Painting with words

I have fifteen minutes to write something amazing before I'm back on duty.

Here I sit in my room of blue. I don't know which is my favorite room in this house, but I certainly love this one with its blue stained walls. It's one of the two end rooms which means it has windows facing ocean and bay and the cross breeze is beautiful. I think I have slept best this year with 3 cozy blankets. Most years I am far too hot.

The fans are off now and I can hear the ocean waves making their way to shore. I can hear the cry of a gull, but I can also hear the traffic on the boulevard. I've already written about the traffic. It is not noisome and annoying like some traffic might be, but it is the sound of people on vacation. Coming and going. It makes me cheerful to think of people arriving here.

But my attention goes back to the window on my right. The horizon is so straight. Blue on blue. Light against dark. It's like someone cut two sheets of blue and carefully pasted them together so the line was as crisp as can be. Beneath the vast expanse of sky blue lies the gentle sea blue. As vast as the ocean is it cannot measure up to how vast the sky. Smaller still are the two rolling dunes with their splashes of green. These were not cut with straight shears, rather hand-ripped paper to achieve the bumpy hills and sporadic grass, layering dark greens over the sandy mounds to create the piney bushes.

One minute left. Words are slipping away with the time. I must run. But I shall return.

Rambling rain

Describe all the things. Weave in and out of nonsense and poetic writing if you have to, but write. Every once in awhile I fall upon something I actually like. Too often I don't like what I write, but I can't even begin to like it if I don't first write it. So I will write and it doesn't matter if it's good or bad.

The window is moving. It's crawling with rain. Crawling isn't the right word, but I don't know what the right word is. The glass itself looks like it is perpetually flowing and yet the glass stays firm and it its place. The birds don't seem to mind the rain. I can see them circling the dunes, riding the wind currents home. Or perhaps they are being pushed violently away from their homes. They are all floating the same direction. There are strong gusts of winds. I can hear it whistling through cracks and whipping around the corners.

Why is it that I would much rather talk talk talk? Describe a conversation rather than describe the weather or my surroundings?

Maybe it's not worth analyzing. I just need to strengthen different writing muscles.

I love this weather. It doesn't make me sad. It makes me feel cozy and comforted. I'm enjoying being in a brightly lit kitchen looking out on the wind and rain.

Weak. I don't love this writing. But I don't have to. The end.

Looking toward the shore

There is nothing more lovely than sitting on the beach in the early morning, hearing nothing but the Lord’s wind and waves. I love that peace. I often sit with His Word. Sometimes just holding it for a while, feeling prayers before I open and read.

The beach is my favorite place to be alone. I just want to sit in the near perfect silence with only the roar of the waves, the morning birds and the breeze. I hear the Lord’s voice in the roaring of the waves and I picture looking out over the waves at my Human God, holding out His arms, welcoming me into His embrace.

There is nothing so perfect as that morning peace… unless it be holding a baby. Picking up a sad child and having her nestle into you arms in comfort, and immediately fill your arms and heart. That soft puddingy weight as they melt into your arms in trust.

I don’t like comparing myself to my Savior God, or putting myself in His place, and yet we are meant to emulate Him. And He compares Himself to a mother hen gathering in her chicks. He IS our Father. So wondering at the tiniest bit of what He must feel when we come to Him must not be too bad.

The open arms over the sea inviting me in. I long for that feeling of comfort that an innocent child feels when they melt into the safety of someone’s loving arms; the feeling in my heart when a baby’s head rests against it.

I wonder if I will ever feel that safety and that comfort and that sense of belonging; to feel completely safe with someone, to feel that deep feeling of peace.

I think the closest I come is when I am kneeling at the Holy Supper railing in the cathedral, very close to the open Word, tasting the bread and the wine, feeling the Lord’s hands on my head as I hear the words “The Lord bless you and keep you. The Lord make His face to shine upon you. The Lord lift up His countenance upon you, and give you peace.” The words are whispered to me in a promise, and for that moment I feel the Lord’s love on my heart, and I believe in everything that He promises me. I feel safe, loved, wanted, needed. In short, I feel like a real human, created in the image and likeness of God.

I wish I felt that more often. I wish I could hold on to that feeling.

It’s unlovely and scary, but I guess the way for Holy Supper to feel lasting is to examine myself more, and remove the evils standing in my way. Repentance is the way to the Lord.

“The saying of God came to John the son of Zacharias in the wilderness. And he came into all the countryside of Jordan, preaching the baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins, as it is written in the book of the words of Isaiah the prophet, saying, The voice of one crying in the wilderness, Prepare ye the way of the Lord; make His paths straight.” Luke 3:2-4

It is through repentance that we prepare the way for the Lord in our lives. I can approach Him, and feel close in the Holy Supper, but it won’t be a lasting feeling of living in Him unless I choose to actually live my life in Him, and that is only possible through repentance.