under siege

Do you ever have thoughts attack you, waylay you, nearly asphyxiate you with their constant proximity and weight? James 2. That's the one that finds me.


When I travel downtown.


Or to the grocery store.


On the way to school.


In city parks.


If I happen to catch a glimpse of the news.


When I see old photos, tell certain stories, or hold memories above the chasm of forgetfulness.


Words I innocently memorized in middle school to appease a teacher who never could have imagined how I would be tormented for what is turning into the rest of my life come back in torrents to flood a mind that is struggling to be made up.


What good is faith that has no deeds?
And again: If you say "Go, I wish you well; keep warm and well fed," but does nothing about his physical needs, what good is it?


How is one supposed to function with words with weight like that pounding, throbbing... burning inside?


It does not matter how I choose to cope with whatever rhythm that pounding creates because the bottom line remains: I am not doing enough. My well-intended words exit my mouth only for those same phrases that always find me to take up residency in the space left over. What good is it...when you do nothing? 


It does not matter that I do not know what to do because those are hollow excuses and I have been burning with the weight of this challenge long enough now. Long enough to feel the urgency and long enough to be friends with despair as she echoes you aren't big enough and there is no way for you to be big enough.


I feel with sudden but thorough certainty the edges of the rabbit hole I stand above. There is a whole world down there; and, if I let myself fall, I may never come back. I will never be who I am right now and my eyes will never be able to see the world the way they do right now. And it is not a fear of being too small and too weak to handle the change (I am both of those for sure), but the knowledge that the way is shut once I enter. 


Did Alice ever really leave Wonderland entirely behind? Or did she take it with her everyday just behind her eyes like a filter or perhaps a buffer that used to exist between her and the world until everything changed?


It is knowing that I have absolutely no control who this will make me if I keep following my white rabbit. But the change is sure to be real, permanent, and terrifying. Oh yes, and I think good. But it is not the only rabbit hole I could choose to fall down. How do I know *THIS* is the one I want? Do I even get that choice? If I don't like it, can I choose another? All of that to say: how much do I give myself to homeless ministry? 


I already know the answers to all of those questions. Respectively: because it's bigger than me. Yes, but no: I already chose a long time ago. Yes and no again: it wont leave me the same even if I leave it. As much as I am allowed for as long as the season stays.


Somehow, these do not bring the comfort that we always expect of answers we do not yet have.

fractures

I have an art piece that I want to do... but I lack the time and resources. Well, I have a lot of art pieces that I want to do and I could list all of those, but that would make me too sad. However, this one is particularly relevant today.

I want a pane of glass that I can intentionally stick a photograph to, let set with goop, and then tear off leaving a partial of the photo (a portrait of some emotive design likely emphasizing the face). Then I want to smash the pane so that the glass spiders. ...and then I have to find a way to keep it together after that.

It sounds pretty simple when I read it. I guess it is. Maybe I just want to smash things. Glass is pretty satisfying.

This piece comes out of living in too many unrelated spheres. It comes from quarantining certain parts of life from others, intentionally or unintentionally. And trying to live in that tension. For some people, it is that distinct loneliness they feel either because their church does not get them and/or their life outside of church does not. Usually both. Or two groups of friends. Or two homes. Whatever it is...it causes this chasm to open wide and you find yourself called to either side, but mostly residing somewhere deep inside it for fear of leaving something of yourself behind upon choosing a side.

And for me, I am caught between the abstractions and philosophizing of my starving muse...and the aircraft hangar. And I love them both for their own reasons. More than that, I do not know who I would be without either. In writing that, I want to rebel and resist definition, but it is useless. The former, is my lifeblood. It is how I think and how I see the world and when I ignore it, I become frighteningly mechanical and somehow less human. The latter is this perhaps overly romanticized dream that I have built for more than seven years. By the time I get to actually being able to learn to fly, it will be well nigh a decade.

Take into account that those were extra formative years in my life and aviation is inextricably part of my identity. Where else would I go? What else would I do? It is theoretically possible, but it would be a divorce with far reaching implications. Divorcing one's metaphorical DNA is a procedure that has never done anything but boost the pharmaceutical industry.

But I need to know if I can build dreams from schematics. If I can keep one foot in both worlds without falling and failing. Can I set my poetry and paintings between my FARs and Aeronautical Dictionary?

Beyond than that, what if I have romanticized flight? Is it possible that I could chase this all the way past every imaginable and tangible obstacle only to be disappointed because I was infatuated with an idea rather than the reality itself? I do not give myself over to love such fragile things easily. I am too timid for that. But I am afraid that this is a lost cause. Even if it is a false love, it is one I carry most fiercely and will never be rid of except perhaps by the very disappointment I fear. Quite simply I am in too deep.

But I knew all of that. This is not new. I wish it was. Then it would not carry the shame of familiarity. But I return here again and again and again. I know how it will end each time. I will climb out. I go do my homework and pass my tests with varying quality and questionable worthiness. And there is grace in time because she keeps moving even when we are not watching. Despite our bickering as to how quickly or slowly she should be going, she keeps the same pace.

So I know how today will end, but I still chafe against these worries. And I know I will be here again. I am creature of habit like everyone else. But I do long for the day when all of me is in agreement. When the tension is gone because who I want to be, is. And I may well be waiting into eternity for that, but time brings that nearer.

ALL of that to say just this: It helps to realize that the schism is less my own mistake today with a solution that I am overlooking and more a matter of groaning as we wait for eternity. It is good to remember. These fractures have their beginnings in the tension between now and eternity. There is an end. But it is not my responsibility. Two kinds of rest.

The irony is that for the past week I have not been able to get past the first few verses of Hebrews. Conspiracies.