Looking down into the sky...

Looking down into the sky,

What is there to see?

Whisp'ring waves reflecting on

The sunset's reverie.

An amber line of languid clouds

Wrapped in dressing gown;

A flitting flock of feathered friends

Flying – upside down.

Looking down into the sky

What is there to see?
Two startled eyes, some flailing limbs,

And a bobbing Tiffany.

Journey Through the Cosmos

A reply to Journey Through the Heavens. 

Night enfolds a drowsy world

In softest solitude,

Darkness opens on itself,

Infinite heavens revealed.

A thousand silent, twinkling lights

Beckoning through space,

Reach – stretch – grasp a hold

And swing into their midst.

From constellations, loner stars,

To far-flung galaxies,

Wander through the cosmic realm

Adrift yet never lost.

Here a different language speaks:

A language of the soul.

Ancient wisdom reverberates

The music of the spheres.

Entertained by jolly jokes,

Amusing, witty tales,

Revel in the centuries

Of camaraderie.

Catch a comet back to Earth

Whispering, “Adieu.”

Brush the silvery star dust

That lingers in the mind.


written 25 September 2012 

Right Brain

Loosed from my left brain

Floating in right train

Of pensive, roving thought.

Enter the innerworld

Prism-ed and beauty swirled,

Invited yet unsought.

Living in poetry

Immortal harmony

Unspoke, unheard, unsung,

Never recorded be

Lingering infinitely,

Ne’er ending, ne’er begun.

Climb into someone’s mind

Explore their eyes, unwind

The weaving of their world.

See life just as they see;

Feelings unknown to me,

Unfettered and unfurled.

Pour out a swig of sleep

So drowsy eyes will keep

Locked in freedom’s cage.

Unharried, drift about,

Never lost, wandering out

Of painting, picture, page.

Don’t try to capture it,

Left brain will mangle it

With intense perfection.

Kiss it, let freely roam,

Nevermore to drag it home,

In traitorous defection.

Embrace the present tense,

Immersed in every sense

Mingle, ebb, and swell

Deeper than thought can go

Impressions speak and flow

Sages’ secrets tell.

Moonnight

Dearest Wanderers, thank you for wandering far and wide - far enough and wide enough to wander back.

I have caught a poetry bug - or it has captured me. This one is from a couple moons ago.

*****

Moonnight

The moon is drifting, drifting,

O’er the world below,

The mist is lifting, lifting,

Born of glittering snow.

The dancing sprites of Northern Lights

Are bending, bowing low,

While mist is lifting, the moon is drifting

‘Cross the glittering snow.

The moon is drifting, drifting,

Through the ocean sky.

The stars are sifting, sifting,

Pearls floating by.

The hoary trees, my whispering skis

Like silver echoes fly,

While stars are sifting, the moon is drifting

Midst the pearly sky.

The moon is drifting, drifting,

Free from ancient care

The clouds are shifting, shifting,

Shadows in the air.

Elusive hue of midnight blue,

Enchanting unaware,

While clouds are shifting, the moon is drifting

Through the shadowy air.

Fool's Gold

Fears fill
Empty thrill
Ruptured by a broken will
Tears trill
Moving still
Hovering o'er my window sill.

Living die
Firefly
Haunted by its joyful cry
Breathless sigh
Truthful lie
Underneath where stars are nigh.

Small the vast
Undercast
Disillusioned by contrast.
Future's past
Drifting fast
Interchanging first for last.

Upward fall
Solemn ball
Choreographed with cheetah's crawl
Dingy hall
Lonely brawl
Savouring the sweetest gall.

Right or wrong
Run along
Perfect judgement from the throng
Grinding gong
Distance strong
Dragging out the sorrowing song.

Float aground
Air bedrowned
Tide is out - inbound
Lost unfound
Upside-downed
Echoing the silent sound.

Forceful slight
Darkening light
Guided by a tailless kite
Temper might
Lessen height
Too polite for fight or flight.

Fire's cold
Spring's old
Timid faces bluffing bold
Tales untold
Blind behold
Memories of Fool's Gold.

A Different Christmas Story

I have a Christmas story to share: my Christmas story. Or rather, God's Christmas story in me. This story didn't start this way. Only afterwards did I realize its meaning, deep, deep down.

Growing up in a Mennonite Christian home, God was a household name. He was everywhere: at school, at church, at home, and at my friends’ homes. However, at thirteen years old, I didn’t understand Him or His call to become a Christian. In fact, I refused His call because I didn’t recognize it. But something quite indescribable nagged and festered in the back of my brain. I could almost imagine it away. Almost. Except when I couldn’t.

Sunday sermons and kindly parents mentioned the call of God. He calls for entrance to your heart. He calls everyone. It isn’t an audible call, but a call of the soul. In a sense, it’s a terrible call because it is far from peaceful. Why, that’s exactly the way I felt. But surely not. I had heard how to accept the call many times. Pray to God. Tell Him you’re sorry for your sins. Ask Him to forgive you. Ah, but that didn’t really make sense. I didn’t think about my sins much. I wasn't that bad. Besides, who said God was calling me?

Something was wrong. I was unhappy and didn't know why. Falling asleep betimes was more of a nightmare than sleep itself. I was depressed and horribly hollow. So I gave in. I couldn't rid my soul of its turmoil, so I asked Mum to help me. With her, I prayed to God for mercy and peace. It wasn’t a “correct” prayer. It was a crude and confused prayer. Somehow, I accepted God's call. Somehow, He entered my heart and soothed my soul.

It was a miracle. Even retrospect can't figure it out. However, morning came, and with it, the real world. What sort of dream had I had? What figment of my imagination had conjured peace? It must have been a farce. My heart seemed a fountain of confusion. Weren't my troubles supposed to melt like mist in the morning sun?

What I thought was a once-and-for-all transformation turned out to be the first step of a life-long sanctification. Through His church and the Holy Spirit, God started teaching. He showed me salvation is simple: just believe. He showed me His presence isn’t an emotional high but a sustaining strength suited for real, everyday life. He showed me that it isn't His plan for my troubles to disappear. Rather they remain so He can reveal the Solution. Most importantly, He showed me what grace really is. He showed me the stark truth: I am a sinner. He showed me that I deserve to be shot dead; only His grace has freely given me life. He showed me and keeps showing me that it’s not about what I have done, but what’s been done for me.

And that is God's Christmas story in me.

Bits of This and That

I have no grand/confusing ideas to discuss. I only have a couple of unconnected details about my current life.

I've been channeling my literary endeavours into my English course, which leaves few moments or meditations for my neglected blog. However, studying poetry has been highly enriching. In the process, I fell in love with E. Pauline Johnson's poems all over again. Forgive me for mentioning her once more, but she's a genius. Here's a link to my current favourite of hers, called "The Trail to Lillooet." Does anyone else want to travel to Lillooet?

Of historical note, did you know that William Shakespeare wrote his plays around the time of Henry Hudson's expeditions and Samuel de Champlain's establishment of Quebec? Which is exactly why I love history; I love discovering fascinating connections. And yes, I am studying a play of Shakespeare's. Hamlet to be precise. Perhaps I am more accustomed to his writing style, but I can actually make heads or tails out of this play.

Besides normal life, I've lived a bit of abnormal life. I was treated to a fantastic vacation in Alberta involving my cousins' weddings (as in there were two weddings, both involving cousins of mine ;). I got to fly! On an aeroplane! Flying shrinks my age 'til I feel like a little kid, except it lacks some of the thrill it once held. However, observing and learning new details nearly makes up for it. By now I have enough nerve to speak with the pilots as we disembark. One copilot's dazed reaction to a question left me wondering whether the question was surprisingly intelligent or especially stupid. Or perhaps he was simply distracted by his girlfriend's messages, for he had been using his cell phone. One can never be completely sure...

Of Age and Time

I thought I enjoyed aging. My impressions have told me that, for some people, aging is a fearful thing. I  never really understood and felt slightly alienated by the difference. 

For some people, childhood was a utopia; one long, carefree summer vacation. Life sprouted complexities during teenage years, but energy eloped with beauty, providing plenty of excitement. However, between young adulthood and seniorhood, something changes. Perhaps it's the mortgages and minivans. Whatever the case, old age appears as Hitler himself. Once again physical beauty has eloped. Even the eyes of the beholder struggle for a glimpse. Glasses are mistaken for protective, bullet-proof devices. Hair and hearing become endangered species, while original joints are altogether extinct. Teeth have attained the status of the stars: they come out at night. 

I don't anticipate diapers and denture glue; I simply view aging differently. Age is beautiful, for age brings wisdom. While physical beauty declines with age, wisdom only grows stronger and more beautiful each day.  Age provides wisdom to appreciate small things. Age provides wisdom to extract every ounce out of life. Age provides wisdom to live more fully.

Or so I thought. I'm not so certain now. You see, age also brings change. Sometimes change is fun; sometimes... it's not. Whether good or bad, life can never be the way it was.

I recently experienced a most curious encounter with time. I was wandering outside at night, under a beautifully clear sky. I raised my hand to obscure the rising moon, when I heard it: a steady tick... tick... tick. Irony of ironies, I thought. Lost in the unchanging timelessness of the heavens, I listened to single seconds silently slipping away - never to return.

"What day is it?" asked Pooh.

"It's Today," squeaked Piglet.

"My favourite day," said Pooh.

Destination: Nostalgia

Beware of the rampage. Consider yourself warned.

I recently visited the drainage ditch behind our place, officially called The Creek. I was awed by the incredible biodiversity. All types of plants, bushes, flowers, rushes, and grasses grow in or along The Creek.  Plus, there are singing insects and their less musical relations; the frogs and their slimy, bubbly noises; and all sorts of watery creatures that I didn't see, but knew were there anyway.

The orderly randomness of nature fascinates me - but it's exceedingly difficult to describe. Essentially, whatever grows best, lives. How can beauty arise from mere competition? 

Parts of The Creek were completely overgrown with flowering bushes. Hidden were the steep banks, hidden were the flowing contours, hidden was the very water. Partially hidden were some sort of red berries that I would have killed for as a kid. And so the journey to nostalgia begins.

Large bushes are a monument to passing time. They never had a chance to grow while certain young boys were on the move. Mighty waterworks we built: large-scale dams, locks, reservoirs, islands, and dredging projects. These grand constructions, however, were products of cognitive maturity. The history of The Creek began years before our brains bloated. The history of The Creek began with a curiously endless succession of muddy pants.

The Creek's entertainment started with its wildlife: both human friends and animals. We were captivated by trying to capturing everything we could: frogs, tadpoles, minnows, crayfish, and even a snake or two. On bold and blood-thirsty days, we armed ourselves with sling-shots and obscure plant bulbs (don't ask me to explain) and set out frog hunting. Luckily for the frogs, our aim was atrocious.

Depending on who you ask, age brought compassion. In this case, it meant tormenting frogs instead of attempting to murder them. We were geeks from the get-go. Cutting-edge technology in the form of odd bits of PVC pipe revolutionized our fun. Bopping frogs on the head grew boring swiftly. A new method involved carefully sucking the pipe full of water and blasting a frog with a tremendous water canon salute. Another favourite was placing the end of the pipe directly beneath a frog and levitating it by blowing bubbles like mad. Fortunately for us, the frogs were too stupid to find a new location along The Creek.

Although summer brought the highlights, winter could be great fun. Well, except for a singular sledding incident. My older siblings constructed a great snow jump on the steep bank - and were too chicken to try it themselves. So yours truly was stuffed squalling into a small sled and shoved heartily down the slope. They thought it was fantastic. My tongue, on the other hand, suffered from a close encounter with my teeth. As you can see, the term "compassion" is rather ambiguous.

The past wasn't without terror - maybe the rustling in the grass was something more than a muskrat! But as I wandered and remembered and relived, I smiled. The memories I have forgotten remain forgotten, for I can't remember that I have forgotten them. My journey ended as I considered nostalgia of itself.

As we know, events happen before nostalgia happens. What would happen if we would switch the two around; have nostalgia before the event happened? What are those feelings of "having been here before" or "having experienced this previously," even though you can't remember when or how?

I have heard the thought that heaven is like earth, only far more real. (And perfect, obviously.) How can something be more real than the reality we live in? But maybe it's this way: maybe the reality we live in now is just the nostalgia. Maybe the love, joy, and peace we experience here feels faded by time in comparison to heaven's reality. Maybe the real event is yet to come.

Am I crazy? Quite likely. But whatever you do, don't hold me responsible for ideas encountered through nostalgia.

Genius

I recently read a compilation of articles by Albert Einstein, titled The World As I See It. Remarkably, this book excludes all mathematical and scientific writings, simply because we're too dumb to catch on. In fact, most people are too ignorant to realize they're too ignorant to understand his theory. 

Years of study are required to understand all the technical terms, much less the concepts they represent. Comprehension of his theory of general relativity won't fully reveal his genius. Only after one digs through science history to discover what knowledge he had to begin his journey; only after one walks in his mental footsteps; only after one comprehends the "before" and "after" pictures; only after one views and understands the progress his theory made - only then can one more fully grasp his intelligence.

However, this book reveals a more personal side. His sense of responsibility towards his fellow humans amazes me. In his perspective, all that he had - including knowledge and relative ease of lifestyle - was a gift from previous generations. Therefore his responsibility with these gifts was to improve them for the proceeding generations. He writes, "The life of the individual has meaning only in so far as it aids in making the life of every living thing nobler and more beautiful." His foremost desire was to make the world a better place.

At least, that's what I understood from the book. I haven't encountered so many new, big words since Wordly Wise in my school days. (Doesn't that make me sound old?) Never underestimate the effect a single word has on a paragraph. Apparently "anthropomorphic" - er - didn't mean quite what I thought it did.

No need to idolize the man, but the mysteriousness of his theory only increases my awe. However, I must admit I admire genius. I see its streaks in the people I encounter every day. And I marvel at it, wondering if they know it too. For I think when God creates people, he only makes geniuses.

I guess I'm pretty stupid - not in a derogatory way, but simply facing the facts. I think it's okay to be stupid, for God doesn't mind so much. Rather, I think He prefers me - us - that way. Cause when we lose our knowledge, then He becomes Wisdom.