PROLOGUE
Numbers are no one’s age. It is true
I was born on July 22nd in eighteen
hundred and eighty-one, but that
is nowhere near how old I am.Numbers are not
how old anyone is. Since that day,
I have married and traveled and married again
and had children and friends and grandchildren,
even a lover or so . . .la la
. . . and once,
at Covent Garden, Mr. Swinburne
bowed to me, or to my sister, and
we both curtsied back and that
is exactly how old I am.Before
this century began, I made
some faërie stories Mr. Lang
thought well of and the men
who printed them and sold them and the children
who drifted asleep with those books in their arms
are all, nearly all, worm farms now,
or stripped too bare to be maggots’ meat.And all those absences and bones
are how old I am.I have tried to survive
and keep track of my life, I have tried to deal
with each year as it came over me,
and have failed . . . and all those names
and faces have become my age.And everyone
I used to know has gone into the darkness
and my hands quiver with the grief of their
departures, my lovers and my friends no more.
For a very long time now, from when
I was a little child, I have been
dying, and that is exactly how old I am.-David Dwyer
“Ariana Olisvos: Her Last Works and Days“
University of Massachusetts Press (c) 1976
In the Meantime
freshman year, Wheaton College, still applies
Yet another huge year for me was 2001. I dove into Wheaton College not knowing what I was getting myself into. I came from a small town without much background in studying hard or studying the challenging issues. I just wanted to be smart and well-educated and I figured Wheaton could help me out.
But then I arrived to find my classmates already studied up and opinionated. I thought, “I am doomed. If I must say something let it be along the lines of a hmm.” And while I struggled with my head, heart, focus, and desires (like most other 19 year olds), all I truly sought was peace and steadfastness.
We don’t always see peace coming, but it comes. Mine arrived little moment by little song. I began to hear God’s voice singing quietly and gently over my bed at night. This was a welcomed contrast to the singing, jumping, spinning and dancing God I learned as a teenager (Zephania 3:17). I didn’t relate to that God. No, I needed God in lullaby form and He knew it. And in His great love and enjoyment, God sat with me, delivering me peaceful notes.
The handwriting that you can’t read at the bottom is the following verse from God Moves In A Mysterious Way, a hymn that quickly became a favorite in 2001 and hasn’t moved from such a place in my heart:
His purposes will ripen fast, unfolding every hour.
The bud may have a bitter taste, but sweet will be the flower.
I have a whole new set of struggles these days, ten years later. I have a whole new understanding of seeking peace. And although I never know exactly what is in store for me next, I know that God reveals his purposes in good and appropriate time. I have seen it again and again. When bitterness touches my tongue, I know that sweetness will eventually rise in all my senses. And in the meantime, Can I call you Father?
I did record this song with R.M. and some lovely, patient Wheaton guys that year. We ended the piece with the hymn.
There You Are
I was reminded today, via an itunes U podcast featuring Brett McCracken and his colleagues at Biola University, of something I heard many years ago.
At the end of the program, Wheaton College professor Jerry Root is quoted saying, “There are two kinds of people in the world. Here I am people and There you are people. My life is an effort to be more and more of a There you are person.” I know Jerry says this because I heard it myself sometime in the midst of my Wheaton College career. I am just as challenged today as I was 7-10 years ago.
Oh, how I want to walk into a room and say, “There you are!” more loudly than I could ever say, “Here I am.” I, too, want in humility to let my coolness dissolve in the presence of others. Let me be unmasked, uncovered, unknown to myself. Let my mind stop calculating my perceived presence, my situation, and my expectations of adoration or even simple reception.
Instead, let my be clear headed, sweet heart-ed, and genuinely busied with making someone else feel like they are the only person in the room–the most important person I speak with today.
Sometimes the day…
Sometimes the day is less about your personality and more about towing the line.
Sometimes the day is about an honest tear.
Sometimes the day is about not saying what’s expected.
Sometimes the day is about sticking up for yourself–firmly.
Sometimes the day is about being okay with running late.
Sometimes the day is about buying it anyway.
Or all of these or none of these.
Untitled and Borrowed
San Fransisco, California (c) 2011 JEH
When I am undone, untitle me–
deline me, borrow me from another
idea of me. Paint me the colors
you see me. Draw me the shapes I move
through. Any fabric that covers
or uncovers is fine and will
work out in the end for I
am undone and need to be bent–
to some other form of me–
the still untitled me.
Heart Out
I tick the minutes
by
singing MY HEART
out
actually
I do
32 singers
in any language
working all
matching
pitches dynamo
vowel sounds and ritmo
unified dignified not a cry
for help
(or all by myself)
full song of
earnest moments
unrolling my
heart
out on some table
someone is building
I don’t know what I’m doing, but I’m singing.
Baby Steps
This is my step.
It is small.
It is innocent.
It has no pretension.
It doesn’t get me very far.
But as I keep taking it,
I grow adept
and even a little bit proud,
anticipatory
of running.
Naphtalia 