Quixotic

One of my favorite words lately is the word "Quixotic" - a word which took on it's meaning from the fictional character Don Quixote, who attacked windmills thinking them to be giants (or were they actually giants, pretending to be windmills?).  The word has come to mean overly idealistic, unrealistic, and impractical, but I love it.

Comedian George Carlin said "Scratch any cynic and you will find a disappointed idealist."  I think that we all started out as idealist in the beginning - we wanted to believe and to trust, to go on a quest for something worth fighting for.  But over time, we grew up.  We found out that there are a great number of things which are not ideal, and to be ideal is to be foolish - childish.  This may be why so many people admire an idealist, but so few people want to be one.  We are inspired by movies like Braveheart, Lord of the Rings, or 300, because characters like that firmly believe that one person can change the world.  We admire their faith, but have seen too much of the world to believe that it's possible.

Maybe growing up is bad for us.  C. S. Lewis, author and theologian, said "When I became a man I put away childish things - including the fear of childishness and the desire to be very grown up."

Don Quixote may have been insane - but I will take one ounce of that kind of insanity over all the saneness I've ever seen in this world.  Can one person change the world?  As long as your answer is "no" I guarantee you'll be right.  I challenge you to be just a bit more quixotic - have a bit more faith that your actions can have a real impact on the world around you.  Throw your hope in the face of reason and see what happens.  If you fail, you might look foolish - but if you succeed, you might change the world.  I'd take that bet.

"To dream the impossible dream.
To fight the unbeatable foe.
To bear with unbearable sorrow.
To run where the brave dare not go.
To right the unrightable wrong.
To love pure and chaste from afar.
To try when your arms are too weary.
To reach the unreachable star.

This is my quest, to follow that star.
No matter how hopeless, no matter how far. 
To fight for the right, without question or pause.
To be willing to march into Hell, for a Heavenly cause.

And I know if I'll only be true, to this glorious quest, 
That my heart will lie will lie peaceful and calm, 
when I'm laid to my rest.
And the world will be better for this: 
That one man, scorned and covered with scars, 
Still strove, with his last ounce of courage, 
To reach the unreachable star."

"Impossible Dream" - The Man of La Mancha

Thoughts on Jesus and my Heart

*This idea, and most of its development, is due to Quinten Miller, in a conversation we had over breakfast this morning. 

  

The Christian idea that Jesus lives in your heart has always troubled me.  I know that it is meant to be poetic, and representative, and spiritually speaking, but still, it has always sat funny in my mind.  Allow me to be a bit critical for a moment – it has always seemed that if Jesus could fit in my heart, he is a very small Jesus, because my heart seems like a small place.  When I imagine the scene of Jesus moving into my heart, I imagine it looks something like this.

Me: “Hi Jesus, come on in…oh, you didn’t need to wipe your feet, but thanks anyway.  Woah, it got pretty cramped in here, didn’t it?  Lemme just…no, well if you…yeah, I’ll stand here and put my arm liiiike this…so then you have room to sit down on that corner right there.  There.  Comfortable?  No?  Sorry about that.  Can I get you something to drink?  Oh, I can’t quite get to the sink…oh, you brought living water?  That was nice of you.  Well.  This is….cozy…..*long pause*…..so…..you’re here for eternity huh?  …know any games?

To really understand the poetics of what happens when the idea of Jesus living inside us, we need to broaden our understanding of what our internal selves are.  Imagine the space you are in right now.  Move out to the building you are in and imagine the whole aerial view.  Picture the city block.  Move out again to the side of town.  Move out again the whole city with its surrounding cities.  Move out again to the view of the state as a whole.  The country.  The hemisphere.  The world.  Move out again to the solar system.  The galaxy.  You can’t even make out the speck that is the world you live on at this point.  Move out again where our galaxy is a small part within the surrounding galaxies, and further and further out. 

This is not simply an exercise in the grandiose or the awe inspiring or the sublime.  Come back to the room you are occupying right now.  Zoom in on your chest cavity.  Zoom in again on your lungs and internal organs.  Zoom in to the fluid that surrounds and maintains the environment that keeps you breathing without any conscious thought on your part.  Zoom in again on the droplets of fluid that keep you alive.  Zoom in again on the molecules that comprise that drop, and the smaller elements that comprise those molecules.  Even closer at the atoms that make up those elements. 

There is an infinity in both directions – outward and inward.  Socially speaking, we could give our lives and energies to developing the external infinity, the impact we can have on others or the affect we can have on the world.  We can put up a front of caring or empathy or a façade of love, and neglect the infinity that is our internal selves.  How many pastors or ministers have given their lives to ministry, only to wreck their marriages and compromise their integrity?  What good is it to give your life for a cause, when you have neglected the infinite inward self that makes up your soul? 

I now have a new understanding of what it means for Jesus to be inside my heart.  Here is what it looks like:

Fog is rolling in from somewhere in front of me.  It is quiet and dark where I’m standing.  I take one step and the sound of my foot goes out into the darkness and seems to never stop.  There are no markers for me to get my bearings, and there is so little light I can hardly see past the fog that my breath makes.  It’s cold.  I shout.  Jesus is supposed to be here somewhere.  I wave my hands around in a circle trying to feel for anything.  Suddenly, Jesus is next to me.

Jesus: “Hi Stephen.”

Me: “Hello Jesus.”

Jesus: “Do you know what I want to do in here?”

Me: “Live, I guess?  There’s more room in here I think, you’re welcome to set up camp wherever you like…”

Jesus: “Live?  Yeah, sure, we’re going to live, but what I’m really looking forward to, is turning everything you see into something.”

Me: “What are you going to turn it into?”

Jesus: “A garden.” 

Poetry Time

These are two short poems I have written.

"Pawn"

To my flanks are those like me,

first to fight and first blood shed.

Uniformed we stand together.

Behind me skills I can’t imagine,

moves and slides beyond my grasp.

Bound we trod, our pattern set,

my brothers follow, strength in numbers.

Death to those who rush ahead.

“Stay by me!” I shout in protest,

the hand controls the fate of all.

I see the danger, cry aloud,

god has stopped his ears this time.

I can’t fall back, the turn is done.

Omniscience sees a bigger plan,

he justifies the end and means.

And next:

"Peace-Made Man"

Silent night,

The air was still

The fog suspended mid-air.

Thirty-forth battalion crept

Along the edge of target.

Sergeant Lane

Determined quickly

Tonight would see the bloodshed,

Of some unholy target

Hiding in a foxhole.

Sights are raised,

Target seen,

Crouching in the distance.

Steady hand will find the bull,

The eye of villain target.

Through the fog,

And through the sights,

Sergeant sees the target.

Writing down the thoughts in mind,

No doubt, the pain of bloodshed.

Quickly falls

Determined valor,

A writer’s heart can see another.

Pain is equal on both sides.

Target is a man it seems.

War will make

A warrior-man,

But only peace can make a man.

Why destroy the peace-made man,

To make the man who targets man?

The Anatomy of Color

The Anatomy of Color

“Today?  Today, I am a pirate, Walter!  And there’s not one thing you can do about it!” 

With a bath towel hanging lengthwise around his neck and a broom handle sticking out in sword-like fashion from his belt, Sigmund waved his hands in exaggerated motions, mischievously drawing his weapon from its sheath and stabbing the absent foes surrounding him.  Eyebrows raised so high they might have leaped off of his face and into his curly blonde hair.  With wild, frantic leaps, around the brightly lit room his thin figure looked more comical than threatening.  His hair bounced and flopped with each bound and twist and excessive gesture he made.   

Walter (whose name was not Walter) stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame, the corner of his mouth slid upwards in amiable amusement.  With bright eyes he watched his brother leap around the room defending his marauding vessel from imaginary attack. 

“A pirate huh?  Why would I want to stop that?  That’s a great idea, Sigmund.  Just a great one!  And what will your pirate name be?  You know you need to have a clever pirate name!”

“I think I shall be Captain…Captain…”

The sunlight was shooting through the window panes like golden spears stuck in the ground.  Sigmund fell in a dizzy on the floor and was becoming preoccupied with the rays on the ground that now pierced his hands and face.  Running his arms along the angled axis of the sun, delight filling his eyes.  The room was bright now, as somewhere outside the clouds found themselves pushed along on their way.  Sigmund sighed a long, exaggerated gasp, rocked back and lay facing the ceiling.  Closing his eyes he smiled.

“I can see colors, Walter.  So many colors I can’t even tell you.  Should I paint them

Walter?  I don’t know if I can, but I would try.  Do you want me to?”

On the far end of the house the doorbell was being rung and Walter (whose name was not Walter) stood up straight and reached for the handle of Sigmund’s open door.

“I would love to see you try.  Go get your paints while I get the door.  You need to promise me that you will not make a mess while I am gone, alright Sig?”

“As you wish Brother!  But I will paint you such a masterpiece, you might fall over in shock!”

“Yes, I just might at that!”

Smiling, Sam (for that was actually Walter’s name) shut the door and made his way down the hallway and down the stairs towards the front of the house.  The large double doors stood twelve feet high and the thick mahogany made the doorbell reverberate in the large foyer.  The door opened and a middle-aged brunette stood in the sunlight, holding a piece of paper and a black portfolio open in her hand.  Behind her, a black SUV sat in the large gravel driveway.  She stood for a moment, looked Sam over in one sweeping glance and jotted down a note in her book.  Sam’s young, slender frame was not an imposing sight. 

“Good afternoon.  You are Sam Rhodes, yes?” she said, in a flat business tone without eye contact.  “I am Ruth Meadows from the Department of Children and Families.  You were told to expect us?”

“I was, yes.  Won’t you come in, Ms. Meadows?  Sig is painting in his room right now.  Do you want to speak to him now?”

“All in good time,” she said as she walked into the sunlit foyer, her high heels making a harsh knocking sound on the tile floor. 

“I have some paperwork to fill out and a few questions before we get too far along.  You have been taking care of Sigmund since your mother and father’s accident?”

“That’s right,” Sam replied and looked at his shoes.

“By yourself?”  Her tone lent itself to disbelief and suspicion rather than admiration or respect.  “Eighteen-year-old brothers do not often choose to take sole custody of their special needs siblings.”

“He’s my brother,” Sam stated more as defense than explanation.  “He also has special needs, but first he’s my brother.”

A moment of silence ensued as they both looked at each other – only broken when Ruth resumed scribbling in her notebook, which was still cradled in her arm. 

“I understand that finances will not be a problem, considering your parent’s estate was considerably large?  Do you have a financial advisor to…oversee…that…you…”

“To make sure I don’t spend it all in one place?” Sam quipped.

“I suppose you could say that.” 

“Yes, my Uncle David.”

“I see…”  More scribbling.

There was a long, uncomfortable silence as Ms. Meadows checked boxes and jotted down notes in her file.

“I’m sorry,” Sam said, suddenly remembering that he was a host, “would you like something to drink?  I have water, juice, soda…”

Ms. Meadow’s eyes slowly raised and narrowed at Sam.

Knowing her suspicion, Sam answered “No, there’s no alcohol.  I’m eighteen, remember?”

“Oh, I remember,” she said as she went back to her notes.  “Some tea would be nice.”

Sam started to head for the kitchen to boil some water for the tea.

“Thank you,” she said suddenly.  “That’s…very considerate of you.”

Sam smiled and left the room.  Ms. Meadows found a chair in the foyer and continued her notes.  A few moments passed in silent writing, when from the hallway she could hear someone humming and singing quietly.  She stood, closed her portfolio and walked cautiously down the wooden hallway.  At the doorway she stopped and listened for the music to continue.  She quietly opened the door and the rays of sunlight caught her off guard.  In the far corner of the room, a blonde haired figure was bent sideways, staring at a canvas.  A bath towel was in a pile on the floor next to him.  His entire torso was cocked to the side while one hand jaggedly slung paint on the cloth.  She stood in the doorway and tilted her head to the side along with the painter.  The color wheel, with bursts of designs and swirls seemed to played tricks with her mind.  The extremities with the tails and waves decorating the circular center appeared to move and sway.  They seemed to wave at her and change color under the yellow sunlight.  An optical illusion like she had never seen.  Mesmerized, Ruth straightened up and slowly made her way to the back side of the couch and leaned forward on her arms, cautious not to make a sound.  It was a hologram.  On the canvas were layers of colors that danced with depth in her mind.  There were only a dozen or so colors the child was working with, but the layers and motions and force of the patterns gave dimension and colors, more colors than her mind could take in.  Her thoughts were interrupted by a single sound.

“Hello.”

The word was so casual and melodic; it hardly brought her out of the trance at all.  It was when she realized that the painter had not turned around or sounded startled that she saw it as an anomaly.  She smiled.

“How did you know I was here?  I hardly made a sound.”

She took a deep breath.  Now realizing it was the first real breath she had taken since she entered the room.  She felt as if she had just taken a nap in the sun, and was awakened by a pleasant aroma.  As she breathed, she could almost smell the flower that had woken her up.

“I saw it was different in here.  I can see it you know.  Most people can just talk about it or feel it, but I can see it.  Walter says it’s special, but I don’t see how.  It’s just what I see.”

He never stopped his movements at the canvas, fixed on his task, but willing to engage as a courtesy to Ruth.  At this point, he slowly turned around and studied her face quizzically.  His eyebrows narrowed and eyes zeroed into lasers.

“Can you see it?”

“See what?”

At this, his face shrugged and he whipped back to his painting, tilted sideways again and continued.

“Neither can Walter.  But he loves when I talk about it.  I don’t see why though.  It’s as plain as daylight.”

“What does it look like?”

He said nothing for a moment as his hand made two more marks with the brush.  He straightened up and took a step back. 

“Like this.”

Ruth stared at the hologram Sigmund had painted and tilted her head in confusion.

“It’s really something, isn’t it?”

Startled, she straightened up and snapped her head to see Sam standing next to her with a cup of tea steaming in his hand.

“I’m sorry, the door—“ she stammered.

“You wanted to meet Sigmund?  You’ve met him.  I see you’re both getting along.”  Sam handed the cup to Ms. Meadows and smiled at Sigmund.

“She likes my painting, Walter!  Do you?  Do you like it?”

“Oh Sig!” Sam bounded around the couch to get a closer look and tilted his head to the side.  “This one is amazing!  I think I like this one the best.  I still have no idea how you do that!”

He stared at it for a few moments more and Sigmund gave Ruth a wide smile, bursting with joy and pride.

“Run and put it with the others Sig.  You are amazing!”

Sigmund made his way over and gathered the easel and canvas in his arms and took them across the room to an oversized filing cabinet. 

“I’m sorry” Ruth said; as she flipped open her files again. “Is your name Sam or Walter?  My files have you down as…”

“It’s Sam…legally.”

“Then why does Sigmund call you Walter?”

Sam put his hands in his pockets and sat down on the back of the couch and smiled. 

“If you have a question about why Sig does something, I guess you should ask him, huh?”

There was a moment of silence as Ruth pondered.  She walked over to Sigmund and knelt down.

“Sigmund, why do you call Sam, Walter?”

He set the canvas in one of the drawers and upon hearing her question burst out:

“Because it’s his name!”

Ruth jumped at the sudden volume that he produced and quickly looked back at Sam.  He was chuckling under his breath, hands still in his pockets, relaxed and casual.  Sigmund continued like a flight attendant giving instructions.

“Everything has energies and they all have colors and his colors are a Walter, not a Sam.  I can see the energies in colors, but no one else can because they are stupid!  Why do you even like the name Sam?” he shot at his brother.  “It’s not your name!  It’s terrible and it doesn’t even match anything.  You can’t see anything.  I can see it plain as day.”

There was a moment of silence and then Sam burst out into laughter, filling the room with his bellowing noise.  Ruth was next, and then Sigmund.  It was contagious.  As the mirth subsided and tears were wiped away from corners of eyes, Ruth asked, through the tail of a laugh,

“What about me?  Is my name Ruth?”

“Your name?  Your name is…is…”

He smiled and looked around, up in the air and in every corner of the room.  He fixed his eyes on the top part of the window and said,

“There!  There is your name!”

Ruth looked up and saw only the top of the window, sunlight still pouring through.   Sigmund grunted.

“You can’t even see it, can you?”

“No Sig, I can’t.  What does it look like?”

“I will paint it for you.”