I've been in a quandary for quite some time--the past few days especially. I have a choice ahead of me to take a lengthy leap that I've already decided to do but have been questioning. The reason I question it is because I'm not sure if it's what I really want, or if it's some half-cocked idea I've cooked up in my off time. Basically, a lot of self-doubt.
As a Christian, we're told to "Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; In all your ways acknowledge Him, and He will direct your paths." I believe this, but the thing is, I'm not hearing any ringing bells from the Lord as to what to do next. He's flat-out asked me what I want. Whaah?? Isn't it supposed to be the other way around? And what if what I want isn't the right thing? I've been known to be dead wrong before on things that really mattered.
Aside from all this, there's another side of me that says of this Leap, "Why not? Take a chance. Who cares if it's the perfect thing as long as you're moving forward. It's a calculated risk, and one you're willing to take." Sound words, and this part of me wants to throw away all the mental confusion and just do it. Nike's slogan is applicable in so many cases.
So, here are my thoughts as I breathe through this decision tonight:
I went for a walk tonight, and saw so many things--
A cat: Cats don't plan everything hours, days, or even years ahead. A coil, a spring, a pounce on prey-- all the planning a cat needs. And they are usually well-equipped to handle whatever life hands them, whether it's Fancy Feast or Alley Surprise. They are naturally curious and follow wherever their curiosity draws them. Sometimes this means they have to bolt away from mean kiddies or scary noises, but sometimes it means they get a tasty tidbit or the perfect spot in the sun. I've watched a cat climb trees and I tell you, it's all ad lib. One leg stretches, the head bobs, a hind leg strains, and claw-and-nail they make it up that tree. I've also seen them make their way back down with the effortless grace of a Cirque-de-Soleil trapeze artist. If cats have nine lives, it's because they've really lived them.
As I walked I caught a glimpse through an open window of a t.v. airing Prince William and Kate Middleton's wedding. There he stood in his predictable uniform, and there she waited in perfunctory white. And I thought, "I am disinclined to watch this right now. I do not want to watch yet another couple do the I-do's in the ordinary way, whether the whole world is watching or not. I would rather take my walk with the wind."
Walking back, I had to cross a median that had a red line for the fire department and a white space for the rest of us. I could have gone around it, but I had to step on the red line--and cross it. It was so red and juicy and tempting and there. Would it have made a difference if I hadn't? Maybe not, but it would have made a difference to me.
In my thoughts to the future, I'm remembering those old "choose-your-own-adventure" books I read as a kid. You could make a different move every few pages and thrust your character forward to further adventures or sentence them to death at the hands of Doom. The thing is, if your character died a couple of times by your choices, you could simply start the story over and avoid that page the next time. To get the most enjoyment from the book you had to keep reading, rereading and turning pages. You couldn't stop at one story or you'd shortchange yourself.
I guess all of these things lead me to the leap. It's not the leap I originally intended or even ultimately where I want to be, but if I don't turn the page I'll never know what happens next...
In closing, I want to lay down the poem my mother has put as the tag line at the end of her emails:
I will not die an unlived life.
I will not live in fear
of falling or catching fire.
I choose to inhabit my days,
to allow my living to open me,
to make me less afraid,
more accessible;
to loosen my heart
until it becomes a wing,
a torch, a promise.
I choose to risk my significance,
to live so that which came to me as seed
goes to the next as blossom,
and that which came to me as blossom,
goes on as fruit.
— Dawna Markova
I pray I have the courage to follow this creed.
Friday, April 29, 2011
Monday, April 18, 2011
"Such Stuff as Dreams are Made Of"
I am a dreamer. Both literally and figuratively. I dream full epic movies in color with all five senses involved. Really-- Every night is a new adventure.
I dreamed the sensation of skydiving and looking down at the little patchworks of farmland, and when I did the real jump, it wasn't that far off. Same sensation of floating, same surreal feeling of peace.
Not all dreams are so idyllic. Two nights ago I dreamed I got in with some hooligans, one of whom stole the removable light off a cop car and stuck it on his so that, in his words, we could do whatever we wanted without having to answer for it. Funny thing, the real cops came back and things got ugly as they and the guy got into a WWF-style fight with crowbars, poles, and broken glass! Somehow, I ended up being the one who got arrested, and was sentenced to a month in the slammer! I was taken to police headquarters and told to report to "Mario", my detention officer. Thing is, I couldn't find him, and, being the responsible person I am, kept wandering the halls looking for nametags that read "Mario". Finally some guy told me he was upstairs and said to take the cargo elevator. As I stepped into the cavernous metal box that started moving upward, the realization of what I was about to go through hit me, and I started crying and calling out for Jesus--and my alarm went off! Saved by the bell--literally! He always hears my prayers.
Some dreams I want to never end, like the one when I and my partner-in-crime were screaming along the desert on camelback to save a foreign maiden from scimitar-wielding invaders from the east. The colors were so intense and bright, and everything was sepia under the sun and glaze. I still recall the feeling of doing something heroic and being a part of something grand and sweeping, like Lawrence of Arabia, except less boring.
Jim Carrey apparently dreamed he would be famous and then went about the business of doing it. He actually wrote himself a personal check for $10 million for "acting services rendered" and kept it with him wherever he went as a motivator. Now he makes twice that for his services.
My dream is not about money. Sure, it would be nice to be rich. I'm not denying that. My dream is to bring beauty into the lives of people in desperation. This world is so often all about survival, whether you're in a mud hut trying not to die from a mosquito bite or climbing the corporate ladder and trying not to kill your soul. I want people to know there's more of life to be rendered than that. I want them to know the beauty of a song or a colorful garment or a dragonfly's wing or a perfect day, and in so doing let it lift their eyes to the beauty of a peerless God.
So often my night dreams are ever so much more intense than my days, and sometimes, shouldn't it be the other way around? I want to wake up ready for the adventure of living instead of looking forward to the surrender of slumber to quaff my adventure quota. I want to live as fearless and as dependent on God as in my best dreams and worst nightmares.
God, Show me how to live! This is my prayer, in Jesus' Name.
I dreamed the sensation of skydiving and looking down at the little patchworks of farmland, and when I did the real jump, it wasn't that far off. Same sensation of floating, same surreal feeling of peace.
Not all dreams are so idyllic. Two nights ago I dreamed I got in with some hooligans, one of whom stole the removable light off a cop car and stuck it on his so that, in his words, we could do whatever we wanted without having to answer for it. Funny thing, the real cops came back and things got ugly as they and the guy got into a WWF-style fight with crowbars, poles, and broken glass! Somehow, I ended up being the one who got arrested, and was sentenced to a month in the slammer! I was taken to police headquarters and told to report to "Mario", my detention officer. Thing is, I couldn't find him, and, being the responsible person I am, kept wandering the halls looking for nametags that read "Mario". Finally some guy told me he was upstairs and said to take the cargo elevator. As I stepped into the cavernous metal box that started moving upward, the realization of what I was about to go through hit me, and I started crying and calling out for Jesus--and my alarm went off! Saved by the bell--literally! He always hears my prayers.
Some dreams I want to never end, like the one when I and my partner-in-crime were screaming along the desert on camelback to save a foreign maiden from scimitar-wielding invaders from the east. The colors were so intense and bright, and everything was sepia under the sun and glaze. I still recall the feeling of doing something heroic and being a part of something grand and sweeping, like Lawrence of Arabia, except less boring.
Jim Carrey apparently dreamed he would be famous and then went about the business of doing it. He actually wrote himself a personal check for $10 million for "acting services rendered" and kept it with him wherever he went as a motivator. Now he makes twice that for his services.
My dream is not about money. Sure, it would be nice to be rich. I'm not denying that. My dream is to bring beauty into the lives of people in desperation. This world is so often all about survival, whether you're in a mud hut trying not to die from a mosquito bite or climbing the corporate ladder and trying not to kill your soul. I want people to know there's more of life to be rendered than that. I want them to know the beauty of a song or a colorful garment or a dragonfly's wing or a perfect day, and in so doing let it lift their eyes to the beauty of a peerless God.
So often my night dreams are ever so much more intense than my days, and sometimes, shouldn't it be the other way around? I want to wake up ready for the adventure of living instead of looking forward to the surrender of slumber to quaff my adventure quota. I want to live as fearless and as dependent on God as in my best dreams and worst nightmares.
God, Show me how to live! This is my prayer, in Jesus' Name.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
The Zen of Keys and Other Things
I have a wonderful little Honda Civic--
It's been through three bumpers, one large accident, and a freshly-tarred Alaska-Canadian highway. I got it brand new, my first new car. It's silver-gray, affectionately named "Kitten" because of the soft purr of its engine and its tendency to stalk people for parking spaces unawares. It's not that old, really. A 2003, it's only got 75,000 miles on it because for one summer it sat in a garage in the middle of Illinois cornfields and for three years I drove it within the tiny 4+ mile radius of Greenville, my college town.
As faithful as it is, it does have its quirks. I used an auto-start on it for years and got so used to it that I never used the manual locks. When my auto-start key fob broke, I decided not to replace it and went old-school with the doors again. Problem is, like the brain, if you don't use it you lose it. The lock on my driver's door is now half-shot from lack of use or corrosion, one of the two. My brother, Kitten's designated mechanic, took apart the door and the entire locking assembly to get to the heart of the matter. Apparently nothing showed amiss there, and I now know that my brother can take apart car doors and wiring and put it back together again.
So my driver's door lock works sporatically or sometimes, not at all. I've experienced the rare embarrassment of having to climb in from the passenger's side over my purse and books and gearshift and awkwardly crash into the seat like a gangly teenager. Most times, however, Kitten's locks can be coaxed. As my brother explained it, I have to face the key a certain way, and carefully insert it through the squooshy gears until I feel it turn. Most of the time, however, I'm in a hurry and jam it in with frustration on my way to work or someplace. Of course, this does nothing, and the lock won't turn.
So I have learned a sort-of ritual or key mantra, if you will. It goes like this: Breathe in deeply and exhale with pleasure. Recite calmly, "I have all the time in the world", and smile. Gently ootze the key in through the gears, and turn. It never fails.
Life is something like Kitten, my secret-loving Honda. So often I see it as utilitarian, just something to get through in my impatience to get to the next big thing. I forget to notice how it's marked by occasional reminders of grace. Like the crack on Kitten's latest bumper from the semi tire I ran over in the dark at highway speed, I have to pause and remember all the hard things I've been held together through. Like my driver's door key, I must intentionally slow down or I'll find myself on the road to nowhere. Like that lock, I remind myself to just breathe, and the key will turn; Just surrender, and life will purr along at Kitten's pace to the perfect parking place where you feel right at home.
It's been through three bumpers, one large accident, and a freshly-tarred Alaska-Canadian highway. I got it brand new, my first new car. It's silver-gray, affectionately named "Kitten" because of the soft purr of its engine and its tendency to stalk people for parking spaces unawares. It's not that old, really. A 2003, it's only got 75,000 miles on it because for one summer it sat in a garage in the middle of Illinois cornfields and for three years I drove it within the tiny 4+ mile radius of Greenville, my college town.
As faithful as it is, it does have its quirks. I used an auto-start on it for years and got so used to it that I never used the manual locks. When my auto-start key fob broke, I decided not to replace it and went old-school with the doors again. Problem is, like the brain, if you don't use it you lose it. The lock on my driver's door is now half-shot from lack of use or corrosion, one of the two. My brother, Kitten's designated mechanic, took apart the door and the entire locking assembly to get to the heart of the matter. Apparently nothing showed amiss there, and I now know that my brother can take apart car doors and wiring and put it back together again.
So my driver's door lock works sporatically or sometimes, not at all. I've experienced the rare embarrassment of having to climb in from the passenger's side over my purse and books and gearshift and awkwardly crash into the seat like a gangly teenager. Most times, however, Kitten's locks can be coaxed. As my brother explained it, I have to face the key a certain way, and carefully insert it through the squooshy gears until I feel it turn. Most of the time, however, I'm in a hurry and jam it in with frustration on my way to work or someplace. Of course, this does nothing, and the lock won't turn.
So I have learned a sort-of ritual or key mantra, if you will. It goes like this: Breathe in deeply and exhale with pleasure. Recite calmly, "I have all the time in the world", and smile. Gently ootze the key in through the gears, and turn. It never fails.
Life is something like Kitten, my secret-loving Honda. So often I see it as utilitarian, just something to get through in my impatience to get to the next big thing. I forget to notice how it's marked by occasional reminders of grace. Like the crack on Kitten's latest bumper from the semi tire I ran over in the dark at highway speed, I have to pause and remember all the hard things I've been held together through. Like my driver's door key, I must intentionally slow down or I'll find myself on the road to nowhere. Like that lock, I remind myself to just breathe, and the key will turn; Just surrender, and life will purr along at Kitten's pace to the perfect parking place where you feel right at home.
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