The rain has come down almost constantly since Sunday. I woke up Saturday night and was reminded why it is always a smart idea to go ahead and pack the rain fly. A thick mist filled my tent, and made quite wet everything inside. The sunrise the next morning more than made up for the moisture of my own negligence. Not often does one see the sun rise to the west over the ocean while standing on a fifty foot cliff, with the sound of sea lions, sea birds, and crashing waves annointing the ears while the aroma of freshly christened earth fills the nostrils.

Then to home, and a time back in the forest, where the rain is not simply coming down, it is surrounding, the fog thick and active, the rain swirling about sometimes light, sometimes heavy, always present. There are reports there might be snow. Last year the snow came a week late, a week after fires ravaged the land. Now, it came early, giving us six inches and dropping the fire danger from extreme to moderate. All the neighborhood is filled with that special sort of melancholy which urges the eyes to rest, the ears to be soothed by the gentle tapping rhythm of the rain, and prompts a person to go make a thick cup of dark tea to help pass the time. The body and the mind slows, the heart becomes wistful, content and eager all at once. Time itself seems to loosen.

I let the rain fill my kayak, washing off the salt of the sea with all natural showers. I listen and stare, trying to find wisdom within the voice. I watch the bedraggled jays, their dainty crests now somewhat limp and clingy, visit for a bite to eat, and I watch the squirrels join them, looking a bit fat now, ready for winter, their tails hanging over their heads like hairy umbrellas.

I ponder the wisdom of the island and the voices of wisdom which seek for me to hear and discern.

Then I leap. Leap out once more, cutting even more ties, more chances of certain success it seems. For what? So the soul within me can find a measure of peace. I refuse the help of Egypt, and seek God’s counsel, but now feel the worry of the dependence on faith without seeing the answers of faith. I stand on the cliff, feeling the rising air blow my hair, and I leap out, arms outstretched, eager for my limbs to transform so as to ride the wind.

There are those for whom this leap out results in the transformation, and from their tales I leap out as well, trusting in that which has led me, trusting that prayers offered are prayers answered, trusting that having sought wisdom and counsel and direction my heart is telling me Truth.

Why? To follow an art. To embrace the fullness not yet seen so as to someday make it a reality. To embrace potential rather than settle for frustrating certainty.

And so I write this as a record, the worth of which will only be determined decades from now.

Having nothing, seeing nothing but for my own passion and yearnings for Christ and his Spirit, I leap out to embrace the void and take hold of that for which Christ has taken hold of me. There is nothing, there is everything, this magical time between dusk and dawn, shore and sea, where the spiritual mingles with the physical not in space but in time. That is where I am seated and I listen, I watch, I contemplate with the fullness of hope alone as my sustenance.

There are markers on this road, there are steps, there are points in which divergent paths can be chosen. Today I have chosen, because my heart told me I must. And I rest in that, I rest in embracing who God has made me.

There is only that.

There are days which teeter. Good or bad, worthwhile or a waste, teetering all the day until something, even something small resolves the tension. And today was resolved as good. No real reason for it, but at the end of the day I am left feeling it worthwhile. Now, the cool breeze has picked up, the dark night settles over the land, all the busy birds and beasties have settled into their nests. So too will I soon.

Because it’s connected with the ideals of this section I feel it good to suggest here what I wrote elsewhere.

There is hope in my heart, grand hopes that what I write has meaning beyond simple amusement. Grand hope that God is working wonderfully, and my cause is to remain standing before him. Maybe, above all that is why this day ends so well, because I end it with profound hope, and profound prayers that others will share in this hope.

I have no idea how my words in this website come off to others. My wrestling with various issues external and internal carry assumptions within my heart which I don’t often relate.

But the core of all of these, the core of every decision I’ve made in the last ten years of committed pursuit of God, is that I indeed have hope, a hope so strong I will leap out into the void, and seize hold of eternity in the present. My hope calls me out, and leaves me with a light so strong I am blinded to a lot of other realities of life. For now that hope has me here. Who knows what tomorrow or the week after next might offer.

There is only obedience, and obedience coupled with hope can take us on a weird path indeed, where sometimes the only relief comes in finding others who share this wild adventure, and who resonate with the realities of the Divine Call. But, at the end of the day, those who walk this path will celebrate with hope more palpable than faith. And it will be good, it will be good. But, you got to leap out for it. So I did, and I pray that all which my hope yearns for will soon be revealed. If not, then I will keep at it. For that is the Call. That is the Way. For those who have been giving a taste of it, there is nothing else, there is no turning back.

The purest signs of Fall are exhibiting themselves today. The sun no longer peeks through my northwest facing window, having moved too far south. Squirrels are running around, seeming to be a lot fatter than earlier in the year. And best of all, most beautiful of all, large yellow oak leaves, shaped like big hands, are floating down from the heights, sticking in the needles of the evergreens, bright yellow badges for the cedars and firs to wear.

Yesterday I didn’t write, and there was no reason for it other than completely falling into writing my primary work all morning and into the afternoon, then shutting off my computer early in the evening for no other reason than to enjoy a glare free evening with a fine book.

Today, I woke up without the same eternal yearning, finding the low slope once more, knowing that all it would have taken was a good push on my part to re-engage the heights of yesterday, and not giving that push. I mourn for my own lack in this regard, but know that today is just a day. There are many more, and the trend upwards continues.

I seek heaven. Not with complete consistency, nor always with absolute fervor. Like a man in a foxhole with bombs bursting about, my heart falls at times, wishing for relief. But the battle waging is a vital one, and though my heart may waver, I pray my courage to press onwards never does. I seek God, and I seek him through the paths he has opened up, I seek him despite myself, despite the many ways in which my own actions seem to undermine the cause. I continue on because I know that I can do nothing else. I have to. This is the path God has given, and now I am committed to it.

I pray and continue to pray, firmly believing in the power of prayer, firmly trusting that God is indeed at work. When I pray for others I absolutely believe he listens, it surprises me if there is not an answer of some sort. So when I pray for my own cause I am left with the realization that God is answering and this present is his answer. I am to walk a road which he has, so that I end up where he wants me.

For had I had answers to past prayers, I would not be writing, and I would not be engaging the Gospels to any near degree as I do so now. This all despite my lack and failings. I press onwards because I fail, and God wants more of me, and wants me to become more of me.

I slip and stumble, but at my core God knows my heart, and knows that I truly only desire his goodness for my life, and to become a true servant for his purposes. The process to getting to this point is sometimes absurd. But, the Bible tells me to expect that, so I’ll keep at what he has called me to do.

The more I watch them the more I like them. Ever since that first day when I saw one gamboling over the woodpile I thought they were fun. Now, everytime I see a chipmunk I am more impressed. They are wee little beasties to be sure, but a fair measure more bold than the squirrels. And they watch. They take note of their surroundings with more interest than the squirrels regularly do. I’ve watched a chipmunk sit on a sun bathed stump, swishing his little striped tail, looking all the world like he’s enjoying the chipmunk life. Two just now scrambled over the woodpile, not looking very serious at all. I almost get the sense that I if went outside and told them a funny joke, they would get it. The jays never would, the squirrels wouldn’t, the ravens might but would think me droll and beneath their lofty wit. The chipmunks would, and would return the favor.

If I were to have a tea party I would definitely invite the chipmunks, even though they would have to leave early for another appointment.

I’m not ashamed to admit it. It has taken me a year to finally get to really reading Thoreau. I started Walden a few times since it was given to me as a gift last year for my birthday, but haven’t had the spark to keep wading through. Thoreau is, of course, funny to me, as I reflect his thought like I was a disciple, without ever reading his words before. I’ve come to the same conclusions about a great deal of life and now meet him as a compatriot, reading his words that strangely reflect something similar to what I’ve written in the recent past. I picked up a selection of his journal entries the other day, again, but this time I was bit by it, coming up for air only after fifty pages.

It’s not that I couldn’t read the words or didn’t understand him. It is more that over the past year I’ve somehow gained insight that allows me to really be able to read Thoreau. I have more of the ‘ah, yes.. that’s it” moments rather than the “isn’t that interesting” kind of moments. I feel the words, with his observations raising within me the emotions and memories of fraternal experiences that I have found in my last year. I don’t have the east coast of the mid-19th century, but I have experienced related emotions in similar settings, and find myself resonating thoroughly with Thoreau.

He wrote in 1841:

It does seem as though mine were a peculiarly wild nature, which so yearns toward all wildness. I know of no redeeming qualities in me but a sincere love for some things, and when I am reproved I have to fall back on to this ground. This is my argument in reserve for all cases. My love is invulnerable. Meet me on that ground, and you will find me strong. When I am condemned, and I condemn myself utterly, I think straightaway, “But I rely on my love for some things.” Therein I am whole and entire. Therein I am God-propped.

I know the feeling. I live the expression of this.

The air outside is still and comfortable, for some reason “easy” pops into my head as a description. It doesn’t seem to intruded with any sort of message, letting a person simply be. I’ve taken to lighting candles in the evening, at least the last three evenings. The dance of the flame is soothing, as is the gentle aroma of the various scents.

Some of these candles are old, a couple of years, bought when I did a station for the Stations of the Cross. It was more symbolic than direct, with a long entry and gentle music drawing a participant into the scene of Jesus meeting with the women, and then following this up with words from various women mystics. Someday I might transfer all of this online somehow. The aroma of the candles tonight instantly bring back those memories, soothing memories of music and spirituality, my last real concerted effort within a formal church setting. It was in fact good.

Tonight I sit like a sandy beach washed over by a winter storm. Driftwood is stacked all around, seaweed is piled, the once fine dunes are disordered. The clouds have not yet moved past, though the fierceness has, all without recognition. I am drawn to prayer and study more, and wrestle with thoughts of Egypt and Faith, trying to strike for wisdom within still swirling confusion, trying to understand the right path between trust and perseverance.

I didn’t write today, at least not for my primary project, which seems to be slipping away in my mind. Yet there is a part of my soul there, so I wander around seeking to determine the cause of this sudden wall within, and have some thoughts, no answers. God is complicated, to be sure, but he warns us quite clearly of the fact, so it shouldn’t be a surprise. He also warns us that he is passionate about our progress even in this life, so we shouldn’t wonder when he presses us onwards and upwards.

But we do wonder, I wonder, because I cannot see the end, and find the present a little too bare for my tastes. So, I’m left only with faith and trust that it will all be understood by the end.

Which is why I write here really. It is a record of the path, so when the end, or a end comes, I can say I had moments of faith, despite my occasional grumblings. I would have said those in the land were fierce and big, but I would have jumped at the chance to attack. What else is there but the wilderness I would have said. What else is there but the wilderness I say now. So I stand, a little shaky tonight, but I stand.

I had a productive morning, writing a fair bit, focused, alert. Then the storm came. Not one I could see or understand, but it came with a fury which has yet to relent.

A little less, very little less, than a year ago fire swept through California coming within a couple of miles of this house… on every side. The town was evacuated, we didn’t go. Why? Because we felt safe, and because there was a strong burden to prayer.

So a week of prayer commenced while watching the surrounding hills for glimpses of encroaching flames, and watching the fire planes sweep so low over the house I could read the numbers on the tail and see the pilots in the cockpit.

All week I felt the burden of the fire, a tenseness, a watchfulness, feeling not only caution and danger, but the very emotions of a forest dying, pain coming from all quarters, an evil of sorts exuding itself over the land wiping away dreams and memories, property and lives. I stood in the wee hours watching for flames that could have easily, should have easily, burst through. They didn’t, something our firefighter neighbor says according to his twenty plus years of fire experience is inexplicable. It was a miracle he said. The hand of God was sheltering this valley from the fierceness of the flames.

I say this because that feeling I had then I have tonight. There are no flames, and I’m not staring at the hills or watching planes. But, it’s that same feeling.

Curious. Pray for me, won’t ya’. If I learn anything I’ll let you know.

Maybe it’s just a normal turn of emotions. But, I’ve never ever been one for overbearing, random anxiety (”I love tests” is my school motto). I felt this during the fire, and during other vital moments. I don’t know what is going on in realms beyond my ken. But it’s something. It’s something. So, I pray and stare.

And may do this for a while still, even though it’s late.

A perfect fall day, so perfect the heart doesn’t notice, it is simply content, finding peace in the mere act of sitting and staring, basking in the fullness of a day done right. In fact, that’s how I spent my day yesterday, literally the whole day. One spot to another. All day. Any moment in which I tried to do something productive, my heart would turn outwards, and I would stare. From morning until past dark. This was coupled with prayer which seeped out of me, unwilling almost, but once began actively carried onwards.

I’m tired now, and am going to go to bed, but I am left tonight thinking of Isaiah 7 and its present message for my life:

1 When Ahaz son of Jotham, the son of Uzziah, was king of Judah, King Rezin of Aram and Pekah son of Remaliah king of Israel marched up to fight against Jerusalem, but they could not overpower it.
2 Now the house of David was told, “Aram has allied itself with [1] Ephraim”; so the hearts of Ahaz and his people were shaken, as the trees of the forest are shaken by the wind.
3 Then the LORD said to Isaiah, “Go out, you and your son Shear-Jashub, [2] to meet Ahaz at the end of the aqueduct of the Upper Pool, on the road to the Washerman’s Field. 4 Say to him, ‘Be careful, keep calm and don’t be afraid. Do not lose heart because of these two smoldering stubs of firewood-because of the fierce anger of Rezin and Aram and of the son of Remaliah. 5 Aram, Ephraim and Remaliah’s son have plotted your ruin, saying, 6 “Let us invade Judah; let us tear it apart and divide it among ourselves, and make the son of Tabeel king over it.” 7 Yet this is what the Sovereign LORD says:

” ‘It will not take place,
it will not happen,
8 for the head of Aram is Damascus,
and the head of Damascus is only Rezin.
Within sixty-five years
Ephraim will be too shattered to be a people.
9 The head of Ephraim is Samaria,
and the head of Samaria is only Remaliah’s son.
If you do not stand firm in your faith,
you will not stand at all.’ “

This and other similar passages speak of the reality of faith against all hope,. Others warn against trusting in the help of others, such as Egypt, for salvation. There is only faith, and that which may seem an answer is no answer, but merely a shadow to dissuade our perfect path.

A curious thought. May I stand firm in faith.

There’s no getting around it, I had a terrible morning. What happened? Nothing, nothing at all it seemed, but my whole inner being was caught in some noxious web. I woke up at five, and read about Poland for a little while before convincing myself to get up and begin writing.

I wandered through emails, and then some news sites, finding my mind not wanting to drift towards prose. Around six I started anyhow, reading through my work of yesterday and adding a few sentences. I felt like a fourth grader asked to do a composition on an uninteresting subject. My few sentences were stilted and awkward, I had in my head the plan for the day, only I had literally nothing in me to get there. Everything seemed frozen, uninspired. There was a weight on my soul which drove me to distraction.

I surfed the net, played minesweeper, sat and stared at a squirrel. I tried to pray for a moment or two, there was a fog, heavy and thick. All morning, even as I berated myself for my lack of focus and effort, I felt only the pull of going back to bed, not to sleep, but to give up on the day.

Tears were coming into my eyes whenever I would let my mind be free; unbidden, unfocused beads forming at the edges of my eyelids. What did I feel specifically? The word which popped into my head was ‘foreboding’, a heavy grief for some unnamed evil or tragedy which I knew would eventually name itself. I hopped around the internet trying to find the announcement of some terrible event.

I turned on the television. I never do that during the day, but today I did, looking first at the news stations, then finding a first season rerun of ER somewhat captivating, and thinking how much better it was written then, more methodical, slower paced… and thinking all of television was better back then. I crawled under my covers and watched tv, letting my eyes drift outside where a cool breeze makes my shamrock windsock dance a hearty jig, and causes all the branches to bounce in steady rhythm.

But nothing in me stirred to retake this day. I sat there wallowing in a mellow discontent which poured over me like a thick syrup.

I got up for a moment to check my email, to check again the news.

There was a message in my inbox. A good friend of mine, who I don’t see often but who I respect more than just about anyone I know… his mom died this morning at six.

I don’t think I ever met her. But I know him, and I know the feeling in my heart which seems to feel this grief profoundly. A great light has left the world, death has once again given its evil sting. Shadows fall all around, a mighty heart and soul departs. Her life echoes strongly in her children and her life continues in eternity where all is whole and wonderful. Still, the knell of death rang out among us, and even the angels shed tears on her behalf. The Spirit moves in the hearts of the Body to share the pain which came this morning.

I know this, for my soul tells me strong. Dorothy Hill has gone to her Lord and Savior, and heaven welcomes a new saint. I pray her children feel the peace of God’s grace and are filled with the hope and light of the Spirit who moves in all things.

I went for a run today. That, for once in my life, is nothing new. It’s great exercise, a good excuse to wander a bit, and really it’s spiritually enlightening . I’m a firm believer in metaphors, and actually doing the imagery is very helpful to what it is trying to represent. We are to run the run, Paul says, so that we’ll win. Starting off by running up an extremely steep path brings much light to the present spiritual realities.

That is my first insight, on the first half of my trip. My mind wanders, now that I’m in better shape, with leaps from dissecting the differences between equivalent theological terms such as perichoresis and circumincession. If a person doesn’t know these they are worth looking up, and spending a lifetime learning to understand. For about a mile this inner conversation, and how it relates to the various Protestant creeds, rattled around.

I always spend a bit thinking about church, past church experiences, future church hopes, thinking I wouldn’t mind being part of a church again, and thinking even more that I wouldn’t mind wandering to a different part of this nation or globe and starting something with a group of like minded people. When I was eleven I felt a strong call one evening to become a pastor. Part of me thinks this call is still maturing… but when it does…

All the while I pay attention to the state of the trees, the oaks whose leaves are now fading and twisting in preparation for winter demise; the pines who surprise me by their mere existence these days, the hearty survivors of a devastating infestation; the cedars who last through it all and this year are covering in cedar nuts, making them look like hundred foot christmas trees decorated with tasteful green and brown bulbs. I keep my eye out for the coyotes who I see regularly. I don’t know why I do that. I’m intrigued I guess.

I also keep my eye out for bears, which are common around here even though I’ve never seen one myself. Though, I hear they are common back in Pasadena.

Birds abound, squirrels scamper, ravens caw and croak in the distance. My mind wanders all around, settling plot points, explaining to myself–again–my reasons for being up here, wondering what it would have been like had I chosen another path, thinking I would have ended up here anyhow as the Spirit does what it does eventually. Thinking of family, and interesting people I’ve interacted with recently, some more interesting than others which becomes an interesting train of thought of its own.

I come down the mountain, off the dirt trail which winds through the hills, up and down all around, making a two mile or so loop. Then on the asphalt for a while, up and down and all around, except passing by homes instead of empty wilderness. I run up a hill and down, then up, and up, and up, then turn onto a small access road, mostly dirt covered with hints that at one time there was more. The trail thins, and again I’m surrounded by the forest. Then my thoughts fade with the rising wind, the gusts pick up as I run along into it, the trees dance and sing with the movement of air, my soul exults in joining the ballet of nature all around. There is a light mist, thin, barely perceptible, until I turn a corner and see bright rays of sunlight shining through gaps in tall oaks, spotlights shining down upon the trail. A squirrel runs out in front of me, scurries back up the tree. I keep running. Until I get home at least. Then I stop, let the aroma of the forest fill my nostrils as I catch my breath. Five miles up and around, and countless thoughts dealt with and filed away, I was cleansed of soul and refreshed of mind.

There are benefits to this life.

The day was fine all around, the kind of day which doesn’t prompt a lot of consideration as everything seemed to be just right. I wrote all morning, ran in the afternoon, filled up spaces with assorted other tasks, and now finish the day tired and ready to begin again tomorrow. Each day our daily bread. I pray the same for tomorrow.

I covered my window. The lights outside are many and the house behind this one is busy. Rather than being bothered, I secluded myself even more. Fortunately I spent a long while outside today, and got my fill of fresh views. It crept up in temperature, becoming actually almost warm by afternoon. Winter is not yet here, though it beckons.

Still I wait, still I listen, pondering not only my role in this world but also those patterns which have developed over generations. I come from Fundamentalist stock in a family which has been Christian for as long as can be remembered. This has some positive aspects which I noted in a paper I did a while back, but it also has its negatives.

I’m increasingly convinced that nothing is more insidious than evil framed in religious clothes. There is such a thing as spiritual abuse I’m learning, where an authority figure can cause significant harm by manipulating and confusing those who trust in the religious creed.

This, like any other kind of abuse, can be mild to severe, but is always damaging, and the effects are often passed down through the generations.

Fortunately, my parents are strong and have broken the cycle with my brother and I. But their families? It lingers. And it influences on realms which are beyond senses, attaching itself to patterns and behaviors with which I contend.

Like other types of abuse the victims have trouble separating from the abuser, and in the spiritual variety it becomes even more difficult as the abusive one is oftentimes a pillar of the community doing God’s work.

There’s a lot more to this, deep, deep discussions which I am only now really grasping.

I say this because I spent a couple of hours in discussion about this today, and at the end I felt like I had named that heavy weight. Family religious history indeed. It’s not all good news.