Dear Pneuma,

The voice of God cannot be mistaken for anything else. It is a quiet voice, that arises as from a distance, and speaks in square words. It is a voice of thunder, shaking the foundations of my soul, rending the veil that dims reality, causing the ground beneath me to shift and settle into a new configuration. It is like a warm breeze, a gentle rain, a laughing brook of dancing water; it is like a handful of spring-soft soil.

Other voices are pushy and loud. They constantly chatter a cynical litany of suspicion and sarcasm. Other voices patiently pick away at surety until its seams gape open and I am ruled by doubt and fear. Other voices are cruel, like the beaks of magpies, raucous and sharp as razors. Other voices are rusty and cold as anchor chains, pulling, weighing, dragging my spirit down.

But the voice of God, shakes me like a bear hug. It lifts me high and whizzes me around in a dizzying circle. The voice of God is simple and straight; it only ever means exactly what it says. The voice of God is the voice of a lover, liquid, and caressing with an unbearably gentle touch.

The voice of God opens clasps, balms wounds, and fills my spirit like wind in sails.

Whatever it is in me that fears, whatever it is in me that is small and hurting, whatever it is in me that believes the worst, is born of the poor sad voices of cowardice and despair. It is born of a world that claims ugliness and imperfection as its root value. The voice of God knows better.

Cobalt Dreams.

Dear Pneuma,

How do I differentiate between pride and self-expression?

Wondering,

Cobalt Dreams

Dear Pneuma,

Just answered the door to a young man trying to sell me magazines so he can go to St. Thomas. Had to tell him I knew the gig, that I understood he was involved in a scam. Kind of ironic, as I intended to write to you about how life is perfect just the way it is. I was going to show how heaven can have nothing that competes with having a self and life.

Now I have to ask myself, if the world were exactly as it is, minus the magazine scammers, would that be better than the world as it is, with magazine scammers. All things considered, probably not. After all, people being people is how a magazine scam is born; people reaching for something beyond themselves; people believing they have a powerful idea; people expressing the hurt and desperation of death by hurting and despairing others. People hoping, trusting and opening their doors.

So much that causes pain comes from the world being made as it is made-diverse life forms and matter configurations bumping up against one another, relying on one another. Some are takers. Some are givers. Some share. Some shade. Some stand. Some climb. Some fight. Some run. Yet none is without touching another. Sometimes those places where my life touches another's existence can't help but cause pain. After all, who's to say that a virus changing my body is an evil thing, when the virus has an existence that requires it to change bodies.

And, unlike that virus, I am able to know myself separate from this great reality. I can stand, climb, fight, run, look, sleep, care, share, take, and give beyond any simple limbic response or spiritual predestination. I am alive, left free in a universe of dangerous and marvelous things to prosper and to fail, to love and to hurt, to fear and face. I am alive, left free to choose what to believe and how to be. I actually, simply cannot imagine a heaven that can offer me more. I really do not want a safe universe that gives me whatever I will and never requires anything in return.

If that means I have to turn away a few magazine scammers, then so be it.

I give thanks to God for the life I've been given,

Cobalt Dreams

Dear Pneuma,

Don't you love it when a metaphor comes to mind that helps you figure yourself out? I finally had a quiet day in which to reflect, and I found myself struggling with my faith. I have spent a few weeks in pretty intense religious surroundings, and I noticed that I was harboring resentment and sarcastic commentary for almost the entire time. It was as though the old agnostic cynic was trying to seize control of me, by battering and bruising my spirit. So that little blade that I have called Christianity, was starting to wilt-I was beginning to question why I got baptized.

Then, today, while I was reflecting, I saw a reed in my mind. Where I grew up, that reed is something we call snake grass. Snake grass stands up tall and stiff, but often blends into the surrounding grasses. If you bend it over, it will develop a small scar on one side, though it will stand back up. If you push it over enough times, at exactly that place, it will break or lay down and it won't stand back up.

My spirit can be like that grass. It has places where it has been pushed over, cut, and left laying down. Generally, those wounds were not intentional. It is very easy to step on grass. Nevertheless, those are places of weakness in me. What's more, my habit has been to stay down when pushed over. My habit has been to mourn and moan the loss of my stiff uprightness. My habit has been to curse the foot that crushed me.

Here is where the metaphor helped. Opposite the crushed bent side of the reed, is a strong, unbroken side. That side has been overdeveloped. That side pulls constantly. That side is stiff and invulnerable. It says, "Go ahead and push at me, I won't go down." My habit has been to harden my strong side. My habit has been to resist and refuse to bend.

Therefore, Pneuma, I am going to reengage by nurturing and strengthening the bent, broken bits. I am going to find sources of support and care in feeding, watering and upholding my belief in Christ. I am going to reengage by bending and flexing the stiff, hardened bits. I am going to respond with acceptance instead of righteous indignation, and allow my pride to take the bruises for a while. I am going to accept my responsibility in getting my faith reed to thrive.

Love Always,

Cobalt Dreams