We are coming home. We are throwing our belongings into backpacks, and the backs of cars, starting engines in cold empty towns and driving somewhere new, or old. We buy coffee at gas stations and pick up courage where we can find it. Because it is time to go back to that place we are from. It is time to allow nostalgia, sparked by forgotten wild places and beautiful things, to find our hearts and nestle itself into secret corners that we didn't know (or forgot) existed.
I have a room here still. Or at least there is a room in my house that I sleep in when I am here. There are signs of a life that once was. You can see the stickers on my door, and the blue paint on the walls only kind of peels in hidden places. The desk looks much like the one I have in Fort Collins: papers scattered everywhere, old words written by what was supposedly an old soul. Or so I thought. Many of my old books lie on the shelves in the corner where I left them. High School yearbooks, Harry Potter, Catcher in The Rye, Catch-22, 1984. These are things that I have left behind. They lie there under a layer of dust, as if waiting for something to wake them up. Waiting for their stories to be told. There are soccer jerseys in the closet: Ajax, Germany, Manchester United. A football helmet is on one shelf and a box of trophies and medals is on the floor. This room doesn't even smell as if it was ever lived in. It has been cast aside and filled with forgotten objects.
And that seems to be the way we do things. We have all of these memories and these past events that sit and do not sit well with us. Some curl up in the dark corners and some glow with some effervescent longing for attention and love. But don't we all. That is why we come home. We still have something to bring back to the table. We have memories and we want to share them with those that can share likewise. When i peel open these year books I realize that memories die just the same as people. These are words and faces that I have forgotten. It happens, sometimes, with slow precision and, sometimes, with sudden vehemence. We begin to experience revelation in these moments. Nostalgia rages beneath our skin, through our veins, and up our spine, shaking and quivering, breathing in startled gasps, and forgotten fingerprints. Sometimes these memories feel sad and furious and completely unwarranted. Sometimes they feel happy and complicated with a tinge of regret. Then sometimes there is nothing except what should have been remembered, and revelation is lost. What should have been remembered takes a long time. It reveals itself to us slowly and quietly, and we want to avoid it as long as possible.
But still we come home. We always come home. At this moment I sit in a room full of memories, and they come back like addiction, fading as soon as i leave. We come home and we begin to believe in the things we used to know: young love, restless guilt, not-so-scary-empty-forever nights, the rising sun, fading sunsets, breathless rendezvous' at 2 A.M in parks where kids ran hours ago, cold quiet-breath floats to the stars- nights spent on rooftops, shivering silence of broken down friendships, powerful moments of nervous lust, too scared to be real with our hearts-running from these empty streets-until we felt alive, and finally beginning to believe in our most powerful potentiality, and moving on.
Welcome home friends. Indulge in the memories while you can. Find the people that you once cared about and do what you can to understand where we come from. Trouble yourself with nostalgia and revel in the chances we have given ourselves and been given. Revel in the improbability of loss, the immovable force of nature, and the limitless possibility of this next morning. Break down, sing loud, reveal everything to those who need to hear it, and don't forget where you came from. Though this place may no longer feel like home, it is where you came from. Stay here, breathe deep. Everything is perfect.
Monday, December 24, 2012
Friday, December 7, 2012
He knows it's Scary to be Us...
He knows it's scary to be us. He put himself in our place. Once upon a time he stooped, lowered, sacrificed , broke, and ripped open the veil to become one of us. He knows it's scary. He rearranged pebbles under foot. He walked paths between great cities, great histories, great leaders, small towns, and small stories. He walked these paths as sure as I write these words. He looked at stars that he has known since their birth, and he recognized the light of a distant past, and yet, it was not so distant to him, and even more so, it was truly real.
He spoke. He cried: lips salty with tears, knees bent, hands trembling, and thoughts racing. He prayed: desperate prayers, angry prayers, prayers of hope and compassion exhaled into the night. Prayers of a madman. Because he would have to be mad. Anyone would have to be mad to die for all of us. But what is this madness?
This madness is one that knows no bounds. It burrows into the heart and soul of all humanity, and it lies in wait. This madness grows and festers, and we squash it out. We seal it in mason jars, lids screwed on tight, and throw it to the back of that dark cupboard below the kitchen sink. Then we hope, at first, that it will grow into something madly beautiful while we ignore it and pursue the mundane activity of breathing for the sake of breathing.
So we return to the madness. We return to this life believing that something beautiful is growing underneath the kitchen sink. We return to this madness, but it is of a different breed. We return to busy days, sunrise to sunset. We return to the challenge of breathing for the sake of staying alive. We return to a desk, a computer screen, and hours of work. We count the seconds as they inch their way off the clock, dripping to the floor in a slow motion march to the end of another day. We never write our own story. We read the page, and flip to the next page when we are told to do so.
Place problems here.
Walk this way.
Don't mind her.
Don't mind him.
We march onward.
And the madness becomes real. It becomes intoxicating. It draws us close and tangles itself with our bodies like nostalgia. It comes in those quiet moments, and refuses to leave. It moves under our skin, like veins warm with blood, pumping something like life.
See, like him, I have found myself on my knees. I have found myself uttering prayers of hope and joy. I have found myself shouting prayers of desperation, anger, and some form of compassion. I have found myself simply speaking. But see, I have not known the suffering of a King humbled, stripped bare and left to carry a cross for all nations. I have not known the suffering of a father who asks his son to make a sacrifice, incomprehensible. See, like the thieves who suffered with him I do not understand. I know why I am here, and I know what I have done, and I have the same questions. I have the same disbelief at sacrifice for the unknown.
Because some days I am afraid to die, and some days I am afraid to live.
But that is this madness of love that we have left in the mason jar, and he knows. He knows that it sits in the cold and dark, dying. He knows. He knows its there. He knows that we fear this madness. So yes, he knows that it's scary to be us. He knows because he lived to the full potential that we left in the cupboard. The madness of love and sacrifice. The madness of Grace. The madness of the event.
See, we do not know what it's like to be him, and that is what scares us...
He spoke. He cried: lips salty with tears, knees bent, hands trembling, and thoughts racing. He prayed: desperate prayers, angry prayers, prayers of hope and compassion exhaled into the night. Prayers of a madman. Because he would have to be mad. Anyone would have to be mad to die for all of us. But what is this madness?
This madness is one that knows no bounds. It burrows into the heart and soul of all humanity, and it lies in wait. This madness grows and festers, and we squash it out. We seal it in mason jars, lids screwed on tight, and throw it to the back of that dark cupboard below the kitchen sink. Then we hope, at first, that it will grow into something madly beautiful while we ignore it and pursue the mundane activity of breathing for the sake of breathing.
So we return to the madness. We return to this life believing that something beautiful is growing underneath the kitchen sink. We return to this madness, but it is of a different breed. We return to busy days, sunrise to sunset. We return to the challenge of breathing for the sake of staying alive. We return to a desk, a computer screen, and hours of work. We count the seconds as they inch their way off the clock, dripping to the floor in a slow motion march to the end of another day. We never write our own story. We read the page, and flip to the next page when we are told to do so.
Place problems here.
Walk this way.
Don't mind her.
Don't mind him.
We march onward.
And the madness becomes real. It becomes intoxicating. It draws us close and tangles itself with our bodies like nostalgia. It comes in those quiet moments, and refuses to leave. It moves under our skin, like veins warm with blood, pumping something like life.
See, like him, I have found myself on my knees. I have found myself uttering prayers of hope and joy. I have found myself shouting prayers of desperation, anger, and some form of compassion. I have found myself simply speaking. But see, I have not known the suffering of a King humbled, stripped bare and left to carry a cross for all nations. I have not known the suffering of a father who asks his son to make a sacrifice, incomprehensible. See, like the thieves who suffered with him I do not understand. I know why I am here, and I know what I have done, and I have the same questions. I have the same disbelief at sacrifice for the unknown.
Because some days I am afraid to die, and some days I am afraid to live.
But that is this madness of love that we have left in the mason jar, and he knows. He knows that it sits in the cold and dark, dying. He knows. He knows its there. He knows that we fear this madness. So yes, he knows that it's scary to be us. He knows because he lived to the full potential that we left in the cupboard. The madness of love and sacrifice. The madness of Grace. The madness of the event.
See, we do not know what it's like to be him, and that is what scares us...
Monday, November 26, 2012
Born
I've been sittin on this one a while, so here's how it grows:
We are all born with these marks on our
hands, and Oh God, I have spent 23 years
trying to wash them clean, because we
all want to be free. Free to love, to hurt
to build up walls and watch reflections
of reflections sway back and forth in
a stationary window pane.
hands, and Oh God, I have spent 23 years
trying to wash them clean, because we
all want to be free. Free to love, to hurt
to build up walls and watch reflections
of reflections sway back and forth in
a stationary window pane.
We are all solid on the other side, all
ghosts as our eyes stare open
mouths, open hearts made of glass,
not quite ready to break.
ghosts as our eyes stare open
mouths, open hearts made of glass,
not quite ready to break.
I felt my veins. They barely made it
through the blizzard, a white out behind
my eyes. I told you these ships couldn’t
sail in frozen waters.
through the blizzard, a white out behind
my eyes. I told you these ships couldn’t
sail in frozen waters.
I told you these ships were built too
fast on hope, holding out, hope holding
out faith through blown out window panes.
fast on hope, holding out, hope holding
out faith through blown out window panes.
We were better off building bridges to
no name islands, casting stones as if
we could reach the opposite shoreline.
no name islands, casting stones as if
we could reach the opposite shoreline.
As if we could reach out and touch the
drift of the continents, they sway beneath
my feet, and I know someone somewhere
is still breathing
drift of the continents, they sway beneath
my feet, and I know someone somewhere
is still breathing
But here I am…
Here I am after 23 years, still scrubbing.
Raw skin, red with something like regret,
but I would be counting on superstition if
that were true, and we’re always counting
but I would be counting on superstition if
that were true, and we’re always counting
We’re always counting the things we love,
losing ourselves in reckless abandon, calling
ourselves survivors because we loved Once!
losing ourselves in reckless abandon, calling
ourselves survivors because we loved Once!
Once doesn’t count! Once is not enough to
love, to know love, to take apart the
heavy weight in our hearts we must love,
but it must be more than once.
love, to know love, to take apart the
heavy weight in our hearts we must love,
but it must be more than once.
And we all crash into each other; it’s no different
than those games we play with cars, the games
we play with each other. It is true we all have
wooden hearts and they sink to the ocean floor.
They are warped and shaped by the years.
than those games we play with cars, the games
we play with each other. It is true we all have
wooden hearts and they sink to the ocean floor.
They are warped and shaped by the years.
They are bent to form something we do not
know and we take care to anticipate the way
we hurt. But we can’t imagine. Imagine a world
of believers enraged by deceivers, casting our lights
to the floor so we might be illuminated ourselves.
So we might stand for something.
know and we take care to anticipate the way
we hurt. But we can’t imagine. Imagine a world
of believers enraged by deceivers, casting our lights
to the floor so we might be illuminated ourselves.
So we might stand for something.
So we might stand for something in this cold quiet,
dark night, too dark to see, like three a.m., too
dark to see, like someone carried away the moon.
Who knew the stars could be so dim?
dark night, too dark to see, like three a.m., too
dark to see, like someone carried away the moon.
Who knew the stars could be so dim?
They shine like guardians over some sacred
possession. Looking around I can only believe
they have failed. They can’t help that they are
in the distance fading. It is after all the fault
of our abuse of trust.
possession. Looking around I can only believe
they have failed. They can’t help that they are
in the distance fading. It is after all the fault
of our abuse of trust.
We had the opportunity to grow together, but we
spit water, nourishment, on the ground, thinking
the earth could use it more.
spit water, nourishment, on the ground, thinking
the earth could use it more.
So I can feel this wrapped in layers around
my ribcage, broken, and I thought
it could heal, if but for a moment, then I
was lost in the dizzying spin of your tornado
and your words slung far and wide began
to cut deep.
So I waited for the flashover, I expected
a spark, and a short circuit and you exploded.
Then it was dark, my hands were grasping at
straws you held before my face, and I could
feel your fingers between.
my ribcage, broken, and I thought
it could heal, if but for a moment, then I
was lost in the dizzying spin of your tornado
and your words slung far and wide began
to cut deep.
So I waited for the flashover, I expected
a spark, and a short circuit and you exploded.
Then it was dark, my hands were grasping at
straws you held before my face, and I could
feel your fingers between.
And you woke up, lit up, spoke so many words.
Spoke like the almost nothing you had between
your lips, between your hands, isn’t this everything?
Isn’t this everything we thought we had seen.
Aren’t these words, spilling from mouths, naked
and real. Why can’t I hold on to them? I feel them.
I knew them once and I will know them again
for the first time.
And I watch my hands. These marks I tried
to wash off keep haunting me. They swirl and
curve like little rivers, running deep and dry.
They feel nothing and shed layers upon layers.
I was never unique but uniquely yours and
I am losing whatever that was supposed to mean.
I was never unique but still I stare at my
hands, resignation on my lips, ceiling fan air
swirled upon my face, watching reflections
quiver in a stationary pane of glass.
Spoke like the almost nothing you had between
your lips, between your hands, isn’t this everything?
Isn’t this everything we thought we had seen.
Aren’t these words, spilling from mouths, naked
and real. Why can’t I hold on to them? I feel them.
I knew them once and I will know them again
for the first time.
And I watch my hands. These marks I tried
to wash off keep haunting me. They swirl and
curve like little rivers, running deep and dry.
They feel nothing and shed layers upon layers.
I was never unique but uniquely yours and
I am losing whatever that was supposed to mean.
I was never unique but still I stare at my
hands, resignation on my lips, ceiling fan air
swirled upon my face, watching reflections
quiver in a stationary pane of glass.
And I wonder about impermanence…
Saturday, May 5, 2012
Today was Hard
Today was a hard day.
We reserve certain words for important occasions. We reserve words for moments when words can not even begin to describe the way we feel. We reserve these words for the moments when words fail us completely and we have to venture out into the arena of sadness and heartbreak. The words that I reserve for days like today.... I Love You. Three of the hardest words for me to say. Three words that can change a persons life. Three words that can wrap those that hear it in an embrace that my arms are not capable of giving. Three words that, when words fail me, are the only words I have to express anything.
Today was a hard day because I said those three words more than I have in years. Today was a hard day because I hate to see people so broken. I hate watching tears stream down the faces of people who have lost one of the most important people in their lives, and I hate that this is the way I had to see all the people that I love. Today was a hard day because death is real. Today was a hard day because those three words still aren't enough.
Today was hard, but today was real.
I saw the faces of the people that I love most. Some of them have been absent for years, and some have been just down the road waiting for me to call. I never call, but now I know that they are all still there. Now more than ever. I truly love these people. You know how I know this? Because words failed me today; a rarity, and yet I could always get the words I Love You out before the tears had a chance to make their way down my face.
I love the woman that we were all their for. She did more for my life than just about anyone I know. I wish it hadn't taken today to realize that. I love that all of the people that were there had been affected, touched, blessed, and loved by her. I love that we were able to laugh and comfort, hold and embrace, and breathe deep into each others chests; as if it had been days since we last saw each other. I love that we all care about each other and I love that she played a crucial part in fostering the friendships that we carry with us. I love that their is beauty in tragedy, and I love that when words fail me I can still tell you guys that I Love You. Because I do.
We reserve certain words for important occasions. We reserve words for moments when words can not even begin to describe the way we feel. We reserve these words for the moments when words fail us completely and we have to venture out into the arena of sadness and heartbreak. The words that I reserve for days like today.... I Love You. Three of the hardest words for me to say. Three words that can change a persons life. Three words that can wrap those that hear it in an embrace that my arms are not capable of giving. Three words that, when words fail me, are the only words I have to express anything.
Today was a hard day because I said those three words more than I have in years. Today was a hard day because I hate to see people so broken. I hate watching tears stream down the faces of people who have lost one of the most important people in their lives, and I hate that this is the way I had to see all the people that I love. Today was a hard day because death is real. Today was a hard day because those three words still aren't enough.
Today was hard, but today was real.
I saw the faces of the people that I love most. Some of them have been absent for years, and some have been just down the road waiting for me to call. I never call, but now I know that they are all still there. Now more than ever. I truly love these people. You know how I know this? Because words failed me today; a rarity, and yet I could always get the words I Love You out before the tears had a chance to make their way down my face.
I love the woman that we were all their for. She did more for my life than just about anyone I know. I wish it hadn't taken today to realize that. I love that all of the people that were there had been affected, touched, blessed, and loved by her. I love that we were able to laugh and comfort, hold and embrace, and breathe deep into each others chests; as if it had been days since we last saw each other. I love that we all care about each other and I love that she played a crucial part in fostering the friendships that we carry with us. I love that their is beauty in tragedy, and I love that when words fail me I can still tell you guys that I Love You. Because I do.
Monday, January 23, 2012
Summer Anonymity
 |
| Summer... |
If you are from Colorado and are part of the outdoors community you know about the Colorado Trail. If you aren't, well you most likely still know about it. It is 486 miles of trail that takes the adventurer from Denver to Durango without the need of roads, vehicles, or for that matter civilization in general. It can be a dangerous trail, but what if life without a little bit of danger?
We live in a dangerous world. A world where being available 24/7 is the norm. We live in a world where facebook, tumblr, blogs, google, wikipedia and twitter have allowed us the comfort of knowing everything that everyone is doing at any given moment, and the notoriety of everyone else knowing everything that we say, think, do, or believe in. To some people this is their definition of comfort. You are never alone. To those extroverts out there, i know who you are, don't worry I am one too, this is perfect. Spending time alone is scary, boring, and ultimately down right terrifying to some people. It used to be for me. Yet something has clicked in the last few months, and more and more I find that I can spend time by myself, and you know what? The world goes on. The earth continues it's rotation, the sun rises and falls behind our Rocky Mountains, and everything is alright. Thank God right?
Banksy, I'm sure you know who he is, created a piece of art recently that is the embodiment of my philosophy for this summer. It is simple. A T.V. with a blank screen. On the screen the words: "In the future everyone will be anonymous for 15 minutes". Simple right? And certainly much different from Andy Warhol's original statement: "In the future everyone will be world-famous for 15 minutes".
Alright, you got me. It is the future, to some extent, and not everyone has had their fifteen minutes of fame. It is certainly easy to argue that we have all had our 15 minutes in the spotlight. No doubt about that. "Hello facebook, I just broke up with my girlfriend. Let the comments begin. It's my birthday tomorrow. How many people will write Happy Birthday on my wall. Gee. I hope its over 200." That spotlight sure can be bright. Am I right?
So back to the original subject. This summer. The Colorado Trail, and of course day dreaming. I am going to do a couple solo trips this summer. Yes, I know it is dangerous. No, I don't care that you think it is dangerous. Yes, I will leave plans and an itinery with someone. None of that is the point. The point is that in the future everyone will experience 15 minutes of anonymity. What if I don't want that though. What if I want more than that.
Well, I do want more than that. Last semester I found myself on the verge of a mental breakdown. Seriously, I mean that. I realized there were about a billion contributing factors (yes I know, exaggerating like that is unbecoming of an English Major). Ok, at least it felt like a billion. Part of the problem was my constant interaction with so many people in so many mediums. Part of it was always being worried I was missing out on one thing or another (Let's be honest, there isn't much going on at 3 AM on a Monday morning), and part of it, which possibly gives merit to the whole situation, was some serious stuff going on in my life and the lives of friends around me. So I removed myself, backed off, and found myself returning to the simple things in life.
All of this is to say two things. One. I am going to go backpacking alone this summer. 15 minutes of anonymity will never satisfy my thirst. Two. Consider experiencing some sort of anonymity for yourself. Even if it is for a mere 15 minutes. You won't regret it. In fact you may even find that you are enjoying yourself. Create an adventure out of it. After all. Who can say no to a good adventure right?
Signed,
Anonymous
Thursday, January 19, 2012
The Tempest
 |
| Or, do i dare say it, are we something more? |
Or, do i dare say it, are we something more?
Friday, January 13, 2012
A Simple LIfe
1st Timothy 4:12
Fast forward nearly ten years, and I am sitting here in front of my computer on a cold January night. Boredom has forced me to think about my life more than I have in quite some time. These nights can be disastrous for me, but tonight I think I have realized something new. These past couple of weeks a spirit of adventure has been instilled upon my heart. Lately I find myself thirsting for the unexpected, the different and the exciting; and I have gotten a taste of all of these things in the past two weeks. Monday morning i woke up and made a split second decision to head to the mountains with my two roommates. As they set to work for the day I loaded my backpack with a couple Peanut Butter and Nutella sandwiches and headed off into the woods on my own.
I headed up a winding mountain road for a quarter of a mile before arriving at the Longs Peak trail head, there I began my journey towards the Estes Cone to get some good shots of Longs. The forest reveals a strikingly different picture of self in these Winter months. Trees are covered in the white fluffy stuff, the trail is slick and snowpacked, and every step takes twice as much effort as you might expect, and it is breathtaking. The silence is overwhelming, and the beauty leaves you in awe. As I walked I watched chipmunks scurry across snow, I heard birds chirping, creeks running frantically under layers of ice, and I listened closely for the sound of trees shaking snow from their branches and bristling at the cold mountain air. It was then and there that I knew I was completely and wonderfully free.
After about two miles I came upon a small meadow, in the summer months sure to be teaming with activity, but now windblown and shrouded in snow. I turned and looked to the South only to see the very top of the Diamond, looming, reaching into the sky cast in the warm orange glow of the early morning sun. It was at this moment that i realized something terrible. I had forgotten what it feels like to be truly, awesomely, and fully alive.
Until next time,
Joe
"Don't let anyone think less of you because you are young. Be an example to all believers in what you say, in the way you live, in your love, your faith, and your purity."This was, and I suppose, still is my Confirmation verse. It was given to me as a verse to live my life by when i was in 8th grade. To the members of my church, the pastor, and my mentor this was a meaningful and important thing, but as I remember it, the verse was just another thing I had to memorize so that I could get through Confirmation class and get this crap over with. Let's be honest. I was naive, maybe even ignorant then, and if we are going to be even more honest I am just as naive and ignorant as the day that i stood before my congregation and recited that verse word for word; not caring what it meant for them, or more importantly what it meant for me.
Fast forward nearly ten years, and I am sitting here in front of my computer on a cold January night. Boredom has forced me to think about my life more than I have in quite some time. These nights can be disastrous for me, but tonight I think I have realized something new. These past couple of weeks a spirit of adventure has been instilled upon my heart. Lately I find myself thirsting for the unexpected, the different and the exciting; and I have gotten a taste of all of these things in the past two weeks. Monday morning i woke up and made a split second decision to head to the mountains with my two roommates. As they set to work for the day I loaded my backpack with a couple Peanut Butter and Nutella sandwiches and headed off into the woods on my own.
I headed up a winding mountain road for a quarter of a mile before arriving at the Longs Peak trail head, there I began my journey towards the Estes Cone to get some good shots of Longs. The forest reveals a strikingly different picture of self in these Winter months. Trees are covered in the white fluffy stuff, the trail is slick and snowpacked, and every step takes twice as much effort as you might expect, and it is breathtaking. The silence is overwhelming, and the beauty leaves you in awe. As I walked I watched chipmunks scurry across snow, I heard birds chirping, creeks running frantically under layers of ice, and I listened closely for the sound of trees shaking snow from their branches and bristling at the cold mountain air. It was then and there that I knew I was completely and wonderfully free.
After about two miles I came upon a small meadow, in the summer months sure to be teaming with activity, but now windblown and shrouded in snow. I turned and looked to the South only to see the very top of the Diamond, looming, reaching into the sky cast in the warm orange glow of the early morning sun. It was at this moment that i realized something terrible. I had forgotten what it feels like to be truly, awesomely, and fully alive.
"Be an example to all believers...in the way you live"At this moment it hit me. I have been an example in the way I live. But, I have been an incredibly poor example in the way that I live. So this moment right here. This moment of beauty, captured only by my eyes (I was too lazy to pull my camera out of my backpack) is the moment that i resolved to live right, to live well, and to live by standards that i set for myself long ago. It is my hope that I can live a simple life. Not a simple minded life, but a simple life. And I hope to live it well.
Until next time,
Joe
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