A Perceptible Abstract

The pages of The Secret Speech begin with the imminent destruction of a church in Moscow. I don't yet know the context behind this. The first characters are apprehensive, conflicted, and have no way out of participating and witnessing the event. The crowds in the area have a different notion.

As I do when reading - I interrupted myself with thought.

I pictured scenes from the Ireland, Middle East, Africa, and Selma, Alabama. Destroying areas of worship has a far more profound reach than neighborhoods and business districts - not in the loss of life, but rather a deep loss of self. As for the human population goes - we can create more, and we can rebuild. But, sacred areas can never be restored. Sacred spaces are one of a kind. Original. They are like Tibetan Sand Mandalas, the minutes ticking by - all of which will never exist and be experienced again. No other human, nor sunrise or sunset will ever grace the walls - trees- sands and earth. It's a far more significant loss to the individual than it is to the whole of the group.

Well, that's enough ramblings for now. I return to page 5 and finish chapter one.

-- (c)deyanira.

Jesus on a Greyhound, Shelby Lynne

I was on my way to somewhere to the Mexicali sand
A man sat down beside me, he had scars upon his hands
He told me some stories - I told him some lies
Light shone through my darkness, cast shadows from my mind

His eyes they looked right through me
Oh I knew he carried weight
Something real was going down that day
Oh I told him I'm a sinner

He said that's o.k.
I'm not here to change you anyway
He was gone when I turned around
Was it Jesus - Jesus on a Greyhound

Oh we talked about the world gone bad
The troubles we had seen
We talked about the dirt
Brown shoes he wore on his feet

He said I'm tired and weary
I've been riding a long way
Let me rest my eyes now
Let me drift away

He acted Like he knew me
Then he fell asleep
I had no More secrets
I could keep

Oh I told him I'm a sinner
He said that's o.k.
I'm not here to change you anyway

He was gone when I turned around

Was it Jesus - Jesus on a Greyhound
And I'll rise again
Ain't no power on earth can keep me down

And I'll rise, I'll rise again
Oh ain't no death can keep me in the ground
Was that Jesus

Songwriters: Glen Ballard / Shelby Lynne

Jesus on a Greyhound lyrics © Universal Music Publishing Group, Kobalt Music Publishing Ltd., The Bicycle Music Company

Untitled Cross-Over

My favorite poem of all time has just eight lines. It is filled with expectation, grief, and anxiety. I memorized it immediately and connected to the illustration. I thought about it again. Recited the lines--well, four of them and it made me think.

We don't get what we want. EVER. We get the result of what we do. ALWAYS.

Sometimes, we want a thing so badly we do whatever we think it takes to get it. The cost is irrelevant because all we see and experience is the void we desperately work to fill. It is a kind of downfall, I think now. To try so hard to be someone we aren't. To try so hard to attract the people with think we are supposed to be surrounded by. To [work] so hard not to see ourselves for who we are: hurt, broken, healing, healed, unsure, able, confident, scared...

We are our worst enemy.We are our worst critic.We are the only ones that can really hurt us.

I am struggling to understand how he is more damaged than me. How his pain runs deeper than mine. How, despite the similarities in circumstances, he is struggling to find peace within himself. I refuse to accept he is beyond growth and healing.

Do you hear that? Compassion. Still.

-- (c)deyanira.

"What a Day" written by Shel Silverstein // image found on Pinterest

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// "Oh, What a Day" originally posted, here. 

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Dear Reader, 

I meant to tell you about today. I can't articulate; it's all just a bunch of confusing emotions. I hope you found this cross-post thought-provoking. It's from the other blog, the one that is all about Him. Anyway, these words are fitting today. 

-dv-

Night Writer (pronounced Knight Rider)

The Starry Night
Vincent van Gogh 1889

Sleepless nights are nothing new. They've plagued me since childhood. At slumber parties, I typically was the last one to fall asleep. How did I know, you ask? Because the conversations would slowly come to an end amid snores and heavy breathing from a bunch of kids. At home, I'd lay awake in darkness. Not allowed to read or write into the early morning hours, I'd entertain myself by imagining all sorts of things, places, people, books I'd read, and movies I'd seen. As you can believe, and possibly even experience yourself - mornings were challenging to welcome.

Usually.

As an adult, mornings are not rough to greet, even on a few hours of sleep. There comes the point in the quite and still night when the mind awakens (in a state of delirium - I'm sure of it). There is no way anything productive could come out of that state. Yet, it was during those early hours in the cool of the night, under stars, and a bright moon did I write through salty tears. I used to keep a collection of everything I wrote in a box. All colors, and scraps of paper, cursive, print, pen, pencil, or crayon. 

The Scream
Edvard Munch, 1893 

I remember, the need to be surrounded by them - the words. Once Father brought a computer into the house I'd print them. Add clip art. Center the lines of text. Tape the pages on the walls of my bedroom. Before that, once I was sure what the poem is, or phrases or lines were, I'd rewrite them on a clean page and draw around them. 

If it wasn't the words - it was the nightmares keeping me awake. Well, the resistance to be in the position in which they'd happen - asleep, that is.

Dark dreams are the otherside of my tumultuous relationship with the night. Not able to recall with certainty my age, but I'm sure as a teenager and mid to late 20's sleep was disturbed regularly. That is, I'd fall asleep and wake up periodically (every hour) throughout the night with memories of broken images and strange feelings. 

At half past 4:00 in the morning. Not sure how to end this post. I'll describe the moment. A foster kitten rests on the bed.  Downton Abby plays in the background. Curtains drawn closed. Chickens sleeping in their coop.