Thursday on the Floor

Beat. Wild and raw. Bass in my bones. Dance is involuntary, autonomic call-and-response. I’m all full up of buzz – heart, mind, body - gotta burn it off somehow. Music in my blood. Movement on my mind. Baby... wish you were here.

The lights: Purple, blue strobes timed by the DJ. The darkness: Anonymous and safe. Master mix of techno and rock. Remix melds rhythms to carry the running beat.

I want your hands on my hips. Want to experience – like a tangible thing – that distance between us that can never be breached. Want your eyes on mine. To read your thoughts in time with the music. To whisper mine against your hair, make you laugh, bright and clear.

And when a blush colors you flattered and when the music redeems the realities of this life, I want to watch your eyes close briefly, fine lashes against cream cheeks. Want to dance all night – exhaustion impossible – and see dawn best in our hearts.

A Quickie for Torrance: A Short Poem

You showed up at work
and asked for access
but my guardian angel
wasn't so sure
you spoke friend
to enter.

Over lunch
your foot
in a fine silk stocking
tucked itself under my thigh
mid-sip of your iced tea
with mint and lime.

The Reuben
on sourdough
thin-sliced corn beef
with honey mustard
sweet onions
and pepper spice cabbage slaw
was my favorite
five years ago.
You said
you remembered.

A little cream on my mouth
from a Coke and cream
elicited your leaning forward
smiling sweetly
"I'll get it."
And my stunned silence
must have been amusing
because you laughed
like warm sunshine
but stayed
on your side of the table
for the rest
of our mid-day lunch.

Fire Escapes

Wednesday night, under a blood red moon, I climbed up the fire escape, past my upstairs neighbors making love on their couch, to the place where the metal framework bolts to the brick. I set a boot and bare hands carefully and I pulled myself up, lifting onto the arched bars then over the edge to the roof. In blue jeans and a black WWJD hoodie, a black leather jacket and two brown leather wristbands, I stood alone under the lunar eclipse and marveled at the blood of the sun.

Bobbi can’t understand skinny grrls. “How am I gonna find a double for *her*?” She rolls her big beautiful eyes with as much flare as her Texas accent rolling across her tongue. “No stunt double who can throw a punch has a butt that tiny.”

I spew Coke into my hand, laughing so hard my nostrils are carbonated. “I throw my own punches,” I offer.

Bobbie grimaces and pinches my cheek (not hard). “Have another chocolate cream.” Which is Bobbi-speak for, “Keep dreaming, Tiny.” Because at 5’11” and 185, Bobbi could be a stunt double for a stunt double.

Twice in my life I’ve fallen off fire escapes and broken bones. Once I jumped and once I was thrown but both times I fell. Guess the wings don’t always work. Now, when a throw a punch – a real punch – my wrist aches. My killer left hook makes me pay for it for three days afterwards. But I can’t stay away... not from defending myself and not from fire escapes.

They fascinate me. Which means that my cell phone memory is full up of snapshots of fire escapes from NYC to San Fran, from Phoenix to Vancouver. They catch my eye and I want to see what shape the bolts are and what state of disrepair they exist in. Are they caged in? Are they free? Are they accessible from the alley? Are they sharp with the scent of oxidization and time? Rusty old bones, metallic like blood, steadfast and patient. Hoping to never be used. Wishing they were. Forever useful. Never touched. Some kids like trees. I like fire escapes.

Wikipedia says Bobbi is: The chief grip on a set. Like a foreman, the key grip directs a crew of grips, some with specialized skills such as dolly grips, crane operators, camera car operators, etc. Additionally, the key grip is often the safety monitor, responsible for the safety of all personnel in the presence of theatrical ballistics, pyrotechnics, stunts, and any other potentially dangerous situations and devices operated by other departments.

A lady friend of mine calls Bobbi a guardian angel. I call Bobbi a friend but in my mind I kinda think of her as Mama Bobbi, or Big Sister Bobbi. Something past friend toward family.

A week or so ago, I chatted with Bobbi while she walked to her car. Her middle daughter was making dinner that night and Bobbi dreaded it. “What that grrl will do to my grandma’s recipes I do *not* want to see... let alone put in my mouth.” Bobbi worries that with no innate cooking skills, her daughter will grow up to live alone with cats.

“I live alone,” I offer as reassurance.

“You live with your mama. That’s not alone.” Then Bobbi pauses. “Plus, you don’t have no cats.”

We laugh and part ways. I didn’t tell her about the one-eyed, crooked tail cat that I sneak into my room at night and feed frosted animals crackers and Brazilian coffee with full cream. He lives on the fire escape outside my window. I think his name is Pelucir but he’s only whispered it once... when I fell asleep on my laptop and he had to wake my lame Qwerty self up.

Now don’t get me wrong. I read my lease. I know that the fire escape is not for climbing on. It is for emergency situations only and cannot be used as a plant stand, clothes dryer or urban balcony. But here’s the deal: I follow about 85% of man’s laws and 100% of God’s laws. I just don’t have room for more law-abidingness in my little ole life. So, I like to climb out my window when it rains. I like to sit out there, leaning back against the cold, hard metal, and let the rain drench me until my hair is straight and heavy, my jeans resemble scuba gear and my shirt is downright indecent. Because no one can see me. The sky is dark. The clouds are low. And the rain is right from God, falling on me in my little urban nest, all brick and steel. Because don’t all angels need a perch?

It seems like fire escapes are every where. Those little escapes from a fiery situation. There always seems to be a back way out. An easy way out. And I so rarely take it. My penchant for walking through fire only fuels my adoration of fire escapes. Maybe I like them because I know I’d never use them. How could I when walking through the flames brings me through more tempered?

Under that eclipse moon, circled with stars more brilliant than diamonds and certainly more intriguing, I thought about the nature of love. I thought about the hours in every day that I give to man and the hours in every day that I give to Christ. I pledged to drink less coffee... and take my bike out of storage. I thought about my father. I knew he was with me. I thought about you. So far away from me. I imagined you beside me. I smiled.

I decided that if there were a fire escape to Heaven, all rusty and old, never used and never needed, I would climb it just to stand up near that blood-red moon, to whisper in God’s ear, “Thank you.” And He would know exactly who I was talking about.

E.J.

Half-pint Chickadees & Acrylic

The overachievers start in. They think if they don’t make their crazy peeping calls that the sun won’t ever rise and all the world will be lost to darkness. Crazy little half-pint chickadees. Don’t they know they aren’t supposed to sing until after the sky turns? Don’t they know... omgosh! What time is it?

A radio is on somewhere. Shawn Colvin is singing:

It's a crazy world
On the head of a pin
You only need to look so far
As the smile on my face
To see the shape I'm in

I’m stripped down to my white tank which hasn’t been white in four hours, my blue jeans rolled around my ankles. A couple of toe rings catch the light... right next to fat, still-glistening tear drops of green and blue paint. My hair is down and wild, my eyes are bright, there’s white acrylic on my cheek and a black/forest mix smeared across my forearm. At some point I leaned into my palette leaving an interesting, if somewhat R-rated, impression across the custom colors. This tank top will never be white again.

Where is my alarm clock?

You don't look for love
It's gonna look for you
Well you found me, honey
And you sound so good

I learn something new about this body of mine every day. God didn’t want me to get bored, I suppose, so He hid all these Easter eggs in my eternal binary that reveal themselves with unknown triggers. Like: eating chocolate cake with raspberry swirl makes me want to buy silk sheets. Putting on my own perfume makes me think of someone else. And hearing birds outside my window makes me think I’m going to be late for a 5:15 call.

It also appears that when someone says “it was a promise” at 01:12:23 this triggers rampant blushing, exquisite muscle tension through my shoulders, lower back and thighs and a burning desire to touch brush to canvas. Intensely. For four hours.

I stepped to the easel, your voice still in my ears, replaying phrases and benedictions like Terrapyre Prayers. My brown gaze was locked on the painting even while I started to peel open the caddy and reach, blinding, for brushes, choosing by feel. I paint in layers and you have so many of them, don’t you, baby? There’s that blue spring sky – ‘cause only spring sky gets that blue – and the bare green-brown of slender branches, flexible, pliable fingers, with their nestled gems of opening buds, the pinks and whites of new life, new love, and soft petals. Sky first. Then branches. Then buds. The sheaths that hold them, splitting open like my heart. This is from the last three days. Now the time for more layers has arrived.

Before I start to apply new, wet paint, liquid color and texture and depth, I run my fingers along the tree branches and then off them. I trace what comes next, from mind’s eye to cloth. I haven’t gotten that final picture I need but I know your colors by heart, the shape of your face, the curve of your cheek, the fall of your hair. My fingertips find the picture first and then paint follows.

You're the object
Of my affection
Not a dream
Or make believe
You're the object
Of my affection
Not a phantom fantasy

Some time passes, I don’t know how long, but at some point I stop using brushes and start to blend finer tones with my smallest finger tip, tracing lines that I see as clearly in my mind as I’ll ever see in a photograph. But another trigger takes me. Something you said a week or two ago. Something you probably don’t even remember and I pause, my breath like a runner’s, deep and slow.

Sweet thoughts carry me to a local hotspot – no, not a club, a tea house with wifi – where the air always smells like chai and the room is dark wood and brown leather wingbacks. I’m standing by a bookshelf of antique books, but I look up when you walk in. I know you instantly. Even with my eyes closed, I know you.

You smile softly. You always smile softly. You aren’t prone to showy expressions. You stand for a moment and survey your surroundings. The sunlight, California springtime sunlight, slants through the stain glass Bird of Paradise hanging in the window and casts colors across your skin and jacket. The barista asks if she can get you something. She’s being reverent, of course. With your laptop tucked under your arm, you look like a writer.

You order chai. Decaf. With honey and coconut.

I have forgotten where I am.

You sit down at a small round table with only one chair. The cast-colors of the stain glass fall across the surface, an exotic flower creating a tablecloth of light. You look around again, as if seeing how things change from this new vantage.

My heart is pounding in my chest and I realize that breathing is optional.

You open your laptop. I see the orange and black, then blue and black screens of a familiar location. I hear you typing carefully. Send.

In the back pocket of my jeans, my FlipStart pings. You’ve got mail.

Hobbyist F. Brian Smith writes:

The Bird of Paradise flower is a spectacular blossom. Long stemmed flowers emerge from green boat-shaped bracts which are bordered in deep red or purple. The numerous pointed petals of brilliant orange are contrasted with an arrow-shaped tongue of vivid blue. If started from seed, Bird of Paradise takes three to seven years to first blossom. Pollinated primarily by sunbirds, the strelitzia nicolai can reach heights of ten meters tall and are world renown for the spectacular shape of their flowers.

At some point, I continued to paint. Remembering my professor’s words from years ago: “Keep you eyes on the model, E.J. Not on the canvas. You’re not painting the canvas, girl! You’re painting the woman!” I continued to paint but my gaze stayed on you in that tea house. Just following orders. Just being a good student.

At some point, I forget to set my alarm.

At some point, birds start to sing.

At this point... I am very late for work.

You're the object
Of my affection
Not a rescue remedy
You're the object
Of my affection
Come to me

A Mother’s Path: Mother’s Day in February

I’ve written so much about the impassioned path that if you type it as a string at Google you get my blog. Pretty much all of us have *heard* of impassioned living but very few of us have come to associate it with much more than television preachers and revival meetings. Can everyday man walk the impassioned path in today’s reality? Do these paths -- laid down across the Earth in crimson and indigo by the blood and tears of a Living Christ upon His Ascension – do these paths still exist for us to seek and find?

About a week ago, I said to a new friend, “Getting married and having children is not a destiny. It’s not even a destination.” I felt pretty darn adamant at the time. And don’t get me wrong. I’m not a drum-beating feminist (sorry, Mom!). I actually *do* believe that one parent – especially a mom – should stay at home. I don’t believe that daycare should be a first or even a second choice. I think public schools and daycare centers tend to strip children of a moral code and I think the only “socialization” that happens is akin to ingraining the addiction for mob mentality, mass approval and conformity.

However, I also strongly believe that a mother should be interesting to her children. She should have a rich, creative and passionate life that gives her depth. She is not solely life-giver and cherisher. She is a person, a spirit, not just a care-taker. She is *not* “The Giving Tree” to be eaten from, climbed upon and over, and then, finally, cut down, used for raw materials, only then to be asked to stand strong with nothing. *That* is called subservience. Not motherhood. A mother should not be relegated to any single tree because she is the entire forest and she is an adventurer within that forest as well.

“Getting married and having children is not a destiny.” I was haunted by my own definitive. I couldn’t let it go. Then... like reading my mind (which too many of my good friends do), I got an email from another friend: “You know, E.J., all my life I wanted children, way back when I was a little girl playing house with dolls. But my career took off first. It just happened that way. And I am so pleased with my career. I could die tomorrow and feel I’ve left a legacy in my work that builds every day. But *none* of this means as much to me as looking at my kids. They mean more to me. I would walk away if they asked me to.”

That’s obviously a mother speaking. She’d throw it all away for her kids?! Do I write her back and preach about martyrdom and self-esteem and priorities? Do I counsel her that she can have it all? Or do I stop allowing my own self-righteousness to haunt me? Do I admit – no, accept – that being a mother, just being a mother, only being a mother – can indeed be a destiny, a destination, an impassioned path?

“Christ, give me an answer. Guide me. Walk with me. Show me the way.”

I started thinking about all the moms I knew. Golly, I know a lot of moms! Every single one of them have powerful, satisfying careers – even if those careers happen from their “office” room in their own home. Many of them live private, multifaceted lives. All of them are fascinating to their children. And, even though I didn’t pick up the phone or send out a bulk email poll, I do believe that most, if not all of them, would walk away in an instant if their child said, “I need you. I need *all* of you.”

I argued that it is not *being* a mother that is a destiny but what that mother *does* that is her path. What example does she set? What kindness, compassion and altruism does she bring to the lives of her children and to the world at large? In short, what else does she do? But you know what? She doesn’t have to do anything else. She doesn’t have to do anything other than raise the next generation. Because to do that right, you have to be an interesting person. To change with the times, to guide and shape young people who will rule in a time even more distant? To do all that, you must be open to the unexpected. You must be able to imagine the unimaginable. You must be fully alive.

Just feeding and clothing a child, shuffling them onto a school bus or shuttling them to and from Scout meetings, is not being a mom. That’s called maintenance. Houses, pets, children, even partners require maintenance. That, indeed, is not impassioned path. But we start walking on that path when we cross over to talking openly and honestly with our children about death, about God, about sex, about politics. About creativity and dreams and expectations and reality. About our own hearts. About their hearts. About how it all began and how it will all end.

Gazing at Angels? Yeah, we certainly are. But we’re not just gazing. We’re trekking. We’re journeying with angels. How can being a mother *not* be an impassioned path when we’re walking with angels?

In the forest that is a woman’s heart, she walks with her children until they find their own paths. Paths that, by her guidance and by the grace of God, will be impassioned paths. Paths that circle ‘round and return to the forest time and again, for spiritual encouragement and map-making. For love, for help, for companionship.

To the moms in my life, all subscribers on this beautiful Sunday, and to all the women in my life who see motherhood as part of their destiny – an important part of their destiny – I say: Thank you. Because I live in the world that your children will rule.

With respect and love,
E.J.

I Think of You and Music

It’s 4:09 a.m.. Looking out the window, everything is dark and the street lights are still on. There is a fine rain. It looks like a shower of sparks where it passes the lamps. Somewhere out there right now there are *real* angels and I sometimes wonder if they know who and what they are. I wonder if they even prescribe to organized religion. Sometimes, when I feel very deeply lonely, I think I feel them in the night air.

And somewhere, music plays, like a child's voice, murmuring dreams and sharing visions in the predawn day.

Poems are sketches with words.
Images that we paint for each other
when we're away from the canvas.
Rainforest rain
washed night from my sky
and I turned my gaze to your photo.
I studied and pondered
and was mesmerized
thinking myself in circles
over the wonder of you
the wonder of God
then you again.
I wanted to touch your hair
your cheek
to say words that would soothe
but not tame.
I wanted to tell you jokes
that made your serious countenance
fall away like the rain in Paris
on Valentines.
The things I wanted, whispered outside
angels or memories
brushing the cold window glass.
I realized with a breath that
looking at you in a photograph
wasn’t unlike talking with you
in digital paint.
Because, after all, no matter a photo
or pixels, or flesh-and-blood,
it’s all just God’s own light,
bouncing playfully off our eyes.
The heart resides somewhere else.
Somewhere between and beyond
all these mediums.
The heart is where I stand for you.

"There ain't much to ice fishing
'Til you miss a day or more
And the hole you've cut freezes over
And it's like you've never been there before."
--Bill Morrissey, "Ice Fishing"

Why since I met you, truly met you, why sleep has become a burden. Not to miss a day or more? Not to miss a moment.

Happy Valentines, everyone. Don't let it pass unnoticed.

Good Morning, Sunshine

Keep your heart with all diligence, for out of it springs the issues of life. —Proverbs 4:23

Before everyone thinks that I’ve gone and turned all Sunday school teacher (though... I have known some pretty powerful, beautiful and thought-provoking Sunday school teachers in my time), let me just mention that as I type these words on my swanky (but slow) little onyx eeePC, that I am sprawled across a thick, silky white carpet in tight blue jeans and a white tank, my shoulders, chest, face and arms splattered with dried paint in blues, reds, purples, and greens. I’m in my favorite white crew socks and my hair – which is long and brown and feathered for work – is tied back in a white bandana that smells of another woman’s perfume and that I most certainly will be taking home with me. Because, right, did I mention it? This isn’t my carpet.

;)

This is that *other* thing I do. I have the ole day job, then – mostly all night – I design games, and, on the side, I paint portraits and abstracts on commission. I got this job when a friend of a friend of a friend heard I was in town and offered to buy me everything new to do a piece (6 x 6 feet) immediately! The theme I was given was “maturity” and the props... well, they weren’t apples and oranges, baby. I did employ the excellent skills of six dozen open roses – red and white, twenty yards of forest green satin, and one very accommodating host. This is still life the way art intended. And if you have never painted or sketched with a model before, I highly recommend that you run out and join a class right now. Because as your eye and hand fall in sync to trace lines so mesmerizing they might as well be the map to the soul, you’ll never believe in evolution again. There is nothing ape-like about the curve of a hip, the arch of a neck, or shoulder blades that most surely once held wings.

The studio is all lit up. The studio being the entire living room of a house so large it probably has several living rooms. Three walls are floor to ceiling glass and offer a spectacular view that I expertly ignore. Not really a chore.

The lights were the most expensive part. I warned my friend: Lights are outrageous. But there was no stopping her. Her big sister was turning a certain age and a portrait was the only thing that would do. She sent me a package of general family-event photos of her sister about two weeks ago. I sketched out some basic stick and line ideas and faxed them over. She kept saying, “Nope. Something more. Something more powerful.” In the end it was a cascade of green and a shower of roses, draped in layers and waves, a long bronze body leaning back, one knee up, one arm draped over that knee, the lights playing on skin and petals and fabric. In the end it was five hours of sketching, then photos. Then dinner far nicer than I’ve had in years. Then five more hours of painting. Now exhaustion.

The canvas looks good so far. I use someone’s (probably my friend’s) old StepMaster to position myself just so, to ensure perspective is correct from low and high. I’m running out of brown.

I miss my own brushes. In moments of frustration, not wanting to waste a moment, I crack one and then two more over my knee cap, shortening the maddeningly long handles. I like to get paint on my fingers. I have whip lash from darting between subject and canvas, not trusting the new brushes to do my bidding.

At the end of the day, I start to pack up, to seal and cover and chill and spritz. I fold the satin and pick up the roses, pouring arm fulls of buds and petals into the large green glass bowl from India. Somewhere in the house I know the shower is running but I can’t hear it. I am swinging my jacket over my bare shoulders when her husband walks in, the brother-in-law. Still dressed from the office, a whiskey in his hand. He strides purposefully over to the canvas. Appraises. Sips. His eyes, but not his head, move to look at me. “What is she paying you?” He means my friend. I tell him casually. “I’ll match it,” he says and walks out. There’s no time or space or reason to argue.

My loving friend, the striking host, and the driven husband... they all share one thing. They all know their hearts. And, to me it seems, they know each other’s hearts as well. There is rarely a feeling more complimentary, more inspirational, and more magical than having your picture painted. We feel immortal. We feel beautiful. We feel happy.

I am just a small cog in this machine. I will come here again tomorrow and turn on the tall lights but I will paint alone, finishing the work over the course of the day, maybe ten more hours. My host will be friendly, elegant, and attentive. She will probably talk about politics or the writers’ strikes or the news. At one point I’ll whip sweat from my face and smear blues across my cheek. I’ll notice her standing in the wide arch way that leads away into the house. She’ll stand there, tall glass of hot tea in hand, her hair perfectly coifed, her blouse ruffles of silk, her slacks crisp, her heels high. She’ll have her eyes on the canvas. On herself. On that moment of time captured forever. Happy birthday.

I am just a small cog in so many machines. In the wikiworld creation of Mardi Gras 3000, I am one small voice. In the lives of my friends, I am often just text on a screen. I am a moment, fleeting from the start, in someone else’s life. A small gate to walk by or through. But here, like this, covered in paint, waiting for a taxi... sitting in an Internet café writing to you... I am happy.

E.J.

Remember the Sabbath

I wrote several days ago that life without gritty reality is not living. Because if we move through the motions of life without hardship then what are we really doing? How much are we truly thinking and contributing to our fellow man?

It seems for some time my life has progressed without much change. This does not mean without trial or windfall. One job ended suddenly and another was offered a few days later. Plans fizzled. Plans were made. Doors closed. Doors opened.

“I watched our personal sky unfolding and knew it would never fold again.”

As I write these words it’s raining. A steady sight that I first described in my mind as grey and ugly. I usually love rain. I’ve been known to do all kinds of crazy, joyful – and yes, Eris, loud -- things in the rain. I was four when I first left my parents’ house during the middle of a downpour, climbed onto the hood of our car, and stood with my hands high above my head… until my mother threw a beach towel over me and carried me back inside. She claims I was laughing. I think I was praying.

I remember the first time I stood in Ireland during a rain storm. I was with the greatest man in the world. He stood beside me and smiled at me and said, “Do you know from this how much Christ loves us?” And he was laughing, my dad, soaked to the skin, his brown hair, flattened to his shoulders. His brown eyes crinkled with life. I felt so alive. Yeah, I was cold. Yeah, I was heart broken at the time. Yeah, I felt like my world as I knew it was ending. But I also felt the perfection of God’s own rain. Of life, of that which most of our world and our bodies are made of, falling from the sky and drenching me completely. It was, in so any ways, a second baptism.

Completely different was the rain that fell in Brazil, visiting with family friends when I was in my early twenties. In their spacious, beautiful home, four floors of white stucco and red tile floors, I awoke in my guest room, the exposed wooden beams of the slated ceiling holding up a roof under the most thunderous rain I’d ever heard in my life. I leapt from bed like a thing possessed and went to the window. I threw it open, the sheer white curtains drawing out. The jungle encroached on every side and through the sheets of rain I could see only a solid indistinct green wash. But somewhere, somewhere in the yard beyond the patio and its white, wrought iron table and chairs, children were laughing. None of them even ten years old, the little ones of the household were running, in nightgowns out of a Julie Andrews’ film like “Song of Music,” they were running under that warm rain. And standing, their arms at each other’s waists, were the Lord and Lady of the house. Both tall and powerful figures. Both regal in black and white. They were standing and smiling, gazing out at the joy, tangible and alive, before them. God’s own children. Their children. This was a third baptism for me and I wasn’t even in the rain.

“Vindicate me, O Lord, for I have walked in my integrity, And I have trusted in the Lord without wavering.” Psalm 35:24

And I’m staring out at California rain now. And it isn’t tinted emerald and there is nothing regal outside my city window. Until I know eternity, my father will never stand beside me with his hand in mine and I will never see his hair, so fine and beautiful, plastered to his face and neck again. What I have instead is gritty reality.

I have $100 worth of Plato on my bed, that I haven’t slept in, in four days. I have my little black book for counting calories, strangely, alarmingly showing that I’ve had one waffle, two Cokes and five cups of coffee this week and nothing else. Shouldn’t I be dead right about now? I have a frown on my face and a blush in my cheeks that I know is dangerous. I know it because it leads to things like speeding tickets and walking alone in cities I don’t know. I want to strip off my flannels (why did I change into them if I knew darn well I wouldn’t sleep?) and don my jacket and jeans and scripture boots. I want to forget about my intellectual friend in Washington telling me to look to history to know the human heart and my other friend telling me to shut down, shut up and just work. Because the work is pure. And it is. But I want to just know me for a moment. Me in the arms of my God.

I don’t want to know how I feel. I don’t want anyone’s advice. I want personal revelation. One on one. I just want to get out there in that rain. In that steady… silver… big city rain. And so I do.

…

I promised Erik I’d write him a Sunday sermon. But I have so much to say on Saturday. I have a knack, Erik, for making something out of nothing. This can be very good. This can be very bad. Sometimes I second guess the people with the best intentions. All the times, I distrust the dogma and resist man’s authority. I want to talk about God’s laws. I want to talk about what, I believe, we all know as truth in our hearts.

I’ve heard it said that “Christ made us perfect but we live our lives imperfectly.”

What?

Fear is imperfect? Passion is imperfect? Dedication is imperfect? *What* is imperfect? If we do not lie to one another, and we do not steal from one another, and we are gentle and honest and forthright… are we perfect? No, not perfect like Christ. Perfect for each other. Perfect together.

Let’s go smaller, Erik. Let’s just talk about our community, the forum, on the web. Even smaller. Your family. Again smaller just me and you, two brand new friends. Less than a month friends. Where are the seeds of Christ?

You know realty. You know fear and pain and guilt and shame and hiding and finding and being born again. You know these things. In your heart. All these feelings are seeds of Christ. (And that you isn’t just you, Erik, it’s all of us.) Along with the loyalty and passion, and anger and confusion, and crying and laughing, and all of mine and MG’s typos, and speed chatting, and IMVU crashes, and PMs that make no sense (because I don’t want them to), and posts that make me laugh, think or say “Woot!” In everything I see the hand of Christ that is without platitude or excuse. That is vibrant and living. Like “bad guy” Eris trying to sway “good grrl” MG to walk on the dark side—it simply won’t happen. You don’t leap off the path of Christ once you find it and know it and feel it under your feet and in your heart. You don’t dance with the devil once you know the Divine. You throw fruit at the devil in the pale moonlight.

So, my new friend, and all my “old” friends, be not guided by righteousness or indignation. Be not guided by worldly means. Be guided by the seed of Christ that whispers from your heart. By the passion you feel for your art. By the impassioned vision that calls to you. By your own personal revelation. He is telling you to live, Erik. He is telling you to rejoice. Take tomorrow—Sunday, the Sabbath—and find a way to do just that. Find that thing that fills your heart with joy.

E.J.

Enthusiasm

Enthusiasm (ancient Greek: enthousiasmos) originally meant inspiration or possession by the presence of a god. In current vernacular the word simply means enjoyment, interest, or approval. Isn't that an unfortunate and even sad sign of the times?

The addictive Wikipedia tells us: "Enthusiasm: root - en-theos = in God. An enthusiast is a person inspired by god. Theopneustos = literally God breathed. When the early Christians would see someone convert to Christianity there was this overwhelming joy that followed the gift of Salvation but they had a problem: There was no word to describe this feeling. So they combined the two words (in God) creating the word (entheos) from which we get the English word Enthusiasm."

Is this the perfect example of the stripping of religion and Christ from our everyday lives? Yeah, sure, we all know to be outraged or at least incredulous over "Xmas" and "Winter Break," but the bastardization of powerful words like "enthusiasm" is more subtle and much more damaging.

How much have Christians contributed to the world? If you didn't immediately shout "Immeasurably!" then you don't know Christian history. But today I'm just talking about this one word. A word that I can't let go of lately.

The journey started with a feeling. All the best journeys do. I wanted to describe to someone far away what I felt in my heart. I cannot *stand* using platitudes and clichés and I'm annoyed when they leap to my mind. It's like my aversion to "overplayed" music; Yeah, I might *love* a song but if I hear it seven times a day every time I turn on the radio, I will hate it by the end of day three.

So how did I feel? "Inspired"? Well, yeah. But still, kind of weak. "Amazed"? So banal. "Fervor"? Hmm. That was getting closer. And that word, smacked into Google, my other constant companion like Wikipedia, brought me to the definition of "enthusiasm" as "Its uses are confined to a belief in religious inspiration, or to intense religious fervor or emotion."

!!!

"Really?!" I said aloud. "Geesh, that's not the 'enthusiasm' I've ever used before." But, omgosh, that is the enthusiasm I'm feeling today. Let me try to use this incredible, *Christian* word in a sentence... or attached to twelve sentences.

"When I see you, a great enthusiasm races through my body, stops my heart and I cannot breathe. I am frozen in heat, a warmth like tropical ocean tides, coursing over me. My eyes tear. I am moved from where I am to a place where you are. Where we are together. When I see you again, I know I'll be lost and found in your gaze. I am confounded by the power of your touch, memories of your hands on my face. Across thousands of miles, it is your words, white on black, blinking back at me across this digital age, that paint us together. A landscape of my amazement. Of you tearing down walls of false assumptions about what is possible and what is real. I knew at once that you were strong. I did not know until now that I was in love with you."

Yeah, enthusiasm is a very Terrapyre word.

E.J.

Have Faith

Just gotta have it. There’s no way to get through this life without it. I see all kinds of people everyday. So many of them have replaced faith—you know, Faith—with money or drugs. But wow do these “Earthly” things wear off at the worst possible moments. Your happiness depends on something that man can take away? Ooo-boy. That’s pretty risky right there.

Now I’m not a religious fanatic (okay, maybe I am in my own way) wearing blinders through life. I’m also not comfortably cushioned from sharp realities like unpaid medical bills, or late fees. I don’t live in grant-supported wonderland; I live in the real world and I believe, kinda like my friend Sha quoted recently, that life isn’t living without gritty realities.

“Faith is not a leap to make. Faith is the path you take.” Miriam Sunchild, a New Testament Christian speaker and writer, says that. She means that you don’t grab hold of Faith when you need to leap a chasm. You walk with Faith, on the impassioned path, every single day. And when you do, those chasms that open up, gaping and ugly in all our real lives, will be noticed with a mere glance as we cross over, barely breaking our strike, using the sturdy bridge that Faith has made us.

My friends Jennifer and Cris have a daughter named Faith. Jennifer likes to tease that Faith was named after a certain vampire slayer but Cris just rolls her eyes. Both moms are New Testament Christians and pretty darn kickin’ cool. Faith, however, is a strong-willed, wild, jump-off-the-back-of-the-couch, loving, crazy beast. She also has Type 1 diabetes. That’s the type that doesn’t come from primarily being under-active or overweight; doctors have no idea where it comes from. It just kills the pancreas and laughs. It strikes mostly children. Faith wasn’t even two years old.

Now this means that Faith lives with nine blood checks and seven shots a day. Every day. No exceptions. Her parents keep tight control on her condition and, at almost six years old, she has absolutely no complications or side-effects and she has never been hospitalized. However, in the beginning, the diagnosis was slow coming. And other things, like Cooms (a blood incompatibility with her biological mom, Jennifer) had her in and out of the hospital, under special lights, on IVs, etc. At one point, so fed up with IV tubes and boards to keep her arm straight, Faith whacked one of the nurses over the head and broke the little board right in half. Cris still have that board in her hope chest.

Okay... maybe Faith *was* named after the vampire slayer ;)

In the beginning, when her moms were at their wits’ and their hearts’ end, when tears and prayers didn’t seem to be getting them anywhere, a family member sent them a letter. The letter said simply, “You named her Faith. There must have been a reason. She *will* pull through. You just have to look to Faith.”

Are you looking to Faith or man for your answers? Don’t want to talk to me about Christ? Fine. Cool. “Whatev,” as Brianne might say. I’m over it, okay? But what about Faith? Are you plunging ahead to make every decision that will kill or save you? Or are you asking someone? Are you asking Faith? Are you walking your path with your mortal, flawed body, or are you walking—running, flying—with your eternal body?

People say, “Follow your heart.” I’m asking you to follow your Faith. Faith outlives even the heart.

In Fellowship,
E.J.