I walked outside this evening and the moon greeted me. Rising from the east, not quite cresting the cedar trees on the horizon, almost full. The shadows of its distant terrain were quite clear, the brightness shining even while the sun had not yet fallen on the opposite side of the world.

I stared at the white orb, feeling peace, saying a prayer, not to it of course, but to its maker, the one who decorates the world like we decorate a tree at Christmas.

The moon rising is a beautiful sight, made more beautiful by the rising wind from the south, blowing through the trees, blowing cold on what should be a warm summer day, but never was.

Those of this era are afraid of the lofty heights. I’ve realized that fact again. Statements which prior generations made with utter sincerity are charged with artificiality today, or worse. The terrible quality is that those who disdain the heights, disdain those who seek them, and rather than raising up, these people seek to lower the world around them, so that the goals are met by lowering the standards, removing the standards.

Movies are a great revelation of this, the cultural commentators gushing the most over the gritty, the harsh, which are nothing more than high society versions of Jerry Springer, making a person feel better because they are not as bad off as some.

They call it real life.

I realize I’ve lost sight of true reality, a reality which resides in those heights, in those stirring words which may only reflect what we wish ourselves to be, but are still more valid than what we wallow in when we are at our worst.

Only by reaching out, will I find the light I seek, the hope, taking flight to where none have tread before me, finding a voice, finding life.

Which is maybe why re-reading Paradise Lost has such an appeal, a book which is far beyond the capabilities of any contemporary writer, on a topic of such lofty heights that one is drawn into the reverie, even when treating of the foundations of evil.

To gain the heights. That is the goal, the dream, the task, the call.

Despite what others say, no matter the mocking from those who cannot see out of their own deep ditch.

The person who does this, who forsakes the ties that bind, becomes the apex of the rising triangle, which is the progression of human thought and expression. Nowadays, I fear this triangle has been upended, the geniuses lost, while we celebrate the masters of old, and highlight our own forays into prevalent mediocrity.

I watch the moon rising in the east, listen and feel the wind blow up and over and through me, bringing a chill on a summer evening. Prayers rise to my lips, hopes and dreams which are soot stained again expose themselves.

And yet, there is still only faith. There is only the trust that what I do is what God asks of me. It is a perilous choice. Life awaits, if I press on. Only emptiness if I don’t.

The emptiness has a louder call at times, and it pulls on my soul.

I stepped outside once today, and that only for a second. Seems a shame. It was a beautiful, no, gorgeous day, with a wonderful wind rustling the branches and leaves, a constant whoosh.

I kept on stumbling around today, finding moments of focus, moments of lapses.

There was a rather long, very deep nap which came upon me after lunch. I rarely nap, and never that deeply. It was a sleep filled with odd, random dreams, none of which I can remember.

This nap had the feeling of an overnight sleep, only for no more an hour in length.

Until late tonight, then, that pretty much did me in, the grogginess keeping my heart and mind shallow.

It was a day I should have gone running. But, it is done, and there is tomorrow, a chance, always a chance, to regain focus and take further steps forward.

Funny thing. I woke up this morning with a renewed passion to write. I didn’t write. But for the few words above. I was quite productive, and now I end the day feeling the creeping onset of acedia. Why? I convince myself of reality, and still that vague gnawing continues, that chasm which opens in the soul, that shadow which grows despite the attempts to throw light in all the dark.

Missteps over the weekend, not sins as much as awareness of imperfection, knowing wrong was done and feeling the consequences, knowing that my own attitudes and actions were not in keeping with the fluid way of the Spirit. Then, moving on the next day, as though there was nothing wrong. Except for that vague gnawing, that deep awareness that shalom was disturbed, and I was the cause.

Petty, even with well reasoned argument.

The worst part, for me, is not my attitude then, it is now. I have trouble caring, I convince myself I should respond properly, but I’m not quite doing a good job of it.

My own frustrations, my own stumblings about, my own misguided assertions of self, when the only problem is really the one I bring.

I pray for wisdom and direction, and frustrate small progress in trivialities.

Give up a fortune and dispute over a single pen. That was how the Abbas described it.

Now, there is only next time. May I be more adept in the Way by then.

A day which began fruitfully drifted into a day with more rest than productivity. A sabbath day of sort, not the modern kind filled with activity and responsibility, the ancient kind, where I didn’t do much, didn’t go far, and let my mind drift away.

Half moon high above soothes the soul. The quiet of the night, especially quiet for a Friday, eases the body. The smells of the forest waft by, and I feel the peace of where I am.

As long as I don’t consider too far ahead. But that is indeed the lesson to learn.