Grey is made up of black and white Dots

I once drew a picture of a frog. It was a Pen and Ink drawing. The paper was white and the ink was black, but from among the strokes a frog emerged. Its black eyes were made to glisten with a streak of white left behind imitating the effect of light on moisture. Its skin was made up of tiny dots that gave the appearance of grey. Now if I had used black paper and black ink, though each dot were in the same place the effect would be total darkness, or if I was to use white ink on White paper It would seem as nothing was there. But the effect of grey caused by the closeness of white and black created a grey tone that would make anyone just giving a passing glance consider the colour one—gray.

Sometimes right seems to be so close to wrong that in passing glance its grey. But proximity does not make them any more the same or any less than what they are—Black and white.

I am not sure how far I want to unfold this analogy here, maybe I will let whoever wants to ponder it separate the dots themselves. Letting other thoughts connect or fill in the gaps between the dots...
I just ask myself do I have eyes that Truly see.

I Sit...

I sit distracted
          Upon my bed on the floor.
                     My spirit is exposed, naked, bare.

I sit raw
          Curled up feeling cast down.
                     My soul is longing for more than what i see.

I sit waiting
          wishing more than expecting change.
                     My depths are disappointed, what i want is hard.

I sit reading
          Daring to hope, daring to believe.
                     My heart strings are plucked in a song...dare I sing?

I sit conflicted
          a war raging on 'til all hours of the night,
                     My cowardice is fighting against my belief...  

More random poetic writing...

I hide so much dirt

under an exterior of beauty

It is only a fool

who would think you don't see.

Surrounding myself with lies

I have almost convinced myself

that I have no share in the blame

that I have done what you have asked.

My whole life is Yours

those words were said

Then why do i look like me

and not more like your Holiness

I have honored you with my lips

but my heart has been far from you

Yet I still sleep at night

thinking you will still give good

Holy and right are Your Ways

You cannot be mocked

Yet I have been arrogant

Half pleasing is not pleasing at all.

My vessel is stained

on the inside

I cannot hide

You see it all.

Sifting wheat in the wine press,

hiding among the luggage,

In the trees as you pass by,

In the wilderness tending sheep

You see,

past, present, Future.

You know,

the full story.

Your Way is written

The Word in completed tense

You know the Name written

In the Lamb's book of Life.

I thought I knew all this

I was taught since my youth

Yet i still was ignorant

Though no one would have known.

You know I think myself little

So i act in a Big way

Yet I am afraid and impatient

and do not obey on my own

I've needed the bridle and the whip

to keep me in line

Even donkeys and milking cows

listen better than I.

What  a fool I have been

Taking years to understand

Chewing on grass,

I am so much less than Thee.

Like a prodigal son I come

Like a king who chewed his cud

I ask not so much as to be restored

Just let me be a servant.

If You had a Pinky

Sometimes i am overwhelmed by God being The God that is , and my own knowledge of how often i make mistakes and i spit out A bit of random poetic like words......maybe this time it was because i was having one of those moments while trying to study the names of body parts in Burmese...

If you had a pinky

you would have more consistency there

Than i would in my entire being

But why would You need a pinky

When You open your mouth

Your Word goes out

And it is done, finished

Complete.

You wouldn't need a green thumb

Not even that pinky of yours

Just your Breath causes life.

No matter How much I tend and care for these plants

I cannot cause one leaf to unfurl

I do not tell the old leaves it is time to wither away.

To care for and cause are very different,

You understand The Truth of that more in Your pinky

Than I, in all my stubborn body.

You could fit the world ten times over

In that pinky of yours;

Yet I strut about this earth

With a puffed up heart that claims to be all that

Some would say, You see and laugh

But what's so funny about that,

Not knowing my place

going about in ignorance,

...not knowing my own doom....

or knowing you have kept some room,

On that pinky of yours

Yet rejecting that Name written there

Claiming a name that matters on my own.

What a load of dung and a man name Paul once called it

How arrogant can i be?

From my foolishness and ignorance

I repent all the same.

Maybe still, If its not too late;

there may be a portion or crumb left for me

maybe a cell in the pinky of The Body--

a spot yet meant for me.

Floating

A reflection i wrote on May 18, 2015 on the plight of the Rohingya who were in boats on the sea not being admitted into any country at the time, and on the state of the world:

The sinking world is drifting in this floating boat.

Compassion is lost at sea

hope is submerged under the raging waves.

Justice is dashed upon the depths

a thousand grains of sand attack 

the eye that dares to look 

Did the women and children really have a choice? 

Are these sekeleton of men to be blamed? 

Is their pursuit of life so impure? 

Is the heart that hardened by the Times? 

The Times tell their own story, 

the seasons have turned

will anyone seek refuge outside of themself

Would a people called not my people find home? 

Who would take a desolate wanderer 

and create an Oasis of safety?

Who could be a true guide

refusing bribe and bearing insult

so as to lead beyond this watery grave?

In this boat are the people without a captain

Blind have been led by the blind

There is no turning back for ruthless men plot against it

Yet no one opens the Way, 

People sit all day in the darkness of the ships belly. 

Unwanted, desperate, and nameless. 

Are these the times that we live in? 

A godless generation

everyone doing right or wrong in their own eyes

The world is sinking into the tossing sea

The car sales man is at the helm 

Elephants, donkeys and lions read the maps and compass

The peacock has turned her face away

The fly is precariously resting on a plant called Venus

Moldy bread and cake are rationed out as gold. 

Come fill your belly, toot your horn

say you have a life vest

Or that your compass points due North;

As the helping hand of this world 

lends its hand to the other...

Have no worry we are told 

...We will sink together. 

The Bell Rings When the Father Comes Home

Right between 5:15 and 5:20 the little bell rings; ding,ding—ding ding—ding ding ding! Then there is a little squeal that comes from the other direction of the hall. Laughter and greetings ensues, and the joy from both parties is almost palpable.

I smile when I hear it. As I listen to their laughter and delight, I remember when I was young, how I loved waiting for my dad to come home too. I would prepare by sitting in a place where I could see my daddy approaching from as far away as possible while I did homework or drew pictures, and I would work while I waited. But when I saw him approach I would jump up and race after him and give as big of a hug as I could. Sometimes it turned to a bit of a game as he would try to dodge the full force of the hug which would allow for a little bit of tag and end in even more laughter. Sometimes I want to peek out the window and watch the fun that goes along with the words I hear.

This is a sure thing, every night. As I listen to their greetings while we are in prayer, I think about the awareness that the Father has that the ringing of the bell will produce the desired reaction from the one who is expectantly waiting—sure of what will come and attune to the signs that the Father is near. This compels me to pray and be alert all the more, desiring to be aware of the season and the time that approaches for great Joy.

sitting in the Dark...

20^th February, 2015

I sit in the dark again and I am thinking about light. In particular the mass of wires that clings and droops every which way, heading in many directions from the couple lampposts on the street below. With that colossal tangle I am surprised the power is on as much as it is. I see all the light that the lamp is giving out since I am looking from above, but I see the shadow below the light, I have walked that way before and know that the light barely reaches the ground.
Like watching a show, I wait for my neighbor prepare to play the piano; jiggling this wire and that until it is in just the right position to let the instrument produce The beauty it was meant for—Sound.
People who live here fiddle and giggle the wires not bothering to think that it could be any different. People sit at night by candle light when the power goes out because that's the way it is. They walk down a poorly lit street because they don't even notice the tangled web of wires preventing the light to come through.
I wonder if we all are not the same, living in our spiritual darkness, wiggling our wires for the slightest bit of life, satisfied with only a little light shining on our way, because we don't realize there is a tangle of lies blocking the light. How can we live any different than how we are if we do not understand we believe the lie that this is the way that is meant to be.

 18^th February,2015

Electricity is not something we think about most days, that is unless we don’t have it. In the west there is a nice orderly system for dealing with power outages. If it is just your house a nice guy from the power company treks out to fix the problem the same day and is all apologetic about any inconvenience, if it is the neighbourhood they will be up on the poles and looking at the wires to remove the obstruction as soon as they can. Rarely is it the city that looses power, since “that only happens in some freak accident” or a “strike from mother nature”.

When you walk down a street in the west you barely even recognize the power lines unless a bird sitting on the wires poops on you. No for the most part they are tidy, up high or underground, so when you walk down the street at night it is no big deal to walk the same way you would during the day; and when you walk up the path to your home the motion sensors easily do their job and turn on the light, we don’t give it the time of day because that is what is supposed to happen.

It’s a bit different here. On this side of poverty awareness is key to staying alive and not being strangled by the wires that droop to shoulder height along the foot path, during the rainy time it can be shocking watching some exposed wires dance in a puddle. When you move from one house to another, the sockets and wires are just part of the furniture. In the next place you join all the other neighbours who have amassed a wad of wires to the lamppost, so even when the electricity is on at night the light on the street eeks out on to the road inhibited by the tangled mass dangling in front, around behind and beside.

It’s these lampposts that have got me thinking. One cause for poverty is said to be the lack of access to systems; not that i think this is even a main reason for poverty here but the electricity is barely a system, and I am living in the city. There is a basic structure, but even the middle class don’t have consistent access. I was talking with a friend and she expressed how she likes the florescent lighting. I was at first surprised—who would prefer the sterile, flickering light of a florescent light but it seems to be the preference around here, so I asked her why. She told me that in the villages (and edges of the city) they use candle light, here we have electricity and the florescent lights give more light. More light means longer working hours; longer working hours mean we can make enough for the day. Form my privileged point I saw I was looking at preference rather that practicalities.
Electricity or no, work starts early and continues until late around here and I again see that the tangle of wires on the lamppost outside sheds only a sliver of light on the reasons poverty is here.

March 9, 2015

Sometimes certain prayers just stand out to me as we read them as good and right.

“Almighty God, you know that we have no power in ourselves to help ourselves: Keep us both outwardly in our bodies and inwardly in our souls, that we may be defended from all adversities that happen to the body, and from all evil thoughts which may assault and hurt the soul; through Jesus Christ our Lord, Who lives and reigns...”

The Rainbow Log

For those of you who don't like descriptions of gross things skip over this reading please! Actually maybe you all want to skip over this one except for my sister. You see I have been sick a bit recently;and anyone who has lived in another country that is different than their home environment can probably testify that on such occasions while lying in bed many crazy thoughts come to mind. I think of my family and friends often (which isn't so crazy), but on this particular occasion I thought of my sister and If I was sick at her house there is a little book in her bathroom called the “Poo Log”, and so I mainly wrote this for her. Being sick at her place sure beats being sick far away from home. So To my sister!

The Rainbow Log

If I had a “poo log” here 

One like my dear sister has,

The variety of entries would astonish.

Black and greenish; Golden and ruddy brown.

Some are like Jackson Pollock

and others astonishingly realistic to what I ate

—Just painted brown.

The fast and the slow 

the floaters and the sinkers

all get dropped off at the super-bowl.

Everyday a new kind

This is becoming my new “normal”. 

They say lots of experiences makes for a good book 

...I think I'm going to need a bigger journal.

Though writing this log book zaps me of strength, 

and makes me want my sister close,

to all the Fuss and I say thus: 

“I'll have the best Rainbow Log ever”  

Learning Language...

The tears come streaming down my face—I couldn't choke them back this time. What's the matter with me? I even understand what she wants me to say! And the tears aren't helping my pronunciation any either. I blubber out the answer, much slower than I could have if I wasn't sniffling in between each of the words. I have been prepared for this moment as a friend had once said learning language can make even a grown man cry. I had believed her when she said it, but the experience of it is awful. (For those who know I don't like public speaking the feeling I get is almost the same. Its like a two or three hour long speech every morning. )
I am assured there will be “ah ha” moments, though today is not one of them. I am reminded how much I had to study for a passing grade in school and I wonder can I do this? I have changed the phrase I use when I meet new people from “I am learning this language”, to “I am SLOWLY learning the language.”
My language helpers here sometimes say “it is easy, no?” They think (and they are probably right) that English is harder to learn. But that thought doesn't help so much right now because even if it is easy, it is stinking hard right now.
I understood what my friend who moved from Mexico to California told me about the difficulty in language and homesickness; I understood and knew it was worth it, but now I know so much more... my clear vision back then helps me see over this mountain of language now. There is a hope that someday I will be able to have deep and meaningful conversations with people who have become friends through the long months together. Though it seems miles away now someday I will stand on top of this mountain and do a little happy dance, singing some happy little song.
Today is not that day, but it will come.  

An excerpt from my writings on Nov. 21, 2014

The invitation last Friday was to “hide deeper in the cleft of the mountain”. Follow into the dark openness of the cave in the mountain. I had felt afraid of this invitation. I did not understand where it might be coming from, was this good, or a misleading thought.

It was the consolation in the afternoon that fear was a common response to the Invitations of the Lord. Examples such as When Mary was addressed by the angel she was afraid; Elijah hid his face before going out when the gentle breeze passed by; and many more, again and again. So I said yes Lord, take me there. When I was aware of my thoughts after this there was a repetition of one word of praise; Ps.92:15 “...He is my Rock, and there is no unrighteousness in Him.”

I recognize afresh my actions, though I live in a rhythm my ways are so undisciplined. Am I motioning but not getting the heart involved? Am I digging for gold in the heart of a mountain with a plastic spoon? I recognize this time given to this daily rhythm may be for only a short time, and so my heart is reluctant to embrace it. Lord, help me give my all to you who lasts eternally; yes though I am fearful I want to find my safety in the heart of the mountain and dwell there.  

Silence and Fear...

You asked, ‘Who is this that obscures my plans without knowledge?’

Surely I spoke of things I did not understand,

things too wonderful for me to know.“You said, ‘Listen now, and I will speak..." Job 42:2-4

Today is my "Poustinia" day. It's a old Russian term for a kind of hermit...they were in a way dedicated to prayer and silence for a particular place/city.

Today I spend the day in prayer, and hold a space of silence. It is not until I am silent (and still) that I realize how noisy the world is. We each pursue something and that makes a sound. The hammering is from those pursuing a better physical life,--whether daily survival, or wealth, each hammer saying something. the horns honk from impatience, or fear that someone might get in the way, might interfere with their busy goings. It is all noise.

The Loud Speaker has been playing recordings all day long since 5am (and during the night) until now at 2pm in the afternoon, still showing no signs of stopping. It is calling people to charity, spreading the teachings of Buddha meditations and all around morality. Such sounds seem to fill the air and make silence seem impossible. Strange that a religion known for its meditaions can be so noisy.

Today, if I am honest, is not my internal world just as noisy? Even now as I sit my mind is going, and all this I say is in front of the Lord. How presumptuous am I to think that God would be listening to my racket. Would he not wish for me to cease even for half an hour,to stop my striving and be still and know that God is God. What a fearful thing! Yet instead of allowing this fear to produce wisdom and listening to God's instruction, the choice sits before me, do I choose to push out silence with my prayers, my hopes, my thoughts, my questions, my reality, which in my really ignorant moments I think it sounds good to claim that God loves them, with a mushy love because God Loves me.

Reality is that it says God delights in those who fear Him, that obey Him, that listen to His teaching. How can I be this with no silence, or stillness, with no fear of God?

I sat in a moment of Beauty...

Yesterday I was asked what I believe, or rather to be exact, "How do I know that God is a reality? How do I know that God is True? You see, I want to know, I have heard many things but how can I know? If you cannot say how one knows then please share what is your story?"
      The man was 12 when history happened in this place in 1942. I can only imagine the things he  has seen and experienced.
      After listening to all I had to say about what I believe from Moses and my experiences until now, He shared and asked or rather mused over questions aroused by all he has seen. As I sat I was aware that this country's history was in this man's heart/thoughts through the lens of searching for truth.  He said it himself after every question..."I have heard this; is it true?" He is diligently searching for a deep knowledge of Truth. I heard the longing in his voice; "I have heard God can change things, and make things happening this world, is it true, can God?
      Such Wisdom present in his seeking, such longing, so many years. I hear it in his voice; I see in his eyes his searching heart. I sat in a moment of beauty.

Caterpillar In The Park

Soft pink and tiny purple
set on a bed of green.
My toes giggle
My fuzzy friend wiggles up on me.
Some day little fella,
You'll have colours like these flowers
Soft and delicate
Swift and free.
No longer constrained by tiny toes,
Or holding all life's woes.
Twirling, Fluttering, tasting sweet nectar
And charming young lovers from thoughts of all else.

Until all is ready and Ripe

The Prophets spoke in completed tense,

Yet I am sitting halfway in between.

At times its hard to Imagine, 

That someday things will be new.

You have written the Truth

On the pages of History,

You say it again and again

As History repeats itself.

Purify us with Water;

Cleanse us with Fire

Illumine in us this Way O Lord.

Our groaning is our fault

We forget to turn to you.

But you are faithfully calling,

But who can hear your words?

First Adam and then the second

Seven days to completion

How slow yet steady time moves

As I meditate on this Mystery.

I have found a lamp with oil

And so I wait in darkness,

For the coming of the dawn

The long awaited Prince of Peace

I check and double check, 

the jar still has Oil; 

It is sloshing around in there now 

but will it be enough?

A treasure in a field,

a pearl of great price, 

A seed has been planted

and Leaven is rising in my soul.

It is a story like all others 

Yet is holds a special touch

For its more than all others

These words are deep and True.

A beautiful Disguise My Lord

One would surely not have guessed

That such Majesty would disguise their clothes

In such a mocking way.

If you Love us, just say so

And so you have said;

But what heartache, and desperation

The one you love says No.

So take me I am willing

Though scarred and worn and tired;

I don't know if I can love

Or if what my heart speaks is love.

But if you want it I am yours

There's no one else's I want to be

If you'll have me,count me in.

But could you lend me clothes?

Mine are all tattered and torn

Not right for such an occasion.

It doesn't have to be fancy

Just a white will do

I will wear my hair down

There is no need for a crown.

As long as I can see you

All will be ok,

Just be near me always

I'm just a little bit afraid

Trembling for love I think

not sure what you will do

Don't get me wrong, I trust you

Its just all so new to me

I don't doubt you,

Nor the love in my heart, 

But I doubt me, why me

When there's so many others.

My joy and my delight

If you left me I would die,

For your love is more than sustaining

It s honey on my lips.

In your arms my fears turn to trembles

Some day I will walk the Way

In purity to you.

And see you standing there

In your House, 

A thousand smiles on your face.

I have waited a while, but you have waited longer still

Until all is ready, and ripe 

and dripping out its love for you

You have been so patient, so kind.

12 days...

Each country celebrates a bit differently, each religion has their own ways of trying to give honor. Here is no different. In the days leading up to the celebrations I understood that there would be music and dancing and things to buy. One thing the people with whom I talked, forgot to mention was that these would be taking place not just in the day or evening but throughout the night. One might think what follows is a bit exaggerated but I assure you I write this in a way that communicates the events of the ten days as well as my feelings around them:

Day 1: Curiosity is aroused as Foreign words to me blast through the speakers lashed onto a pushcart going down the street, and bamboo and tarps are being strung together into stalls of little treasures. I am Curious.

Day 2: new foods I have not seen before line the street along with ones I know are delicious. That night I hear the music. A mix of modern music and traditional drums and my imagination stirs up images of people down on the streets below eating and laughing and enjoying their festival.

Day 3: My friend takes me around and I see the stalls and the Ferris wheel and the bouncy house and I am amused at the things I see. There is a special stage for the group of three women who perform a dance show three times during each day. The sounds I hear out the window make a bit more sense.

Day4: The music sounds like surround sound. What a gift, eh?

Day 5: We normally play Taize songs or Benedictine chants, but why bother when there is music provided for us.

Day 6: I try to lean back and find pleasure in the music, as I take in the soft evening light through the open window; the birds flying the breeze is blowing…and the gongs clang, and the banging of bells ring out over the open air speakers. We like the traditional music, yes we like the traditional music…we LIKE the traditional music….I tell myself half convincingly.

Day 7: All Night. Wow that's intense I try to imagine them dancing...one traditional, another Techno, and on and on and on...

Day 8: And on and on... They have played music from last night all through today and long into the night. I struggle through the day wondering how to hold today as a day of prayer and “silence” as we had planned.

Day 9: The power went out tonight! Such a small thing as no power didn't stop our neighbours; they give the energizer bunny a run for his money. I think they ran the generator just so they could keep the music going.

Day 10: I am pretty sure they turned the music up at 3am tonight.

Day 11: Modern upbeat music all night again. 3 nights in a row. Is it punk, techno, rock,? ...It is is loud and all night, this countries has a style of its own.

Day 12: The music stopped at 3am and the shouting out numbers began. They looked as if counting a long line of monks. At 5am all was silent, and the sun rose a new day.

Myanmar Men in Colour

It is a fun thing to see
A man in bright array.
Pink, and turquoise
Purple and blue.

It Bothers them not
to be decked out in colour
painted as a flower
In the sun's warm glow.

On the rooftops they sweat
Building their hopes for the future
In longyi green plaid, pink hat
and flip-flops.

Bags with tassels
Neon pink shoes
and t-shirts that say
Punk rock skulls.

It is what it is
Frilly umbrellas and all
So we leave it at that
And admire Myanmar men in colour.