"So when are you coming home...
sweet Angel?"
It was a job I loved. I job that sometimes -- shh! don't tell -- I would work so late that I'd turn off all the lights and burn candles along the windowsill so no one would see I was still there, working late and later into the night until dawn hid the fact that I was standing yet at that loud binder, at the hydraulic cutter with the blade the size of scythe. I loved that job so much.
I'd arrive early every morning, purposefully before either of my bosses had risen from their beds or before one of them (I never knew which one) would break away from their two small children (one autistic, the other a Type 1 diabetic infant), leaving their care to the other parent for the day, and come to the office, dark circles under eyes either steely (bad night) or gentle (not as bad). My hot cup of coffee in my hand would sometimes burn my knuckles while I unlocked the door, the knob often frozen shut in winter. The crunch of snow, unshovelled, the layer of hard ice beneath shot with gravel, was real and alive and divine. I always wore a tie.
But by lunch the tie would be flung on the soft brown leather couch where we met sometimes with authors. And my tailored shirt would be unbuttoned two, though still tucked into my chinos. The big picture windows in the big room, the main room, showed oftentimes a mother and her children playing in the snow. Never competitive, no snow ball fights... but snow angels, and snow owls, and catching snowflakes in butterfly nets. Sometimes it was cold in the office because there simply wasn't money for pellets in the stove. It wasn't a penny-pinching cliché. It was just a truth. But I was never cold.
"I wanted to see you walking backwards
And get the sensation of you coming home.
I wanted to see you walking away from me
Without the sensation of you leaving me alone."
The production room was long and narrow and I loved it. It was my domain. It looked out not on the open courtyard with children and big sky ringed with trees above, but rather into the depths of temperate rainforest, at the time, unbroken by homes for acres. There were four kinds of evergreens and a birch (the tree of weddings and love) and that russet earth that I've only ever seen in the Pacific Northwest. There were flickers and blue jays and raccoons and wild rabbits. There were dragonflies the size of my fist and greenmen most certainly. Man, was that binder loud. But she flew. Vicious and dangerous with milling blades and power crimper and glue 390 degrees... and she took a firm hand, there was manual clamping that made my right arm and shoulder taut and knotty. Sweet life, I loved that machine.
The printers -- there were four -- whirred and clicked and made a satisfying shunk, shunk, shunk as pages chucked into output bins. I stacked the pages (four or eight up) and then carried them to the cutter for that single fateful slice. It had to be perfect but perfect was easy with the manual, digital, decimal reader. Basic math made in small adjustments. Then front to back, the pages are slapped into piles of books, nicely in order. Then stagger stacked in great, towering cross-hatched piles. Slid down the long table to stand by the binder like fruit to be harvested.
Covers were hot laminated, back-rolled and trimmed. They each had to be measured by hand, fit to the binder, sized up by eye and ruler, adjusted. One wrong meant the loss of an entire book and that came out of my pocket and my peace of mind. Into the manual clamp went the page-fruit. Tightened down. The binder roars. Glue. Mill. Cool. Mill again. Crimp. Unclamp and slide her out... an almost finished book with rough edges. After five or seven hundred repetitions of that step-by-step, the piles of white pages have become five-on-five piles of stagger-stacked bound books. They slid back up the table to the cutter.
Massive beast, that machine. My boss named him Bulba after the squat Pokemon frog/turtle/dinosaur. That boy could slice and dice 2000 pages in one ca-chunk! that shook the windows every time the hydraulics engaged.
Dear God... I loved that job.
We often worked through lunch but by dinner the scent of Armenian or Spanish or Italian food wafted across the courtyard from the "Big House" to the office and I threw open the French doors at the end of the production room just to catch a whiff of what I knew would be fabulous. She didn't like anyone to watch her cook. Wanted to pretend that no one knew the meager, off-brand ingredients that went into every prefect meal. Shame is bred as well as learned. But I knew and I didn't care.
"I wanted the ocean to cover over me.
I want sink slowly without getting wet.
And I know someday, I won't be so lonely...
and I'll walk on water every chance I get."
After dinner, I'd take my second coffee with all spice, cardamom, nutmeg, cinnamon, and beg off a game or tv or polite conversation to slip back out into the night, cross that space to the wedge-shaped office, nestled in trees. Back into my space. My world. Where ideas became words became pages became books became worlds.
By midnight, I'd be striped down to sports bra and jeans and socks. Hair unbraided and wild. Rocking to a soundtrack of ten hours of perfect music ('70s, '80s and '90s), sweating with the exertion, the speed, the push for perfection. Commercial printers allow for 10% overage or underage. We were always dead on. No waste. No error. No room for either.
In down time between carriage returns, I scrawled cartoons and poetry and treatises and Psalms on paper scraps and tacked them to the white walls. I dreamed of a lover who would make me feel as alive as this good work did.
Seven days a week. Twelve and fourteen hour days. Weeks into months. Months into more than a year. Waking on that brown leather couch so happy to be starting it all again. And again. And again.
And I was never paid. Not once. Not ever.
"God," I pray. "I loved that job."
Why did I decide to grow up? What was the magic rule that struck me stupid between twenty-four and twenty-five? That pushed away, that said a paycheck was a requirement for an adult? I had all my bills covered for me. Room and board. Family that loved me. I had access to the accounts. I saw what we made. Exactly what we made. And when we ran in the black, we had steak and mushrooms. And when we ran in the red, we sold jeans on eBay. I was making a difference. The company turned a profit for the first time when I worked there. My boss handed me her charts. She always looked so tired. She always worked so hard. She believed. She made me believe. She was the dreamer and the dream. The vision in flesh and bone. It was all as clear as day and dawn.
"Coming down, my world turned over.
This angel falls without me there.
And I go on and life gets colder...
Carried on someone else's prayer."
What... who... why... did I leave when I loved it so much? The answers to my own questions don't have to come from God. They rest like dull beads on a string around my neck. These truths of culture and pressure and upbringing. These expectations and traditions and mob mentalities. No one grows up to run the village any more. No one stays and fights the good fight. Not unless the good fight has funding from venture capitalists.
But there was no exit strategy there at that job. Not for anyone. It was clear that everyone there would toil until they died. Literally. Because freedom of the press means nothing without presses who are small and willing to do the books that no one else will do. I remember despising the authors who came to us as hotshots, ignorant to the industry, wooed by glitzy DIY tomes, authors who had never stayed up two... three... four nights in a row, locked in sync with the machines, making the books they so blithely scuffed and flung about like mass-market commodities. I spent more time designing, laying out, printing, cutting, binding, trimming, stacking, packing, marketing their books then they had writing them. I cared about their stories -- even when they sold like backlist or midlist -- even when they were "done" and had "moved on." I kept my babies way past eighteen.
"God..."
Decisions can be made and unmade. I've said it before. I meant it. I mean it. The trouble is: It is easy to say. Not so easy to do. Sometimes it becomes impossible to see the junction, to turn back to the crossroads, where we diverged from that thing, that place we only now -- or especially now -- know we love. That place we now know, we cannot live without. The choices build on each other and create mobius strips. Celtic knots in four dimensions that are impossible to track back to the single deciding factor that seeded the brier.
Sometimes, it's easier to push through. To keep going. To compromise. Sometimes, it's easier to lay down and sleep. Sometimes, we have to drop to our knees, literally, figuratively, and admit to our Lord that we need Him. Now. Right now. Not tomorrow and not symbolically. We need Him to lift us up and walk with us. Maybe even carry us. Because the tangle of the knotworks is binding us in place. Shackling us with something that feels like fear but is really just the weight of a series of bad decisions.
Sometimes, we have to remember: Christ will not judge us. He does not limited His love in accordance to our sins.
"So when are you coming home...
sweet Angel?"
And I have no answer to this song playing from my inbox. I have no answers yet. But even as songs answer songs, creating their own realities, pockets of emotion and meaning, I understand one constant: In despair or wonderment, in passion or pain, I walk forever with my Christ, and I trust Him, in His time, to bring me home.
EJ
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Ré'vlinare
Nui silein
nui sacréi
hei porte
su aigles e'arkln.
e'Laoche hon loien
e'deau da om'homidus
hei resuals
aven hos wiis'mur.
Alo, ado, ajoris.
edoris, aloris, riehom.
Ré'hareii.
Ré'speon.
Ciel'n dédeth.
Ciel'n tilae'umoom.
Che'edus hei vers
étinpex.
There is something ethereal about the pearl-white of the moonlight on your skin. It pours through the window, cross-hatched by the diamond panes, making a mosaic of your body, warmed by your heartbeat, embraced by cool night air. In three days the moon will be full. The liquid luminescence of her face will shine more blue-white than pearl, but your skin, like roses and cream, will be the same contrast, warmth wrapped in cool, as it is tonight.
Your eyes have stopped moving beneath your lids. Your lashes, golden brown, feathers against your cheeks, are still. When I lift a strand of hair over your shoulder I am stunned by the tangible tenderness I feel for you. Holding this ribbon of silk, an awareness of your fragility is flooded away by the startling presence of your passion, and this, like a smooth stone in my palm, becomes my personal stigmata. In this moment, I am lost and found, ended and begun, all at once. I have no illusions of my redemption in the eyes of man. I have already ascended just to be allowed to lie here beside you. This holy trinity: word, prayer and touch. Each carefully balanced, measured and weighed, sacred things seeded by faith.
Somewhere beyond the window glass and the sharp iron scent of the fire escape, someone is walking alone down the street. The steady, almost urgent and certainly purposeful rhythm of boots on concrete matches the staccato of my heart. I dare not wake you but the trembling in my breath pulls me toward risk. I dip my fingertips into moonlight. They pass through cool, living night and discover your skin, warm and soft as sky. I trace the edges of light like the coastlines on a fine map. These planes and hollows at the nape of your neck, the curve of your ribs, the valley of your spine, they are each regions marked in light and shadow, continents of desire.
The texture of your skin is almost impossibly smooth, silk canvas over the warm clay of your muscles, taut even in sleep; your body, equally formed from the base elements of prowess and creation. You shift, turning from side to stomach and the plum-colored sheet falls from your shoulders; they are clothed now only in the geography of moonlight.
I stroke my fingers and palm across lines of latitude and longitude. East to West and then North, lingering in that place that all poets do, those blades of bones once hosts to wings. I close my eyes and feel my breath catch in my throat. It has become a familiar feeling. Even in sleep, you are arresting. You hold my attention completely—in stillness, in work, in text, in whispers, in promises and gasps, which are, of course, one and the same. I cannot lift my hand from you. Live wire, lifeline, talisman. Muse, lover, angel.
I open my eyes. I wonder: Is it your burden to carry this moonlight? Is it heavy? Do you grow weary? Do you dream of sunlight kissing your face, of a caress golden with divinity, standing in light that everyone can see? If you must be burdened with this love, would you rather it be as sunlight, poured down across your shoulders, worn like a resplendent cloak, swirling about your warrior’s frame beneath a bright blue sky? Would you rather lift your face to the heavens than turn your cheek to mine in the midnight hour?
This night seems endless and perfect. Surreal. The quintessential night. The breeze strong enough to rustle but not part lace curtains. The crisp air slowly filling the room, carrying away the clean sweat of our love making, the scent of my perfume, the questions unasked and unanswered.
As so often in these moments, when it seems the rest of the world slumbers and I am left a lone soul, quiet and small, I think of Atlas and so, of Christ, carrying their burdens—Atlas the world, Christ our salvation. I feel for one minute, one lifetime, one sometime in between, the enormity of those burdens, Christ’s heavier by far for the knowledge that even after the cross was laid down and His mortal body was laid to rest, His task was just beginning. One on one with Him we must choose to accept or deny His labor. And therein He finds rapture and heartbreak. Love, loss and salvation. There, on Christ’s shoulders, rests both moonlight and divinity. Both starfield and blue sky.
And it is a long time still until dawn when I lift my hand from your skin, rise without noise and go to my father’s desk, where an olive wood fountain pen and rich linen paper become tool and fallow field for this letter to you. I think you'll know what I'm asking. I have asked it before and most surely will again. These choices are always here. Paths and possibilities. They are not black or white. Right or wrong. They are moonlight or sunlight and both are made by Christ's own hand.
We always have choices. And often, perhaps more often than hubris cares we admit, they can be made, and unmade, again and again. If indecision is a sin (and a grievous one) than let us always remember that free will -- a warrior's will -- is both blue sky and starfield, both pearl disc and golden orb. Our will, which is that tapestry woven with the golden thread of faith in Christ and faith in ourselves, is and forever will be divine.
EJ
nui sacréi
hei porte
su aigles e'arkln.
e'Laoche hon loien
e'deau da om'homidus
hei resuals
aven hos wiis'mur.
Alo, ado, ajoris.
edoris, aloris, riehom.
Ré'hareii.
Ré'speon.
Ciel'n dédeth.
Ciel'n tilae'umoom.
Che'edus hei vers
étinpex.
There is something ethereal about the pearl-white of the moonlight on your skin. It pours through the window, cross-hatched by the diamond panes, making a mosaic of your body, warmed by your heartbeat, embraced by cool night air. In three days the moon will be full. The liquid luminescence of her face will shine more blue-white than pearl, but your skin, like roses and cream, will be the same contrast, warmth wrapped in cool, as it is tonight.
Your eyes have stopped moving beneath your lids. Your lashes, golden brown, feathers against your cheeks, are still. When I lift a strand of hair over your shoulder I am stunned by the tangible tenderness I feel for you. Holding this ribbon of silk, an awareness of your fragility is flooded away by the startling presence of your passion, and this, like a smooth stone in my palm, becomes my personal stigmata. In this moment, I am lost and found, ended and begun, all at once. I have no illusions of my redemption in the eyes of man. I have already ascended just to be allowed to lie here beside you. This holy trinity: word, prayer and touch. Each carefully balanced, measured and weighed, sacred things seeded by faith.
Somewhere beyond the window glass and the sharp iron scent of the fire escape, someone is walking alone down the street. The steady, almost urgent and certainly purposeful rhythm of boots on concrete matches the staccato of my heart. I dare not wake you but the trembling in my breath pulls me toward risk. I dip my fingertips into moonlight. They pass through cool, living night and discover your skin, warm and soft as sky. I trace the edges of light like the coastlines on a fine map. These planes and hollows at the nape of your neck, the curve of your ribs, the valley of your spine, they are each regions marked in light and shadow, continents of desire.
The texture of your skin is almost impossibly smooth, silk canvas over the warm clay of your muscles, taut even in sleep; your body, equally formed from the base elements of prowess and creation. You shift, turning from side to stomach and the plum-colored sheet falls from your shoulders; they are clothed now only in the geography of moonlight.
I stroke my fingers and palm across lines of latitude and longitude. East to West and then North, lingering in that place that all poets do, those blades of bones once hosts to wings. I close my eyes and feel my breath catch in my throat. It has become a familiar feeling. Even in sleep, you are arresting. You hold my attention completely—in stillness, in work, in text, in whispers, in promises and gasps, which are, of course, one and the same. I cannot lift my hand from you. Live wire, lifeline, talisman. Muse, lover, angel.
I open my eyes. I wonder: Is it your burden to carry this moonlight? Is it heavy? Do you grow weary? Do you dream of sunlight kissing your face, of a caress golden with divinity, standing in light that everyone can see? If you must be burdened with this love, would you rather it be as sunlight, poured down across your shoulders, worn like a resplendent cloak, swirling about your warrior’s frame beneath a bright blue sky? Would you rather lift your face to the heavens than turn your cheek to mine in the midnight hour?
This night seems endless and perfect. Surreal. The quintessential night. The breeze strong enough to rustle but not part lace curtains. The crisp air slowly filling the room, carrying away the clean sweat of our love making, the scent of my perfume, the questions unasked and unanswered.
As so often in these moments, when it seems the rest of the world slumbers and I am left a lone soul, quiet and small, I think of Atlas and so, of Christ, carrying their burdens—Atlas the world, Christ our salvation. I feel for one minute, one lifetime, one sometime in between, the enormity of those burdens, Christ’s heavier by far for the knowledge that even after the cross was laid down and His mortal body was laid to rest, His task was just beginning. One on one with Him we must choose to accept or deny His labor. And therein He finds rapture and heartbreak. Love, loss and salvation. There, on Christ’s shoulders, rests both moonlight and divinity. Both starfield and blue sky.
And it is a long time still until dawn when I lift my hand from your skin, rise without noise and go to my father’s desk, where an olive wood fountain pen and rich linen paper become tool and fallow field for this letter to you. I think you'll know what I'm asking. I have asked it before and most surely will again. These choices are always here. Paths and possibilities. They are not black or white. Right or wrong. They are moonlight or sunlight and both are made by Christ's own hand.
We always have choices. And often, perhaps more often than hubris cares we admit, they can be made, and unmade, again and again. If indecision is a sin (and a grievous one) than let us always remember that free will -- a warrior's will -- is both blue sky and starfield, both pearl disc and golden orb. Our will, which is that tapestry woven with the golden thread of faith in Christ and faith in ourselves, is and forever will be divine.
EJ
Sunday, September 14, 2008
The Rules of Desire & The Art of War
or “All is Fair in... Camelot”
Traditionalists will argue that the first place you kiss a woman is on the lips. Carefully. Eyes closed. Three-second rule. Full-immersion. Serious grown-up face afterwards. Try not to mention her cherry chapstick. These same (certainly) canonized experts will tell you that before engaging in any serious business affair you should read Sun Tzu's “The Art of War.” Carefully. Eyes open. Three-day rule. Full-immersion and serious face required. Mentioning how the book smells like cherry chapstick is optional. It probably won't. The copy I borrowed from the library at fifteen smelled like the awesome private tutor my grandmother paid to teach me physics. My copy – picked up secondhand in Copley Square – smells like patchouli and red wine... which is what happens when you misread a college boy during a cram session and lose your pink highlighter to the couch pillow monster. But hey... that's another story.
Kinda.
One of my personal Seven Wonders of the World, Wikipedia tells us that “The Art of War,” used to influence not only countless RL military actions but far more business launches, approaches and hostile take overs, was “...first to recognize the importance of positioning in strategy and that position is affected both by objective conditions in the physical environment and the subjective opinions of competitive players in that environment. [It] taught that strategy was not planning in the sense of working through a to-do list, but rather that it requires quick and appropriate responses to changing conditions. Planning works only in a controlled environment, but in a competitive environment, competing plans collide, creating unexpected situations.” The thirteen concise chapters chronicle, more than anything else, how a leader must guide his force to victory. Like Hawking's “A Brief History of Time,” it is a much ballyhooed text that almost everyone owns but very few have dared to read beyond the jacket copy.
The Chinese have had “The Art of War” since 6 BC. The rest of us? Not until 1782 AD. The next time you wonder why everything is marked “Made in China,” you'll know; they had an 1788 year head start. Deal.
By nature and design, chance and strategy, all of my friends growing up were older than I was. Two grades ahead and in public school only part-time, I found I learned best when I was just observing. It was like life was a movie with a massive cast – teachers, strangers on the street, students – and I could watch and listen, measuring positive and negative results, quietly calculating ratios of success and failure. It was very unnerving, friends told me years later, when I would finally speak and always wound up saying exactly what they needed to hear. This led me to be in some... interesting... situations. Situations that I very consciously got myself into just to see if I could... and, admittedly, sometimes just to see if I could because Billy couldn't LOL!
I. The Calculations
At some point, we must stop and take stock. We must determine, in life, in love, in war (read: business) what we have, what we're up against and how it all fits. We must size up the competition and ascertain what we have that they do not. We must be clear, baby, with ourselves. We must know the lay of the land before we take up arms.
II. The Challenge
Why are we doing this? It is worth it? What will fighting this battle, winning this battle mean? What will this love entail? What will go into waging this war? Do you see how these powerful forces parallel like sky and sea? Like lines of text saying:
You: I love you.
Me: I love you, too.
*holding you*
*not letting go*
Ms. Angel,
We are writing
to offer you...
III. The Plan of Attack
The stratagem behind attack is unity. It isn't about money. It's about time. It isn't about man power (support). It's about action in tandem. The cogs make the machine. They are the machine. They are small alone, making something large and far-reaching together. The ripples in the pond theory. The machine is synchronized to perfection. One heart. One passion. One path.
IV. Positioning
How to move naturally from stage to stage. How to not lose a held position even when moving to a new one. To allow room to fall back, without loss, at any time. To not make opportunities but find them. That one always baffled me. We're told other times not to wait for opportunity but to make it. For more than a quarter century I stumbled there. Then I fell in love.
Christ helps those who help themselves. He will not drag you down your path. Clear the brambles, make it happen. But the path is already there. “Finding” opportunities does not mean waiting for them. It means discovering them. Exploring, seeking, gently coaxing the leaves aside, removing thorny briers to uncover the sacred place that has always been there.
V. Directing
Timing, harnessing momentum, and using your unique mind—creative and freed from cliche-- to guide your mission. This is me saying, “If I love you like new dawn and with the strength of prayer in my heart, will you say, if not 'yes,' than at least 'maybe'?” This is me saying, “Dear Mega Corp, I sincerely thank you for your offer but my brand, like my soul, is not for sale. Not for five figures. Not for six. Not for any number. Should you decide to reconsider your heartless contractual properties and swallow a great big humanity pill, you may want to contact me... through my MySpace. *kissies* Ms. Angel”
VI. Illusion and Reality
Find out the truth. Like Gillian Anderson, it is out there and it looks darn good in pure white gowns, modestly cut and elegantly presented with wit, humor and a self-assured gaze. Size up the competition but not just the competition. Size up the environment. The world in which you exist. Not the world in general. Your world. Find it. And figure out what matters and what is just smoke and mirrors. Start by kissing in the moonlight (not on the lips) and transition into reading “Your Marketing Sucks” instead of “The Art of War.” Because, in love and war, there is no such thing as mind share, baby.
VII. Engaging the Force
Do not seek out confrontation just to prove your mettle. Do not force another into confrontation just because you're too stupid to think of another solution. Flooding ten thousand troops into a narrow ravine will *not* guarantee that two will get through. Nor will emotionally brutalizing (read: creating drama for) your lover bring you closer together due to shared turmoil and heart-pounding. Get a room. Much more pleasant. When the opposition must be faced head-on... plan it out. Keep your head. The “Dummies”-knock off series is titled, “Keep It Simple, Stupid.” There's an acronym worth contemplating. In business? Make your attack so heart-breakingly beautiful that the competition is left breathless ;)
VIII. The Nine Variations
The key is adaptation. Allow surprise to show in the eyes but never in the voice. Be prepared for and be prepared with multiple reactions and responses. All with grace and certainty. An articulate sentence is finely-crafted. A joyous, passionate, “heart-felt” exclamation is equally valuable.
A friend once said to me, after watching me court a paramour, “You are so dang *smooth*...” I looked at him out of the corner of my eye. Knowing that all parts are connected and every presentation reflects and affects every other, I smiled winningly. “It's a delicate position to be in, don't you think, Kurt? Very 'Art of War.'” And we stared at each other without words until he looked away and we went to In 'n' Out for 2x3s.
IX. Moving the Force
You become comfortable in one arena and you secretly want to stay there. You are not prepared to move (nor do you truly desire to) and so... you stay. This can happen by emotional, even unintentional, sabotage. To avoid this pit of hissy snakes, contemplate and consider the arenas ahead. You may not have all the answers, but begin to formulate your position now... and begin to consider these arenas true possibilities. Claim them. Before you realize it, you'll wake up in one of them and know exactly what to do.
X. Situational Positioning
Different situations call for different positioning. Seems simple? Not so much if you ever dated as a teenager. One position does *not* actually work for every situation and one size *never* fits all, baby. My sweet may be his sappy. My smooth might be her poetry. Know the possibilities -- distance, dangers, barriers – and deal. Don't get to the trailhead and find yourself in the wrong shoes for a five-mile hike (heels won't do, babe). Don't find yourself dancing tight and close only for her (oh my...) gaze to make you stumble over the neon piping in the floor, crash into a small round table, somersault past a speaker, and wind up bum-over-tea-kettle (what does that even mean?!) blinking up at her like a new baby... while she blithely continues her body roll.
XI. The Nine Situations
Determine the most common situations – the nine common grounds on which you may be forced to take a stand – and discover your approach for waging war (or making love... which, in this case means not sex but making a relationship work... one could even say waging love) on this ground. Sun Tzu called the nine ground situations: Dispersive; facile; contentious; open; intersecting paths; serious; difficult; hemmed-in, and desperate. These have always worked for me. In game design. In business approach. In courting. My position is adaptive and unique to each lay of the land.
XII. The Fiery Attack
The weapon-aided attack. The attack made with elements outside one's self. Attacks which rely upon external force. Employing tactics, aspects or objects which we were not born with. *wicked grin* I've never had to resort to this type of attack. I like to keep everything close to home. Though... one might argue, that this attack includes what we wear, the signage we use, and the colors we splash across our faces or letterhead. One might argue that everything outside of words – the flowers we send, the media kits – is the fiery attack. In that case... I usually start my attack with my lace top from Paris and black leather chaps... or a smart, relevant headline on bright white paper. Bold. 14 point. Black.
XIII. The Use of Intelligence
Use spies. Yes, that kind of intelligence. Talk to friends. Infiltrate forums. Gather information. There is no such thing as knowing your lover too well or knowing the competition too well. Just be certain to *process* your intelligence. Facts only become intelligence when applied to the principles and situational instances we're just talked about.
* * *
Thirteen chapters. So complex, balanced and perfect to apply to two (or more) major elements in our lives. But is this a Sunday blog? I could say, “Yes. Because I'm tired of so-called 'Christian business books' fixating on WWJD simplicities and almost ensuring that no Christian will ever build a company that can truly contend.” I could say, “This is a blog about my life. And my life is not only prayer and scripture, just as it isn't only d6s or pixel rates.” I might even be able to get away with, “I refuse to let one more stranger compare me to Bradley Trevor Greive because even though I love a good CU of an elephant's butt as much as the next grrl, I really don't think that life can be better understood by gazing at deer threesomes.”
But the real reason this blog is about the patterns of Sun Tzu and the art of... well... the art of *life* is because today, September 14, 2008, my friend, O.S. designer, publisher, patron, and mentor, Jennifer DiMarco, turns 35. If there was a fourteenth chapter to “The Art of War” it would be about the importance of having a Jennifer on your team. But guess what? There's only one, and I never did learn to share so well.
Jennifer is the epitome of Sun Tzu. She is all thought and silent contemplation. She makes decisions so quickly and decisively that she makes the rest of us look like we're out of sync. I do believe she thinks at the speed of light which is why her denim-blue eyes are so darn unnerving. You've read about her a dozen times before in this blog. She's the fighter, the mother, the businesswoman. She is not infinitely patient. She is not perfect. She is flawed. But she is the nearest I have ever known to a master strategist and my life, and the Mardi Gras 3000 brand, would not be what it is today without her.
My gift to her is winding its way through USPS. A White Stag shirt she sent me to use as a smock. It has a mock collar and crisp lines. She had a stroke after the birth of her son and sometimes she forgets things. She seems to have forgotten that when I first met her, when I was a preteen and she was “just” an author on tour, this was exactly the shirt she wore. And there is no way I am worthy. Not yet any way ;)
So because my gift is stuck in transit, this blog will have to substitute. A crash course for my 3000+ readers. Pick up a copy of “The Art of War” and wrest a little more control of your life and your destiny. The next time you ask yourself, “WWJD?” You might just mean a different J.
With love to all my friends, readers and detractors ;)
EJ
Traditionalists will argue that the first place you kiss a woman is on the lips. Carefully. Eyes closed. Three-second rule. Full-immersion. Serious grown-up face afterwards. Try not to mention her cherry chapstick. These same (certainly) canonized experts will tell you that before engaging in any serious business affair you should read Sun Tzu's “The Art of War.” Carefully. Eyes open. Three-day rule. Full-immersion and serious face required. Mentioning how the book smells like cherry chapstick is optional. It probably won't. The copy I borrowed from the library at fifteen smelled like the awesome private tutor my grandmother paid to teach me physics. My copy – picked up secondhand in Copley Square – smells like patchouli and red wine... which is what happens when you misread a college boy during a cram session and lose your pink highlighter to the couch pillow monster. But hey... that's another story.
Kinda.
One of my personal Seven Wonders of the World, Wikipedia tells us that “The Art of War,” used to influence not only countless RL military actions but far more business launches, approaches and hostile take overs, was “...first to recognize the importance of positioning in strategy and that position is affected both by objective conditions in the physical environment and the subjective opinions of competitive players in that environment. [It] taught that strategy was not planning in the sense of working through a to-do list, but rather that it requires quick and appropriate responses to changing conditions. Planning works only in a controlled environment, but in a competitive environment, competing plans collide, creating unexpected situations.” The thirteen concise chapters chronicle, more than anything else, how a leader must guide his force to victory. Like Hawking's “A Brief History of Time,” it is a much ballyhooed text that almost everyone owns but very few have dared to read beyond the jacket copy.
The Chinese have had “The Art of War” since 6 BC. The rest of us? Not until 1782 AD. The next time you wonder why everything is marked “Made in China,” you'll know; they had an 1788 year head start. Deal.
By nature and design, chance and strategy, all of my friends growing up were older than I was. Two grades ahead and in public school only part-time, I found I learned best when I was just observing. It was like life was a movie with a massive cast – teachers, strangers on the street, students – and I could watch and listen, measuring positive and negative results, quietly calculating ratios of success and failure. It was very unnerving, friends told me years later, when I would finally speak and always wound up saying exactly what they needed to hear. This led me to be in some... interesting... situations. Situations that I very consciously got myself into just to see if I could... and, admittedly, sometimes just to see if I could because Billy couldn't LOL!
I. The Calculations
At some point, we must stop and take stock. We must determine, in life, in love, in war (read: business) what we have, what we're up against and how it all fits. We must size up the competition and ascertain what we have that they do not. We must be clear, baby, with ourselves. We must know the lay of the land before we take up arms.
II. The Challenge
Why are we doing this? It is worth it? What will fighting this battle, winning this battle mean? What will this love entail? What will go into waging this war? Do you see how these powerful forces parallel like sky and sea? Like lines of text saying:
You: I love you.
Me: I love you, too.
*holding you*
*not letting go*
Ms. Angel,
We are writing
to offer you...
III. The Plan of Attack
The stratagem behind attack is unity. It isn't about money. It's about time. It isn't about man power (support). It's about action in tandem. The cogs make the machine. They are the machine. They are small alone, making something large and far-reaching together. The ripples in the pond theory. The machine is synchronized to perfection. One heart. One passion. One path.
IV. Positioning
How to move naturally from stage to stage. How to not lose a held position even when moving to a new one. To allow room to fall back, without loss, at any time. To not make opportunities but find them. That one always baffled me. We're told other times not to wait for opportunity but to make it. For more than a quarter century I stumbled there. Then I fell in love.
Christ helps those who help themselves. He will not drag you down your path. Clear the brambles, make it happen. But the path is already there. “Finding” opportunities does not mean waiting for them. It means discovering them. Exploring, seeking, gently coaxing the leaves aside, removing thorny briers to uncover the sacred place that has always been there.
V. Directing
Timing, harnessing momentum, and using your unique mind—creative and freed from cliche-- to guide your mission. This is me saying, “If I love you like new dawn and with the strength of prayer in my heart, will you say, if not 'yes,' than at least 'maybe'?” This is me saying, “Dear Mega Corp, I sincerely thank you for your offer but my brand, like my soul, is not for sale. Not for five figures. Not for six. Not for any number. Should you decide to reconsider your heartless contractual properties and swallow a great big humanity pill, you may want to contact me... through my MySpace. *kissies* Ms. Angel”
VI. Illusion and Reality
Find out the truth. Like Gillian Anderson, it is out there and it looks darn good in pure white gowns, modestly cut and elegantly presented with wit, humor and a self-assured gaze. Size up the competition but not just the competition. Size up the environment. The world in which you exist. Not the world in general. Your world. Find it. And figure out what matters and what is just smoke and mirrors. Start by kissing in the moonlight (not on the lips) and transition into reading “Your Marketing Sucks” instead of “The Art of War.” Because, in love and war, there is no such thing as mind share, baby.
VII. Engaging the Force
Do not seek out confrontation just to prove your mettle. Do not force another into confrontation just because you're too stupid to think of another solution. Flooding ten thousand troops into a narrow ravine will *not* guarantee that two will get through. Nor will emotionally brutalizing (read: creating drama for) your lover bring you closer together due to shared turmoil and heart-pounding. Get a room. Much more pleasant. When the opposition must be faced head-on... plan it out. Keep your head. The “Dummies”-knock off series is titled, “Keep It Simple, Stupid.” There's an acronym worth contemplating. In business? Make your attack so heart-breakingly beautiful that the competition is left breathless ;)
VIII. The Nine Variations
The key is adaptation. Allow surprise to show in the eyes but never in the voice. Be prepared for and be prepared with multiple reactions and responses. All with grace and certainty. An articulate sentence is finely-crafted. A joyous, passionate, “heart-felt” exclamation is equally valuable.
A friend once said to me, after watching me court a paramour, “You are so dang *smooth*...” I looked at him out of the corner of my eye. Knowing that all parts are connected and every presentation reflects and affects every other, I smiled winningly. “It's a delicate position to be in, don't you think, Kurt? Very 'Art of War.'” And we stared at each other without words until he looked away and we went to In 'n' Out for 2x3s.
IX. Moving the Force
You become comfortable in one arena and you secretly want to stay there. You are not prepared to move (nor do you truly desire to) and so... you stay. This can happen by emotional, even unintentional, sabotage. To avoid this pit of hissy snakes, contemplate and consider the arenas ahead. You may not have all the answers, but begin to formulate your position now... and begin to consider these arenas true possibilities. Claim them. Before you realize it, you'll wake up in one of them and know exactly what to do.
X. Situational Positioning
Different situations call for different positioning. Seems simple? Not so much if you ever dated as a teenager. One position does *not* actually work for every situation and one size *never* fits all, baby. My sweet may be his sappy. My smooth might be her poetry. Know the possibilities -- distance, dangers, barriers – and deal. Don't get to the trailhead and find yourself in the wrong shoes for a five-mile hike (heels won't do, babe). Don't find yourself dancing tight and close only for her (oh my...) gaze to make you stumble over the neon piping in the floor, crash into a small round table, somersault past a speaker, and wind up bum-over-tea-kettle (what does that even mean?!) blinking up at her like a new baby... while she blithely continues her body roll.
XI. The Nine Situations
Determine the most common situations – the nine common grounds on which you may be forced to take a stand – and discover your approach for waging war (or making love... which, in this case means not sex but making a relationship work... one could even say waging love) on this ground. Sun Tzu called the nine ground situations: Dispersive; facile; contentious; open; intersecting paths; serious; difficult; hemmed-in, and desperate. These have always worked for me. In game design. In business approach. In courting. My position is adaptive and unique to each lay of the land.
XII. The Fiery Attack
The weapon-aided attack. The attack made with elements outside one's self. Attacks which rely upon external force. Employing tactics, aspects or objects which we were not born with. *wicked grin* I've never had to resort to this type of attack. I like to keep everything close to home. Though... one might argue, that this attack includes what we wear, the signage we use, and the colors we splash across our faces or letterhead. One might argue that everything outside of words – the flowers we send, the media kits – is the fiery attack. In that case... I usually start my attack with my lace top from Paris and black leather chaps... or a smart, relevant headline on bright white paper. Bold. 14 point. Black.
XIII. The Use of Intelligence
Use spies. Yes, that kind of intelligence. Talk to friends. Infiltrate forums. Gather information. There is no such thing as knowing your lover too well or knowing the competition too well. Just be certain to *process* your intelligence. Facts only become intelligence when applied to the principles and situational instances we're just talked about.
* * *
Thirteen chapters. So complex, balanced and perfect to apply to two (or more) major elements in our lives. But is this a Sunday blog? I could say, “Yes. Because I'm tired of so-called 'Christian business books' fixating on WWJD simplicities and almost ensuring that no Christian will ever build a company that can truly contend.” I could say, “This is a blog about my life. And my life is not only prayer and scripture, just as it isn't only d6s or pixel rates.” I might even be able to get away with, “I refuse to let one more stranger compare me to Bradley Trevor Greive because even though I love a good CU of an elephant's butt as much as the next grrl, I really don't think that life can be better understood by gazing at deer threesomes.”
But the real reason this blog is about the patterns of Sun Tzu and the art of... well... the art of *life* is because today, September 14, 2008, my friend, O.S. designer, publisher, patron, and mentor, Jennifer DiMarco, turns 35. If there was a fourteenth chapter to “The Art of War” it would be about the importance of having a Jennifer on your team. But guess what? There's only one, and I never did learn to share so well.
Jennifer is the epitome of Sun Tzu. She is all thought and silent contemplation. She makes decisions so quickly and decisively that she makes the rest of us look like we're out of sync. I do believe she thinks at the speed of light which is why her denim-blue eyes are so darn unnerving. You've read about her a dozen times before in this blog. She's the fighter, the mother, the businesswoman. She is not infinitely patient. She is not perfect. She is flawed. But she is the nearest I have ever known to a master strategist and my life, and the Mardi Gras 3000 brand, would not be what it is today without her.
My gift to her is winding its way through USPS. A White Stag shirt she sent me to use as a smock. It has a mock collar and crisp lines. She had a stroke after the birth of her son and sometimes she forgets things. She seems to have forgotten that when I first met her, when I was a preteen and she was “just” an author on tour, this was exactly the shirt she wore. And there is no way I am worthy. Not yet any way ;)
So because my gift is stuck in transit, this blog will have to substitute. A crash course for my 3000+ readers. Pick up a copy of “The Art of War” and wrest a little more control of your life and your destiny. The next time you ask yourself, “WWJD?” You might just mean a different J.
With love to all my friends, readers and detractors ;)
EJ
Sunday, September 07, 2008
Discovery
I often wake on Sabbath mornings, after a week of writing this blog in my head, and open my eyes to completely new ideas. I think I know what I want to say. I think it will all be just a matter of touching fingertips to soft-worn keys. But this is rarely... perhaps never... the case. Because we may know what we want to say or do... but then there is that moment when Christ tells us what He wants.
So, instead of sitting down with a hot mug of coffee and an apple to tap out my pre-composed blog, I skipped breakfast and went to the gym. It appears that Sundays are very good days for getting in the ring with very angry opponents who aren’t too happy about the work week starting all over again.
Speed takes on all new importance.
And I return home looking a bit like I might after a car wreck... but feeling like the warrior I was raised to be.
"I saw a tree by the riverside
one day as I walked along.
Straight as an arrow and pointing to the sky,
growing tall and strong.
'How do you grow so tall and strong?'
I said to the riverside tree.
This is the song that my tree friend sang to me...”
I feel so... *discovered.* You said this to me once, recently, and I repeat these words to myself over and over again. I hear them like they were whispered to me. They become a riddle. Not truly even connected to you or us any more. They become universal. They could have been said by anyone I know. But my ears were meant to hear them and my heart to process... to *unlock* this riddle.
*Discovered.* Not exposed, revealed, uncovered, or betrayed. Discovered. As in:
I touch black paint to white canvas for the first time, and my breath catches in my throat and I feel God’s light surging through my body and I feel *discovered.*
As in:
They lift him up, and he is longer than my torso even at ten minutes old, and he is reaching for me blindly, but I see him like I see nothing else, and I am changed forever, from woman to mother and I am *discovered.*
As in:
I walked and I walked and I just kept going and I couldn’t stop and I couldn’t turn around because that would mean going back and I didn’t want to go back – good God! – I wanted so badly to just go forward. And then, suddenly, there came a clarity in that darkness and I knew what I needed to do. I was *discovered.*
As in:
You speak to me of the soul eternal and the path of Christ and your love for me and the heat of desire becomes my second skin. I hum at a new frequency and want you and I know passion as I have never dreamed it would burn within me and I feel so... discovered.
Beneath the eyes of our Christ, in the eyes of each other, we are not born once, or even twice with the rebirth of baptism. We are continually born and reborn, made and remade. Leveled up. Upgraded. Reset, recharged, redirected. Return to Go. Start again.
Blue screen blinks: Play again?
"'I've got roots growing down to the water.
I've got leaves growing up to the sunshine,
and the fruit that I bear is a sign of life in me.
I am shade from the hot summer sundown.
I am nest for the birds of the heavens.
I'm becoming what the Lord of trees meant me to be...
a strong young tree.'"
A family-friend asks me, “What do you talk about? Light and fluffy stuff into the wee hours of the night?” And laughter ensues among the gathered friends but I just smile and sip my chai. I am not so much an open book as people seem to glean from my blog entries. Though, in that moment, I thought to myself that many of my private conversations are just like these blogs. Several other good friends have even teased about getting me a t-shirt that read: “WARNING! I’m blogging this.”
GamerAngel: I used to think, you know, that you would go away... yes, especially on Sundays... and be immersed in your doctrine. Hitting a kind of “reset” button that realigned your thoughts and behaviors to best fit your religion. To be (re)indoctrinated each week. But after Monday, when we last spoke, now I know these moments have nothing to do with religion and everything to do with faith. They aren’t resets but rather steps. Like stepping stones across a river...
GamerAngel: ... no wait... it wasn't Monday. The night we spoke of leaps of faith? Literal leaps of faith.
Jo: It was Monday, baby. You're right. Continue.
GamerAngel: When Christ asks us to leap? When we leap for Him?
Jo: Oh, no... wait...
GamerAngel: Not Monday. Monday was... something else.
Jo: It was Thursday night.
GamerAngel: Yes. Thursday. That was the most powerful conversation. Memorable. The ideas bounce around in my head.
Jo: Oh?
GamerAngel: Leaping into ourselves. Not *inside* ourselves. But rather leaping into a reflection of ourselves. A reflection cast by the light of Christ. He says: “Look. I'm revealing this to you. Discover this about yourself. This thing that I have known about you since before you first drew breath. Trust me. Leap.” Leap into His arms to better know how to stand by yourself.
GamerAngel: And we leap into this reflected divine light -- which is not always golden but oftentimes dark and even a little scary -- and we leap into a new layer of ourselves. We add a new depth, like the rings of a tree. Because some of our rings are added by years lived and others are earned by doing this. By leaping.
GamerAngel: Is it a layer that's always been there? But is only visible, activated, engaged after we leap? We weren't ready before. Or we needed Him in some way to help us. To cast that reflection, of Himself really, that is also part of us as He is part of us.
GamerAngel: I... I just can't stop coming back to that. Of leaping when He says, “Leap!” Not the day after. Not after checking the logic and reason. He says, “Feel!” He says, “Go!” He says “Leap...” and then the rapture of discovery that follows the freefall.
Light, yes. Fluffy? Not so much.
"I saw a tree in the city streets
where buildings block the sun.
Green and lovely, I could see
it gave joy to everyone.
'How do you grow in the city streets?'
I said to the downtown tree.
This is the song that my tree friend sang to me...”
A co-worker says to me that Mormon scripture (basically) says that God gave us weaknesses and challenges to work through so we'd learn to turn to Him. To trust Him. And, if we did, and we took that leap into the dark, He'd make our weaknesses our strengths. She concluded with, “I've lived my personal life by that. Turn my problems to God... and be willing to change when He told me to. Because God won't speak to you if you're only asking for His opinion, with no intent on acting. You have to be willing to do what He says when He says it.”
NTC doctrine both agrees and disagrees with this, of course. I disagree with the former and agree with the latter. LOL! This brings me laughter because I have friends across (...counting...) nine doctrines. And I have 80% in common with all of them. The parts we have in common tend to be the parts that begin with, “I’ve lived my personal life by...” *grin* If you know anything at all about New Testament Christianity, you know that it is driven by personal revelation. Not the words on the page but the words Christ whispers in our ears.
I believe we – human beings -- give *each other* challenge and struggle. Christ gave us a perfect world, and perfect love, and perfect bodies. What we did with those gifts has resulted in challenge and struggle.
Christ asks, requires, that we live with hardship in order to come to love each other as He loves us. Because only when we see with the eyes of Christ can we truly reach each other (becoming one heart) and guide each other (coming to one path) out of darkness and back into original perfection.
We... discover... ourselves amidst struggle so that we grow stronger as warriors and are then better equipped -- sword, armor and shield -- to fight for one another. My doctrine raises soldiers.
And I am proud to be one of them.
"'I've got roots growing down to the water.
I've got leaves growing up to the sunshine,
and the fruit that I bear is a sign of life in me.
I am shade from the hot summer sundown.
I am nest for the birds of the heavens.
I'm becoming what the Lord of trees meant me to be...
a strong young tree.'"
Lord, you took me and awakened me to myself. With your hands you have lifted my face to the sun; I have felt its touch, pale and young with winter’s dawn, even as you close my eyes and allow me to rest, standing there before you—child, sister, lover, friend. And now, as the dusk of that same day—your day, sweet Christ—draws to a close and paints my Eastern-facing window with blues and pinks and sherbet orange—I feel you in my chest, in the pounding of my heart, and I close my eyes again and I see the faces of the soldiers who stand with me. And I feel so strong. And I feel so full of your love and their love.
And Christ?
I know that everything is possible.
I am discovered.
EJ
So, instead of sitting down with a hot mug of coffee and an apple to tap out my pre-composed blog, I skipped breakfast and went to the gym. It appears that Sundays are very good days for getting in the ring with very angry opponents who aren’t too happy about the work week starting all over again.
Speed takes on all new importance.
And I return home looking a bit like I might after a car wreck... but feeling like the warrior I was raised to be.
"I saw a tree by the riverside
one day as I walked along.
Straight as an arrow and pointing to the sky,
growing tall and strong.
'How do you grow so tall and strong?'
I said to the riverside tree.
This is the song that my tree friend sang to me...”
I feel so... *discovered.* You said this to me once, recently, and I repeat these words to myself over and over again. I hear them like they were whispered to me. They become a riddle. Not truly even connected to you or us any more. They become universal. They could have been said by anyone I know. But my ears were meant to hear them and my heart to process... to *unlock* this riddle.
*Discovered.* Not exposed, revealed, uncovered, or betrayed. Discovered. As in:
I touch black paint to white canvas for the first time, and my breath catches in my throat and I feel God’s light surging through my body and I feel *discovered.*
As in:
They lift him up, and he is longer than my torso even at ten minutes old, and he is reaching for me blindly, but I see him like I see nothing else, and I am changed forever, from woman to mother and I am *discovered.*
As in:
I walked and I walked and I just kept going and I couldn’t stop and I couldn’t turn around because that would mean going back and I didn’t want to go back – good God! – I wanted so badly to just go forward. And then, suddenly, there came a clarity in that darkness and I knew what I needed to do. I was *discovered.*
As in:
You speak to me of the soul eternal and the path of Christ and your love for me and the heat of desire becomes my second skin. I hum at a new frequency and want you and I know passion as I have never dreamed it would burn within me and I feel so... discovered.
Beneath the eyes of our Christ, in the eyes of each other, we are not born once, or even twice with the rebirth of baptism. We are continually born and reborn, made and remade. Leveled up. Upgraded. Reset, recharged, redirected. Return to Go. Start again.
Blue screen blinks: Play again?
"'I've got roots growing down to the water.
I've got leaves growing up to the sunshine,
and the fruit that I bear is a sign of life in me.
I am shade from the hot summer sundown.
I am nest for the birds of the heavens.
I'm becoming what the Lord of trees meant me to be...
a strong young tree.'"
A family-friend asks me, “What do you talk about? Light and fluffy stuff into the wee hours of the night?” And laughter ensues among the gathered friends but I just smile and sip my chai. I am not so much an open book as people seem to glean from my blog entries. Though, in that moment, I thought to myself that many of my private conversations are just like these blogs. Several other good friends have even teased about getting me a t-shirt that read: “WARNING! I’m blogging this.”
GamerAngel: I used to think, you know, that you would go away... yes, especially on Sundays... and be immersed in your doctrine. Hitting a kind of “reset” button that realigned your thoughts and behaviors to best fit your religion. To be (re)indoctrinated each week. But after Monday, when we last spoke, now I know these moments have nothing to do with religion and everything to do with faith. They aren’t resets but rather steps. Like stepping stones across a river...
GamerAngel: ... no wait... it wasn't Monday. The night we spoke of leaps of faith? Literal leaps of faith.
Jo: It was Monday, baby. You're right. Continue.
GamerAngel: When Christ asks us to leap? When we leap for Him?
Jo: Oh, no... wait...
GamerAngel: Not Monday. Monday was... something else.
Jo: It was Thursday night.
GamerAngel: Yes. Thursday. That was the most powerful conversation. Memorable. The ideas bounce around in my head.
Jo: Oh?
GamerAngel: Leaping into ourselves. Not *inside* ourselves. But rather leaping into a reflection of ourselves. A reflection cast by the light of Christ. He says: “Look. I'm revealing this to you. Discover this about yourself. This thing that I have known about you since before you first drew breath. Trust me. Leap.” Leap into His arms to better know how to stand by yourself.
GamerAngel: And we leap into this reflected divine light -- which is not always golden but oftentimes dark and even a little scary -- and we leap into a new layer of ourselves. We add a new depth, like the rings of a tree. Because some of our rings are added by years lived and others are earned by doing this. By leaping.
GamerAngel: Is it a layer that's always been there? But is only visible, activated, engaged after we leap? We weren't ready before. Or we needed Him in some way to help us. To cast that reflection, of Himself really, that is also part of us as He is part of us.
GamerAngel: I... I just can't stop coming back to that. Of leaping when He says, “Leap!” Not the day after. Not after checking the logic and reason. He says, “Feel!” He says, “Go!” He says “Leap...” and then the rapture of discovery that follows the freefall.
Light, yes. Fluffy? Not so much.
"I saw a tree in the city streets
where buildings block the sun.
Green and lovely, I could see
it gave joy to everyone.
'How do you grow in the city streets?'
I said to the downtown tree.
This is the song that my tree friend sang to me...”
A co-worker says to me that Mormon scripture (basically) says that God gave us weaknesses and challenges to work through so we'd learn to turn to Him. To trust Him. And, if we did, and we took that leap into the dark, He'd make our weaknesses our strengths. She concluded with, “I've lived my personal life by that. Turn my problems to God... and be willing to change when He told me to. Because God won't speak to you if you're only asking for His opinion, with no intent on acting. You have to be willing to do what He says when He says it.”
NTC doctrine both agrees and disagrees with this, of course. I disagree with the former and agree with the latter. LOL! This brings me laughter because I have friends across (...counting...) nine doctrines. And I have 80% in common with all of them. The parts we have in common tend to be the parts that begin with, “I’ve lived my personal life by...” *grin* If you know anything at all about New Testament Christianity, you know that it is driven by personal revelation. Not the words on the page but the words Christ whispers in our ears.
I believe we – human beings -- give *each other* challenge and struggle. Christ gave us a perfect world, and perfect love, and perfect bodies. What we did with those gifts has resulted in challenge and struggle.
Christ asks, requires, that we live with hardship in order to come to love each other as He loves us. Because only when we see with the eyes of Christ can we truly reach each other (becoming one heart) and guide each other (coming to one path) out of darkness and back into original perfection.
We... discover... ourselves amidst struggle so that we grow stronger as warriors and are then better equipped -- sword, armor and shield -- to fight for one another. My doctrine raises soldiers.
And I am proud to be one of them.
"'I've got roots growing down to the water.
I've got leaves growing up to the sunshine,
and the fruit that I bear is a sign of life in me.
I am shade from the hot summer sundown.
I am nest for the birds of the heavens.
I'm becoming what the Lord of trees meant me to be...
a strong young tree.'"
Lord, you took me and awakened me to myself. With your hands you have lifted my face to the sun; I have felt its touch, pale and young with winter’s dawn, even as you close my eyes and allow me to rest, standing there before you—child, sister, lover, friend. And now, as the dusk of that same day—your day, sweet Christ—draws to a close and paints my Eastern-facing window with blues and pinks and sherbet orange—I feel you in my chest, in the pounding of my heart, and I close my eyes again and I see the faces of the soldiers who stand with me. And I feel so strong. And I feel so full of your love and their love.
And Christ?
I know that everything is possible.
I am discovered.
EJ
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