(IM)POSSIBLE

Hung out with Lisa for a few hours yesterday. That's always dangerous. We seem very similar in a lot of ways, personality probably topping the list. However, as is the case with many of the people I most admire, she's a good deal further along in areas of spiritual development I am still struggling with. Thus, some of her stories from Malta once again reminded me of goals I set a few years ago and still haven't faced. For example, about 3 or 4 years ago while doing house-keeping duties for my boss, I was listening to a Graham Cooke instructional c-d my brother Nolan lent me. Cooke cited Romans 8:19-21: "The creation waits in eager expectation for the sons of God to be revealed. For creation was subjected to frustration, not by its own choice, but by the will of the one who subjected it, in hope that creation itself will be liberated from its bondage to decay and brought into the glorious freedom of the children of God." Cooke's point was that nature physically responds to humans who are filled with the Spirit of God. His case in point was St. Patrick, who was followed in loving adoration by wild animals across Ireland. Lisa had a more recent example: wind and waves suddenly picking up and crashing whenever two of her intercessor mentors came near. You know, my favourite stories as a child and teen were always fantastic tales of seemingly weak or unimportant figures, such as orphans or beggars or orphaned beggars, finding they have extraordinary powers to control and commune with natural elements, such as animals, fire, water, plants, earth, the weather. We always think those stories have such great appeal precisely because they're impossible in reality. But what if we "invent" those mythic stories in the first place because not only are they possible, but we were intended to live them? So I asked God that day, in the midst of vacuuming an already clean carpet, if I could be like St. Patrick, and have wild birds come sit in my hand and let me stroke them. It hasn't happened yet. Also about 3 or 4 years ago, I borrowed two books from Nolan. One was called Eli, which was a fictitious work that tried to show what Christ's life and sacrifical death would mean and look like if they had occurred in North America today. The other was called Blessed Child, which was about (you guessed it) an orphaned child raised in a middle east monastery who was born with an unusually strong presence of the Spirit of God in him. He stunned North America with his ability to heal the blind, crippled, and disfigured; to survive drinking ridiculous amounts of cyanide and being shot by snipers. Both these books raised in my mind the possibility that I could be healed of my diabetis. I'd never asked God about it before: I always figured I should just be grateful I was born in an age and place where my condition could be treated so I could live a fairly normal life. I've never been bitter or depressed over having diabetis- it actually creates some good common ground between myself and anyone suffering with an incurable condition. I don't really regret suffering depression either, for the same reason. There are some gifts from heaven that cannot be received in a state of happiness. Still, diabetis is an expensive burden for my parents to bear, not to mention a blight on the environment from all the disposable syringes, lancettes, test-strips, testers, and insulin vials required, so I decided to at least ask God if he'd heal me. He did not. However, he didn't say whether or not I would ever be healed from it at some later time in my life. Perhaps he'd like to save it for a more public occasion where his glory can be revealed to many people besides just me and my family. I'm okay with that mystery: God will decide how long I live, just as he ultimately decides how long everyone will live. Diabetis does not change that. I put the question aside. But then I started reading this book called The New Friars for a class on spirituality I'm taking with one of my favourite professors, Charles Nienkircken. The New Friars describes the old roots of new movements within modern radical Christianity towards vows of poverty, purity, and being the gospel incarnate. He notes this life has two forms: (1) contemplative, which provides places of spiritual sanctuary where people are invited to come live in healing community together (e.x. urban monastery houses of prayer) and (2) missional, where individuals go out alone or in groups to live among the poor/marginalized, serving them from a level of equality rather than a position of power. It has such a powerful call to it. Matthew 25:1-46 (The Sheep and the Goats) was really emphasized in the book, which is partly why I quoted it in my last post ("Faces").

Verses 34-36 Then the King will say to those on his right, "Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me."

In that same class where I read The New Friars, we watched a video highlighting 5 pilgrimage sites: how they came to be pilgrimage sites, and how pilgrims to those places feel they were impacted by/changed through their pilgrimage experiences. Of all the deep, ancient spiritual places to go on earth, one of the 5 featured in this video was Canadian. I was kind of surprised. I've never heard of any pilgrimage sites in Canada. When I think of spiritual sanctuary here, I picture the wild, the mountains in particular. I've always found it easiest to see God when surrounded by his creation. Conversely, when I think of pilgrimage, I imagine pretty much any place except North America. We don't keep anything old if it's not making good money. Not even our globally rare expanses of wilderness, which is perhaps why I'm an environmentalist geek: deforestation, mining, and pollution feel like a desecration of the sacred to me, equivalent to someone spray-painting profanity all over the ceiling of the Cistine Chapel. It's just wrong. Well, lo and behold, the Canadian pilgrimage site is a natural area. It's called Lac de St. Anne (Lake of Saint Anne).

Lac de St. Anne is like the Native/Canadian version of the Israelites' pool of Bethesda. Native groups have put aside their squabbles and fights to visit this lake because of its physical, spiritual, emotional, and relational healing properties since before the Europeans began coming. Don't get me wrong- I understand that it's not the water that heals people, and I know that God doesn't heal everyone, that we can't earn or manipulate God into giving us what we want by enduring certain hardships or going to certain places. But I think it's fair to say that some places on earth have been blessed (or cursed) with an especially intense presence of Spirit (Holy or otherwise), and in those places we are especially prone to transformation.

Transformation appeals to me. Not just in body, but in spirit. I want to cultivate a spirit of truth, fearlessness, love. I know in my mind that all things are possible through Christ who gives me strength. But I don't know it yet. There are a lot of experiences I avoid because I fear how they'll interact with my diabetis. I was sooo excited about finally going on my first back-packing camping trip with Nolan, Chasey, and Sam last summer. I want to do things like that- I want to immerse myself in simplicity, in beauty, in wild, in challenge, in quality time spent building meaningful relationships with people. But I'm so afraid of being isolated somewhere when I'm having a low blood sugar. Neither my siblings nor my friends wake up when I get up in the middle of the night because I'm having a low blood sugar- only my parents have developed the light sleeping habits required to get up with me when I need them. On that camping trip, my blood sugars were ranging from 2.0 mmol/L (50% of the min. required before brain damage and imminent death occur) to 24 mmol/L (4X the max. needed, which can cause long-term problems like blindness and loss of appendages) four times a day because I couldn't figure out how to balance my insulin, exercise, and food intake. It was scary. I felt physically sick. I've stopped playing soccer, partly because of time constraints, but also because it freaks me out that I can't tell the difference between a low blood sugar and simply being tired- the symptoms are the same. The only reason I didn't die just before Christmas when I accidentally overdosed on insulin in the middle of the day is because God brought my dad home early from work, so he found me unconscious and convulsing on the floor in time to get paramedics to me before I hit the no-return point. I don't even remember the seizures or hitting the floor, but the idea of it really shook me up (sorry for the unintended pun) for weeks afterwards. The ground-beef texture of my tongue and the mysterious white foam circles with metal things in the middle stuck all over my body were eery tangible reminders of how close I came to death. I've always rejected the possibility of my being a missionary among remote peoples because I know that it would be really difficult/ impossible to get reliable/consistent access to the medications and food I need there. Maybe that's God's way of protecting me from feeling guilty for not answering the call to GO make disciples of the nations. On the other hand, fear is not of God. And I feel like I'm wasting the best years of my life avoiding things I'd like to try while I'm still young enough and free from responsibilities.

I love my parents very much, and I appreciate the sacrifices they have made so that I and my siblings could have all the opportunities we do for sports, music lessons, and post-secondary education. Both my social psych and personality psych profs confirm that we all become very like our parents by middle age no matter how hard we try to become something else. But I dread the thought of becoming them. There has to be more to life than watching movies or reading novels so you can avoid noticing as your body atrophies from disuse and wishing every morning that you were not returning to a job you hate with all your being. There has to be more than this present avoidance of people and places whose strength makes me feel embarrassed by my comparative inadequacies and weaknesses. God, please, I don't want to do this forever. I don't want to do it now.

So I've begun thinking that maybe a pilgrimage would be good for me. Possibly this summer, or maybe the next. I wouldn't go alone- I'd definitely want at least one friend with me. So it'd be a good relationship deepening experience with both God and people as we push ourselves, struggle. Meeting people along the way (friends and strangers) that God intentionally brings into our path would be cool. I really like the idea of going to a place where Native peoples dialogue with each other and with Christ-followers (not that there aren't a significant number of people who are both already) about faith, healing, God, and the land. I'm willing to bet walking or biking from Calgary to Lac de St. Anne would also take a while (I'm guessing a month, at least) and put me in much better physical shape than what full-time studies has reduced me to. I could finally have the solitude, the quiet, the simplicity, the discipline and daily order so very lacking from my city life. Facebook is killing my soul:) I like the idea of temporarily protesting/ rejecting our culture's obsessions with working to acquire more wealth than we need, moving from one place to another at break-neck speeds without actually being present anywhere, and seeking happiness and comfort before everything else. I want to revolt. I want to be inefficient, uncomfortable, present, and inaccessible. Plus, I've always wanted to see the north. But not yet. I have studies to complete over the next 2 months. God told me they're important. Oh, the tensions of now and then, real and unreal, the possible and impossible. Stupid tensions.

Faces

"I see dead people. They're everywhere."- Cole Sear's confession to his Psychologist in The Sixth Sense. "There are dead things- dead faces in the water!" -Samwise Gamgee, traveling through the dead marshes in The Twin Towers. All the Lonely People by the Beatles I look at all the lonely people. I look at all the lonely people. Ella Marigby Picks up the rice in the church where her wedding has been; Lives in a dream. Waits at the window, Wearing a face that she keeps in a jar by the door. Who is it for? All the lonely people, where do they all come from? All the lonely people, where do they all belong? Father MacKenzie Writing the words of a sermon that no one will hear; No one comes near. Look at him working, Nodding his socks in the night when there's nobody there. What does he care? All the lonely people, where do they all come from? All the lonely people, where do they all belong? I look at all the lonely people. I look at all the lonely people. Ella Marigby Died in the church and was buried alone with her name. Nobody came. Father MacKenzie Wiping the dirt from his hands as he walks from her grave. No one was saved. All the lonely people, where do they all come from? All the lonely people, where do they all belong? Matthew 25:1-46 (The Sheep and the Goats). Verses 34-36 Then the King will say to those on his right, "Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me." Verses 41-43 Then the King will say to those on his left, "Depart from me, you who are cursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels. For I was hungry and you gave me nothing to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink, I was a stranger and you did not invite me in, I needed clothes and you did not clothe me, I was sick and in prison and you did not look after me." I am sure I have heard a sermon on this passage at least once a year every year of my life since I was born. No doubt they were all very well spoken- the passage and its meaning are not difficult to retrieve from the misty recesses of my memory. Then again, the Word of God is powerful no matter who speaks it. But it's haunting me now. Or rather, they're haunting me. The faces. The young man walking as quickly as he could towards the walk way over the river, hood up and looking down, trying to hide his face from passers-by. He was crying. Hard. He stunned me with the rawness of his hurt- a hurt so great he couldn't even hide it from the strangers he was trying so desperately to avoid. At first I continued my way in the opposite direction, but I got to the corner and felt compelled to go back. Are you okay? Can I pray for you? Where are you going? Is there anyone else in your life who can be with you through this? I followed him. He sped up. I started trotting. He started jogging. I followed him to the river pathway, then just watched to make sure he wasn't throwing himself off the bridge into the icey river below. He didn't. Deja vu. It was like passing and then following a male version of myself a couple months ago. Poor man. Not only was his heart and soul publicly broken, but in addition, when he's just trying to find solitude to heal in, some nosey woman starts stalking him. I let him be. I prayed someone he wouldn't be so creeped out by would find him and let him know God loves him and wants to heal him. A teen walking on the cross-over from a train station to the sidewalk. Repulsed of society: he was overweight, foreign, alone, dressed in a geeky track-suit, observably mentally retarded, and loudly moaning to himself. He walked with a limp, and his ankles were red with frost-bite. Why isn't he wearing socks? It's -30 degrees with wind-chill today. Where is his family? Where are his friends? Does he have any? Why is he moaning? Does he need help getting down the steps? I hurried past him, envisioning how I could ask if he needed assistance even as I rushed to the bottom of the stairs and continued on my way home, pretending he didn't exist like everyone else. It's hard to pray for someone when you're feeling guilty about failing to be the gospel incarnate you're asking God to bring them. A woman sitting on a bench in the mall. There's a walker in front of her- she seems a decade or two too young for it, but I guess poor health can hit anyone. She's frumpy-looking, and I wish I could take her shopping in this commercial mecca, then out for a manicure and hair-styling, and finally a fine dinner theatre experience where she can show it all off, to remind her that she's beautiful and loved. But it's her facial expression that literally stops me in my tracks. There is only one word to describe it: ANGUISH. She is in agony- physical, I think, probably connected to a spinal injury. Are you okay? You're sitting alone, with no shopping bags nearby, and it's almost time for the mall to close. Is anyone coming to get you? Why are you here? I stand in indecision. I don't want to embarrass her, but I don't want her to feel abandoned in her suffering by God and all of humanity. My friend has turned around and is looking back at me, wondering why I've stopped. We're here to buy my friend a ring to commemorate her newfound freedom from spiritual oppression in her life- a powerful event that occurred earlier this week while I was writing papers. The woman stretches with a trembling hand to a trendy young woman reading on the other side of the bench. She taps twice, until the girl cannot ignore the woman any more. The woman indicates a spot on her neck and the girl obliges her by feeling it. I decide that she has been taken care of and continue on with my friend. Later, we pass the woman again. The girl has gone back to her reading, and the woman is sitting alone, looking lost. I look at her and offer a friendly smile. I see you. You're not invisible. You matter. She does not, cannot, return the smile, drops her eyes to the ground, and begins the laborious process of rising to her feet. I kept walking with my friend, knowing I should have stopped. I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do (Romans 7:15). These are the faces of the weak, mine and theirs. The faces are everywhere. I feel them looking at me; searching, wanting, always needing more than I think I can give. On the c-train, when I go for walks, in my class, over the phone. I dread the calls from those same people when I'm at the DC. My silent questions are always the same: Are you okay? Where are your friends? Where is your family? They're nowhere. Unavailable or untrustworthy. And so, I'm forced to make inadequate referrals to therapists and help-lines they wouldn't need if there were just a handful of people in the world who cared how their day was, who would stand with them long enough to discover the names of the demons in their lives and then command them with the authority of Christ to leave. Acts 3:1-10 Verses 6 & 7. Then Peter said, "Silver or gold I do not have, but what I have I give you. In the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, walk." Taking him by the right hand, he helped him up, and instantly the man's feet and ankles became strong. The apostles (1) saw the crippled man, (2) stopped to talk to him, and (3) offered him physical healing through the power of Christ, so that the crippled man could be restored to his friends and family, able to be a part of society instead of sitting at its gate. So far, all I've got down is step one. Occassionally I get to step two. I want to get to step three. Why is it so hard? And why am I training so hard to become a psychologist when some good intercessory prayer is so much more effective? We've already been over this, Faye. You need an 'in'. People need bridges between science and spirituality, someone who can translate the language of faith in one to the other. I have called you to bridge, to walk in the no man's land between worlds where few tread. Remain in me... The Beatitudes (Matthew 5:3-10) by Jesus Christ Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted. Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth. Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled. Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy. Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God. Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called sons of God. Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Like Wine

Despite the catchy title, this post isn't really about wine. I try wine about once a year, usually at social gatherings, because it seems like an artsy, anciently historic, and sophisticated thing to do. I have failed to yet develop a liking for it, beer, ale, buttermilk, or coffee. The coffee I drink medicinally when I really need to stay awake for unnatural amounts of time to get school-work done. And, like medicine, it has some ugly side effects for me- 24 hour un-throw-upable stomach nausea topping the list. Alternatively, I suppose that particular symptom could also be from the poisonous artificial sweetener or the fat-free flavoured creamer I add to disguise the awful coffee taste...(And no, I don't know how it's possible for cream to be fat-free, anymore than I understand how it's possible to have sugar-free sugar. Please don't ask me, and please don't tell me if you know. I don't want to think about it too much. Oh wait, too late.) The point is: this post is actually about people and their interactions with each other. I had a sort of "Aha!" moment on my way to the c-train station this morning. It suddenly occurred to me that all people are both alcoholic beverages and alcoholic beverage drinkers (Yes, I'm aware that alcohol-drinkers are people too. I'm reading Gergen's The Saturated Self in class now so you'll likely see a separate rant on cultural meaning and mental health another time. Be quiet and focus on my analogy). People are like alcohol in that they come in different flavours and concentrations. Some flavours are immediately sweet and easy to like; others are bitter and require habituation and the right frame of mind to properly appreciate. Some concentrations are very low, impacting the drinker very little, and can therefore be taken in greater quantities before effects will become noticeable. Others are intensely concentrated, impacting the drinker immediately, and can only be handled in small quantities. Such people are intoxicating, and in the wake of their absorption they leave you feeling disoriented, uncoordinated, speech-impaired, and oh-so-very-happy-yet-guilty-at-the-same-time. People are drinkers in that everyone has different capacities for absorption and differing taste preferences. Like an alcohol tolerance, people have minimum and maximum bounds for comsuming and absorbing the interactions of a relationship. These limits are determined genetically, but the precise level of tolerance is set by circumstance and experience. As with taste preferences, there are some "flavours" or characteristics of people that tend to be appealing to nearly everyone. In food, sweetness is pretty much universally liked because this is a sign to our brains that what we're eating is in fact edible and not poisonous or useless. In people, things like facial symmetry, a sense of humour, and trustworthiness are generally considered attractive traits. Okay, enough of the social psychology- I'm more of a personality psychology fan. I'll throw off this defensive intellectualization and explain. I have a puzzle, which I'm going to work through as I write, so readers beware. I have been taught that personality traits are mostly stable across the life span. Experiences can shift them along their spectrums, but usually not all that far. One personality trait considered foundational to many personality psychologists is the introversion-extroversion scale. A person is said to be high in introversion when he or she does a lot of cognitive/emotional processing internally and generally feels his or her energy renewed from time alone. On the opposite end of the spectrum, extroverts feel refreshed/renewed when engaged with others and tend to do a lot of their cognitive/emotional processing out loud in conversations with others. The theory explaining these differences holds that introverts are somewhat more sensitive to stimulation from the social environment around them because they are already dealing with plenty of information about their own state of being inside. In contrast, extroverts are not as self-conscious and therefore crave the stimulation that comes from those around them. If you want to go back to my alcoholic analogy, introverts are sort of like drinkers with no enzymes to break down alcohol and not a lot of body mass- a little gets absorbed fast and does a lot quickly. Extroverts are more like experienced drinkers with genes to break down alcohol- it takes more than 2 to make a dent. I maintain that I am more introverted than extroverted. I feel much happier and able to relate if the social context is limited to (a) close family and friends I know well already and who know me and (b) very small groups or one-on-one exchanges with strangers or aquaintances. The intensity of the individual person(s) I'm with also impacts this, but not always and that is what puzzles me. None of my best friends or siblings are people I could describe as "mild". You see, I'm an addict for intense personalities. I love people who are who they are. I delight in people who demonstrate fearlessness, but there aren't a lot of those and I value genuineness more than the performance of someone who appears to have everything together. Although personality psychologists maintain that married couples ought to have complementary personalities so that each dyad-member's weaknesses are compensated for and strengths put to the greatest use, social psychologists point out that we also tend to prefer friends and spouses who are very similar to ourselves. So what does that make me? Functionally speaking, I'm the mild one. People spend time with me to relax, to unwind, to heal. Just call me tranquility personified. My very presence enables ADHD children to stay asleep at night; neurotic and incensed women to stop abusing their offensive children/strangers/parents or significant other; and anxious individuals to speak at a pace and pitch identifiable as human instead of squirrel. I'm okay with messiness-I have my own flaws and weaknesses to bear; I don't expect anyone else to be perfect either. I find joy in calling out the best in others so the weaknesses don't seem so important. But I don't feel mild. Just because other people's crises don't appear to phase me at the time doesn't mean they don't cost me, or that I don't hurt when they hit me hard. Five hours of talking to strangers about their life issues wears me out. Particularly if it was a shift full of high risk or even just identity-transformative calls, I'll need as many as 3 hours of strict solitude to wind down afterwards, to sift, sort, and release all the thoughts and emotions that have built up. Hanging out with my best friends continuously is something I can do for a max. of 2 days straight before I start to shut down and withdraw into silence. The more chaotic or intense the situation or person, the more I need to draw on space and silence to respond intelligently. So really it's not that I myself am an ocean of tranquility for people to wash in, I'm just something of a garbage collector with a refurbishing/recycling side-business who knows where to put things other people don't know what to do with. God is the cleansing ocean, Christ the dump for our crap we don't know what to do with, the Holy Spirit the freshwater source for all healing and renewal. I guess it's the inpredictability of the situation and individual that I find most difficult to deal with. I'm okay if I have a plan, if I remember where, when, and how to release my own burdens and those I relieve other people of. I'm okay if I can hide. In most of the places where I encounter strangers or acquaintances, there are pre-set rules of etiquette and complementary, mutual roles to be played out. I don't have to decide on the spot how to deal with the situation- I already have guidelines to work with. When I play soccer, I prefer defense because I can see the whole field and respond to the plays instead of having to invent them. When I answer calls at the DC, I follow the general protocals set out by my training and don't have to worry about future encounters- we won't recognize each other on the street and anonymity means that I have no further responsibility to the people I talk to when the call ends. School has its own student rules/roles, and my current church is possibly as ritualized in social patterns as c-train ridership. I've very adept at avoiding eye contact in those places so I don't have to engage, don't have to know what people are thinking and feeling and feel responsible for them. You will note my tolerance for close friends or family members is greater than my tolerance for strangers (2 days versus 5 hours, respectively). Even the incredibly intense (*cough* Melanie) or spontaneous (*cough, cough* Chasey and Nolan) ones don't overwhelm me as quickly because I know them well enough and we have enough of an established history together to respond appropriately to them. We have our own ceremonies, our own commonly held language, and I can fall into those relational movements and meanings as automatically as I can tie my shoelaces or do up my coat zipper. In fact, their familiarity is so comforting that I crave it as much as solitude. In contrast, the situations I hate the most are ones where I'm expected to make snap decisions based on minimal information. These include social situations where there are a lot of people I don't know well and there is no organized activity to bind us together. Situations where my relationship to others, and the roles I am to play, are ambiguous. Parties frequently fit under this category. Acquaintances at parties are actually worse for me to deal with than strangers because the relationship's direction and quality are ambiguous. With strangers I just start at the beginning (i.e. "Hi, I'm Faye. What's your name? What are you up to in life- job/school? hobbies? How are you liking this weather?") but with aquaintances I feel lost in the misty space between here and there: "Are we at a place in our relationship where we can talk about _____ or is that too personal? Did I just give out waaaay too much information? What were they looking for when they asked how I was doing? What the duece did they mean when they said ____?" It's just too much information to sort through at once. My defense in such situations is to retreat into my own silence, a sort of cave from which I can watch and learn the social territory and its rules and plan out an appropriate course through them. This strategy just doesn't work when the law of the land calls for immediate engagement. Practical application of what I've learned about myself today: what personality traits and individual characteristics do I really want to be the same and different from my own in a future spouse? Do I seek the intensity I crave, whose being is a shot of Bailey's, even though the relationship building process would make me a veritable drunkard and likely be self-defeating? Or do I accept the willing, comfortable tameness of the Bacardi cooler, still sweet, I can drive myself home and not get a ticket for intoxication? Do I agree with the statement: "Without addictions, we die"? Do I believe in all-or-nothing gambling? God, I just don't know.

Enough

What do we mean when we say we've had enough? I've had enough school. And by 'enough,' I mean: enough of reading, writing, thinking, sitting, and endless functional but superficial communication; and enough of getting nowhere near enough sleep, exercise, out-doors, or quality time with God, friends, and family. I've had enough of compulsive, swirling, obsessive, compounding, fragmented thoughts that won't let me concentrate or rest. I've had enough of not being enough, of not getting enough done. I've had enough. A Meditation on Candles Peace calls to me, and Melanie pushes me towards it, suggesting 'meditation'. I'm desperate. Today I'll try something new: "Bringing every thought captive..." Dave's verse. Today it's mine. "Expand my territory..." Jabez' prayer. Not my will be done but thine. "The Kingdom of Heaven is like..." well, candles. Even tea lights give off enough heat to burn your hands if they hover too close too long. Every candle has its circle of influence- a quietly advancing lake deeper, wider. The signs of wax breaking down are feeble and inconsistent at first: just sporadic droplettes here and there that become here and here and here and here; connecting to their neighbours until none is left behind. They've all melted together. Breathe in. Green is the theme today. Three different citrus tea lights that came in a jar of tranquilitea, compliments of Tachae. In addition, a friendly pistachio-coloured pot of 'candied pears,' a gift from Danielle Devore I thought I'd never use; now, Comforting Warmth soak into my soul. My mind is a blizzard of ash angry and chaotic and damaging like a volcano instead of the blizzard out-side- cold and fierce and cleansing. So burn. Tumerous thoughts wash away, melt away. Melt away. Breathe out. John says: "Jesus breathed on his disciples" before his ascent- "a blessing". We generally avoid being breathed on. Breath is stinky, wet, contagious, a violation of our personal space. Maybe we need to be violated to be blessed. God is never described as 'nice' in the bible. Probably because 'nice' implies 'polite'. God isn't polite. Good, yes, but not polite. Politeness requires staying within the confines of a society's norms, rituals, rules of living. But God exists out-side of society, before society, and after. He is the outer edge- wild, like flame; and infitismally small- intimate and foundational, like droplettes of wax and heated gas particles, rising unseen. God, I have read about you with the reading of the eyes. But now I smell you; therefore, I release myself and I will burn as wax and ashes. For it is no longer I who live, but Christ lives in me. Breathe on me, God. I'm tired of listening to fears. Warm my face, lion of Judah, with your dragon's breath. Replace my heart of stone with a heart of flesh. The lakes grow deeper. 'Sucker green' is a translucent pool; only a small crescent isle holds out from turning clear to the bottom. The centre light takes her time, melting evenly all the way around. Olive green rim streams into lemon, with a dark metal plate in the centre beneath: she is an eye. To the left: 'Sucker Yellow' pool with a pastel crescent, not as far along as Green, but Yellow is burning steadily nonetheless. Finally, the Pear: wick off-centre, she carves a slippery-walled cavern on one hand and signs her carbon-print signature on the other. Dancing in whispers green, yellow-green, and yellow reflected on the gentle contours of my friendly pistachio-coloured Mrs. Potts. Damn. Breathed out too hard. The dark green is now simply dark. There is sorrow- a candle should be lit. There is salvation- Christ is the light of the world; he will re-start it and keep re-starting it until its task is finished and everything it was has been freed. Into the atmosphere... and beyond! But not alone; Particles like to congregate- that is how the stars, sun, moon, and planets were formed. Birth, death, re-birth: that is the way of the cosmos, until such time as God says, "Enough." In Stumbling on Happiness we see that after we leave abject poverty more money does not make us more happy. Just seek enough. That's enough. Blow out the candles and go eat lunch with Mel- just enough to satisfy. I am satisfied. Thanks, God.

Picture

I love this picture. I really wish it was mine. It's not. Someone in New Brunswick took it.