On a walk in the Lake District

It’s too difficult to say in words or capture with a camera how this place affects me: the absolute largeness of this place, the heaviness of the gray storm clouds, the openness of the fields, the grandeur of the mountains, the gently rippling lakes. Besides, these things have already been described more adequately than I can describe them more times than I can count.

There were times these past few days when I stood on the edge of a cliff and spread open my arms and tried to take it all in. If I tried to list it all this would only be the beginning:
the pattern of the stones in the path
the cleanness of the air
that after-the-rain scent
roadside flowers
misty rain on my face
the wind pushing me this way and that
the warmth of my body fighting against the cold of the air
birds singing their morning song
the tripping of a stream over stones
the surprising bleat of a sheep three feet from the pathway
the drip of rain from the trees and the sound of rain falling just over this next hill
the swish of the wind in the trees and through the grass
the British accents of these two grandparently figures coming my way
the shuffling crunch of gravel under my feet

And when I experience everything together, at once, it is the strangest sensation. There are no faint stirs of delight in my soul; my heart beats as normal—no racing, no stillness like it used to when faced with beauty of such magnitude. I long to be young again, when I knew how to be quiet and still, when I knew how to let the outside seep into my soul and revive it, when God was in everything I could see.

But now I am seeing something different, that beauty doesn’t have to be life-changing, that beauty can become so much a part of a life that it’s hardly perceptible. All things have become beautiful, and so beauty is no longer a surprise. It’s not a loss, but a blessing. My life is no longer a line of dull moments punctuated by amazing moments of passion and beauty, but has become a series of beautiful moments strung together.

Perhaps that is why I am not so dramatically affected by these expanses of beautiful nature. I know God is faithful, and I know this world will be just as beautiful tomorrow as it is today, whether in the city or in the countryside, in sunshine or in rain.

And instead of trying to fit the largeness of this created world in my little soul, I turn to smaller simpler things. My eyes are being trained to see the significance in the insignificant, little things that other people walk past without a second glance. The raindrops on telephone wires, a sign that nature still wins over industrialization. The long rocky path with its twists and turns, forks and dead-ends. Little forgotten streams forcing their way across pebbles and through grass down and down until they empty themselves out into the lake. The rusty orange leaves contrasted with countless shades of greens, the glowing green of the leaves when light shines through.

Green. I love green, especially in comparison to the overwhelming hot brown deadness of home this time of year. There I was in love with the blue of the sky, the blue of the ocean. But here…here I am in love with green, all the many shades of green, the brightness, the deepness, the solemnity. And I think it is mostly the green of this place that makes this corner of the world feel so alive.

edinburgh. week one.

I hate writing about trips. I would rather live than write, experience than think, feel than speak.

there's just so much. my days are filled with events and plays and concerts and getting lost and unlost and seeing new things and tasting new foods and getting rained on and having conversations with these beautiful people here.

many of the other students here have not travelled much outside of America, and it is refreshing for me to witness their excitement about all these european things they have never seen.

highlights so far:
soweto gospel choir
scottish dance theatre
the sir walter scott monument
matthew bourne's dorian gray
the absolute overwhelming greenness of the gardens and the mountains
the castle on top of the hill
funk it up about nothin' [shakespeare's much ado about nothing set in modern times with a dj and lots of rap and hip hop]
nepalese food
the jazz bar
witnessing a fight in a pub with shattered glass and security guards
actually being old enough to get into pubs and jazz bars
steak pie and irn bru at midnight
john donne
walking everywhere possible

more later. or not.

untitled. cummings.

your homecoming will be my homecoming-

my selves go with you,only i remain;
a shadow phantom effigy or seeming
(an almost someone always who's noone)

a noone who,till their and your returning,
spends the forever of his loneliness
dreaming their eyes have opened to your mourning

feeling their stars have risen through your skies:

so,in how merciful love's own name,linger
no more than selfless i can quite endure
the absence of that moment when a stranger
takes in his arms my very lifes who's you

-when all fears hopes beliefs doubts disappear.
Everywhere and joy's perfect wholeness we're.

why is it never enough

anymore to be here in this place?

no matter where here is:
wrapped deep in warm blankets late into the day
crowded in a corner on the 1 train
eavesdropping in columbus circle
museum-hopping
in the shadows of skyscrapers
or home, even, though I haven't been home

I'm learning that I've forgotten how to stop look be.

the place where everything is yes.

no, I haven't found it yet.
it sounds wonderful though.
but maybe I'm on the road which leads there?

maybe it's only in creation:
in books or movies.
music.
pens and brushes.

or maybe it's just around the dinner table,
in laughter and conversation.

or gardens in the airy light of morning,
wide empty fields lit by starlight.

cummings thought it was springtime.

personally, I think it might be on the other side of the moon.
you know, the side you can't see.
the side that is all mine.

I'm all written out.

give me two weeks.
I'll be back.


and go listen to rosie thomas.

with arms wide open

the light was filtering through the skylights, but our heads were all bowed away from the marvelous grace of God.
encircle us in your arms and hold us to your breast. enliven us, quicken our spirits, and sharpen our hearts to be aware of your presence. penetrate through the cloudy darkness and let us breathe deeply the clean new air.
our feet are dusty, we are all over dirty: clean us, wash us in that stream of red. rain down your blood, cover us with your grace, forgive forgive forgive. grant us peace.
we are all one. broken yet beautiful, for it is through our weaknesses that we are made strong.
let us take ownership of this story, to be alive and satisfied, always being made new.

my arms are wide open, for giving and taking, embracing and loving.
for massages, writing, improv piano.
for cradling, for holding hands, for little works of love.
to keep steady while spinning, or walking on a tightrope.
to invite, to bring in, to equip, to send out.
for surrendering, giving up, letting go.
to love and be loved, to give and be given, to grow in grace.



make us instruments of your peace;
where there is hatred, let us sow love;
where there is injury, pardon;
where there is discord, union;
where there is doubt, faith;
where there is despair, hope;
where there is darkness, light;
where there is sadness, joy.

grant that we may not so much seek
to be consoled as to console;
to be understood as to understand;
to be loved as to love.
for it is in giving that we receive;
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned;
and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.
st. francis