Monday, November 18, 2013
a mechanic raised a boy and the boy became a fisherman. the fisherman raised a boy and the boy became a mechanic. the mechanic raised a boy and that boy became a scholar. the scholar went home and saw his father and his grandfather and his great-granfather had seemingly never questioned anything outside the world immediate. he was furious with them. so the scholar raised a boy and the boy became a minister and went off to hebrew university to study. when the boy came back to his father, they had a long scholarly talk about universal truths. the scholar asked the boy what he'd learned in university. the boy said, "i learned how to fix my own car and to fish."
My choir teacher used to say, "if you're gonna mess up, MESS UP LOUD!" so, we did! and we'd all look at each other and laugh when we messed up and we'd keep going and we'd work thru it, but we were a team and that mentality grew us. here's why. when you are afraid to mess up, you hold back. but when mistakes become unimportant, you can run, full tilt! and when you practice at full tilt, you will perform at FULL TILT! winning competitions was a no brainer for our little choir. we won everything! we took our performances to another level entirely! yes, practice makes perfect, but only when you relax and go all out. so today, be unafraid. GO FOR IT! and when you mess up, MESS UP LOUD! the mind will correct the foibles if you are easy on yourself, and the outcomes are limitless when you finally get out of your own way!
Sunday, March 17, 2013
i remember the 8th grade, paper letters to carla, and how careful i was to craft them; afraid of saying too much for fear i'd be stuck, dark, nervous, frantic, waiting on the mail for relief, hoping what i had written would be well received, knowing the earth turned slowly and that an out of town football game might soon well come before her sweet, pale yellow perfumed correspondences. it was 20 miles from clarksville to ozark. we would kiss behind the band buses and she would talk about my letter. she was kind. and even if we'd said everything there was to say there in ozark, she always always wrote back.
Thursday, February 28, 2013
Last night at coffee, Paul Dewayne said it was the ritual he was addicted to not the activity of puffing smoke. Jack walked by and we visited a moment. I remembered how we are not alone. I remembered the Fall and my deciduous choices.
When you speak out loud you offer the opportunity for correction and reproving, refining and redefining. The world does not conform itself to the flats of solitude. It pours itself thru that glass very darkly and only in the globe of warmth and rebuke can that mirrored reflection finally stand beside you and hold light.
I walked to my car and thought about design and what holds true about God's reasons to daily rescue me. Still why would he? And how? I drove home. And then, I looked on the sofa table and heard the sound of my own voice. A ritual. He can use a ritual.
Before bed, buddy and I walk out the front door most evenings and do a quick business in the yard. The rain and sleet were especially cold two nights ago while Nashville continued to make up its weather never-you-mind. I noticed the flowers blooming in the yard. They were goners. My heart loved them went out to them and i wanted them with me in the spring of my own house. There was no time to put on my coat. And now, they will live a week in this window, God's very heart for me is realized and revered in my own compassion for the mere, and today we are blooming, rescued and alive.
Friday, February 22, 2013
building the fleet with my nephew, i thought: if you wanna build something, anything, first go back and start with a paper airplane. go slow, fold on purpose and thumb the corners like you mean them; like you love them; like you lose time touching a face or sitting in an open field. ease the creases as they line up, and gently marry the seems. breathe and breathe life into your work and everything worth building after that should carry the self-same similitude.
hold the weight of this in earnest and nothing will finally become nothing; the thing of value will find fervor; and salt will never again be wasted on fruitless endeavors.
(photo by jP 14.20.o13)
Sunday, February 10, 2013
There is the sun; back there somewhere,
in rain today and a world of refracted-grey light
and Nashville is covered in filters.
Martins are as black as Memphis
and everything is an illusion and a silhouette.
What is it about quiet that looks so much like still pictures?
What is it that draws me out of my stone and puts me forward in,
being to the middle of it just as black?
My perception of myself is only my own.
The tree falls and no one hears.