Last Sunday was Easter Sunday.
It celebrated the rising of Jesus from the dead...
and this day of all days, I should really consider my life and if I really live as if I believe that Jesus died and rose from the dead for me. And if I do-- what part of my life really proclaims that truth? Because even the demons believe in God, and so how does my life differ from a mere belief in existence? How does my life reflect a belief in sacrifice?
I need to embrace the things that I should be grateful and joyous for- because I am ashamed, but I can only be ashamed by knowing why I should be joyous. Why I should even be ashamed in the first place. Many feel shame because some things are innately shame-inducing, but they cannot come to terms with their shame because they do not know that the alternative is joy-inducing.
His victory is my victory, but am I living like I'm victorious?
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
to God's gift to me
...And this talk of things unspoken, it reminds me of those- dare I say, beautiful?- evenings spent with you in Boston, most vividly just lazy nights spent staying indoors with wine, book, and the presence of something other than us, even though we were the only ones in the room. And that other presence was an unspoken and growing love for one another, and the hours and days were blanketed with something wonderful that I can't describe, but I can try:
It was like standing in a room while it filled with water, and I was gently lifted and floating around, and we were doing this lovely dance while submerged in it all. Or rather- it was like a haze, a colored haze, maybe yellow, but something that made everything bright and more obscured at the same time, and the haze drugged us every time we breathed it in, and our minds became optimistic, and our hearts softened, and I felt affection for everything, even the glasses we were sipping our wines from.
And the funny thing is that I don't remember the words that we spoke during these specific moments, but I understand them to be beautiful because our hearts were in excited chatter, a conversation taking place in a lofty place above us, and as the silent words rained down on us, we felt their expressions on our skin, and we loved each other accordingly.
It was like standing in a room while it filled with water, and I was gently lifted and floating around, and we were doing this lovely dance while submerged in it all. Or rather- it was like a haze, a colored haze, maybe yellow, but something that made everything bright and more obscured at the same time, and the haze drugged us every time we breathed it in, and our minds became optimistic, and our hearts softened, and I felt affection for everything, even the glasses we were sipping our wines from.
And the funny thing is that I don't remember the words that we spoke during these specific moments, but I understand them to be beautiful because our hearts were in excited chatter, a conversation taking place in a lofty place above us, and as the silent words rained down on us, we felt their expressions on our skin, and we loved each other accordingly.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
I miss my dog
This will be a pointless entry.
I used to have this dog since I was, like, eleven years old.
It was a mini poodle. For anyone who knows me- yeah, I have a pit bull / boxer mix, too, but I also had a mini poodle.
Anyway.
I had this dog since it was two years old for thirteen years, making it fifteen years old. Pretty old for a dog. And the thing was, the thing is that it only loved me. It only smiled like how only a dog can smile when I walked into the house, it only followed me around, it only slept with me, it only relaxed when I sat next to it, it whined when I closed the door to go to the bathroom.
It was a pretty nervous dog, but it guarded me with her life. She barked like crazy at anyone who came into my room while I slept. Silly little dog. It only weighed like seven pounds, how in the world could it ever have protected me?
After I left for college, I noticed its age increasingly more every time I came home. Its eyes started to go hazy as its eyesight started to fail, and it started to go deaf as well so it could only hear me when I yelled. Its mind kind of started to fail, too, I think. It would lose me a lot and spend a good while looking in every room for me. I know because I watched it from upstairs run from room to room. I didn't watch it for amusement-- I was calling its name the whole time.
Anyway. The point is, after I came to Korea, it started getting this infection. And then it got bad enough that it had to be put down. And I didn't get to be there or anything. And I really miss it-- I mean, I guess you, the reader, wouldn't really care about this little dog, but you've gotta understand, it absolutely lived for me. I gave it happiness and meaning in life, and it makes me really sad to think about it now dead. Just... dead.
I used to have this dog since I was, like, eleven years old.
It was a mini poodle. For anyone who knows me- yeah, I have a pit bull / boxer mix, too, but I also had a mini poodle.
Anyway.
I had this dog since it was two years old for thirteen years, making it fifteen years old. Pretty old for a dog. And the thing was, the thing is that it only loved me. It only smiled like how only a dog can smile when I walked into the house, it only followed me around, it only slept with me, it only relaxed when I sat next to it, it whined when I closed the door to go to the bathroom.
It was a pretty nervous dog, but it guarded me with her life. She barked like crazy at anyone who came into my room while I slept. Silly little dog. It only weighed like seven pounds, how in the world could it ever have protected me?
After I left for college, I noticed its age increasingly more every time I came home. Its eyes started to go hazy as its eyesight started to fail, and it started to go deaf as well so it could only hear me when I yelled. Its mind kind of started to fail, too, I think. It would lose me a lot and spend a good while looking in every room for me. I know because I watched it from upstairs run from room to room. I didn't watch it for amusement-- I was calling its name the whole time.
Anyway. The point is, after I came to Korea, it started getting this infection. And then it got bad enough that it had to be put down. And I didn't get to be there or anything. And I really miss it-- I mean, I guess you, the reader, wouldn't really care about this little dog, but you've gotta understand, it absolutely lived for me. I gave it happiness and meaning in life, and it makes me really sad to think about it now dead. Just... dead.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Poetry
What is it that characterizes a piece of writing as poetic? Where does it cross the line from merely descriptive into a categorization of art?
What is "almost poetic"?
When do the words stop being merely relative tools of communication to become allusions to sublimity? Or beauty?
Hm- I guess "the poetic" is descriptive then... descriptive of something arbitrary within that cavity, something that words can't describe anyway, but we try to, and then we consider it "poetic". Ah. I guess that's it. Words that attempt to describe what words cannot describe. And I guess that it just so happens that much of poetry is rhythmic because the human soul owns its own rhythm, and words emulate it in form where functional definitions fail.
What is "almost poetic"?
When do the words stop being merely relative tools of communication to become allusions to sublimity? Or beauty?
Hm- I guess "the poetic" is descriptive then... descriptive of something arbitrary within that cavity, something that words can't describe anyway, but we try to, and then we consider it "poetic". Ah. I guess that's it. Words that attempt to describe what words cannot describe. And I guess that it just so happens that much of poetry is rhythmic because the human soul owns its own rhythm, and words emulate it in form where functional definitions fail.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
The Things They Carried and Crazy Love
I got to fit in another couple books in my busy schedule (mm.. mostly by reading when I should be lesson planning) and I've gotta hand it to Tim O'Brien for his The Things They Carried for his innovative and refreshing story telling ability.
The "things they carried" were whatever baggage he and his Vietnam War comrades hauled around for the time they served in the war. The beginning chapter listed all the standard equipments, listing them by name, utility, and even weight. Then, he goes on to list other things they carried, varying from person to person by their cultures, beliefs, and sentiments. I felt a dull kind of pain for the man who tied his girlfriend's pantyhose around his neck before every trek, only to have her leave him in a letter. Kind of silly, yes, but he claimed the pantyhose still held its charm to protect him from the bullets, the forest, the bombs, the night... but you just knew he felt an unsettling and panicking fear that the one thing he had depended on to get him through the war was no longer his valid motive to carry on.
And then, the final chapters were about the emotional burdens they carried: fear, guilt, shame.. love. These weighed as much as their M-16 gas-operated assault rifles which weighed 8.2 pounds when fully loaded with their 20-round magazines. Probably weighed even more. All in all, it was a fascinating read, one that made me really understand a war not by its facts, but by its stories that evoked a very raw emotion in me.
From one martial war to another personal war...
I reread Crazy Love by Francis Chan again. He's a very convicting speaker (I got to hear him in Philadelphia in the summer of 2008), but he's a convicting writer as well. Not much to say about this book except.. it had my heart doing cartwheels and wanting to hide in the corner at the same time. Its message is very urgent, which is that we have no time to waste if we're aware of such a love as God's. And I was rejoicing and ashamed simultaneously. Anyway, great author, great book, great message.
The "things they carried" were whatever baggage he and his Vietnam War comrades hauled around for the time they served in the war. The beginning chapter listed all the standard equipments, listing them by name, utility, and even weight. Then, he goes on to list other things they carried, varying from person to person by their cultures, beliefs, and sentiments. I felt a dull kind of pain for the man who tied his girlfriend's pantyhose around his neck before every trek, only to have her leave him in a letter. Kind of silly, yes, but he claimed the pantyhose still held its charm to protect him from the bullets, the forest, the bombs, the night... but you just knew he felt an unsettling and panicking fear that the one thing he had depended on to get him through the war was no longer his valid motive to carry on.
And then, the final chapters were about the emotional burdens they carried: fear, guilt, shame.. love. These weighed as much as their M-16 gas-operated assault rifles which weighed 8.2 pounds when fully loaded with their 20-round magazines. Probably weighed even more. All in all, it was a fascinating read, one that made me really understand a war not by its facts, but by its stories that evoked a very raw emotion in me.
From one martial war to another personal war...
I reread Crazy Love by Francis Chan again. He's a very convicting speaker (I got to hear him in Philadelphia in the summer of 2008), but he's a convicting writer as well. Not much to say about this book except.. it had my heart doing cartwheels and wanting to hide in the corner at the same time. Its message is very urgent, which is that we have no time to waste if we're aware of such a love as God's. And I was rejoicing and ashamed simultaneously. Anyway, great author, great book, great message.
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