There's an idea in philosophy that all ideas themselves float around humans like invisible, ethereal dust motes, looking for that one person ready to accept them. There are those that take this theory and run to a dark, jaded place with it, saying that all the ideas in the world have been thought already; that there is no creativity left for the rest of us, let alone anyone that comes after us.
It's a depressing perspective, but one that seems somehow truer on rainy days when the veil between the impossible forever and this present wonder flutters thinner than thought. Rain has been falling constantly for about a week over my usually sunny home state. Although rain in September is not even remotely Tweet-worthy, there is a subtle, powerful change that happens when it rains for days on end.
People slow; their energy, their need to be here and do that so they can get a check off their list fades. They start to miss the sun, and then start to question if the sun will return. Random peoplecomment on how they wonder if the sun remembers where Texas is, or if it needed to stop and ask for directions.
The idea that rain is forever because it is here sprinkles, then marinates, and finally, sprouts roots in their brains, pushing at memories of near-record heat and smothering the idea that Texas usually steams in the summer. All those thoughts are gone, erased by the chalkboard grey clouds hanging over their heads.
If the memories of over 100 degree Fahrenheit weather can fade from the consciousness of a group of people who live with it every year, it doesn't seem quite the stretch to think that ideas circle around us without ever being accepted, and because they're not, there is still more to explore and learn - even if it just for us to get to a place where we can accept that everything is waiting for us to be ready to accept.
I hate being merely mortal. I hate that I am flawed and imperfect. I hate that I get scared of stupid things, and don't realize when I'm doing it. I hate that I hurt other people with my imperfection. I hate it, and wish I'd learn faster, not forgetting so quickly. The only feeling worse is when I know I'm messing up, and I can't stop myself.
There is so much in my head that I just can't explain, and have gotten so tired of talking about; it feels repetitive.
The paranoia, the voice that tells me brown haired girls just aren't as good as blondes, the nagging sense that everything I do could be better, cleaner, less dramatic... just better.
The voices, the lingering, clinging habits and ideas from a life that died when I was so much younger and my soul was so much cleaner flare in sopping, seeping rain, drenching everything I see and touch, making me feel muddier and dirtier as I leave a trail of dirty, defiled memories and creations in my wake. It'd be so easy to see only the dark and stormy, setting the memories of any sunshine or warmth away as if they were pretty pictures from another life not belonging to me at all.
And so I hide.
I find another lover to fill the void in my bed, in my head, to be another voice to haunt me after my heart breaks or grows callous. Some flash of beauty thunders through the darkness of my life, and like some unevolved cave creature, I run away, screaming and afraid of what the light may show.
Others I know work, dreading the time they have to go home and be surrounded by empty things; by people who don't understand and won't care enough to try. They pretend to not hear the whispers, driving themselves and those that surround them harder, faster, wanting better results sooner.
More blame whatever light had the nerve to show itself in their night sky in the first place - be it the idea of a God or Being that loves them, some idea they disagree with that might actually be right or true, or even something as simply staggering as clichés really are true and there is more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in their philosophy.
It strikes me ironic the harder we try to prove we have grown beyond hurt; that we've evolved into sensitive souls who accept pain graciously, who allow ourselves space to heal and adjust, the more blatant and obvious it becomes that we are still frightened children at the core, running from lightning and shadows, ever fearful our scars will be shown, and that we will be found weak and needful.
There’s a lyric by Chris Tomlin, a decidedly shiny Christian singer, that says:
I’d like to be that kind of sweet, trusting, faith-filled soul.
I can see the faith of others, appreciate it as something otherworldly and beautiful, but it’s something I can honestly claim as much a part of me as my recently dyed red hair.
I know I love Jesus, and I know He loves me. I also know I am not faithful, and that I will get scared again in the future, and run like a small child. I’m far more like the lyrics written by Jars of Clay, “I use one hand to pull You closer, and another to push You away” than I am the consistently trusting soul conveyed by Tomlin.
I envy those who never question, never doubted: the prophet Samuel, Jesus’ mom, Mary, P!nk. They were born with a direction, a soul-drenching knowing where their rest and passion resided. It was always there, easily accessed, like some lifetime lithium battery.
I’ve always known I could write, but I’ve not always been sure I had anything worth saying. The fear that I'd be one of those vapid people who speaks before they think terrified and paralyzed me, driving me to alternate between clutziness and self-digust. It tastes like a hollow lie I fed myself for too long, but the truth is it’s always seemed better to be an honest coward than an arrogant, empty artist.
Madonna once made the statement, “Now that I have everyone’s attention, what do I have to say?” My thought was the reverse: what if what I have to say, no one wants to hear or cares about? What if all the thoughts in my head really are basically me playing with my mental naval lint, and all the pain, all the mistakes just prove I am a stupid, selfish princess?
And, of course, when I feel most exposed and scraped, most bare and vulnerable, this is when my iTunes chooses to play Chris Tomlin again. “How beautiful is Your unfailing love. / You never change, God, and You remain the Holy One…. You are my rock, the One I hold on to.”
It burns my ego to think that it really is as simple as letting God love me, letting Him be the One that makes me feel safe and complete. It’s so much easier and more human to be clingy and call that lover I made out with over the weekend. Even if I can't even remember his name now.
Society would understand a silly girl having her own version of the U-Haul second date, even if it was just in her head. Wrestling with the idea that her life is neither her own to control, nor her own to maneuver takes far more explaining. It’s far more acceptable to be sought for pleasure and comfort than it is for some invisible presence to be thought of as consistent or actually present.
But here I sit, still, accepting that I am not a shiny, happy Christ-follower, wrestling with the idea that I don’t have to be shiny or completely happy to be safe.
Jesus loves me – as I am, being more JoC and Pink than I ever will be Chris Tomlin and Britney Spears.
I love Him – as He is, being more calloused hands and rough manners than He ever will be stained glass and peaches 'n' cream complexion. Together, though, He is wild and untamed… and I find safety in that because He loves me furiously.
It's a depressing perspective, but one that seems somehow truer on rainy days when the veil between the impossible forever and this present wonder flutters thinner than thought. Rain has been falling constantly for about a week over my usually sunny home state. Although rain in September is not even remotely Tweet-worthy, there is a subtle, powerful change that happens when it rains for days on end.
People slow; their energy, their need to be here and do that so they can get a check off their list fades. They start to miss the sun, and then start to question if the sun will return. Random peoplecomment on how they wonder if the sun remembers where Texas is, or if it needed to stop and ask for directions.
The idea that rain is forever because it is here sprinkles, then marinates, and finally, sprouts roots in their brains, pushing at memories of near-record heat and smothering the idea that Texas usually steams in the summer. All those thoughts are gone, erased by the chalkboard grey clouds hanging over their heads.
If the memories of over 100 degree Fahrenheit weather can fade from the consciousness of a group of people who live with it every year, it doesn't seem quite the stretch to think that ideas circle around us without ever being accepted, and because they're not, there is still more to explore and learn - even if it just for us to get to a place where we can accept that everything is waiting for us to be ready to accept.
I hate being merely mortal. I hate that I am flawed and imperfect. I hate that I get scared of stupid things, and don't realize when I'm doing it. I hate that I hurt other people with my imperfection. I hate it, and wish I'd learn faster, not forgetting so quickly. The only feeling worse is when I know I'm messing up, and I can't stop myself.
There is so much in my head that I just can't explain, and have gotten so tired of talking about; it feels repetitive.
The paranoia, the voice that tells me brown haired girls just aren't as good as blondes, the nagging sense that everything I do could be better, cleaner, less dramatic... just better.
The voices, the lingering, clinging habits and ideas from a life that died when I was so much younger and my soul was so much cleaner flare in sopping, seeping rain, drenching everything I see and touch, making me feel muddier and dirtier as I leave a trail of dirty, defiled memories and creations in my wake. It'd be so easy to see only the dark and stormy, setting the memories of any sunshine or warmth away as if they were pretty pictures from another life not belonging to me at all.
And so I hide.
I find another lover to fill the void in my bed, in my head, to be another voice to haunt me after my heart breaks or grows callous. Some flash of beauty thunders through the darkness of my life, and like some unevolved cave creature, I run away, screaming and afraid of what the light may show.
Others I know work, dreading the time they have to go home and be surrounded by empty things; by people who don't understand and won't care enough to try. They pretend to not hear the whispers, driving themselves and those that surround them harder, faster, wanting better results sooner.
More blame whatever light had the nerve to show itself in their night sky in the first place - be it the idea of a God or Being that loves them, some idea they disagree with that might actually be right or true, or even something as simply staggering as clichés really are true and there is more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in their philosophy.
It strikes me ironic the harder we try to prove we have grown beyond hurt; that we've evolved into sensitive souls who accept pain graciously, who allow ourselves space to heal and adjust, the more blatant and obvious it becomes that we are still frightened children at the core, running from lightning and shadows, ever fearful our scars will be shown, and that we will be found weak and needful.
There’s a lyric by Chris Tomlin, a decidedly shiny Christian singer, that says:
"You have my heart
and I am Yours forever.
You are my strength, God of grace and power
And everything, You hold in Your hand
Still You make time for me. I can’t understand.”
I’d like to be that kind of sweet, trusting, faith-filled soul.
I can see the faith of others, appreciate it as something otherworldly and beautiful, but it’s something I can honestly claim as much a part of me as my recently dyed red hair.
I know I love Jesus, and I know He loves me. I also know I am not faithful, and that I will get scared again in the future, and run like a small child. I’m far more like the lyrics written by Jars of Clay, “I use one hand to pull You closer, and another to push You away” than I am the consistently trusting soul conveyed by Tomlin.
I envy those who never question, never doubted: the prophet Samuel, Jesus’ mom, Mary, P!nk. They were born with a direction, a soul-drenching knowing where their rest and passion resided. It was always there, easily accessed, like some lifetime lithium battery.
I’ve always known I could write, but I’ve not always been sure I had anything worth saying. The fear that I'd be one of those vapid people who speaks before they think terrified and paralyzed me, driving me to alternate between clutziness and self-digust. It tastes like a hollow lie I fed myself for too long, but the truth is it’s always seemed better to be an honest coward than an arrogant, empty artist.
Madonna once made the statement, “Now that I have everyone’s attention, what do I have to say?” My thought was the reverse: what if what I have to say, no one wants to hear or cares about? What if all the thoughts in my head really are basically me playing with my mental naval lint, and all the pain, all the mistakes just prove I am a stupid, selfish princess?
And, of course, when I feel most exposed and scraped, most bare and vulnerable, this is when my iTunes chooses to play Chris Tomlin again. “How beautiful is Your unfailing love. / You never change, God, and You remain the Holy One…. You are my rock, the One I hold on to.”
It burns my ego to think that it really is as simple as letting God love me, letting Him be the One that makes me feel safe and complete. It’s so much easier and more human to be clingy and call that lover I made out with over the weekend. Even if I can't even remember his name now.
Society would understand a silly girl having her own version of the U-Haul second date, even if it was just in her head. Wrestling with the idea that her life is neither her own to control, nor her own to maneuver takes far more explaining. It’s far more acceptable to be sought for pleasure and comfort than it is for some invisible presence to be thought of as consistent or actually present.
But here I sit, still, accepting that I am not a shiny, happy Christ-follower, wrestling with the idea that I don’t have to be shiny or completely happy to be safe.
Jesus loves me – as I am, being more JoC and Pink than I ever will be Chris Tomlin and Britney Spears.
I love Him – as He is, being more calloused hands and rough manners than He ever will be stained glass and peaches 'n' cream complexion. Together, though, He is wild and untamed… and I find safety in that because He loves me furiously.
