Thursday, November 15, 2012

i ain't here to do anything half-way

November 2011
I fail to comprehend how anyone could make their way through life without coming face-to-face with the inevitable and not entirely welcome truth that we are broken. Completely crippled. How can we fail to register the fact that we are totally and utterly helpless before the all-ness of the world? We lack the strength. We’re not strong enough. I’m not strong enough at all. 

All we have to do is keep our wits about us and never forget our senses of humor. 

I peer up into the starry night. The stars are hidden by a veil of rain and a blockade of clouds. That blockade challenges my own façade. I whisper to the invisible stars: I can’t do this. As my heart beats, it echoes again and again: I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. I’m weak. I’m weak. I’m weak. Sometimes twenty years feels like a thousand. But sometimes it weighs on her shoulders like the passing of a sunset. Being twenty is no different than being two. Being human isn’t relegated to a specific age. 

She’s so busy being free. 
The world opens up at my door in a bright blue haze of wonder and excitement and glamorous mysteries to be uncovered. There is a world of everything out there. And I want to see it all. Taste it all. Hug everything. Soak it all in and make it mine. Name it, see it, love it, be a part of it. 
What we lack is passion.
We are too content with the milquetoast, and ignore our souls’ desire for the epic and the beautiful. 
We lack Appetite. Insatiable and sensuous appetite for beauty. Beauty that adorns every corner of the world, including ourselves. 
Human beings—works of art—masterpieces crafted with inestimable and inexplicable love by the Master Artist.
--900 Ways to Kill a Canary

November 2012
God and I had a little tête-à-tête.
When life is getting the best of you, it's best to just go to the Author of life and have a mini editorial meeting.
I looked right at Him and said: 'kay, dude, this had better be good
I continued: I think I could've thought up a few alternate plot lines. So thanks for consulting me on that...oh wait. Just kidding. You didn't. (hashtag hubris. I'm only human, peeps.)

Once I released my little fit of teenage angst. I snuggled down into some fall leaves and looked at the blue sky peeking through the foggy clouds. Such a perfect image.
Darn it.
You know how to melt my heart so well, I said, ugh, so annoying. All it takes is well-timed sunset, or a squirrel running up to me and putting its little paws so trustingly on my hand, or dazzling constellations floating in the sky on a clear night.
 I groaned the groans of a child who knows they've lost an argument: Stop that. Stop it right now. Too much beauty.
Serves me right for trying to argue with a master artist.
An artist who has created a masterpiece know that the most important part is the large scope of the art--the overall arc must be brilliant and beautiful: full of life and passion, and the grandest of emotions. 
But the other most important part is the smallest detail: making sure that each leaf is perfectly fashioned and painted just right. Timing entrances and exits down to the smallest precision, watching all the little small puzzle pieces--so uniquely and intricately shaped-- fall into place.

This adventure is not the one I signed up for. But it's the one I've been given. I could never have thought of it; I would never have imagined it. But that's beautiful. That's why it's so beautiful: I only realize as I live the unfolding adventure that of course it's the right one. It couldn't happen any other way.
Because how else would I be able to shed my jealousy, or grow in wisdom, lose my naïveté, learn how to give from my vulnerabilities, from my nothingness, to love someone without words, but just with the Word, learn what it feels like to be so tangibly held in the arms of prayer, to learn how to rely on those brothers and sisters who disappoint us, to give of oneself even when misunderstood, to learn the wisdom of silence, and the importance of being honest, even when it stings like hydrogen peroxide. 

How else could I have discovered what it's like to uncover a little bit of Joy, opening up a breathing space in pain, a Joy whose happiness is richer, deepened, transfigured into something more precious and tender because of sorrow.

How could I have discovered how to have patience, how to love despite hurt and disappointment and fear, how else could I learn to slowly uncurl my fists and let the water fill them--fill them to the point of overflowing.

Chalk this up to a success for the Master Artist. I guess He sort of maybe kind of knows what He's doing. He reminds me of that each day with each perfectly arranged detail. 
Because it's in the details that I see so clearly the love.

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