Things Above

Questions for the soul, for the imagination: What is the proper context for five story ceilings supported by the most beautiful, sweeping arches and pillars? Or the most wonderful of smells? Or the warmest, most welcoming environment - as though the very air being inhaled filtered out any anxiety, tension, or anger held back inside? Or the surreal observance of lavish excess on display at every angle within the view of a sweep of one’s eyes? Or the visual assurance that this place may be the most stunning feat of architecture, artistic decoration, and love labor ever witnessed by a mortal?

A palace, you guess? Bland. A temple, for instance? Shallow. A mine of diamonds, correct? Dirty by comparison.

Indeed, such a context would only be fitting for a place of the utmost imagination, the most eloquent of all expression, and the housing of the most central displays of character, independence, and wisdom known to any mortal: the highest pinnacle of literary pursuits, a library. A library? Indeed, could there be anything of such immense value and importance in a library? Quite so. But even more so in:

The Library of Heaven.

You are hereby freed to let your imagination work, and required to visualize with all your senses, the noble and truly awe-inspiring halls of writing and literature within the eternal realm.

A Dot, A Line, Eternal Time

I wound my way along the streets,

Of golden stones and ruby dust,

Up to a place of treasures sweet,

Preserved from foul moth and rust.

The storehouse doors rose stories tall,

And were engraved with detail fine,

They opened to reveal a wall,

Decked with splendor, only Thine.

I stepped into the colossus grand,

And stood transfixed with heightened awe,

A living silence swirled like sand,

Amongst the pillars, tall, I saw.

Columns stood in lines before me,

Upheld by time and fine as gold,

Their countless shelves a sight to see,

Rich as the books they’ll always hold.

With every step, an echo pealed,

Along the marbled hallways wide,

The sounds were like a heart been healed,

They skipped and danced from side to side.

Then down I turned one aisle fair,

And gazed in wonder what I saw,

Countless volumes resting there,

Upon the shelves of diamond awe.

I drew one volume from its place,

To rest within unworthy hands,

A scent of heaven rose with grace,

As my eyes traced its golden bands.

I thought the book almost alive,

Its glow was shining vibrantly,

It begged the reader’s gaze arrive,

And learn its truths consistently.

Then I dared to lift the cover,

Its glory took my breath away,

The words were deep and like none other,

They came in fresh like Summers’ Day.

Then as I read this ancient tome,

My thoughts traversed a new direction,

This place, the countless volumes’ home,

Was only Heaven’s reference section…

Renewal

To Be

Who am I, asks the prophet.

Who am I, asks the priest,

Who am I, asks the poor bum on the street.

Who am I.

My name is who I need to be,

I call myself differently,

Depending on necessity,

I could be like anybody.

I change to the color I see,

Each hue a possibility,

The same is me differently,

My name is who I need to be...

Who are you? What things do you do and what thoughts to you think that would write the Webster's definition of You? How do you face the tests of the short term? The trials of the long term? What gives you hope?

Identity: Conscious and intentional personal character.

I've often reflected on the question of personal identity instigated by the outcomes of various events in my life. It's natural and even expected, I think, that many thinkers in my peer group are asking themselves the same questions. A fact that may be even more startling is that the question of identity is being asked with all due respect to the power of the potential answers. The question of identity has once again gained enough clout and report to be considered both a legitimate and a healthy pursuit for each individual. It is thus crucial that the answer each one of us gives to the questions that challenge the presuppositions about our very existence and purpose must be thoughtful, careful, and weighty.

The fact is that so many in my generation have both seen the scars and been scarred themselves by the answers to the question of identity that remained satisfied with the superficial. It was right for previous generations to pick up the shovel to dig deeper, but instead of searching for buried treasure, they dug themselves a shallow grave; empty of meaning, with only enough room for themselves. In search of meaning, those who walked before us were turned too easily aside by the bright lights of broadway, and the shiny currency of materialism. Sadly, the realities of their journeys set over them a mortal pale that stole their imagination and erased their memory of the beginning of their journey. It was thus, unprofitable to cast aside the whits of their minds – it did not lighten the load, and it did not bring new insight. Instead, innovation, and progress became mired in the muck of the roadside on their way to the banquet of shining precedent.

Do not do likewise, dear ones.

Rather, search and do not be finished until you find. Seek, and do not become satisfied with a comfortable substitute. The question of identity cannot be answered with mediocrity. Identity is not and cannot be a formula, just as the painter's single brushstroke cannot be a painting. Rather, let the application of effort, and the repetition of those things that we know to be virtuous, of merit, and charitable, bring to you the apprehension of the picture of identity. Personal identity, the question of ones intentional character, is not merely an event, but a collection of inspired and thoughtful instances of fusing that which good for you and good for others, of melding that which is true and that which is beautiful, and of learning the discipline of choosing what is hard because it is more beneficial than what is easy.

Identity is thus not the desire to start running, but the crafted form assumed by the runner as he competes; he has taken action, and runs with intentional determination knowing that identity is not found by at the very beginning but is realized and refined as the practice of running unfolds.

So to you, thoughtful reader: are you willing to be uncomfortable and dig deep? Or are you content to lie in a shallow grave?

...Is TiCkInG Away

“Time, dear friend, time brings round opportunity; opportunity is the martingale of man. The more we have ventured the more we gain, when we know how to wait.”

~ The Three Musketeers

Page 416 (Barnes and Noble)

Prescience

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The Hush

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And through the noise there filters down

A quiet voice, a faded sound,

Decries the current ringing tones,

That rise and fall like crowded moans,

And with a firm but gentle word,

Says, “think on all that you have heard...”

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'The Love shall flow through broken hearts,

The Peace through all those pocked and marked,

An Embrace for all who've lost their way,

And Home for all who need to stay,

The Joy shall fill and cover all,

And they shall Dance and never fall.'

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Who Knows

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The Confused

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…For some are marked by time

And some are marked by life,

Still others found by joy,

Within this living rhyme

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That some expect too much,

Expect for some to say

For life can never fill;

Once filled, will never stay...