13 Nov 2004

Sometimes, we decide that it is not worth the bother. It speaks much of us just when we decide that that is the case in something we do, or take care of. I look at the world, and then I wonder at God, thinking about just this consideration. The infinitesimal detail of all that exists, for we are made of smaller parts, and those of smaller parts still, all in some sort of elaborate harmonics that make us and everything else be and do: there is no end to the intricacy of what has been created. For all that is, God decided that it was all of it worth the bother, the most trivial of trivialities; all of even the most useless (seemingly) things have no lack of complexity to them. This is what is meant by the creation speaking of its creator, more than all the words ever written, and all I might do is point a feeble finger at what I see of this profound and mighty universe.

posted by John H. Doe @ 1:07 am

12 Nov 2004

I watch the marks that tell of the passage of time. I watch what was wounded heal, what was fresh turn sour, what was a dream emerge into being. I watch the towers of man fall, the arenas of man fill, the folly of man laid waste. I watch the stars move across the sky, the moon turn its phases, the clouds brush what is above clean. But nowhere do I imagine that the earth and sea tell me that they ever remember all the things that pass, for it is not theirs to keep anything from the withering of time. It is to us that is given the memory, to keep alive the things that die, to keep the colors bold of the things that fade, to stop time within the sphere of our reckoning. I watch the marks that tell of the passage of time, and lo, if not our eyes, there will always be eyes that watch. There will always be a dream that remembers.

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:04 am

11 Nov 2004

Shine

The dawn argues away the clouds,
becomes emphatically bright and gold
in the far distance of wonder
from an ordinary life and its rays are close
like the wonder of an ordinary life (we
are blinded by the trees of habit
planted by Good Intent — we thought
they were flowers, once).

Life is not what it is:
what we feel is not what we feel,
what we see is not what we see,
what we say is not what we say,
what we want is not what we want.
Parallel to every scheme’s run
is the angel which pulls the string
that we believe no string
is being pulled.

And calmly, thoroughly, the
five fleeting moons of our dreams
wait
to see with which one, distraught voice
we will to birth another infant night.

In death, I think, every soul
who begs to be free
must discover twelve senses,
twelve different rhymes of doubt
to clear the soul of self-deception.
Else, the cages of fascination
repeal the faith of this, our generation,
and we sink into the light
until we are blind — Hell
is the action of ourselves left to ourselves
without an intervening World.
And Heaven
is the darkness God called Night
solid with stars.

Instructions to the Lost are woven
in the cry of the eagle,
in the symmetry of the snowflake,
in the thrash of the lightning,
and in the invisible caress of the breeze —
and the architecture of a sunset sky,
its grand brimming of golds and silvers,
emblazons into our essential selves
the solemn promise of another day.

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:03 am

9 Nov 2004

Of fire, of light, of thunder: my God is a God of holy passion: I have known Him to the infinitesimal, all that my soul could bear, and forgotten all but His mystery. To comprehend an aught fraction of Him is to know all that has ever happened, all that is, all of destiny to be, and yet still not understand the essence of why He is as He is. “I AM,” He said, and no two words ever wrapped themselves around so much power, nor were ever so ineffable. And I, this poor traveler on a quest to discover his mere self: I beseech You for mercy I do not deserve, knowing You have given me everything and asked back only for the fumbling that is my love.

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:07 am

8 Nov 2004

Somewhere in me is a purpose that is larger than me, that greater voices have evoked, that from a vial of hopes has been stirred into my liquid soul.

Somewhere in me is a strength I have never used, and God help me if I ever need to call upon it, a will from above, that which cannot be defeated.

Somewhere in me is a vision of an unseen world, and it is these things which are eternal, for all things that are seen shall have an end, and shall pass away.

Somewhere in me is a dream that is older than me, which I have become a part of, like entering a grand river coursing through time.

Somewhere in me is a place that is home, which I carry with me, for we are never at rest unless we are content in our own skins.

Somewhere in me is a quiet more solemn than the silence of a multitude, where nothing of this world may disturb me, where I listen for God.

Somewhere in me is love, and this is the most mysterious: I can never quite put my finger on what it is, but it is the surest thing that I ever had.

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:03 am

6 Nov 2004

We never become truly spiritual by sitting down and wishing to become so. You must undertake something so great that you cannot accomplish it unaided.

– Phillips Brooks

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:11 am

Who shall it be remembered of this now generation?
What van Gogh is hidden from us, to be found at close of the age?
And what happens of the van Gogh who is never discovered?

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:07 am

5 Nov 2004

Something is about to happen. I do not know where destiny’s source lies, or even from where this feeling comes, but within my marrow is an unsettled anticipation: for I know not what it is, but something approaches. Whatever the signs I have a tune to in my intuition, there is a certain air to this hour, a pregnant inbreath before a strong wind will blow, a herringbone sky before a hard rain. Expect the unexpected — as if you could, as if you would not still be surprised. Or perhaps I know nothing. As with anything, one might frame a perspective, for I would not take these as words of some prophet. I am just some fool who believes he perceives, and perhaps I reach beyond myself. If something does come, though, be not of demeanor that says you were not forewarned. Something draws to open, and I am someone to say I told you so.

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:02 am

4 Nov 2004

You can take it with you. It’s easy. Give it all away.

posted by John H. Doe @ 5:47 am

What is a heart? It is, I think, something as fragile and profound as a single candle in the darkness. Each heart is a candle against the world. And if there is no other light, let it be said that even one candle can serve as the focus of a multitude within the deepest black. One candle may serve as a guiding beacon through the thickets of the night. The catch: if you do not see a candle ahead of you, then you are that lone candle. You may be the one who must discover the trail.

What then? It never ceases to amaze those who discover the secret: try. Surprise yourself. Be kind, if nothing else. Ours is to impart such a treasure, this thing we call kindness. In spite of the overarching cruelty of the world, people have been able to perform this wonderful idea. A kind word here, a kind gesture there — some change in the pockets of those who have nothing — and that so, we find something quite precious in ourselves. It is not always easy to keep a candle lit, but it might amaze those who do how profound a light even a single candle may be.

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:01 am

2 Nov 2004

Tones

The stones here speak in tones
too ancient to perceive.
Let us say things happen. When it rains,
its rhythmless percussion,
whispers sometimes fall
from skies dreams cannot climb.
And I imagine the light
the clouds shed as snow: this winter,
the mountains shall swallow the sun,
and come spring, the thaw
shall pour molten sunbeams.
And things still happen.
When it rains, I shall run driven
by a wordless calling:
and the mathematics of this fever
in motion shall be no burden
to the wings at my heels….
Too, I imagine time
as one endless silver wheel,
and even a galaxy in rhythm with
the pulse of God, in its huge, yawning arc,
holds but a single fate. Things
always happening. The rain stops,
and light flutters in, the timelessness
fleeter than thought: and of that
which is in us (for we are mixed
of above and below),
I say, one side you have heard,
but now the other: as time turned
from now to now,
from light we were made,
and to light we shall return.
And it will happen everywhere.

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:11 am

1 Nov 2004

The righteous perisheth, and no man layeth it to heart: and merciful men are taken away, none considering that the righteous is taken away from the evil to come.

[Isaiah 57:1]

I’m not going to say too much here, for this quote is a real thinker by itself. This is a hint, a clue to the mystery of why some things happen, and for which we question whether God exists, or is good. Isaiah is telling us as only a prophetic vision can that there is a plan to the most senseless of happenings, of why it may happen that good people die and villains live on. This is the best of what the eyes of faith may see….

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:02 am

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