Something worth sharing

I first heard this prayer of St. Francis as part of a sermon several years ago, and it was so applicable to life just then that I cut the words out of the bulletin and posted it on my computer until I graduated from college. Now it resides on the wall behind my desk at school, where it reminds me again what it means to be a Christian. I put it here now so that I will not lose it, and so that you too may have the chance to benefit from it as well.


“Our Father, each day is a little life, each night a tiny death; help us to live with faith and hope and love. Lift our duty above drudgery; let not our strength fail, or the vision fade in the heat and burden of the day. O God, make us patient and pitiful one with another in the fret and jar of life, remembering that each fights a hard fight and walks a lonely way. Forgive us Lord, if we hurt our fellow souls; teach us a gentler tone, a sweeter charity of words, and a more healing touch. Sustain us, O God, when we must face sorrow; give us courage for the day and hope for the morrow. Day unto day may we lay hold of Thy hand and look up into Thy face, whatever befall, until our work is finished and the day is done. Amen.” -St. Francis of Assisi, 1181-1226

Walk with me

The tulips in the vase on my coffee table are open wide, embracing the sunlight pouring in through the windows. Their stems bend and twist as they strain towards it; they almost look like they could crawl right out, or their leaves turn into wings that send them flying out into the sunlit bliss. “Freedom! Springtime! Let us out!” They seem to say.
Or perhaps that is just my inner native, screaming at me to get my behind off the couch and go enjoy the beautiful day while it lasts.
So, restlessness converted into resolve and action, my running shoes are on, the hair is up, and out I go! No hamster-wheel of a treadmill for me today, the gym can wait for the next rainy day, because this one is for going places!
The air is alive: I can smell earth and cut grass, hear the birds, and feel spring bursting forth all around me. Yes, this is the kind of day I was looking forward to, when I wrote of spring on a windy day not very long ago.
The air is crisp, but once I have been walking awhile it is just perfect, enough to cool me when I break into a run. This is better than my summertime runs, when I feel the sunburn starting and the roadsides are knee-high with weeds.
I pass cows working on their fourth lunch, people mowing their lawns, and drivers whooshing past me as they return from work. Ha! I am not stuck inside a car, I am out here where things are alive… I walk by barbed-wire fences alongside the road surrounded thickly by briars, where blackbirds “chirk” and “ttreee” inside, and flutter out to sit along the wires and watch me pass by.
I am getting close to my destination, and the promise of it urges me to run more often and walk quickly when I rest. I am excited to have made it this far, for last time I came without the aid of a motor vehicle, it was with a bicycle, and my knees were not happy with the abuse. They are doing pretty good today, though, so I think my workouts on the treadmill are helping.
I turn the corner and head down the road that leads toward trees and water…I can smell the water now, and the sounds of humans are growing more faint. There are houses here too, but hidden more discreetly down long driveways and back amongst the trees. I can pretend that they do not exist much more easily now, and as I look at the thick tangles of underbrush that surround the trees, the forest resting in its authentic wildness, my mind wanders to thoughts of Native Americans, and then to Thoreau. For someone who likes to write poetry, I realize, I sure haven’t read much of it, but I do vaguely remember an American literature book I was forced to read, and Thoreau was a guy who found much inspiration in nature and wrote about God and wilderness a lot; I like that, so I should go rediscover him.
I am running down the hill now, and arrive out of breath but exhilarated at the small nature/historical preserve. There are two people with their dog already there, but they are far enough away that we can politely ignore one another. A short time is all I have, so I walk down to the water, smell the saltiness, hear the shorebirds calling, breathe in the freshness, and take in the view. The mountains are partially hidden by some clouds, but the rest of the sky feels open again, and swallows dart back and forth way up in the vast blueness of it. Lucky birds!
It is time to go…I aim to be home by five o’ clock, and I know I’ve got about a mile and a half to walk back again.
This time, I walk on the other side of the road, following the small creek I heard rushing downhill to the tidelands. I follow it up the hill and next to the road, thinking how this stream may have been here, running with the rainy seasons, before this strip of asphalt was ever laid. Or maybe it came into existence because the road was made, and thus a drainage ditch, but the ditch has become something more beautiful here…it is music to my ears. I think of all the people at the gym, plugged into their iPods, missing all of this. Sure, at the gym you want to tune other folks out for a while, pretend that you are somewhere else. For me, this is the somewhere else to be, where simple things make the exercise the means to an adventure, and not the ends. The music of this creek is peaceful, healing, pure. I look up, and see a hawk with a snowy breast and brown spots land in a tree; further on, something rustles in the brush. The road meets again with the highway, and I leave the forest behind.
The way back is a bit easier, more downhill. I follow more roadside streams, some little more than a trickle, some stagnant and green, with snake grass growing up out of the water. People in their cars rush past, and I keep running, the breezes rushing around me and into me, I feel the rhythms of my feet and my breathing and life around me.
I wish you could have been there with me, for words are two dimensional. I can describe the sounds, the smells, the experience, and in that way perhaps you may have walked it again with me just now, but these words are still only a shadow of the reality they represent. Sure, it was just a walk, with many random thoughts inspired along the way, but definitely a worthwhile way to spend part of an afternoon.
I am home, writing now, and it is dark outside. The tulips are closed, their source of happiness gone until tomorrow perhaps. But me, I am still happy, because today I felt free and alive. Walk again with me another day, there will be more inspiration, I am sure of it!

Releasing butterflies

The other day, two of my students stayed in my classroom to play the piano after choir, before walking home. As I puttered around, cleaning up the classroom for the weekend, I overheard their efforts and realized that they were trying to improvise on the black keys together but were getting frustrated.
I had given a mini-lesson on improvisation a few weeks back, but had not had the chance to work individually with each 5th grader, so one of the girls was trying to explain the process to the other. When they asked me if I would play, I was glad to join them at the piano.
“Improvisation is a sharing of ideas, like a musical conversation,” I reminded them. “It can be long, short, complicated, or simple, just remember to listen to what the other person plays. You can use pieces of that person’s idea in your next answer, so that they have something in common, and then add something new of your own. The other person then can use pieces of your idea. Sometimes you choose something completely different, and start a new conversation. You never know exactly where you’re going to go since you come up with it on the spot, and that’s what is so fun about this, together you can create a piece of music that you could not have made by yourself because you are sharing ideas.”
Using only the black keys –“because they are pentatonic and always sound good together”- I played first with one girl and then the other, our ideas sounding back and forth across the keyboard; rhythm patterns emerged and dissolved, tonal centers shifted, miniature melodies flowed in and out of each other, time was flexible, the atmosphere was relaxed, the possibilities infinite, or so it seemed. Finally, we ended it, and with a tinge of disappointment she said “It makes you want to just keep going…”
I agree. The music didn’t have to end there, so perhaps it is just paused, frozen inside of us until we come again to share it with each other. Having the chance to enrich someone else’s life with moments like these, where music comes alive and feeds the soul, these are the moments that make teaching rewarding.
Thinking back on that moment today, I realized that improvising a musical conversation is indeed like truly meaningful conversations that people share. They are most rewarding when we share ideas, follow another person’s lead, discover new topics to explore together, and let the energy of it surround us and run on and on until it has to be ended, frozen until our next meeting. Maybe this is why ending conversations always feels awkward to me; I know that we have explored to the outer reaches of a topic and reached the end of the discussion, or that time demands we move on to other things again, but still I wish that it could keep on going. However, those unexplored possibilities wait, trapped like butterflies in a jar, just waiting to be released from inside of each other by our next conversation… And so I wait with anticipation for those moments, moments of releasing butterflies, music, words, and pieces of ourselves in conversation.

Small blessings

I am a bit dissatisfied with my last post. It turned into a philosophical tangent where I wrote at length but still fell short of what I wanted to say. So this time, with a different topic, I will strive to say more with less!



I have just been reminded lately of how important certain small blessings are, those things that may at times seem commonplace, but that brighten life because they are unexpected gifts.
I am thankful...
for hugs that promise more to come and that say “you are always welcome here,”
for long conversations with family and friends,
for times to be silent with someone and simply enjoy a shared moment,
for phones, email, and instant messenger that keep me connected to dear ones far away,
for chances to enrich someone’s life and make them smile,
for inside jokes and shared memories,
for laughing so hard no sound comes out,
for hearing a favorite piece of music on the radio,
for unexpected packages in the mail,
for the comfort of a piano,
for opportunities to write,
for the satisfaction of getting dirty in the garden and producing a well-weeded flowerbed,
for the surprise of purple flowers coming up that I didn’t plant,
for the visits from the neighbor’s cat,
for the birds at the birdfeeder by my window,
for the times I see hundreds of geese or swans flying overhead in great Vs as they head northward,
for a quiet place of serenity to go to when I need to pray out loud,
for mornings that I wake up and find sunshine coming in the window,
and for good health with which to enjoy these moments fully.

I would like to close with this quote, which summarizes this all so well:

“It is amazing how small a part of life is taken up by meaningful moments. Yet, they cast a light on the future, and make the one who originated them unforgettable.”

Homecomings

Once upon a time, when I left home for college, I swore I would return to my hometown once I had completed my four years of study. I thought I would be terribly homesick, going from the rural outskirts of a small town to the big city. And as it turns out, there was some homesickness for open spaces, for trees, for familiar family and friends. But I also began to find things to love about the city as well: the mingling of cultures, the architecture, the art, the music readily available in concert halls and elsewhere, the sociology studies just waiting to happen on a bus, and the small places to call my own when I needed solitude. In that city, at that school, I found another home, and there too I found connections with people who became dear to me.
There came a time near the end of my senior year when, due to my course of study, I could no longer sing with the Concert Choir. I needed a place to sing so that I wouldn’t burst with pent up musicality and frustration, and one of my dearest professors noticed this and invited me to sing with the church choir he directed. This was a welcome relief, and with Lent and Easter season in full swing, I was put to good use singing for the services. Later, I continued to attend that church on the Sundays I sang with the choir, and on the other Sundays I walked to the church on campus, where I felt I got more out of the sermons. I felt that both churches were home, but for different reasons. Just as the city was home, but in a different way than the home where I grew up.
Now I live in a semi-rural community again, and work in a small town –smaller than where I grew up, even. This too has become home, with its places I enjoy, the people I know, the church I belong to, and a purpose for being here.
So I find myself wondering, what makes a place home? And which home will ultimately be the one I return to for good? Or will I always be moving on, changing homes as I move through different seasons of life?
What makes a place home, I think, is its physical and emotional attachments, its sentimental value, and the amount of life invested there. Physically, is it a place in the natural world that I have some attachment to, and have I decorated, gardened, and furnished the dwelling in a way that makes me glad to return to it? Emotionally, do I have connections with people in the area: have I had conversations on the porch, had folks over for dinner, found places to go for social interaction, found a church, etc.? Sentimentally, are there significant memories that have been collected during my stay here, that give the place a magnetism that has nothing to do with the condition of the structure or its aesthetic appeal? And similarly, how many years of my life have been rooted in this place, how much of my identity was formed here, who are the people who have brought fullness to my life?
As for the remaining two questions, only God knows the answer. But I do know that the true friendships and family connections will stay with me no matter where I go, for those connections span time and distance easily. So too will the memories of the physical places I have called home be carried in my heart, and will travel with me to each new place I call home.

Ode to my couch -a comic interlude

My couch has special powers it seems, or maybe different attributes.
Last night, the sofa conspired with the warm fire and a book to lure me into their spell. A sleeping spell, that is.
After a long day at work and a thorough workout at the gym, my agenda upon arriving home was to do my evening reading while eating dinner and then get to bed as soon as possible. However, dinner was consumed quickly, the book was good and I continued to read, but the chair was cold and uncomfortable. So I moved to stand in front of the fire…but the light was bad. A warning in the back of my mind prodded me: “don’t sit down…you know what will happen if you give in to that comfortable couch!” I did know, but frankly didn’t care. I had exercised and was tired and had earned the right to sit down, by golly! And the rest, as they say, is history. I gave in to the lure of the sofa, and a few paragraphs later was out like a light. I jolted back awake a little later, and staggered toward bed with the uncertain balance of one sleep walking or under the influence. I must have been partway between both…I was under the influence of the sofa’s sleeping spell, and thus walked as if still asleep. Of course, upon making it to bed, I lay awake for another hour or so, with thoughts chasing one another through my head like Wile E. Coyote and the Roadrunner. Maybe it would have been better to spend the night on the couch…?

Now, Sleeping Potion #9 is not the only power or personality that my couch exerts. It is also my portal to reflective thinking, the landing platform for books, pens, tablets, computer, graham crackers, etc. while I am in the midst of study or computer play, the command console of the vessel that carries me down roads less (or often) traveled when I get lost in thought, and not least of all the seat that affords me a view of the bay, the blending colors of twilight, the birds flying over, the people passing by, and the folding of day into night while I sip my tea. Sometimes there is soft candlelight or classical music to accompany me on these journeys, sometimes a comfortable silence. And yes, as I type this abstract ode to my couch, here I sit upon it, ever thankful. If sofas could tell stories, I wonder what mine would tell about me… At least this one could not complain of a dull life!

In the waiting

“In the Waiting”
By Greg Long, Dave Clark, and Don Koch

Pain
the gift nobody longs for, still it comes
and somehow leaves us stronger when it’s gone away
Pray
I try and pray for your will to be done
but I confess it’s never fast enough for me
It seems
the hardest part is waiting on You
when all I really want
is just to see your hand move.

I want a peace beyond my understanding
I want to feel it fall like rain
in the middle of my hurting
I want to feel Your arms as they surround me
and let me know that it’s okay
to be here in this place
resting in the peace that only comes
…in the waiting.

Time
time to let it go and just believe
trusting in what no-one else but you can see
Free
freedom from the fears that close me in
when I can’t get beyond where I have been but then
Again
the silence doesn’t mean that I’m alone
as long as I can hear
that I am still your own.

I want a peace beyond my understanding
I want to feel it fall like rain
in the middle of my hurting
I want to feel Your arms as they surround me
and let me know that it’s okay
to be here in this place
resting in the peace that only comes
…in the waiting.


These words and this piece of music are beautiful…they speak from the heart a cry that I have often felt. The music and the message have carried me through grief after the death of friends, through other dark times, and remind me once again of certain truths now, as I find myself in a time of waiting.
There are a few specific things that I am waiting for, but quite possibly there are other things I am waiting for but am unaware of just yet…things that God will surprise me with some day. What I have been finding in my quiet times lately, is reaffirmation that I am not waiting because I am stuck, I am waiting because there are things I need to learn, to surrender, and to prepare in myself during this time. I need to let go of frustration, disappointment, impatience, and discontent, so that I can be okay with waiting. This waiting place is a good place, because it means that God is getting me ready to discover things -about Him, myself, and others- and do things that will blow my mind.
I heard a phrase once –“expectation of good”- that I was just reminded of; I am waiting in expectation of the good to come, not just making do with a rut that I am stuck in.
A message at the beginning of Lent, about the fruits of the Spirit and their manifestations in our lives, has been convicting me and giving “aha!” moments as well. The fruit of the Spirit of love is one so often talked about and assumed that it can easily be taken for granted. However, I realized that I need to more consciously practice Christ-like love that is selfless and long-suffering: love that is not dependent on circumstances, love that is open enough to take the chance of being hurt, and love that joins with an endless source of love using me as its conduit. The long-suffering part is certainly challenging me right now in several areas of life, but I find it connects back to the waiting time.
The metaphor of gold being refined is often used to describe the purifying process in a Christian’s life. There is another that I think of as well. I once saw blown glass art being made: a blob of glass on the end of a hollow pole was heated and turned numerous times before it was taken out of the fire, had bright colors added to it, was blown, and then spun to suddenly create a piece of art that little resembled its original shape. What was once a nondescript blob was transformed into a colorful vase, orb, or sculpture. Perhaps I am in the fire, or the color is being added…it will be interesting to look back in five years, ten years, or twenty, to see how I have emerged through various waiting times, and to see how this sculpture takes shape.


James 1:2 – Count it all joy, my brethren, when you meet various trials, for you know that the testing of your faith produces steadfastness. And let steadfastness have its full effect, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking in nothing.

Isaiah 40:31 – But they who wait for the Lord shall renew their strength, they shall mount up with wings like eagles, they shall run and not be weary, they shall walk and not faint.

Jeremiah 29:11-14 – For I know the plans I have for you, says the Lord, plans for welfare and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope. Then you will call upon me and come and pray to me, and I will hear you. You will seek me and find me; when you seek me with all your heart, I will be found by you, says the Lord, and I will restore your fortunes and gather you from all the nations and all the places where I have driven you, says the Lord, and I will bring you back to the places from which I sent you into exile.

A poetic moment

Dear friends,
The following is something I wrote awhile back. After reading a prayer of St. Francis of Assisi, I was struck by the poetry of the words and also their thoughtfulness. About the same time, I was listening to some Gregorian chant and early Renaissance polyphonic music from a music history course I took in college, and thought I would like to try setting a text to music that imitated chant. In Gregorian chant, and similarly in the tradition of Psalm recitation tones used by the Episcopal church, the text is the main focus; the music serves to make the words clearly heard (in the vast acoustics of old cathedrals, this was a necessity) and also to lend them some feeling and variation. I love the beauty of Church Latin, and would have liked to set a Latin text, but my grasp of the language is not strong enough to translate into it and rhyme it to my satisfaction. Also, I wanted to make it immediately accessible to all of you, so I used my skills with the English language to render it as best I was able, though with a hint of Old King James.
This poem is the result of those efforts, and though it may yet be further edited, I feel it is one of my better works and may be worthy of putting here. It is quite simply the prayer of a common Believer who wishes to be reminded of God’s attributes throughout daily life, and who desires to see them revealed in all circumstances. I chose visual imagery that was significant to me, and used those images to illustrate the comparisons or contrasts in each verse. Each verse focuses on a different attribute of God, and the refrain after each is a reminder that it is the Holy Spirit who guides us and reveals these things.
I could not include the music here, for obvious reasons, but perhaps you will hear the text to music of your own if you let the meter and musicality of the language carry you.


Prayer of a Common Saint

Hear this my humble prayer
O Holy Trinity,
I am but a common saint
requesting this of Thee,
that Thou who walked in mortal flesh
and speaks to mortal hearts
who spins our earthly sphere
and numbers all the stars
may grant Thy Spirit to guide
and teach my soul to see,
Thy attributes reveal
however life may be.
Holy Spirit bless me with Thy presence!

When with the multitudes I seek after Thy face
or in the solitude of some sequestered place,
Holy Spirit bless me with Thy presence
and teach my spirit of Thy great truths.

When I speak Thy name in prayer and daily lift my plea
or sing aloud Thy praise for all to hear and see,
Holy Spirit bless me with Thy presence
and teach my spirit of Thy great faithfulness.

When with a contrite heart I pour out all my sins
or weep in shame for all the guilt I hold within,
Holy Spirit bless me with Thy presence
and teach my spirit of Thy great mercy.

When in great sorrowing I cry aloud Thy name
or suffer silent tears and live with hidden pain,
Holy Spirit bless me with Thy presence
and teach my spirit of Thy great love.

When turmoil swift descends and shatters precious dreams
or when Thy blessings sweet lead me beside still streams,
Holy Spirit bless me with Thy presence
and teach my spirit of Thy great peace.

When watched by saints of old from walls of colored glass
or watched by mountains high colored by snow and grass,
Holy Spirit bless me with Thy presence
and teach my spirit of Thy great timelessness.

When in cathedrals grand I kneel in awe of Thee
or stand so small beside an ancient redwood tree,
Holy Spirit bless me with Thy presence
and teach my spirit of Thy great glory.

When the wicked are brought low and the righteous freely stand
or the endless sea comes in to crash upon the sand,
Holy Spirit bless me with Thy presence
and teach my spirit of Thy great power.

Hear this my prayer O God
whisper to my heart of fear,
No outcast may I be
from Thy presence ever near.

Holy Spirit bless me with Thy presence,
Amen.

Thoughts of spring on a windy day

It is another windy day here on the edges of the Puget Sound, the kind of day that makes one all the more desperate for spring.This wind is the kind that roars and whistles around the corners of my little house, like an invisible ocean threatening to shipwreck our earthbound vessels.It rattles down the stovepipe, swings the power lines, and ripples across the grass in waves as if the lawn were a small green sea. Birds struggle vainly to fly in a straight line, and all sorts of debris skitters down the street and gets tossed in the air. Cords clatter noisily against poles as their flags flutter madly, and wind chimes shout discordant songs from porches.This wind is a reminder that its fierce wintry cousins recently disfigured trees, tearing off large branches and leaving them lopsided and forlorn, churned up the waters of the bay, and left people groping about in the dark for candles, canned soup, and warm sweaters as they prepared to survive the coming hours without electricity.
Is this the last hurrah, a fight by winter to grip us as long as possible? Does this wind herald more bitter winds to come, more colorless clouds, more rain to fall on the downhearted? Or is it spending itself in final throes against the inevitable coming of spring? Already the daffodils are peeking out, and the cherry trees optimistically brightening the gray days with pink and white. I can not help but dream of the warm winds to come, the welcoming breezes of spring that hasten towards summer, bringing with them us creatures so long exiled to our indoor fortresses.I look forward to those warm winds carrying the scents of freshly turned earth, the saltiness of the sea, and other nameless pleasures; I long to run in the face of those winds, breathe their freshness, feel their caress on my face, and let their playful fingers tease my hair. I long to hear the simple symphonies of crickets, frogs, trilling blackbirds, the muted hums of conversations floating from kitchens, gardens, and living rooms. Running, running towards the forests, running towards the sea, running as if there were no world awaiting my return, I would let this wind sing for me "Awake, oh my soul! I will awake the dawn..." I would watch the sailboats dotting the bay, the gulls floating effortlessly in a cheerful blue sky, and the sunshine would dare me to dream, think, float away from the present moment.
I have brought back to staid civilization these impressions, these wordless voices of nature, and kept them in memory to feed my soul during these times of darkness, of waiting for sun. But for now, the clouds are driven relentlessly onward, on to distant places. The stinging rain falls, stirs life in hidden places of the earth, and runs through gutters, ditches, and rivers on its way back to sea and sky. Such a metaphor for life, the weather and seasons are; mirrors reflecting the inward struggles and joys of humankind with timeless storytelling.
We are not so separate from the natural world and our Creator as we may think!

Other people's children

I am of the age when many people my age (or younger) are producing offspring, and the news of so-and-so having their second or third child, their first entering pre-school, etc. often reaches me via the familial grapevine. This in turn reminds me of encounters with both strangers and acquaintances where, upon some remark of mine regarding children, I am asked one of the inevitable questions:"How old are your kids/do you have kids in school/do you have children?"
Well, in a manner of speaking, yes; about 350 from the ages of 5 to 11. I see them each once a week, some of them more often.The thing about being a teacher of a specialist subject, is that I see all of these kids growing up year by year, I see personalities emerge, talents develop, and yes, the behaviors that will ultimately shape their lives along with their experiences. I can't deny that there are some kids whom I can connect with more easily, and some whom I despair of ever decoding. There are the ones who frustrate me, the ones whose hugs keep me going through the harder days, the pictures I get to hang above my desk, and the budding musical art that I get to bring to life with young choristers. Before adolescence shakes up their lives, I have a chance to share something hopefully meaningful with them.
Some students I see outside of school at church, the grocery store, or a restaurant, where I can step outside my role as teacher and be more of my real self. However, these encounters remind that, even when the pressure of responsibility for the progress and learning of my students is immediately present, I ought to still be the caring human being who places more importance on connection and guidance than on force-feeding content. When I occasionally raise my voice, I am then ashamed for letting frustration override the calm control. These children are a mix of the haves and have-nots, they come to me from all sorts of families, some having had opportunities, enriching experiences, discipline, love, and connectedness, others not. Can I welcome them all, give them something that they may remember or they may forget, but give to them with open hands nonetheless?
These are my children. Yet, the hugs, the needs for bandaids, the tears, the songs, the silliness...none of them come home with me at the end of the day.
I certainly value the independence, times of solitude, and other freedoms I have as a single person; I have an identity that is not yet associated with others I have brought into the world. However, I think that because of this time of helping someone else's children grow, I will be that much happier to have my own, and a house whose peace and silence is valued less than the noisy goings-on of people sharing life within.
"Do you have kids?"
"No...I do not.
But for now, I do have other people's children."

Beginnings

This is the official beginning of my blog, and since that is the case, I may as well introduce it. Thus, I must begin with its purpose.
I soak in images, emotions, events, and ideas, and they tumble around in my mind until I release them somehow. Making music or listening to music is one way of doing that, writing another. Lately I have found that there have been thoughts, spiritual insights, poetic impressions, and prayers that I do not want to forget, that I want to keep and perhaps share with others. I need an outlet, a place to paint with words, so this is my canvas. The volcano is about to erupt, artistically speaking, so please grant me some grace as you read these outpourings of reflections on subjects both profound and commonplace.
As for the title, that was born out of a search for something that would describe the nature of what I am writing and who I may be writing to. As I journey down various paths of thought, I feel the need to address these one-sided conversations to you, whoever you are, since I do not particularly feel like talking to myself. So I wonder: do angels overhear these conversations as they pass from me to God (who always hears), and from me to unknown souls such as yourself traversing the internet? Do they discuss in some divine tongue the paths these thoughts will take, who they will touch, how I will be affected by generating them, giving them wings with words, and setting them free? Whether or not there are angels listening in, I welcome you: welcome, friends known and unknown, pilgrims, seekers, the downhearted, the hopeful, children of God, children of dust and ashes. Welcome to my blog; may it be a refuge for us both, and a source of great discussion for us and any angels listening in.