I finally saw the birds today. And plenty of them. It did help I went elsewhere. Curiously, I also saw a coyote late this afternoon. Curiously I say, because it was around when other dogs were out. And it was chasing something, likely a squirrel, in a full run up the driveway. The coyotes had been gone for a couple of weeks, then earlier today as I was preparing to leave I heard them gathering off in a secluded area. Danger was again coming. I don’t want coyotes to feel comfortable around this house, so I went outside. He was by my truck staring down at me. I ran off the deck, up the stairs, right at him, picking up a small branch along the way. I’m not sure why I did this, it really was small, I guess it felt right to have something in my hand. I chased it away from my truck, and down the little access road, only then noticing I wasn’t wearing any shoes. Thoughts of yelling at it passed through my mind. I didn’t follow through, keeping up a quiet chase down the road, past a house, through trees, across a road, down a hill, into the forest. I felt like Natty Bumpo from Last of the Mohicans. Of course, had the coyote turned (and it was a large one) I’m not sure what I would have done. My forest craft ends at actual confrontation. It ran on away, much more fleet of foot than I. The thrill of the chase was in fact exhilarating. There are parts of my being I rarely get to exercise.

Now it is quiet, the wind has died down. Something scurried across my roof a moment ago, and I have no idea what it is. There are night creatures about, but none that I know of which would scurry across my roof.

The day was a restless one in general for me. I don’t know why. I awoke early and while I didn’t get to the tasks I wanted to, I think I made very good use of my time with other tasks. It’s slow going for me at times, but worthwhile. My discontent reared its head, though I tried to do what is right. My increasing patterns of Spirituality, I found today, were very helpful, keeping me focused, if not content.

I mentioned to a friend this evening I felt I had entered into a new stage. To be honest I’m not sure what I meant by that. I even wonder if I just made that up so I didn’t have to say “nothing” when she asked, “What’s new?”. But, it came out, and I’m not sure I was wrong. I just don’t know what kind of new stage it is. There is, however, something curious going on, a recovery of something I have not felt for literally years, an earnest rising out of my soul of prayer and passion for renewed spirituality. Of course, that’s why I came up to these parts, so it is not a surprise, I guess. It is not totally new, just some kind of new nuance with it all, like I got to the next rung. There is so much we cannot see, so much we do not know as we traipse through the already and not yet.

What I do know, however, and I don’t know why, is that all is well with me. All is in God’s hands, and he is actively drawing me towards him in an exciting way. Details are lacking, a frustration to be sure. I’m sure of the reality of this, so sure I’m willing to bet my life on it. It’ll be nice to see how it turns out.

Maybe that’s the restlessness, knowing that something is going on, feeling it with every part of my soul, and not having an inkling of what it is. So the emotions stir inside without the ability to settle or focus, swirling in some measure of confusion, unable to pin down the exact feeling. I responded to something that I don’t know today. Good or bad, I haven’t a clue. All is well, though, and all will be well.

I walk outside for my evening gaze and am surprised to see my breath. So, I breathe in deep, and exhale deeply, watching the faint fog rise. Jupiter is high to the east, Arcturus shines through the branches of the tall cedar, soon to be my only large tree remaining near. The sky is not very clear, making me guess the moon is shining, or else some hazy layer has come. Neither can I see, I can only tell that the sky is not as dark as it has been.

Every once in a while I get annoyed by reading something new. No, not the thing I mentioned last night. A friend loaned to me volume six of Merton’s journals. I’ve always appreciated Merton, citing him as one of the few latter day spiritual writers. The fact is, though, I’ve only read one book of his, New Seeds of Contemplation. It was lying in the backseat of a friend’s jeep one fine afternoon before I began seminary. So, I started reading it, and then asked to borrow it, finally buying my own copy, which is somewhere around this room, though I’m not sure where.

It made a big impact on me. I forget why. One of those books where I appreciate it because I absorbed it into myself. Willard’s earlier writings had the same effect, as did Yancey, both of which I now find not as fun reads. Merton, though, I loved, because of fond memories and vague, but important, insights at a crucial time in my own spiritual development.

So, in being stuck with my own fiction, this friend mentioned Merton had some insights. The journal was borrowed, and after a week or so, I’ve finally gotten to look at it. Which brings me around again. It bothers me.

Not for any good reason, really it’s a bad reason. I’ve never read his journals before, and so I was irritated to see that he opens most of his entries with thoughts on the nature around him. A more mature person would say, “Ah, he does it as well” and be content with the shared response. My mind, selfish and vain, says, “People will think I’m copying his style.” Who these ‘people’ are I have not a clue. Especially given the fact that very few go through the effort of reading, let alone reading Merton’s journals. Still, it sticks in my craw.

I remind myself of the standard adage that if we think we are original we just haven’t read enough. Nothing is new under the sun. Which I knew, and expect, just don’t want to be found as one who is seeking some kind of artificiality to substitute for my own drives.

In a way, it’s nice. He’s not the worst of models, and it is a point of pride to think I was following his style before I knew it was his style. And it is such a minor point of the writing anyhow. Only, it does speak to an inner fault of my own.

Originality is something I want, yearn for, need. I don’t want to pick up pieces of others, I have no desire to duplicate the work that has gone around or before. I don’t know if it’s a creative drive, or a prideful search for my own importance. I do know it has given me problems. To get started in this world one cannot insist upon originality at the beginning. People resent such presumption, especially if they make their mark in this world by parroting.

So, I notice and am bothered, and am bothered I’m bothered. A vicious circle. The only way through is to finish off Merton, and wade through my own irritation at his genius and creativity.

Why do I write about what I see outside to begin these daily thoughts? Because it makes me notice. More than that it makes me aware of my surroundings, finding (hopefully) nuances in the sameness, forcing my being to become in better tune with what is around, if even for a moment. Creation speaks of the Creator, and in noticing the shape of a flower, the song of a bird, the movement of wind through trees we taste of truths which are far beyond our contemplation, reminding us of the character of God.

When I feel the dross of the day collecting, I stop and I look and listen. When I come to this, it makes me put down those tools which had occupied my mind, and forces me to look inward and outward, encouraging my focus for good or ill. I often will think I do not need to look, always though I say it is both a discipline and delight. It is the marker of my spiritual gaze. So that is how I write.

Today was spent doing more pastoral tasks than I’ve done in a day for quite a while. Not working with people, rather doing the same kind of preparation as I had done in churches, seemingly so long ago. The results will be apparent in a week or so. It felt good, and the time went by quickly. I would gladly do this full time, if anyone would have me. Only, it comes back to that earlier point, my drive for originality, and my overarching frustration with inefficiency. I haven’t the politics in me to play the game as I should, to earn my way to welcomed contribution. I know nothing else, though, so I pray that in continuing down the path I am on, I shall eventually forge my own way in this world. Well, not I, I pray, rather the Spirit in me.

We’ll see what comes of it all.

Apparently it is very hot in the valleys of southern California. In the mountains is it wonderful, cool and breezy, now dark and cool. There are some aspects I miss about Pasadena. The climate is not one of them.

For some reason the steller’s jays decided to expose their rather broad vocabulary. While sitting inside, engaged in other tasks, I kept looking up to see what new birds had come. Always it was a jay, speaking in tones and gurgles I had not heard, pleasant sounds, sounds of Spring. Tonight, though, all is quiet. And I am getting sleepy as I write.

My day was spent in fruitful pursuits. For a long time I have been stuck, not in everything, just with the particular piece of fiction I’m trying to work through. It’s a story of the spiritual life. Because of illness and other things, I have lost the rhythm and flow of the tale, the plot has dried up in my head, though I know where I want to eventually go. Rather than dwelling today any longer, I switched tacks, finding that if I cannot force out a plot I need to at least renew my rhythm. If I can get into a flow, lovely things happen. So, I turned to older pursuits, like a musician practicing scales. I imagine this will work out nicely. Like always spending a few hours of writing fiction in the morning always turns my heart to joy. When for whatever reason I don’t get to this, even when I spend an otherwise productive day, I feel my peace slipping away. So, I must keep at it, and add all the other aspects as well, of which there are many. The more enjoyable activities, besides writing, put me outside, where my soul also rises, and my very being expands. I was made, I think, for communing with nature and the Divine. Now if only I could make a fruitful living, all would be just fine.

One of my tasks, and I do see it as a task, has been to work my way through the Da Vinci Code. My first impression was that it would not make it out of a freshman composition class, the writing is very juvenile. The story is fast paced however, with some twists and turns. I’m reading it because my sister-in-law asked if I would, for she read it after a co-worker suggested it. Needless to say it’s not the most orthodox of books. That’s fine with me. A couple of degrees in higher education have made me used to most every kind of argument for and against my own beliefs. I have no fear, because I’ve waded through most of them.

But this is a little different. There are points which are arguable, and some which are just plain silly. But, underneath this all I sense there is more to Dan Brown than a search for a rousing tale. He’s couching something in his fiction, something that I can’t quite put my fingers around, but which has a distinctive smell to it, one which is very old. Well, maybe I can put a term to it… good old fashioned gnosticism. It’s a celebration of the hodge-podge, taking from many sources and putting them into a pile of intelligent sounding religiosity. It only sounds like it, because whatever topic is pursued one quickly finds how plain made up most of the facts were. That though isn’t my present concern.

It just occurred to me in reading this how much we have lost, or more precisely how much we have which we don’t know. All the battles we fight today were fought thousands of years ago by folks more erudite than we. It is a shame, maybe even something insidious, we ignore these texts. Before the Church ever had power to force its way, it had intelligence and passion and scholarship, to prove its truth. I was reminded of this, and maybe this with some other things, are doing a good service to me, renewing my zeal for these ancient truths.

Irenaeus, came to my mind, and so I picked up his volume on the various heresies. Despite the best efforts of some professors to make me find Irenaeus distasteful, I still value the words he opens his great text with, and with these I shall end the day, for they are more fitting than anything I could say:

Inasmuch as certain men have set the truth aside, and bring in lying words and vain genealogies, which, as the apostle says, “minister questions rather than godly edifying which is in faith,” and by means of their craftily-constructed plausibilities draw away the minds of the inexperienced and take them captive, I have felt constrained, my dear friend, to compose the following treatise in order to expose and counteract their machinations. These men falsify the oracles of God, and prove themselves evil interpreters of the good word of revelation. They also overthrow the faith of many, by drawing them away, under a pretence of superior knowledge, from Him who founded and adorned the universe; as if they had something more excellent and sublime to reveal, than that God who created the heaven and the earth, and all things that are therein. By means of specious and plausible words, they cunningly allure the simple-minded to inquire into their system; but they nevertheless clumsily destroy them, while they initiate them into their blasphemous and impious opinions respecting their version of god; and these simple ones are unable, even in such a matter, to distinguish falsehood from truth.

Error, indeed, is never set forth in its naked deformity, lest, being thus exposed, it should at once be detected. But it is craftily decked out in an attractive dress, so as, by its outward form, to make it appear to the inexperienced (ridiculous as the expression may seem) more true than the truth itself.

I could go on copying his words, they are so apt. Worthwhile pursuits to read, to be sure, and I am finding myself more eager than I have in years to do just that. It is easy to sell our souls for temporary gain. It is more wonderful though to try and hold on, giving ourselves only to those tasks which merit eternal reward. I’m learning this, and it is taking time. Maybe in sixty years I will finally understand.

A windy day has calmed. Birds once noisy have retired for the night. I see Arcturus shining through the cedar branches to my right, Ursa Major is high to the north, peeking through a soon to be gone pine.

A day of quiet activity, and the occasional creeping discontent which whispered throughout the afternoon. I did not heed, and sought other tasks, even if that meant just staring at the darkening forest outside for a long while, letting my thoughts flow away. Computer activity drives me down, inciting frustration and thoughts of elsewhere. However, I again tasted of a love this evening as I forged my way through restlessness.

I began reading some church history, ancient writings which spoke so powerfully millennia ago and speak so powerfully even still should they be dusted off. My problem though is a surprising practical bent. I love to study, just not for its own sake. I want to communicate, to take and reveal, to illuminate or expound for some purpose. This is true in all manner of study, Scripture and History, and other areas of interest. I value the time to research and peruse, though only if I can then transmit what I learn to some pragmatic context. This is what keeps me from heartily pursuing the ivory tower, I think. I study the magic to use it, not to hold it for my own regard.

Though when I find a purpose, and get back to those spots of joy, I love every moment and find my soul enlarging, even as it does while watching the night sky over a barren isle. Like a racing engine, though, when not pushed it tends to collapse, a fact which is not one of my better qualities.

To learn to do for its own sake is a gift, maybe one which has to be innate. Or, maybe it takes faith, faith to trust in preparation for tasks unseen. Earlier quests certainly aided my beginning of seminary.

Part of this too is another fact of my present existence. Having traveled the roads of Christian learning for a while now my more personal questions have been answered. And it was these which drove me to the halls of learning. While assisting and leading others is now my training, my quest was always to find that which I sought. I sought God, and I found him, leaving much of my confusion and questions behind. Though, admittedly he is more complicated and grand than even a lifetime of learning could teach, my pressing questions of eternal being and personal standing no longer press, and thus no longer drive.

So, I have to turn and find other sources of inspiration, other reasons to get me to do that which I love to do. I must also wait, doing my tasks of now, and doing them well, while at the same time trusting that the fullness of time has not yet come. Become sharp and stay sharp, that is my present quest. A tricky one if the purpose isn’t obvious. That is my lot, however, for the hand of God is strongly upon me.

Now, though, it is very much past the time to go to sleep.

The wind has died down a little bit, leaving the evening cool and nice, quiet for a Saturday. All the flurry of natural activity has ceased. A beautiful and perfect Spring night in the mountains.

I had a really nice day. Simple, yes. Quiet also. What made it so nice? Easy answer, my prayer this morning for peace was answered throughout the day, leaving me buoyant at each tasks, and delighted at every aspect. It didn’t hurt the day was spectacular, myriad of birds in a regular flurry of activity. Band tailed pigeons, chickadees, juncos, ravens, robins, steller’s jays, all sorts active in the trees and on the ground. I watched from the living room and outside. A cheerful day, and a rather productive one as well.

Which leads me to an awareness I’ve had before. It is easy to write about the pain, the words come out, we have so many ways to discuss the nuances of internal ill. Joy, though, we have little experience with and distrust it’s reality, calling things contrived or cheesy. We lump all those similar emotions of elation into one or two terms, because while we are used to pain, we have not the same understanding of what to do with happiness.

So, I write less with a good day, and hardly any with a great one. Which of course leaves my journals from the past years morbidly leaning. Heaven, I think, will be an expansion of our souls so we learn to understand and learn to embrace the fullness of joy, finding nuances and insights which we don’t allow ourselves. Some do. The most holy among us have an experience of joy that is indescribable. This goes against common perception of the holy, though it doesn’t mean it isn’t true. People fake holiness by way of solemnity and joylessness, taking the trappings without the filling.

Real holiness in joy without measure, for it is wisdom enacted and perfect life led, understanding the bounty of God in the midst of this present world.

A nice day, an answer to prayer, a release from whatever it was I woke up with this morning. A blessing. I needed a day like this, for my soul was feeling heavy, and I was tired of lifting it. The Spirit came, and while no spectacular answers presented themselves, I felt again the wonderful rhythm and delightful flow which makes all things seem better. Such a Sabbath, thanks to God.