for my daily needs to be met, and I can’t help but wonder what my needs really are…I found a smokin’ deal on a computer I want shortly after I prayed that – God must answer prayers.

But even a smokin’ deal still requires money. Something I don’t have. I read in a book last night about a guy who inadvertently sold his body for money. I would be a liar if I didn’t tell you that I thought about that as a part time job too.

And then the conviction came, and the question rises again, “What are you doing, God?”

Nobody seems to know the answer to that question – I guess if I figured it out I would be a rich man. [Then again, isn’t that what they pay pastors for?]

Though I’ve talked a lot about money, probably the biggest factor working against me in this hunt is that I don’t really care about money. Sure I want expensive things, but not enough to actually care about them. My only motivation is my family. How can I be a man and not provide for my family?

I guess the only answer, so far, is: “eeny meeny miny mo, catch a tiger by the toe, if he hollers make him pay…” until I find the right job.

Even if I do that, though, I’m certain of one thing – I’ll still be unsure.

I was perusing the spread of Christmas cookies, brownies, and bread when the thought hit me again this morning. The gentle cool light of the far-reaching sun arched over top of the building and brightened the front hallway. I do not recall distinctly the last time I thought this same thought, but I realized it was true with grave shame. I shook my head from side to side as if to brush it away, or toss it out with the trash. I briefly encountered the idea of calling it Satan’s plan to thwart me for the day, but instead focused on the few treats I wanted to indulge in before eating a more “healthy” breakfast of banquet bread. I chose a brownie, a peanut butter delicacy, and five small slices of bread to go along with my coffee. But still, I couldn’t shake the thought from my skull because I knew it to be true.

As I sit and I write I want to know how to change this thing in my life – I want to know the answers…and yet I don’t. My Father spoke something profound to me on Christmas morning as he was rocking his youngest granddaughter, Norah. “It seems to me we all just keep learning the same things, deeper and deeper.”

And my mind scatters as I try to focus on that idea; there are so many things to think about, to focus on, to give attention to. There are so many things that threaten to disrupt our calm. I am convinced, however off-kilter my head may be, that there are no real concrete answers beyond obeying God and serving others, both sacrificially. Interestingly, when I pause my intense focus of myself and my wrongs and my situations, they all seem to fade away – certainly I continue to learn lessons about myself, but it seems to me it is kind of like a foreign math problem. As one concentrates harder and harder on “getting it,” he approaches the territory of “Forever Lost.” Getting it is not the point of life. Living and loving is.

But when I only live for myself and love myself, as my thought suggested this morning, “You are desperate for your own glory!” misery is my only company and life is not worth loving.