It's Sunday. I'm at St. Gym. I'm giving the sign of peace to the people around me. Some of them get hugs, some of them get handshakes, and some little ones get little kisses. Their are even some across the church from me who get secret signs and winks because they are so special to me. We're going merrily along. We get back into our little pew places and as I look forward I notice the woman in front of me is squirting some hand sanitizer on and rubbing it in. I am completly aghast. Yes, that's really the only word for it,"aghast". Oh, say what you will about germs and bird flu, but c'mon, it's the sign of peace for goodness sakes. I mean, what's next? The Archbishop washing our feet on Holy Thursday with latex gloves on? Or, maybe auto-fonts for the holy water. You'll just wave your finger in front of it and it'll spritz a little water on your hand so you can make the sign of the Cross. No mess. No fuss. No more wondering, did I use too much or not enough?
Ok, ok - it's just that it really irked me, but live and let live. However, I do wonder what she thinks when she hears the Gospel when Jesus cures the blind man with mud made out of his spit? Would she rather be blind? And, then it occurs to me - in some ways she is and I pray for God's great love to fill us all.
22 June 2006
Selling Paradise
Selling Paradise
And so, you are selling paradise.
The land of my childhood mystics;
I am scared of the cattle in the field.
We sit Indian style in the grass and they gather around us.
A huge game of Duck, Duck, Goose; and we are in the mush pot.
Each of their movement’s deliberate in my mind, tentative in theirs’.
I feel your hand around mine,
And take refuge in knowing I am safe.
Then we stand up; Sharp and straight.
At our movement they scatter,
Calling to each other “retreat, retreat.”
I am no longer afraid of the cattle,
And run down to the creek,
Where the pink lady slippers call to me,
As the prince did to Cinderella.
R. A. Heade, 9 May 2005
And so, you are selling paradise.
The land of my childhood mystics;
I am scared of the cattle in the field.
We sit Indian style in the grass and they gather around us.
A huge game of Duck, Duck, Goose; and we are in the mush pot.
Each of their movement’s deliberate in my mind, tentative in theirs’.
I feel your hand around mine,
And take refuge in knowing I am safe.
Then we stand up; Sharp and straight.
At our movement they scatter,
Calling to each other “retreat, retreat.”
I am no longer afraid of the cattle,
And run down to the creek,
Where the pink lady slippers call to me,
As the prince did to Cinderella.
R. A. Heade, 9 May 2005
21 June 2006
Creative Spin Head or is that Heade?
Ok, so it's 2:01 a.m. PST, which as I figure it, is the exact time where regardless of your location in the USA it is really too late or too early to be up. And, why am I up you ask? Well, I've have finally learned, the hard way, (I've not really figured out too many other ways of learning yet) that if you have a head like mine and you start a blog, and then put off posting because you get really involved in a bunch of stuff (like say, your real job and all the other crap that is really your "you can't do it" voice which we sometimes call responsibility) you will end up with a train wreck of thoughts, ideas, stuff you saw that cracked you up, or made you think, or better yet made you think differently all in your head screaming "me first". You will also write an incredibly long run-on sentence which would make Mrs. Jackson draw a huge parrot in the margin of your paper that was saying "Awk" or some other quaint but equally disparaging remark about your writing ability.
Ah, so here we are one long run-on sentence and poorly constructed paragraph in , and there it is the crux of the matter - insecurity. Man, do I really think that I live in this world where everyone else is totally confident all the time, never has to write a draft, and takes their "blog" so seriously that they envision the strictest English teacher they ever had as correcting it. (Crap, another run-on sentence.) There is really such a fine balance between perfectionism and perfection. Imagine all the flowers that would never bloom if they tried to blossom perfectly. Gosh, it's kind of like all the ideas that could slam around your head at 2:00 a.m. while you tried to figure out the perfect order to write them in. Well, amazingly a huge light bulb has just exploded over my head and all of a sudden I'm sleepy.
This is too much...Excuse me what was that? Oh, yes I'll write about you tomorrow. Yes, you are a very good idea. Yes, much better than all the other ideas. Yes, you're right, it is tomorrow, but I mean the tomorrow when the sun is up and it's normal for me to be awake. I promise. Now, let's you and I get some shut eye.
Ah, so here we are one long run-on sentence and poorly constructed paragraph in , and there it is the crux of the matter - insecurity. Man, do I really think that I live in this world where everyone else is totally confident all the time, never has to write a draft, and takes their "blog" so seriously that they envision the strictest English teacher they ever had as correcting it. (Crap, another run-on sentence.) There is really such a fine balance between perfectionism and perfection. Imagine all the flowers that would never bloom if they tried to blossom perfectly. Gosh, it's kind of like all the ideas that could slam around your head at 2:00 a.m. while you tried to figure out the perfect order to write them in. Well, amazingly a huge light bulb has just exploded over my head and all of a sudden I'm sleepy.
This is too much...Excuse me what was that? Oh, yes I'll write about you tomorrow. Yes, you are a very good idea. Yes, much better than all the other ideas. Yes, you're right, it is tomorrow, but I mean the tomorrow when the sun is up and it's normal for me to be awake. I promise. Now, let's you and I get some shut eye.
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