Dear Pneuma,
My Christmas List:
1. I want an end to the loneliness and disassociation that leads some young men to kill themselves and others.
2. I want to see the development of domestic and global politics based on a foundation of the power of kindness and care.
3. I want to see my brother's family engage in their grief.
4. I want my first family let go of pride and hardness long enough to simply ask for what we want of each other.
5. I want to find an ethos of giving in myself.
6. I want all of us to be brave enough to state the things we believe, humble enough to apologize for the wrongs we've done, and kind enough to forgive one another.
7. I want my friends to find mates worthy of them.
8. I want to celebrate in joy the actual gift of life with my Beloved here, now, in this time and in this place.
What do you want for Christmas?
Cobalt Dreams
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
Dear Pneuma,
It may be an urban legend, but I once heard that there is a precedent in Texas for a murder defense. The defense was: "He needed killing," and the precedent is an acquittal. Whether or not a jury actually heard that defense and found the defendant "not guilty," I will leave to the law sleuths. Nevertheless, there are times, when I can clearly imagine the conversation in the jury room:
"There is no doubt she did it."
"True, but, well, he really WAS a jerk.
"Mean as a snake."
"Stingy, too."
"I heard that even his dog hated him."
"It's not as if anyone of us would have done any different, considering . . ."
"What's more, now we don't have to worry about him getting drunk and destroying the saloon."
"It seems to me she did a public service. If anyone ever needed killing it sure was him."
"Indeed, this town's sure to be a lot safer now that he 's gone."
"What's more, his vote on the city council can go to someone that really wants to make our fine town a place that is
attractive to tourists."
"So, what's it to be folks? Dinner is getting cold."
"All in favor of "not guilty" on the basis that, in this situation, "he simply needed killing" raise your right hands. . . "
I like to run this movie in my mind on days like today. Today, someone that means a lot to me is being a jerk. In fact, this person has been such a jerk, that I wonder if a jury would find me guilty if . . .
I don't-not really-because, being mean to someone on a Wednesday, is simply not a reason that someone might "need killing." Nevertheless, creating a black and white, Ol' West judge and jury movie starring my friend and myself, allows me space for some laughter and some forgiveness. It allows me the perspective to see how petty and small grievances can be.
I don't advocate swallowing real harm, but it seems that sometimes, I need to realize that those I love can be mean to me. I suppose that means that I can be mean to those I love as well. I guess we are all mean sometimes, even when we don't mean to be. May we find forgiveness for those small meannesses. May they be moments out of the ordinary, and not simple habits, and may we learn to discern the difference between a bad day, and a bad situation.
In the meantime, my jury is still out.
Love you,
Cobalt Dreams
It may be an urban legend, but I once heard that there is a precedent in Texas for a murder defense. The defense was: "He needed killing," and the precedent is an acquittal. Whether or not a jury actually heard that defense and found the defendant "not guilty," I will leave to the law sleuths. Nevertheless, there are times, when I can clearly imagine the conversation in the jury room:
"There is no doubt she did it."
"True, but, well, he really WAS a jerk.
"Mean as a snake."
"Stingy, too."
"I heard that even his dog hated him."
"It's not as if anyone of us would have done any different, considering . . ."
"What's more, now we don't have to worry about him getting drunk and destroying the saloon."
"It seems to me she did a public service. If anyone ever needed killing it sure was him."
"Indeed, this town's sure to be a lot safer now that he 's gone."
"What's more, his vote on the city council can go to someone that really wants to make our fine town a place that is
attractive to tourists."
"So, what's it to be folks? Dinner is getting cold."
"All in favor of "not guilty" on the basis that, in this situation, "he simply needed killing" raise your right hands. . . "
I like to run this movie in my mind on days like today. Today, someone that means a lot to me is being a jerk. In fact, this person has been such a jerk, that I wonder if a jury would find me guilty if . . .
I don't-not really-because, being mean to someone on a Wednesday, is simply not a reason that someone might "need killing." Nevertheless, creating a black and white, Ol' West judge and jury movie starring my friend and myself, allows me space for some laughter and some forgiveness. It allows me the perspective to see how petty and small grievances can be.
I don't advocate swallowing real harm, but it seems that sometimes, I need to realize that those I love can be mean to me. I suppose that means that I can be mean to those I love as well. I guess we are all mean sometimes, even when we don't mean to be. May we find forgiveness for those small meannesses. May they be moments out of the ordinary, and not simple habits, and may we learn to discern the difference between a bad day, and a bad situation.
In the meantime, my jury is still out.
Love you,
Cobalt Dreams
Monday, December 3, 2007
Dear Pneuma,
Wow. Haven't written for an entire month. Luckily, I know you always enjoy receiving letters from me. What's new? How is the weather in your part of the world?
Weather here is cold. And hard. We're living here in ice. Yet, it is that time of the year again, a time of thawing and opening. A time of warmness and "cheer." I am feeling it this year. Twice now, I have been choked up with a feeling of simple contentment in the midst of Christmas music.
Not Muzak, mind you. I'm talking about the real thing: choirs and small ensembles, surrounded by intimate light, a community of trustworthy people, and songs with real meat in them. "The steward has provided this, in honor of the King of Bliss, which on this day to be served is, in reginensi atrio." This is Christmas as I love it, Christmas, as an adult in a world of rush, hurry and buy, that focusses on simple love, gratitude of enough, and the idea that we are called to be kind and hopeful in the middle of sleeting ice and snow.
That's it for tonight. My Beloved calls, and tomorrow awaits.
Take Care,
Cobalt Dreams.
Wow. Haven't written for an entire month. Luckily, I know you always enjoy receiving letters from me. What's new? How is the weather in your part of the world?
Weather here is cold. And hard. We're living here in ice. Yet, it is that time of the year again, a time of thawing and opening. A time of warmness and "cheer." I am feeling it this year. Twice now, I have been choked up with a feeling of simple contentment in the midst of Christmas music.
Not Muzak, mind you. I'm talking about the real thing: choirs and small ensembles, surrounded by intimate light, a community of trustworthy people, and songs with real meat in them. "The steward has provided this, in honor of the King of Bliss, which on this day to be served is, in reginensi atrio." This is Christmas as I love it, Christmas, as an adult in a world of rush, hurry and buy, that focusses on simple love, gratitude of enough, and the idea that we are called to be kind and hopeful in the middle of sleeting ice and snow.
That's it for tonight. My Beloved calls, and tomorrow awaits.
Take Care,
Cobalt Dreams.
Monday, November 19, 2007
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Dear Pneuma,
There is a folk song that says, "I love my Love, because I know my Love loves me." I think the song lies. I love my Love, because I first decided to love me. Allowing that I can be loveable, my capacity to love is not bound by another's response to me. In fact, love undid me, because I realized that I love my Love, whether or not my Love loves me.
Blues songs know this. They know that love is perilous. They know that the Beloved is an imperfect and often unkind person, but that this unloving nature doesn't change my love for the Beloved. Yet, still, I think Blues songs lie, because true love comes from an ability to care and be kind first to oneself. Loving myself, I cannot submit to relationship with a Beloved that does not love me.
I love my Love because my Love is wonderful. My Love loves me because I am wonderful. We are fortunate, because we decided to love one another. I think we love one another because we have walked away from other Loves before.
Who's writing songs about this kind of bittersweet reality?
"Lemon Meringue" by Poe
"Head Over Feet" by Alanis Morissette
"Don't Think of Me" by Dido
Keep Well,
Cobalt Dreams
There is a folk song that says, "I love my Love, because I know my Love loves me." I think the song lies. I love my Love, because I first decided to love me. Allowing that I can be loveable, my capacity to love is not bound by another's response to me. In fact, love undid me, because I realized that I love my Love, whether or not my Love loves me.
Blues songs know this. They know that love is perilous. They know that the Beloved is an imperfect and often unkind person, but that this unloving nature doesn't change my love for the Beloved. Yet, still, I think Blues songs lie, because true love comes from an ability to care and be kind first to oneself. Loving myself, I cannot submit to relationship with a Beloved that does not love me.
I love my Love because my Love is wonderful. My Love loves me because I am wonderful. We are fortunate, because we decided to love one another. I think we love one another because we have walked away from other Loves before.
Who's writing songs about this kind of bittersweet reality?
"Lemon Meringue" by Poe
"Head Over Feet" by Alanis Morissette
"Don't Think of Me" by Dido
Keep Well,
Cobalt Dreams
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Dear Pneuma,
Suddenly, I do not believe in Superman. I do not believe in Wonder Woman, Mighty Mouse or even Batman. Suddenly, I've realized that true courage often means losing, failing, witnessing and being useless to change things for the better. I don't remember being taught about this in school. I don't remember seeing it exemplified on TV, and I sure do not remember seeing this kind of courage displayed by the superheroes of my youth.
This courage requires that I see injustice. This courage requires that I acknowledge my participation in injustice. This courage requires that I accept that sometimes, justice does not prevail. Yet, this courage also requires that I do not give up on justice. It also requires that I mourn at examples of injustice, and that I continue to speak against injustice, even when I cannot take action to avert it.
I have meant, in my life, to be a person of courage. I am finding that courage is more difficult when one cannot simply "come to save the day." We humans are complicated and interrelated. Every moment of our being impacts every other moment of being. Sometimes, that impact is a loss or a death; a destruction of some sort. I find I am cowardly in committment for fear of being forsworn, incapable or simply hypocritical.
I am praying, hoping, engaging in the idea of courage that includes this culpability. Wish me luck.
-Cobalt Dreams
Suddenly, I do not believe in Superman. I do not believe in Wonder Woman, Mighty Mouse or even Batman. Suddenly, I've realized that true courage often means losing, failing, witnessing and being useless to change things for the better. I don't remember being taught about this in school. I don't remember seeing it exemplified on TV, and I sure do not remember seeing this kind of courage displayed by the superheroes of my youth.
This courage requires that I see injustice. This courage requires that I acknowledge my participation in injustice. This courage requires that I accept that sometimes, justice does not prevail. Yet, this courage also requires that I do not give up on justice. It also requires that I mourn at examples of injustice, and that I continue to speak against injustice, even when I cannot take action to avert it.
I have meant, in my life, to be a person of courage. I am finding that courage is more difficult when one cannot simply "come to save the day." We humans are complicated and interrelated. Every moment of our being impacts every other moment of being. Sometimes, that impact is a loss or a death; a destruction of some sort. I find I am cowardly in committment for fear of being forsworn, incapable or simply hypocritical.
I am praying, hoping, engaging in the idea of courage that includes this culpability. Wish me luck.
-Cobalt Dreams
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
Dear Pneuma,
Today I am "overexcited." This is the term my mother used when my speech sped up, my body vibrated with pent action, and my eyes would pop out of my head from the effort of holding something in.
That something is a combination of intuitive connections, happiness, physical vigor, conversation and the weather that adds up to so much, it cannot be contained within my entirely inadequately sized body. I often have a sense that "I" take up more space than my body does. This "overexcitement" is, in my experience, the completely natural consequence of that reality. Unfortunately, it seems to translate as "crazy" to other people.
So I walk my dog and gesticulate wildly to the trees and grass, and sky, while releasing all of the wonderful energies that are thrumming through my system. I let nature, and whatever human witnesses are by, know the truly novel ideas that are rushing through my mind. I let them hear about all the wonderful connections that light up when I can actually contemplate myself subjectively and objectively at the same time. Sometimes, I simply "whoop and holler," because sound is what best expresses my state of being.
When I am here, I wonder what it is in my demeanor that is so frightening to other people. It never translates to anything other than supersonic speech and thought. It never expresses itself as a loss of physical control or even an inability to focus and accomplish a goal. Nevertheless, when I am "overexcited" people that know and love me, draw back and suggest that I "calm down." Because it does concern those around me, I find myself diffusing it through socially acceptable activities, such as dance, exercise and theatre; or else releasing it in the privacy of my shower or the anonymous privacy of the nearest "green space."
I wonder whether I am being altogether faithful to this gift that I have been given. Maybe these moments where I am so full of energy, purpose and comprehension, need to be harnessed and shared with others. Maybe these moments carry clues for the true potential of myself. Then again, maybe they are simply wonderful dreams.
In Excitement,
Cobalt Dreams
Today I am "overexcited." This is the term my mother used when my speech sped up, my body vibrated with pent action, and my eyes would pop out of my head from the effort of holding something in.
That something is a combination of intuitive connections, happiness, physical vigor, conversation and the weather that adds up to so much, it cannot be contained within my entirely inadequately sized body. I often have a sense that "I" take up more space than my body does. This "overexcitement" is, in my experience, the completely natural consequence of that reality. Unfortunately, it seems to translate as "crazy" to other people.
So I walk my dog and gesticulate wildly to the trees and grass, and sky, while releasing all of the wonderful energies that are thrumming through my system. I let nature, and whatever human witnesses are by, know the truly novel ideas that are rushing through my mind. I let them hear about all the wonderful connections that light up when I can actually contemplate myself subjectively and objectively at the same time. Sometimes, I simply "whoop and holler," because sound is what best expresses my state of being.
When I am here, I wonder what it is in my demeanor that is so frightening to other people. It never translates to anything other than supersonic speech and thought. It never expresses itself as a loss of physical control or even an inability to focus and accomplish a goal. Nevertheless, when I am "overexcited" people that know and love me, draw back and suggest that I "calm down." Because it does concern those around me, I find myself diffusing it through socially acceptable activities, such as dance, exercise and theatre; or else releasing it in the privacy of my shower or the anonymous privacy of the nearest "green space."
I wonder whether I am being altogether faithful to this gift that I have been given. Maybe these moments where I am so full of energy, purpose and comprehension, need to be harnessed and shared with others. Maybe these moments carry clues for the true potential of myself. Then again, maybe they are simply wonderful dreams.
In Excitement,
Cobalt Dreams
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Dear Pneuma,
I am a person who lives in a crux. I am defined more by choices made at the places of interior discord, than by moments of inner harmony and peace. I seem to always stand at the place where what I want and what I believe cross one another and disagree. I do not have the gift that smoothes rough edges, or marries the separate houses of warring goals into a single, happy home. Efficiency is not my middle name.
Instead, I constantly wrestle with shadowy ethics, frozen from movement that a left turn might lead to Hell. I fret about disaster, unable to see where fear bleeds immobility into caution, and I only ever seem to decide by throwing myself at a goal and damning the consequences.
While this tactic has worked so far, it takes a lot of energy. It takes a lot of nerve. It is like throwing oneself from an airplane-it means deciding that one is OK to die. One never jumps without knowing that truth, but life is long. Though I can sometimes nerve myself to jump, other times, I do not believe I have the strength to survive the regrets: the choices not made, the ideals not martyred for, the people I leave hurt or unfulfilled.
I stand at the point where pathways cross, terrified that a step one direction will rob me of myself and my word, while convinced that a step in another direction will stifle my spirit and leave my soul sullen and worn. Yet, me being me, I thrive in the tension and will not let myself simply rest there at the point of no decision. I refuse to let fate, the winds, or even God take responsibility for my choice.
So, I think. I fret. I worry. I ponder. I hope. I analyze. I dissect. I suck the marrow from the skeletons of my future, and I wonder. I wait, curious to see where I will go, when tense apprehension gives way to passionate conviction and I finally choose to take a step.
As Ever,
Cobalt Dreams
I am a person who lives in a crux. I am defined more by choices made at the places of interior discord, than by moments of inner harmony and peace. I seem to always stand at the place where what I want and what I believe cross one another and disagree. I do not have the gift that smoothes rough edges, or marries the separate houses of warring goals into a single, happy home. Efficiency is not my middle name.
Instead, I constantly wrestle with shadowy ethics, frozen from movement that a left turn might lead to Hell. I fret about disaster, unable to see where fear bleeds immobility into caution, and I only ever seem to decide by throwing myself at a goal and damning the consequences.
While this tactic has worked so far, it takes a lot of energy. It takes a lot of nerve. It is like throwing oneself from an airplane-it means deciding that one is OK to die. One never jumps without knowing that truth, but life is long. Though I can sometimes nerve myself to jump, other times, I do not believe I have the strength to survive the regrets: the choices not made, the ideals not martyred for, the people I leave hurt or unfulfilled.
I stand at the point where pathways cross, terrified that a step one direction will rob me of myself and my word, while convinced that a step in another direction will stifle my spirit and leave my soul sullen and worn. Yet, me being me, I thrive in the tension and will not let myself simply rest there at the point of no decision. I refuse to let fate, the winds, or even God take responsibility for my choice.
So, I think. I fret. I worry. I ponder. I hope. I analyze. I dissect. I suck the marrow from the skeletons of my future, and I wonder. I wait, curious to see where I will go, when tense apprehension gives way to passionate conviction and I finally choose to take a step.
As Ever,
Cobalt Dreams
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Dear Pneuma,
I write my Beloved a poem:
How did I see a color so delicate as you?
I searched for bolder, brighter,
Angrier shades and hues.
How did I feel a sound so smooth as you?
I danced to frenzied, faster,
Seedier songs and tunes.
How did I know a scent as subtle as you?
I savored sulkier, sillkier,
Thicker herbs and rues.
Delicate, smooth, subtle,
Somehow you came to mind,
I searched, I danced, I savored,
I stopped to turn and find
A beautiful and golden soul,
Rare as hopefullness and dew
I close my eyes; I listen deep
Look inside and I find you.
-Cobalt Dreams
I write my Beloved a poem:
How did I see a color so delicate as you?
I searched for bolder, brighter,
Angrier shades and hues.
How did I feel a sound so smooth as you?
I danced to frenzied, faster,
Seedier songs and tunes.
How did I know a scent as subtle as you?
I savored sulkier, sillkier,
Thicker herbs and rues.
Delicate, smooth, subtle,
Somehow you came to mind,
I searched, I danced, I savored,
I stopped to turn and find
A beautiful and golden soul,
Rare as hopefullness and dew
I close my eyes; I listen deep
Look inside and I find you.
-Cobalt Dreams
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Dear Pneuma,
Love is such a simple thing.
I wasn't raised to be soft. Life is supposed to be hard. The most humbling experiences have been moments when I stopped being hard long enough to pay attention to the soft subtle voices around me. They are the voices speaking actions of love.
After my last letter, I worked to accept the selfish and childish nature of my discontentedness. I listened past the angry, tired, bratty voice of complaint and I heard my Beloved speaking. Suddenly, I realized that my Beloved has been hearing me. My Beloved has been quietly reassuring me and working to alleviate my sadness.
What if I hadn't stopped to listen? I might have rushed right past the true and simple things offered in order to hold onto a self-image predicated upon being hard. Thank God . . .
Love Always,
Cobalt Dreams
Love is such a simple thing.
I wasn't raised to be soft. Life is supposed to be hard. The most humbling experiences have been moments when I stopped being hard long enough to pay attention to the soft subtle voices around me. They are the voices speaking actions of love.
After my last letter, I worked to accept the selfish and childish nature of my discontentedness. I listened past the angry, tired, bratty voice of complaint and I heard my Beloved speaking. Suddenly, I realized that my Beloved has been hearing me. My Beloved has been quietly reassuring me and working to alleviate my sadness.
What if I hadn't stopped to listen? I might have rushed right past the true and simple things offered in order to hold onto a self-image predicated upon being hard. Thank God . . .
Love Always,
Cobalt Dreams
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Dear Pneuma,
I am torn. Do I pray to be released from my selfishness, or do I pray to become blinded to it?
I caught myself in the act this morning. I caught myself wishing with ardent fervor and very real anxiety that a certain thing not happen to me, as if, by closing my eyes and saying "please no, please no," I could avert something I want to avoid. Does that kind of praying feed someone's hunger? Does that kind of wishing avert the rape; this disease; that war? Where do I get off thinking that the world shouldn't happen to me?
When did I become so selfish?
But, Pneuma, I am scared to be shown the root of my selfishness. I am afraid to look deeply at myself and find what drives that self-obsession. I am afraid of the answer I will find there. I am afraid that I won't be able to pay what it asks of me.
Holding On,
Cobalt Dreams
I am torn. Do I pray to be released from my selfishness, or do I pray to become blinded to it?
I caught myself in the act this morning. I caught myself wishing with ardent fervor and very real anxiety that a certain thing not happen to me, as if, by closing my eyes and saying "please no, please no," I could avert something I want to avoid. Does that kind of praying feed someone's hunger? Does that kind of wishing avert the rape; this disease; that war? Where do I get off thinking that the world shouldn't happen to me?
When did I become so selfish?
But, Pneuma, I am scared to be shown the root of my selfishness. I am afraid to look deeply at myself and find what drives that self-obsession. I am afraid of the answer I will find there. I am afraid that I won't be able to pay what it asks of me.
Holding On,
Cobalt Dreams
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Dear Pneuma,
The ten best parts of the last five days:
*Touristing with my mother-in-law
*Watching the largest carousel in the world whirl
*Hearing two songs written by people I know
*Watching a Packers game in a Wisconsin Sports bar.
*Remembering my siblings
*Holding my Beloved's hand in the rain.
*Three does looking at us.
*Gas fireplaces
*Witnessing the power of roots.
*A tree with leaves that were both green and red.
Love Always,
Cobalt Dreams
The ten best parts of the last five days:
*Touristing with my mother-in-law
*Watching the largest carousel in the world whirl
*Hearing two songs written by people I know
*Watching a Packers game in a Wisconsin Sports bar.
*Remembering my siblings
*Holding my Beloved's hand in the rain.
*Three does looking at us.
*Gas fireplaces
*Witnessing the power of roots.
*A tree with leaves that were both green and red.
Love Always,
Cobalt Dreams
Sunday, October 7, 2007
Dear Pneuma,
I think, if we do not want to be liars, we should never speak of the past. I found myself a liar this week, as I received transcripts from my time at the University. For years, I have been telling people that I carried an average of 24 credit hours every semester.
I did not. I carried an average of 16 credit hours per semester. Hm. I swear, I was not trying to build myself up to more than I am. I honestly believed that more semesters than not, I had to get an override so I could carry more than 20 credits. Apparently, I only needed to do that one time. My transcripts, in green and black, prove me to be a liar.
What do I do with the revision that time makes of the past? So much that I count as revelation in my later life, is based on memories of people, places and actions in the past. The grudges I have released, as well as the forgivenesses I have embraced, rely on a memory that cannot be relied upon. This seems dangerous to me.
It seems to imply that no matter what has happened, the only truth is here and now. It seems to imply that no matter what my relationships have been, the only true statements can be made about my relationships as they are right now. Does that mean that to grieve the loss of my brother is nonsensical? After all, I grieve when I remember him. Does that mean that my memory of the way in which my first lover betrayed me is a useless piece of misinformation? After all, if I cannot accurately remember how many classes I took in school, how can I possibly accurately remember actions and events that are clouded with anger, hurt and dismay?
Can I find freedom in that? Can I truly know myself without believing in my past? What do I do in a culture that tells me to "learn from my mistakes?" How can I truly trust my decisions, if I do not allow myself to draw from my experience in the past? How do I avoid the pitfalls of dangerous and abusive relationship if I allow myself to forget the map drawn from dangerous and abusive relationships in the past?
Coming this morning from church, I have to wonder if Christianity doesn't tell us something of this. In Christ, all our past is forgiven. Christians are taught that forgiveness heals us, where retribution and jealousy will not. Many Christian traditions suggest that in Baptism, we become new people, and it seems that we are called to faithfully be made "new every morning." Perhaps, then, Christians are called to forget. Perhaps, in letting go completely of the past's fetters: of family obligations, material possessions, sorrows, injustice, attainments and most importantly fear, we will be freed to fulfill our potential as whole beings in this world.
Yet, when I juxtapose these teachings with the ritual of Communion on this World Communion Sunday, I find a mystery, because Communion relies on remembrance. More, it relies on cultural remembrance of events that no one alive had the opportunity to witness. We are taught that the ritual and meaning of Communion have been passed down the generations, since the time of Christ. We have this understanding on the word of people, speaking through their memory of the past. So, how can we possibly believe the truth of such ancient teachings, when we cannot even rely on the simple memory of how many times we had to get an override to sign up for classes?
I think, for the rest of today, and maybe for many days into the future, I will dwell on this problem: how to rely on remembrance, while forgetting the past; how to discern the difference between truth and fact, and how to experience transformation in revisiting the people, places and actions of my past, without making those memories the rigid, absolute patterns of the actual people, places and actions of the past.
Take Care of Yours.
Know I am thinking of you,
Cobalt Dreams
I think, if we do not want to be liars, we should never speak of the past. I found myself a liar this week, as I received transcripts from my time at the University. For years, I have been telling people that I carried an average of 24 credit hours every semester.
I did not. I carried an average of 16 credit hours per semester. Hm. I swear, I was not trying to build myself up to more than I am. I honestly believed that more semesters than not, I had to get an override so I could carry more than 20 credits. Apparently, I only needed to do that one time. My transcripts, in green and black, prove me to be a liar.
What do I do with the revision that time makes of the past? So much that I count as revelation in my later life, is based on memories of people, places and actions in the past. The grudges I have released, as well as the forgivenesses I have embraced, rely on a memory that cannot be relied upon. This seems dangerous to me.
It seems to imply that no matter what has happened, the only truth is here and now. It seems to imply that no matter what my relationships have been, the only true statements can be made about my relationships as they are right now. Does that mean that to grieve the loss of my brother is nonsensical? After all, I grieve when I remember him. Does that mean that my memory of the way in which my first lover betrayed me is a useless piece of misinformation? After all, if I cannot accurately remember how many classes I took in school, how can I possibly accurately remember actions and events that are clouded with anger, hurt and dismay?
Can I find freedom in that? Can I truly know myself without believing in my past? What do I do in a culture that tells me to "learn from my mistakes?" How can I truly trust my decisions, if I do not allow myself to draw from my experience in the past? How do I avoid the pitfalls of dangerous and abusive relationship if I allow myself to forget the map drawn from dangerous and abusive relationships in the past?
Coming this morning from church, I have to wonder if Christianity doesn't tell us something of this. In Christ, all our past is forgiven. Christians are taught that forgiveness heals us, where retribution and jealousy will not. Many Christian traditions suggest that in Baptism, we become new people, and it seems that we are called to faithfully be made "new every morning." Perhaps, then, Christians are called to forget. Perhaps, in letting go completely of the past's fetters: of family obligations, material possessions, sorrows, injustice, attainments and most importantly fear, we will be freed to fulfill our potential as whole beings in this world.
Yet, when I juxtapose these teachings with the ritual of Communion on this World Communion Sunday, I find a mystery, because Communion relies on remembrance. More, it relies on cultural remembrance of events that no one alive had the opportunity to witness. We are taught that the ritual and meaning of Communion have been passed down the generations, since the time of Christ. We have this understanding on the word of people, speaking through their memory of the past. So, how can we possibly believe the truth of such ancient teachings, when we cannot even rely on the simple memory of how many times we had to get an override to sign up for classes?
I think, for the rest of today, and maybe for many days into the future, I will dwell on this problem: how to rely on remembrance, while forgetting the past; how to discern the difference between truth and fact, and how to experience transformation in revisiting the people, places and actions of my past, without making those memories the rigid, absolute patterns of the actual people, places and actions of the past.
Take Care of Yours.
Know I am thinking of you,
Cobalt Dreams
Monday, October 1, 2007
Dear Pneuma,
I am sorry that I haven't written for a while. I have been engaged in human interaction over the last few days. I've been playing games, conversing and going to sporting events. In short, I have been busy; good busy. What's more, I have been in change.
Going through transitions, shifting gears, changing course, or whatever metaphor one chooses, life events require a lot of energy and focus. My emotions fluctuate, my support systems get disrupted, and I engage in a kind of spiritual warfare with my past. I stop being easy. Simple decisions become life-consuming, and everyday actions, like going to the grocery store, become pure acts of will. I do not know why this is so, but I am no longer going to argue that it isn't. For me, at least, encompassing change is a difficult, energy-eating endeavor.
What I love about my grey hair, is that it is proof I have fought my way to skills that I never had before. I can stand outside my tantrums, my worries, and my actions, and let them be. I believe in myself. I no longer fear my strong emotions. I am now able to admit that I am sometimes immature and often unwise, but I know that I am going to be all right. What's more, I believe in time. I don't have to have everything figured out right now. I have plenty of time to struggle with "whys," "wherefores," and "whatnots."
I guess, Pneuma, that I want to let you know that I am all right. I'm working hard and I'm getting it together, whatever that means. It just isn't all that pretty all the time. I'm OK with that. I'm more than OK with that. Thanks for listening.
Love Always,
Cobalt Dreams
I am sorry that I haven't written for a while. I have been engaged in human interaction over the last few days. I've been playing games, conversing and going to sporting events. In short, I have been busy; good busy. What's more, I have been in change.
Going through transitions, shifting gears, changing course, or whatever metaphor one chooses, life events require a lot of energy and focus. My emotions fluctuate, my support systems get disrupted, and I engage in a kind of spiritual warfare with my past. I stop being easy. Simple decisions become life-consuming, and everyday actions, like going to the grocery store, become pure acts of will. I do not know why this is so, but I am no longer going to argue that it isn't. For me, at least, encompassing change is a difficult, energy-eating endeavor.
What I love about my grey hair, is that it is proof I have fought my way to skills that I never had before. I can stand outside my tantrums, my worries, and my actions, and let them be. I believe in myself. I no longer fear my strong emotions. I am now able to admit that I am sometimes immature and often unwise, but I know that I am going to be all right. What's more, I believe in time. I don't have to have everything figured out right now. I have plenty of time to struggle with "whys," "wherefores," and "whatnots."
I guess, Pneuma, that I want to let you know that I am all right. I'm working hard and I'm getting it together, whatever that means. It just isn't all that pretty all the time. I'm OK with that. I'm more than OK with that. Thanks for listening.
Love Always,
Cobalt Dreams
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Dear Pneuma,
What a gorgeous and glorious morning! The grass in the back has been let grow too long, but this morning, it is netted with dew. The sun makes it glint and glamour like fairy dust, and I wonder how many people, wending their way to work this morning, had the time to notice. I wonder if they felt the sun warm on the hair of their arms. I wonder if they smelled the after-rain sweat of green things on the air.
Today is a day to take things slow, or, like the Travis Tritt song, to "take it easy, take it easy." There is no need to rush anywhere, or hurry to get something done. Today is a day to savor, like peach mead, not so much on the tongue, but in the nose, and on the Beloved's lip.
I hope you find it so as well, Pneuma. I hope today is an easy day, full of fairy dews and daydreams.
Love Always,
Cobalt Dreams
What a gorgeous and glorious morning! The grass in the back has been let grow too long, but this morning, it is netted with dew. The sun makes it glint and glamour like fairy dust, and I wonder how many people, wending their way to work this morning, had the time to notice. I wonder if they felt the sun warm on the hair of their arms. I wonder if they smelled the after-rain sweat of green things on the air.
Today is a day to take things slow, or, like the Travis Tritt song, to "take it easy, take it easy." There is no need to rush anywhere, or hurry to get something done. Today is a day to savor, like peach mead, not so much on the tongue, but in the nose, and on the Beloved's lip.
I hope you find it so as well, Pneuma. I hope today is an easy day, full of fairy dews and daydreams.
Love Always,
Cobalt Dreams
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Dear Pneuma,
Why is happiness so hard to write about? When I am blue, the words just ache to be written. When I am pink, they stack up behind my fingertips like adrenalin junkies in a roller coaster line. Today is a pink day.
The rain falling from the sky is a crisp, cleansing rain. The neighborhood is noisy with people going places and doing things. The dirt is black and smells like richness; there is a yellow daylily blooming in my back yard. Adventure beckons-a short step out of the house and down the street, a step fraught with potential and hope.
I believe this is how life is meant to be lived. Nothing radical has changed from the last time I wrote. I still don't feel as springy and strong as I did at seventeen, but today, I want to challenge the world. Today, I am unafraid and interested in what's going on outside. Today, I have room for other people.
My chest flutters and my mouth smiles. I like the color of my clothes and I can harldy wait until the hour my Beloved comes home. Today, I feel good about the little energy I spend, rather than feeling bad about the large energy I can no longer access.
Today, my monster is in its cage. I am its tamer and I stand outside.
It seems that this is a truth of faithfulness-life can only get better. As I wrestle day-to-day with the temptation to believe in the ascendancy of death and pain, I am being called to believe that life wins out. Life wins out because people care. Life wins out because pain is proof of feeling. Life wins out because lilies bloom in autumn and life wins out because tomorrow we can laugh at what grives us today.
So, I will leave this post, Pneuma, wishing you a life unafraid and hopeful, knowing that the radical is nothing more than the every day.
Love Always,
Cobalt Dreams
Why is happiness so hard to write about? When I am blue, the words just ache to be written. When I am pink, they stack up behind my fingertips like adrenalin junkies in a roller coaster line. Today is a pink day.
The rain falling from the sky is a crisp, cleansing rain. The neighborhood is noisy with people going places and doing things. The dirt is black and smells like richness; there is a yellow daylily blooming in my back yard. Adventure beckons-a short step out of the house and down the street, a step fraught with potential and hope.
I believe this is how life is meant to be lived. Nothing radical has changed from the last time I wrote. I still don't feel as springy and strong as I did at seventeen, but today, I want to challenge the world. Today, I am unafraid and interested in what's going on outside. Today, I have room for other people.
My chest flutters and my mouth smiles. I like the color of my clothes and I can harldy wait until the hour my Beloved comes home. Today, I feel good about the little energy I spend, rather than feeling bad about the large energy I can no longer access.
Today, my monster is in its cage. I am its tamer and I stand outside.
It seems that this is a truth of faithfulness-life can only get better. As I wrestle day-to-day with the temptation to believe in the ascendancy of death and pain, I am being called to believe that life wins out. Life wins out because people care. Life wins out because pain is proof of feeling. Life wins out because lilies bloom in autumn and life wins out because tomorrow we can laugh at what grives us today.
So, I will leave this post, Pneuma, wishing you a life unafraid and hopeful, knowing that the radical is nothing more than the every day.
Love Always,
Cobalt Dreams
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Dear Pneuma,
I have been physically hurting today. I have been physically hurting a lot, lately. I just don't wake up and feel good much anymore. My mom would say I am getting old, but I know some of it is my monster. I am both angry and scared of my monster's attacks on my body. I am angry that I was chosen for this. I am afraid to acknowledge how much I may lose and how many parts of my body may not survive the fight.
Sometimes, I am strong. I get pissed and I fight it. On those days, its teeth don't graze me. On those days, its claws can dig all they want, and I don't care. Unfortunately, sometimes, I am weak, and I bow to its weight on me. I sit, instead of running. I sleep and take it slow. I hold so tight to controlling every aspect of my environment, hoping my monster cannot see me, that I am trapped, and sometimes, when I know that hasn't worked, I lay down and just let it gnaw at me. When that happens, I find it hard to get back up again.
Avoiding pain is so much simpler than engaging it. I find myself angry that I do not have that choice anymore. My monster means dying. Avoiding pain, whether it be physical, intellectual, spiritual, or emotional means dying slow. The only way to mean "alive" is to move; is to do, see, feel, touch and try everything I possibly can. That means hurting a lot. That means getting up when I want to sleep, going out when I want to stay in, saying yes when I want to say no, dancing when my head spins, my legs burn and the very heart of me is beating in a panic that at any moment my monster may choose to strike me down.
I think that perhaps the hardest part in maintaining the balance is that every moment is a choice. When I weep and whine, it is my choice. When I swirl and spin, it is my choice. When I give a day over to pain or fear, that is my choice. When I give a day over to joyfulness and love, that is my choice. That makes for a terrible amount of freedom, and an awesome responsibility. So many times, I make the wrong choice. Maybe someday, some day before I die, I'll actually be able to live up to the challenge.
Keeping you in my thoughts,
Cobalt Dreams
I have been physically hurting today. I have been physically hurting a lot, lately. I just don't wake up and feel good much anymore. My mom would say I am getting old, but I know some of it is my monster. I am both angry and scared of my monster's attacks on my body. I am angry that I was chosen for this. I am afraid to acknowledge how much I may lose and how many parts of my body may not survive the fight.
Sometimes, I am strong. I get pissed and I fight it. On those days, its teeth don't graze me. On those days, its claws can dig all they want, and I don't care. Unfortunately, sometimes, I am weak, and I bow to its weight on me. I sit, instead of running. I sleep and take it slow. I hold so tight to controlling every aspect of my environment, hoping my monster cannot see me, that I am trapped, and sometimes, when I know that hasn't worked, I lay down and just let it gnaw at me. When that happens, I find it hard to get back up again.
Avoiding pain is so much simpler than engaging it. I find myself angry that I do not have that choice anymore. My monster means dying. Avoiding pain, whether it be physical, intellectual, spiritual, or emotional means dying slow. The only way to mean "alive" is to move; is to do, see, feel, touch and try everything I possibly can. That means hurting a lot. That means getting up when I want to sleep, going out when I want to stay in, saying yes when I want to say no, dancing when my head spins, my legs burn and the very heart of me is beating in a panic that at any moment my monster may choose to strike me down.
I think that perhaps the hardest part in maintaining the balance is that every moment is a choice. When I weep and whine, it is my choice. When I swirl and spin, it is my choice. When I give a day over to pain or fear, that is my choice. When I give a day over to joyfulness and love, that is my choice. That makes for a terrible amount of freedom, and an awesome responsibility. So many times, I make the wrong choice. Maybe someday, some day before I die, I'll actually be able to live up to the challenge.
Keeping you in my thoughts,
Cobalt Dreams
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Dear Pneuma,
I've been rereading one of my favorite wisdom authors: Sonia Choquette. Her writings really speak to me. She seems to be able to sum up my own situations so clearly. Today, I was reminded that I can look at my life as something I created. Its messes and its works of art are both results of my action, my "focus" and my "intention." (Choquette, Sonia. Your Heart's Desire. Three Rivers Press. New York, 1997. pp. 1-35)
I took stock, and my life is something wonderful. I have a significant relationship with my Beloved. I have faithful, reliable, fun and funny friends. I have a large and living family. I have community. I have shelter, food, and freedom from financial fear. I am free of financial debt, material burden, and I am even in a position to help others that do not have all the material abundance I experience. My health is pretty good and I am in a position to travel freely.
Wow! What a wonderful turnaround from five years ago, when all I had built toward, sacrified to and believed in was shown to be a lie. In those days, I lived life from fear. I tried not to touch others. I believed that if I never asked for anything, nothing would ever be asked from me. I figured I was safe, as I never chose to break the rules.
I was poor, emotionally cold, intelligent, and empty. I was in debt, failing to pay rent, and slave to a motorized vehicle that broke down at its own whim. I woke one day, and was asked to carry a terrible burden. That is when I discovered the wisdom of Sonia Choquette.
That is when I started to "bless my mess." (Choquette, Sonia. Your Heart's Desire. Three Rivers Press. New York, 1997. pp. 2)That is when I decided to need other people. That is when I decided to break rules and damn consequences. What I was carrying was heavy enough that I realized I could carry even more. That was when I decided that hope takes more courage than despair, and that I live to be here in this world.
I won't "leave this world alive." What's more, I won't leave without being scarred, marred, disfigured, beaten, battered, bruised and otherwise marked by it. Though I've lapsed a time or two, this change of "attention" and "intention" has been a great blessing. I wouldn't put down my heavy burden for the world. My heavy burden gave me the world.
Pneuma, I am blessed. My life is a beautiful dream.
Deo Gratias,
Cobalt Dreams
I've been rereading one of my favorite wisdom authors: Sonia Choquette. Her writings really speak to me. She seems to be able to sum up my own situations so clearly. Today, I was reminded that I can look at my life as something I created. Its messes and its works of art are both results of my action, my "focus" and my "intention." (Choquette, Sonia. Your Heart's Desire. Three Rivers Press. New York, 1997. pp. 1-35)
I took stock, and my life is something wonderful. I have a significant relationship with my Beloved. I have faithful, reliable, fun and funny friends. I have a large and living family. I have community. I have shelter, food, and freedom from financial fear. I am free of financial debt, material burden, and I am even in a position to help others that do not have all the material abundance I experience. My health is pretty good and I am in a position to travel freely.
Wow! What a wonderful turnaround from five years ago, when all I had built toward, sacrified to and believed in was shown to be a lie. In those days, I lived life from fear. I tried not to touch others. I believed that if I never asked for anything, nothing would ever be asked from me. I figured I was safe, as I never chose to break the rules.
I was poor, emotionally cold, intelligent, and empty. I was in debt, failing to pay rent, and slave to a motorized vehicle that broke down at its own whim. I woke one day, and was asked to carry a terrible burden. That is when I discovered the wisdom of Sonia Choquette.
That is when I started to "bless my mess." (Choquette, Sonia. Your Heart's Desire. Three Rivers Press. New York, 1997. pp. 2)That is when I decided to need other people. That is when I decided to break rules and damn consequences. What I was carrying was heavy enough that I realized I could carry even more. That was when I decided that hope takes more courage than despair, and that I live to be here in this world.
I won't "leave this world alive." What's more, I won't leave without being scarred, marred, disfigured, beaten, battered, bruised and otherwise marked by it. Though I've lapsed a time or two, this change of "attention" and "intention" has been a great blessing. I wouldn't put down my heavy burden for the world. My heavy burden gave me the world.
Pneuma, I am blessed. My life is a beautiful dream.
Deo Gratias,
Cobalt Dreams
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Dear Pneuma,
Autumn is falling here. Light is golden. The air is crisp, cool, yet bursting with vital energy. Autumn is an apple. I walked in Autumn today. I smiled at people and wished them a good morning. It is a good morning here.
Walking was a purpose. Walking was exercise for myself and my black, four-footed companion. Walking was fresh air and strangers passing. Walking was people's personalities written in their yards. Walking was people's affluence or poverty laid like a chess board along the city's streets. Walking was a street ending in a cemetery larger than any of the houses I passed. Walking was wrestling with contradictions
One Diction says, "Nothing in the world is free. We all have to pay our way."
One Diction says, "Love is free. We cannot pay for it."
I know both Dictions to speak truly. The world requires of us, but no earnings can be applied to Love. Of the two, Love is the newer idea. I know what it is to pay my own way. I know what it is to pay off all my debts. I know that I can do without the things I cannot purchase righteously, but . . .Love?
Pneuma, this is hard for me. Gifts freely given mean that someone else has paid my way. Gifts given "just because" mean that I received something for nothing. Love is source of all gifts. I don't know what that means. Gratitude seems too small a return, but I have no way of earning something of equal value.
So, I walked and wrestled with guilt, or maybe unexpressible gratitude, for the freely given gift of freedom from work-freedom from always paying my own way; freedom from debt; freedom from the need to do without. I wrestled with the contradictions, and decided that, for today, I can be of two minds. Part of me will continue to believe that, someday, I will be asked to pay for all of the gifts I have received. The other part of me will wastefully, recklessly, dangerously believe that gifts given, products of Love, will never have a cost.
Love Always,
Cobalt Dreams
Autumn is falling here. Light is golden. The air is crisp, cool, yet bursting with vital energy. Autumn is an apple. I walked in Autumn today. I smiled at people and wished them a good morning. It is a good morning here.
Walking was a purpose. Walking was exercise for myself and my black, four-footed companion. Walking was fresh air and strangers passing. Walking was people's personalities written in their yards. Walking was people's affluence or poverty laid like a chess board along the city's streets. Walking was a street ending in a cemetery larger than any of the houses I passed. Walking was wrestling with contradictions
One Diction says, "Nothing in the world is free. We all have to pay our way."
One Diction says, "Love is free. We cannot pay for it."
I know both Dictions to speak truly. The world requires of us, but no earnings can be applied to Love. Of the two, Love is the newer idea. I know what it is to pay my own way. I know what it is to pay off all my debts. I know that I can do without the things I cannot purchase righteously, but . . .Love?
Pneuma, this is hard for me. Gifts freely given mean that someone else has paid my way. Gifts given "just because" mean that I received something for nothing. Love is source of all gifts. I don't know what that means. Gratitude seems too small a return, but I have no way of earning something of equal value.
So, I walked and wrestled with guilt, or maybe unexpressible gratitude, for the freely given gift of freedom from work-freedom from always paying my own way; freedom from debt; freedom from the need to do without. I wrestled with the contradictions, and decided that, for today, I can be of two minds. Part of me will continue to believe that, someday, I will be asked to pay for all of the gifts I have received. The other part of me will wastefully, recklessly, dangerously believe that gifts given, products of Love, will never have a cost.
Love Always,
Cobalt Dreams
Thursday, September 6, 2007
Dear Pneuma,
Today is about fashion. I was preparing for a gig this morning, and I could sense the right fashion choices. This is strange for me. Usually, I am dressing to "feel" good-looking, or I am dressing to my Beloved's preferences. When I am clothing myself with these intentions, I often end up comfortably or inappropriately dressed. I rarely end up in clothes that make a "fashion statement."
This is, I think, the reason that we should not dress to please others, or dress to create a self-image. With these motivations, I often end up looking like a Madonna groupie, which may have been cool once, but . . .
Fashion rarely follows my preferences, but fashion is not something for me or for my Beloved's pleasure. Fashion has something to do with how we are relating to the world we are living in. When I am full of insecurity, I need clothing to define me. When I am full of selfishness, I need clothing to state me. When I am aware of myself and the world I live in, clothing becomes a statement of being in the world.
Clothing says, "I am with you," by conforming; "I am against you," by not comforming. It can say, "I hate consumerism," by being used. It can say, "I love my blessedness" by being new. Clothing can state our slaveries and our autonomies. It can proclaim solidarities with causes and companies. It can shout exuberant joy, and easy familiarity. Our clothing choices mean something.
Today, I was neither needing to boost my confidence or attain my Beloved's regard. Today, I needed to wear clothing that said, "Here I am. I am fresh. I am excited. I am in charge of myself and my being in the world." Somehow, I know that I did, because what I chose to wear was neither my personal preference, nor some safe conglomeration of attire that says nothing at all. What I chose to wear knows it looks like something it has been seeing and doesn't care if it makes me look pretty, sexy, safe or foolish. It knows that it makes me look right.
Today, in my clothes, I am neither selfish nor insecure. Today, in my clothes, I look good. I feel good. I am going to knock their socks off.
Love you,
Cobalt Dreams
Today is about fashion. I was preparing for a gig this morning, and I could sense the right fashion choices. This is strange for me. Usually, I am dressing to "feel" good-looking, or I am dressing to my Beloved's preferences. When I am clothing myself with these intentions, I often end up comfortably or inappropriately dressed. I rarely end up in clothes that make a "fashion statement."
This is, I think, the reason that we should not dress to please others, or dress to create a self-image. With these motivations, I often end up looking like a Madonna groupie, which may have been cool once, but . . .
Fashion rarely follows my preferences, but fashion is not something for me or for my Beloved's pleasure. Fashion has something to do with how we are relating to the world we are living in. When I am full of insecurity, I need clothing to define me. When I am full of selfishness, I need clothing to state me. When I am aware of myself and the world I live in, clothing becomes a statement of being in the world.
Clothing says, "I am with you," by conforming; "I am against you," by not comforming. It can say, "I hate consumerism," by being used. It can say, "I love my blessedness" by being new. Clothing can state our slaveries and our autonomies. It can proclaim solidarities with causes and companies. It can shout exuberant joy, and easy familiarity. Our clothing choices mean something.
Today, I was neither needing to boost my confidence or attain my Beloved's regard. Today, I needed to wear clothing that said, "Here I am. I am fresh. I am excited. I am in charge of myself and my being in the world." Somehow, I know that I did, because what I chose to wear was neither my personal preference, nor some safe conglomeration of attire that says nothing at all. What I chose to wear knows it looks like something it has been seeing and doesn't care if it makes me look pretty, sexy, safe or foolish. It knows that it makes me look right.
Today, in my clothes, I am neither selfish nor insecure. Today, in my clothes, I look good. I feel good. I am going to knock their socks off.
Love you,
Cobalt Dreams
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Dear Pneuma,
I had a grandmother whose bathroom was done up in purple and green. Her sink and bathtub were lavender; her carpet was purple, and the tile around the walls was swirly green marble. Looking at my new stationary, I cannot help but make a comparison. Nevertheless, I am not too proud to make due with what I have, so purple and green it shall be for a while longer.
I find myself feeling less anxious today. Maybe a little less coffee and a little more breakfast helps. My Beloved helps as well. Somehow, everything that is going so poorly in morning light, is going so well in the dark closeness of our bed. We can hold hands and speak. My words suddenly have meaning. My fears suddenly have comfort. My hopes suddenly have warmth and nurture.
How did I live before I found my Beloved? How did I close out the ragged ends of days? How did I confront the despair, and stay still in the loneliness? I think I didn't. I think I ran, angry and empty, from place to place, and from job to job. I think I breathed panic into my marrow until, even now, I cannot properly define myself without the adrenaline surge of riding the edge of destruction. Who am I, if the world goes on functioning without me? Why am I, if my past community doesn't feel my loss? What is my purpose-of-ness, if the sun will set regardless of whether I worked a day beneath it, or spent the day hiding from its light?
I have been the center of my Universe. I have known the error of that perception. My Beloved has caused me to live outside that perception. I still find it difficult. It seems it is hard to leave the canyons we have carved-to change the direction in which we have flowed, and carve new canyons across country we do not know.
Thanks for listening, Pneuma
As always, know you are loved,
Cobalt Dreams
I had a grandmother whose bathroom was done up in purple and green. Her sink and bathtub were lavender; her carpet was purple, and the tile around the walls was swirly green marble. Looking at my new stationary, I cannot help but make a comparison. Nevertheless, I am not too proud to make due with what I have, so purple and green it shall be for a while longer.
I find myself feeling less anxious today. Maybe a little less coffee and a little more breakfast helps. My Beloved helps as well. Somehow, everything that is going so poorly in morning light, is going so well in the dark closeness of our bed. We can hold hands and speak. My words suddenly have meaning. My fears suddenly have comfort. My hopes suddenly have warmth and nurture.
How did I live before I found my Beloved? How did I close out the ragged ends of days? How did I confront the despair, and stay still in the loneliness? I think I didn't. I think I ran, angry and empty, from place to place, and from job to job. I think I breathed panic into my marrow until, even now, I cannot properly define myself without the adrenaline surge of riding the edge of destruction. Who am I, if the world goes on functioning without me? Why am I, if my past community doesn't feel my loss? What is my purpose-of-ness, if the sun will set regardless of whether I worked a day beneath it, or spent the day hiding from its light?
I have been the center of my Universe. I have known the error of that perception. My Beloved has caused me to live outside that perception. I still find it difficult. It seems it is hard to leave the canyons we have carved-to change the direction in which we have flowed, and carve new canyons across country we do not know.
Thanks for listening, Pneuma
As always, know you are loved,
Cobalt Dreams
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
Dear Pneuma,
How long does it take to let a life go? How long does it take to get over being who you were? I've done it once before, but leaving the old me was such a relief. It was a run for freedom. This time, I feel as though I ran into a cage. I'm barred by being here and not there. I am barred by the fact that everyone I reach for is someone I left behind. I'm locked into "I was." I am ashamed of the "I am."
The "I am" has no action behind it. The "I am" is a "once was." I hate being a "once was," a "has been." Yet, I miss who I was. I feel no energy pushing me to be someone new. My energy wants to wrap itself around the burning core of me. It wants to deflect and protect. There are voices telling me to reach out. There are voices egging me on to reconnect, but I'm sad. I miss my friends. I miss being a valued part of the community I lived in. I miss the life I created of my own self.
Pneuma, how do I stop being so selfish? How do I let the past go and focus on the present? How do I uncoil from my center and accept that this new life has possibilities and potentials that the old life never had? How do I create a new life with my Beloved? How do I move on?
Cobalt Dreams
How long does it take to let a life go? How long does it take to get over being who you were? I've done it once before, but leaving the old me was such a relief. It was a run for freedom. This time, I feel as though I ran into a cage. I'm barred by being here and not there. I am barred by the fact that everyone I reach for is someone I left behind. I'm locked into "I was." I am ashamed of the "I am."
The "I am" has no action behind it. The "I am" is a "once was." I hate being a "once was," a "has been." Yet, I miss who I was. I feel no energy pushing me to be someone new. My energy wants to wrap itself around the burning core of me. It wants to deflect and protect. There are voices telling me to reach out. There are voices egging me on to reconnect, but I'm sad. I miss my friends. I miss being a valued part of the community I lived in. I miss the life I created of my own self.
Pneuma, how do I stop being so selfish? How do I let the past go and focus on the present? How do I uncoil from my center and accept that this new life has possibilities and potentials that the old life never had? How do I create a new life with my Beloved? How do I move on?
Cobalt Dreams
Monday, September 3, 2007
Dear pneuma,
I am in the process of creating new stationary. I am sorry if this correspondence looks weird for a while. How has life been treating you? I have had some exciting adventures over the last few days which have kept me from writing. Who wants to sit in a room when one can drink the late summer gold of sunlight and play with friends until sun sets and it is time to rest?
I promise I will get back to you tomorrow. For now,
Take care of you and yours,
Cobalt Dreams.
I am in the process of creating new stationary. I am sorry if this correspondence looks weird for a while. How has life been treating you? I have had some exciting adventures over the last few days which have kept me from writing. Who wants to sit in a room when one can drink the late summer gold of sunlight and play with friends until sun sets and it is time to rest?
I promise I will get back to you tomorrow. For now,
Take care of you and yours,
Cobalt Dreams.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Dear Pneuma,
Loneliness is interesting. Last night, staring out my window at stars in the blue moon sky, I was feeling angry and terrified. My beloved was home with me. My beloved was happily contemplating plans for the next day. My beloved was surfeited on food and the day's activity. I was emptiness and dismay.
Like a train falling down the track, I couldn't brake the negativity. Inside, I was hearing that I am unworthy and lazy. Inside, I was hearing "fuck thems" and "I hate this." Ugliness spattering black lines across the choices that have led me here. My fortune is that there is one reason I can cling to, one choice I've made that I do not question, but the rest . . .
My beloved was home with me. My beloved was happily contemplating plans for the next day. My beloved was full. I was empty.
I felt alone. I knew alone. I thought about God, being in a different place, being in a different time, being different. I wondered about Goddess' lonliness, often being separate from us, in that we are in a separate feeling, a separate meaning, a separate frame from the Divine.
My beloved was home with me. I was alone.
Looking for You,
Cobalt Dreams
Loneliness is interesting. Last night, staring out my window at stars in the blue moon sky, I was feeling angry and terrified. My beloved was home with me. My beloved was happily contemplating plans for the next day. My beloved was surfeited on food and the day's activity. I was emptiness and dismay.
Like a train falling down the track, I couldn't brake the negativity. Inside, I was hearing that I am unworthy and lazy. Inside, I was hearing "fuck thems" and "I hate this." Ugliness spattering black lines across the choices that have led me here. My fortune is that there is one reason I can cling to, one choice I've made that I do not question, but the rest . . .
My beloved was home with me. My beloved was happily contemplating plans for the next day. My beloved was full. I was empty.
I felt alone. I knew alone. I thought about God, being in a different place, being in a different time, being different. I wondered about Goddess' lonliness, often being separate from us, in that we are in a separate feeling, a separate meaning, a separate frame from the Divine.
My beloved was home with me. I was alone.
Looking for You,
Cobalt Dreams
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Dear Pneuma,
Have you ever seen a therapist? I've been contemplating giving counseling sessions to all the special people in my life for Christmas this year.
It never ceases to amaze me how willing my loved ones are to suffer. I've seen one walk around on broken feet and another hunker beneath blankets with a migraine for hours unable to bear the light. Yet, they refuse to see a doctor. They take aspirin, and they sleep it off. How much more do they resist the need to heal inner, spiritual and emotional hurts.
I know I do it, too; I try to "tough it out" alot. I mean, who can respect a person that can't even decide to be happy, right? But, why resist so hard?
It's OK with me that I am terrible at sports. I enjoy working with an instructor to improve my skills so that I can play with my friends, even if I cannot seriously compete (yet). I have no problem asking a taller person to get something off a high shelf for me; yet, if I can't talk or work or distract myself out of a funk, I tell myself I must be weak and broken. If I cannot just bounce right up from the blow of my brother's death, something must be deficient in my being.
Why do I believe I must be sufficient in myself alone?
Of course, there may be an opposite problem. I've seen my loved ones give up completely in order to avoid suffering. I myself have decided against travelling because I might get hurt. I have even used a disability to save myself from having to participate. I wonder how many of us decide we can't do anything about an inner illness. I wonder how many of us leave healing up to medication and find disappointment that the pills don't actually make the hurting go away. I wonder how many of us decide we cannot, so we needn't even try.
Why do I believe I am insufficient in myself alone?
That is why I want to give therapy to all of my loved ones for Christmas. Sometimes, I am not sufficient in myself alone. Sometimes I am not very good at fixing my broken bits. Sometimes I need a bandage, a plaster, a pill, or a splint. Sometimes, I am more than sufficient in myself alone. Sometimes I need courage, support, or a hard, swift kick in the pants. Learning to know when I need not suffer, and when suffering simply must and can be transcended is a precious gift. I want to give it to everyone I know.
In the meantime, I hope all is well with you. I hope you know that you are loved, even when you feel alone.
Love Always,
Cobalt Dreams
Have you ever seen a therapist? I've been contemplating giving counseling sessions to all the special people in my life for Christmas this year.
It never ceases to amaze me how willing my loved ones are to suffer. I've seen one walk around on broken feet and another hunker beneath blankets with a migraine for hours unable to bear the light. Yet, they refuse to see a doctor. They take aspirin, and they sleep it off. How much more do they resist the need to heal inner, spiritual and emotional hurts.
I know I do it, too; I try to "tough it out" alot. I mean, who can respect a person that can't even decide to be happy, right? But, why resist so hard?
It's OK with me that I am terrible at sports. I enjoy working with an instructor to improve my skills so that I can play with my friends, even if I cannot seriously compete (yet). I have no problem asking a taller person to get something off a high shelf for me; yet, if I can't talk or work or distract myself out of a funk, I tell myself I must be weak and broken. If I cannot just bounce right up from the blow of my brother's death, something must be deficient in my being.
Why do I believe I must be sufficient in myself alone?
Of course, there may be an opposite problem. I've seen my loved ones give up completely in order to avoid suffering. I myself have decided against travelling because I might get hurt. I have even used a disability to save myself from having to participate. I wonder how many of us decide we can't do anything about an inner illness. I wonder how many of us leave healing up to medication and find disappointment that the pills don't actually make the hurting go away. I wonder how many of us decide we cannot, so we needn't even try.
Why do I believe I am insufficient in myself alone?
That is why I want to give therapy to all of my loved ones for Christmas. Sometimes, I am not sufficient in myself alone. Sometimes I am not very good at fixing my broken bits. Sometimes I need a bandage, a plaster, a pill, or a splint. Sometimes, I am more than sufficient in myself alone. Sometimes I need courage, support, or a hard, swift kick in the pants. Learning to know when I need not suffer, and when suffering simply must and can be transcended is a precious gift. I want to give it to everyone I know.
In the meantime, I hope all is well with you. I hope you know that you are loved, even when you feel alone.
Love Always,
Cobalt Dreams
Monday, August 27, 2007
Dear Pneuma,
I was wrestling with some thoughts yesterday, and I want to share some of my conclusions with you. I really value your insight when it comes to such matters, and I know you will not hesitate to share your own thoughts with me. I was sitting in a coffee shop, and I was watching people at their tables. I was feeling really strong and happy. What came into my mind was this:"NOTHING CAN DESTROY MY LIFE. I am indestructible. Christ in me is to live." Now, you may know that I was baptised two years ago, so I relate to God as a Christian, but I realize that you do not, so I hope you will hear my ideas as ideas, and feel free to engage with them in a manner suited to your own beliefs.
I had just come from church, and that thought, "nothing can destroy my life," seemed so clicheed. I mean, every week some Christian is shouting the same thing, and yet, I have never spoken with anyone that expressed exactly what that claim of indestructibility means. What's more, I've never been "lifted out of my pain" when someone has held the promise of eternal life before me. Everyone I know is pretty clear that anyone of us may be killed in a car wreck at any moment. Isn't that destruction? Many of us have lost someone close, or something precious. Isn't that destruction? I even know people so closed off from human contact that they have no real relationships. Isn't that destruction?
When a preacher says "eternal life," I reach for ideas like heaven-or-hell, death-and-resurrection, personal gain-or personal loss. In that framework, I find myself swimming in guilt that I do not have enough faith. I still feel and fear. I still want to hold on to breathing and to my loved ones. I still want to eat, dance, drive, play, work and be alive in the world. I am filled with terror at the thought of losing any part of this life, and I believe that it is right and good to care enough for my world to feel fear for it and to dread its loss. Compassion makes no sense otherwise.
So, is this promise of Christ, this indestructibility, that "I" will never feel pain? Is this promise of Christ that "I" won't end someday? Does this promise of Christ mean that no one "I" know will ever die, or does it mean that "I" shouldn't feel bad when someone does, because she is in a "better world" with God? If "I" feel pain in disappointment or loss, does it really mean "I" do not believe in Christ? Is it simply "Christ in me" that leads "me" to a comfortable life in a nice house and leaves a child in an abusive home?
I know many that do not believe in Christ. They live in comfortable homes. I know many that believe in Christ. They are daily betrayed by people they love, so my understanding of "eternal life," of "indestructibility" cannot mean that we feel no pain. It also cannot mean that we won't die.
I know the truth of Christ as an experience of the eternal time that is life-without beginning, without end, and, in some paradoxical way, both embedded in and completely separate from physical existence. It is true that nothing, ever, can deny me. I am. I was a will be. I will be a was. Without proof, without document, without a known purpose, or an understood goal, I am, and whatever I am, whoever I am, whyever I am, all that comes into conversation with me prooves my being separate from whatever else is. That 'being' is not touched by loss, pain, desire, worry, or even action. Even were I to stick needles with heroin into my arms, even if I were to do so unto my death, I was, I am, I will be. Taking that thought into my entire being is the most frightening and most liberating knowing I have experienced.
Hmm. That's as far as I can go for now. I hope this letter finds you well. I hope you know how much you mean to me. Take care of you and yours,
Cobalt Dreams
I was wrestling with some thoughts yesterday, and I want to share some of my conclusions with you. I really value your insight when it comes to such matters, and I know you will not hesitate to share your own thoughts with me. I was sitting in a coffee shop, and I was watching people at their tables. I was feeling really strong and happy. What came into my mind was this:"NOTHING CAN DESTROY MY LIFE. I am indestructible. Christ in me is to live." Now, you may know that I was baptised two years ago, so I relate to God as a Christian, but I realize that you do not, so I hope you will hear my ideas as ideas, and feel free to engage with them in a manner suited to your own beliefs.
I had just come from church, and that thought, "nothing can destroy my life," seemed so clicheed. I mean, every week some Christian is shouting the same thing, and yet, I have never spoken with anyone that expressed exactly what that claim of indestructibility means. What's more, I've never been "lifted out of my pain" when someone has held the promise of eternal life before me. Everyone I know is pretty clear that anyone of us may be killed in a car wreck at any moment. Isn't that destruction? Many of us have lost someone close, or something precious. Isn't that destruction? I even know people so closed off from human contact that they have no real relationships. Isn't that destruction?
When a preacher says "eternal life," I reach for ideas like heaven-or-hell, death-and-resurrection, personal gain-or personal loss. In that framework, I find myself swimming in guilt that I do not have enough faith. I still feel and fear. I still want to hold on to breathing and to my loved ones. I still want to eat, dance, drive, play, work and be alive in the world. I am filled with terror at the thought of losing any part of this life, and I believe that it is right and good to care enough for my world to feel fear for it and to dread its loss. Compassion makes no sense otherwise.
So, is this promise of Christ, this indestructibility, that "I" will never feel pain? Is this promise of Christ that "I" won't end someday? Does this promise of Christ mean that no one "I" know will ever die, or does it mean that "I" shouldn't feel bad when someone does, because she is in a "better world" with God? If "I" feel pain in disappointment or loss, does it really mean "I" do not believe in Christ? Is it simply "Christ in me" that leads "me" to a comfortable life in a nice house and leaves a child in an abusive home?
I know many that do not believe in Christ. They live in comfortable homes. I know many that believe in Christ. They are daily betrayed by people they love, so my understanding of "eternal life," of "indestructibility" cannot mean that we feel no pain. It also cannot mean that we won't die.
I know the truth of Christ as an experience of the eternal time that is life-without beginning, without end, and, in some paradoxical way, both embedded in and completely separate from physical existence. It is true that nothing, ever, can deny me. I am. I was a will be. I will be a was. Without proof, without document, without a known purpose, or an understood goal, I am, and whatever I am, whoever I am, whyever I am, all that comes into conversation with me prooves my being separate from whatever else is. That 'being' is not touched by loss, pain, desire, worry, or even action. Even were I to stick needles with heroin into my arms, even if I were to do so unto my death, I was, I am, I will be. Taking that thought into my entire being is the most frightening and most liberating knowing I have experienced.
Hmm. That's as far as I can go for now. I hope this letter finds you well. I hope you know how much you mean to me. Take care of you and yours,
Cobalt Dreams
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Dear Pneuma,
Have you ever lost yourself? I seem to be hiding from myself. I've been looking, but I haven't found me, and now someone else is walking my life. Someone else answers the phone and dresses for the day. I hate to admit this, but someone else has been sleeping in my bed and eating my dinner.
This other is a pale copy, a copy full of cowardice and heavy energy. If you see the real me can you send me back? I miss me. I miss the colorful, loud, energetic brave beast that I am. Maybe I could tear down the oppressive wallpaper the other put up in my kitchen.
Love Always,
(Am I?) Cobalt Blue
Have you ever lost yourself? I seem to be hiding from myself. I've been looking, but I haven't found me, and now someone else is walking my life. Someone else answers the phone and dresses for the day. I hate to admit this, but someone else has been sleeping in my bed and eating my dinner.
This other is a pale copy, a copy full of cowardice and heavy energy. If you see the real me can you send me back? I miss me. I miss the colorful, loud, energetic brave beast that I am. Maybe I could tear down the oppressive wallpaper the other put up in my kitchen.
Love Always,
(Am I?) Cobalt Blue
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Overture
I stand in a jet stream, propelled by conflictions to write here. Lonely, I want to reach out. Reaching out, I know no one's actually here. Alone, someone else may be reading. Is this real? Is this phony, fake, virtual? If I find comfort, does it matter? Should I write aware that someone may be reading, or do I write believing that no one ever will?
I've had a lot of experience with writing journals. I've wrestled thoughts to submission, and I've defeated despair a time or two. I've even allowed myself to hate my mother, but journals are frustrating, because no one ever gets to read them; not even me. They are a way to expunge and extract, and two days after writing an entry, the words make no more sense.
I suppose then, that this will not be a journal, and I had better pull it together to find some sense. I suppose I believe someone will read this, maybe I even hope that someone will; so I will address "Cobalt Dreams" to you, and I shall give your you-ness the name Pneuma.
Dear Pneuma,
It is raining here today. I want to go out, into the rain, but I have no reason to leave the warm and dryness of my empty space. An aimless walk would still lead me somewhere. No matter whether I go by front door, by side door, or slip out the back, there are sidewalks waiting for me. They moved me to the city, and all doors lead to sidewalks. All sidewalks take me places. I hate sidewalks.
I remember being a kid and getting on my bike. I always liked going. I never liked coming back. I think a eutopian world would have roads and sidewalks that go away forever, and that whenever you stop, you are home, without ever having to go back. Does that make sense, Pneuma?
This feeling seems a bit like restlessness, and a bit like running away. When I sit to read, I want to get up and pace. When I get up to pace, I want to sit and read. I walk window to window and door to door. I neither come in, nor go out. I neither look out, nor acknowledge anyone looking in. I want to scream, but no one will hear, so I hold it in to be proper and polite.
I cannot tell if the day makes me feel this way because I am bored, or because I am terrified. Maybe, Pneuma, I feel this way because there is so much life inside me burning to be used, and I fear a day in rain will dampen the fire. Maybe I feel this way because the landscape of my mind is so limited it cannot imagine an occupation for the heart while water falls from the sky. I don't expect that you have answers, but I was missing you, and I don't feel so far away when I write.
I hope all is well with you and yours. If it isn't, I send my sorrow, and apologize for adding my concerns to yours.
Love Always,
Cobalt Dreams
I've had a lot of experience with writing journals. I've wrestled thoughts to submission, and I've defeated despair a time or two. I've even allowed myself to hate my mother, but journals are frustrating, because no one ever gets to read them; not even me. They are a way to expunge and extract, and two days after writing an entry, the words make no more sense.
I suppose then, that this will not be a journal, and I had better pull it together to find some sense. I suppose I believe someone will read this, maybe I even hope that someone will; so I will address "Cobalt Dreams" to you, and I shall give your you-ness the name Pneuma.
Dear Pneuma,
It is raining here today. I want to go out, into the rain, but I have no reason to leave the warm and dryness of my empty space. An aimless walk would still lead me somewhere. No matter whether I go by front door, by side door, or slip out the back, there are sidewalks waiting for me. They moved me to the city, and all doors lead to sidewalks. All sidewalks take me places. I hate sidewalks.
I remember being a kid and getting on my bike. I always liked going. I never liked coming back. I think a eutopian world would have roads and sidewalks that go away forever, and that whenever you stop, you are home, without ever having to go back. Does that make sense, Pneuma?
This feeling seems a bit like restlessness, and a bit like running away. When I sit to read, I want to get up and pace. When I get up to pace, I want to sit and read. I walk window to window and door to door. I neither come in, nor go out. I neither look out, nor acknowledge anyone looking in. I want to scream, but no one will hear, so I hold it in to be proper and polite.
I cannot tell if the day makes me feel this way because I am bored, or because I am terrified. Maybe, Pneuma, I feel this way because there is so much life inside me burning to be used, and I fear a day in rain will dampen the fire. Maybe I feel this way because the landscape of my mind is so limited it cannot imagine an occupation for the heart while water falls from the sky. I don't expect that you have answers, but I was missing you, and I don't feel so far away when I write.
I hope all is well with you and yours. If it isn't, I send my sorrow, and apologize for adding my concerns to yours.
Love Always,
Cobalt Dreams
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