Movement

There are treasures here that constantly save our lives. Some float on the surface and yet, many you have to dig for. They permeate every layer of humanity's infrastructure, they are found in what is good. We don't find when we don't look... We don't repair when we don't move.

When we wallow, which is such a strange phenomenon to me (because I do it), we are essentially undoing and dismantling, taking a sledge hammer to all of our hard work and perseverance, disengaging our support systems. We can come back, though, recover from almost anything. I do not believe that the "self-made man" is either self-made or happy, but I do believe in defibrillation that is self-made, self-induced, and all too, very lifesaving. I find the electricity in music, in little children being silly, in dancing alone in my living room when I can't help it, in a large meal with a lot of people talking and being together, in being under the ocean, in travel to where I do not speak the language. Why do I forget? Why do I ever set the paddles down?

Since we have been justified through faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ, through whom we have gained access by faith into this grace by which we now stand.

And we rejoice in the hope of the glory of God.

Not only so, but we also rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that

suffering produces perseverance;

perseverance, character;

and character, hope.

And hope does not disappoint us,

because God has poured out his love into our hearts by the Holy Spirit, whom he has given us.

All The Time Awake

Many moments pass in which I try to imprint this particular feeling or that particular event somewhere on the plane of my soul, wishing my soul were a plane and I could never forget, never let the significance or beauty fall away like it seems to do. I feel more like I am reading a book, a novel that romanticizes my every mundane move with articulate language and by simply including each normal detail as if it weren't also happening to everyone else. Everyday is course correction, talking to ourselves like we were teaching a child how to maneuver the chaos and savor the good. I never have had dreams of traffic, though, if I did one night I think that might do me over. We are always in the stuff. Everywhere each is moving forward at high speeds incased in such easily damageable shells, heavy with precious cargo, late and speeding, tired and distracted, ready to be where we are going. When we land, we soon do it all over.

The day my innocence was over was the day I learned the word monotony. It came from our literature, fifth grade reading material my favorite primary school teacher was getting us through aloud, a sort of calming tool after recess. We'd bounce our legs and mess with the pencils inside our desks while listening to the voice we heard for more hours of the day than we'd spend with our parents. I wish I could remember the book. He read past the word, a few sentences, and stopped, defined it for us, then continued, leaving us--those of us who weren't tortured and distracted by what would later be considered the ADHD epidemic-- scathed and old.

We never really learn to escape tedium. Slowly stress and semi-manic concerns are added to us, each with its own consequence for disobedience or tardiness... or worse: mistakes. I haven't figured out if the good becomes more real and beautiful as each straw is added to our backs.... as each wrinkle added to our face, each scar to our flesh. Perhaps beauty is more beautiful when coupled with youth and naivety. Then it is so easy to enjoy, but even more easy to take for granted. But it must also grow with age, with experience... with hurt. We do not function in or understand time when good was good before bad. Bad is how we know her converse. Pain is how we know pleasure. Maybe monotony is why I dream.