Poetic...

About a month ago I was talking to a friend about the moon and had a poetic moment... She walks across the azure field; Behind a vaporous veil she moves- Cycled grace tinting her shroud with light; Peering though a vapored veil, She breaks forth in glorious display- Pearl of the night, Watcher of day; She considers, she reflects Light not her own, She shines with glory rebounding- The light of fiery King of watchful space, Whose vivid rays trace earth’s rim to find her face and in love, un-dim.

Grateful...

No art updates today, but just wanted to drop a note to say that I'm so thankful for this gift we're given called "life". A year ago about this time life sucked. There's no nice way to put it. There's probably some more descriptive non-G ways, but we'll just say it sucked. However, it's amazing the differences a year can bring. Andrew Peterson's words come to mind:

What's that on the ground? It's what's left of my heart Somebody named Jesus Broke it to pieces And planted the shards And they're coming up green They're coming in bloom I can hardly believe This is all coming true Just as I am and just as I was Just as I will be He loves me, He does He showed me the day that He shed His own blood He loves me, oh, He loves me, He does All of my life I've held on to this fear Its thistles and vines Ensnare and entwine What flowers appeared It's the fear that I'll fall One too many times It's the fear that His love Is no better than mine (but He says that) Just as I am and just as I was Just as I will be He loves me, He does He showed me the day that He shed His own blood He loves me, oh, He loves me, He does He loves me, oh, He loves me, He does It's time now to harvest What little that grew This man they call Jesus Who planted the seeds Has come for the fruit And the best that I've got Isn't nearly enough He's glad for the crop But it's me that He loves

The seasons of life have changed a bit more slowly than those of the earth in the past year, but they're changing all the same. The winds are shifting, the leaves are changing, and I sense in the air that a time of harvest is near. We don't know how many trips around the merrigoround we're going to have. Life can seem so concrete in one moment then in the next as dust being blown by the wind sifting through our fingers as we try to hold on to just one more speck. In the words of a missionary who lost his life attempting to share his life, "Wherever you are, be all there." Life can be so wasted in deadend thoughts of wishing we were somewhere else, wanting to be someone else, doing something else. There is no one on earth nor has there been anyone quite like you. That is what my faith teaches. Our lives are gifts and each moment is precious. So, here I sit grateful at the life I've been given. It's not what I expected but it's an adventure all the same. In the vallies we crawl and grow. On the mountains we stand in awe. I've been coming out a long valley and climbing a tough road with more than a few helping hands along the way. The crest of this hill is in sight and I can't wait to see what lies ahead. Grateful for the journey- a trail marked out by wounded feet and a wounded hand on my shoulder to guide. Thankful for a God who gave His Son to adopt me as His own.

A few more...

I really wish I could sleep later than 8:00am on a weekend. It seems my body just won't allow it anymore. Plenty to do today, lots of animation to block and plenty of tunes to jam to doing it. It's amazing how much reading old writings can bring you back to where you were when you wrote those words. Any art in which we must dip the brush into our very soul will surely bear that mark. We fix something of ourselves to that moment of creation - time does not dim its illumination even if those feelings are much changed upon reflection. And tracing from then to now, we see where we've been and hopefully if we turn around we catch a glimpse of where we're going. Continuing the look a old writings, I've got a varied collection today. Swimming in a Cynic's Sea - 1998 I drift and sink amidst the hypocrisy Of myself and of that which I carelessly say; Wishing there an end to this seekers road- Islands of peace on which to rest. I question you until there is no you That I see; For all of my inquiries Fill the void of my mind until I feel As if I will burst into a thousand shards Of a once stable son. All I desire is to know and follow you- You call and all I do is run Back to my cynic's sea and find comfort In the insanity of a void of concrete truth And an ocean of contemplation fills my gaping mouth Till all I taste is the salt of the faithless' sea And I wait to be thrown out And be trampled by men- For I fear I will never be salty again. Loss - 1997 Which way is up? Which way is down? They reach and surround me without a sound or whisper; Enveloping me with dark hands full of blood (It tastes like wine); Offering sensuous delights for nothing...free? Ecstasy for a night, no hidden cost, no sense of loss (until morning). The Son rises and finds me asleep in the light; clutching the fruit of the season's container, Oh, my beloved Sustainer! What has become of my steadfast heart? "My child, but open your eyes, look and perceive: surely it is more blessed to give than receive; Or did you not know...the wine you drank was the blood of infant saints made sweet by but a lie of generosity." Conformity - 1995 Standing in a masquerade; Keeping step in life's parade grows old and silly; Yet I see the mask I hold in my hands is just what conformity demands. They just wouldn't understand the me I want to be is not the me they daily see; So as they perceive, I become; God, that sounds awfully dumb.

Alienation - 1995ish

He sits, They move, He speaks, They go on in their conversations ignoring his petition, Signed by countless hands of alienation personified In the hands of Old Man friendship; The darkness illuminated by a dim candle of Truth That is snuffed time and time again by noses looking too high To see him, standing alone. He is every man or woman At some time or another; Searching for affirmation In accolades that never could nor would Come from a world that doesn't care Nor sees its own hand stabbing at the hearts of children Who just want to feel love. The piper of this world plays his fife And finds many who follow in blind obedience To where they know not and care not and would rather not know. And he sits She sits And waits until someone says, "Hello."