BEyond Words
I watched a hawk attack a woodpecker, jumping onto it’s back, pinning it to the ground while it fluttered to understand what was killing it. It happened right before my eyes as I turned around on a run in Wash Park. And as I was taking in what was happening, running closer, the hawk must have been distracted by me, because it was then that the woodpecker scrambled out from under the talons and sprinted away, while the hawk in disappointment flew to the nearest pine tree. All this in a matter of seconds... and I wasn’t even moved by it.
It was nothing more than a car passing by, another event in the day. And that bugged. Something usually awesome and beautiful and it was nothing to me.
That was when I knew something was wrong.
I, then, went off in a rant to G about how dead I feel, how I hate that I am this way, but how I hate even more that I can’t seem to not come to him with it all. I want to hate God somedays, more than others.
I want to hate him for how slow things seem to change, how even though I still believe he is in the business of restoring not just the world but re-humanizing each of us to be more the people we are made to be, I hate him for not making it obvious. Somedays simply hate that amidst all the talk of movements of art and beauty and speaking to the renewing of souls, there is more evidence that the world is nothing but a stinkpot, growing less alive, taken over by more and more dark. Like the Modest Mouse song says, "Sometimes I all I really want is to feel loved,sometimes I'm angry that I feel so angry, sometimes my feelings get in the way of what I really feel I needed to say."
It’s the fist-beating-against-the-chest of a two lovers as the one yells at the other, “I hate that, somedays, I want to love you.” It is a marriage in the truest way, a relationship so long intimate that you don’t walk away even though the door is always wide open. It is the only thing I think I am left to believe most days - that against all perceived understanding, this relationship with my Artist is most important to him, most important to be restored above all else. Not some religion, not some tradition or series of events and rituals. I more and more don’t think he gives a shit about any of that. Only you, and only me.... and somehow that is where it begins, the rest of things restored.
“That’s what seekers of truth do. You devotedly, stubbornly, compulsively return again and again to that line between noise and silence, hoping against hope to find a way to say what finally cannot be said. If it could be said straight out, you wouldn’t have to try and find a better way to say it. If you couldn’t speak it at all, then you’d have to resort to such nonverbal modes of communication as art, or dance, or music. The thing about spiritual truth is that it wants to be spoken. It is too important, too transforming to be left alone in silence.... the problem is that once you speak or show the words to someone else, then both of you are different...To say what is just at the the outermost edge of what can be spoken is to deal with words that are so primary and dazzling that they are infinitely personal and intimate.” - Kushner
And even this is a frail attempt to speak in words what is infinitely personal and intimate and something else all together...
It was nothing more than a car passing by, another event in the day. And that bugged. Something usually awesome and beautiful and it was nothing to me.
That was when I knew something was wrong.
I, then, went off in a rant to G about how dead I feel, how I hate that I am this way, but how I hate even more that I can’t seem to not come to him with it all. I want to hate God somedays, more than others.
I want to hate him for how slow things seem to change, how even though I still believe he is in the business of restoring not just the world but re-humanizing each of us to be more the people we are made to be, I hate him for not making it obvious. Somedays simply hate that amidst all the talk of movements of art and beauty and speaking to the renewing of souls, there is more evidence that the world is nothing but a stinkpot, growing less alive, taken over by more and more dark. Like the Modest Mouse song says, "Sometimes I all I really want is to feel loved,sometimes I'm angry that I feel so angry, sometimes my feelings get in the way of what I really feel I needed to say."
It’s the fist-beating-against-the-chest of a two lovers as the one yells at the other, “I hate that, somedays, I want to love you.” It is a marriage in the truest way, a relationship so long intimate that you don’t walk away even though the door is always wide open. It is the only thing I think I am left to believe most days - that against all perceived understanding, this relationship with my Artist is most important to him, most important to be restored above all else. Not some religion, not some tradition or series of events and rituals. I more and more don’t think he gives a shit about any of that. Only you, and only me.... and somehow that is where it begins, the rest of things restored.
“That’s what seekers of truth do. You devotedly, stubbornly, compulsively return again and again to that line between noise and silence, hoping against hope to find a way to say what finally cannot be said. If it could be said straight out, you wouldn’t have to try and find a better way to say it. If you couldn’t speak it at all, then you’d have to resort to such nonverbal modes of communication as art, or dance, or music. The thing about spiritual truth is that it wants to be spoken. It is too important, too transforming to be left alone in silence.... the problem is that once you speak or show the words to someone else, then both of you are different...To say what is just at the the outermost edge of what can be spoken is to deal with words that are so primary and dazzling that they are infinitely personal and intimate.” - Kushner
And even this is a frail attempt to speak in words what is infinitely personal and intimate and something else all together...