I like to sing, it calms me down. Simplifies and turns things around. I can see, a little bit more clearly now. Little things they bother me, the way they cling and strangle me. I don't mean to get it wrong but I'm tired of this. You say just keep holding on... that we will weather the coming storm. But maybe I'll just let myself be blown away. I'm tired of clutching to this life raft, can't we just let go? We're not heroes anymore. Things aren't so bright and certain as they once were. And I know I still love you... but I'm tired of being a martyr. Just give up the cause, please for me. This war zone has taken too much from me. I don't believe anymore. So don't make me lose you too.
It was an age of poofy hats and telescopic innovations. Disenchanted priests were pondering the cosmos. Disillusioned missionaries were constructing mechanical workforces. It was an age of wonder and a wonderful age. There were powerful punks who bemoaned the coming change. There were Enlightenment Salesmen who were peach with glee. There were innovators and instigators and exposed magicians looking for a home. There were magic movers and "humanity inflators." We were empowered and moving forward. We crossed the ocean to a promised land. We conquered the natives and comforted the pilgrims. The church was scattered. Authority decomposed. Structures crumbled. And men wore poofy hats and fancy pants.
Ancient siblings, reborn duplications. Oscillations. Timid sisters cast back failures. Memories of moaning eagles. Bleak outlook cast out the breakfast. Once in a while the truth breaks through. Orange folders contain great pages. Painted horses trotting bravely. Punched-out drunkard, begging window. Wolves bark and howl in the autumn chill. The first chill of the year is the harshest. Frozen branches taunt the traveler. Ancient siblings pressing buttons. Ancient raindrops shimmer branches. Shimmer-shake. Chill. Forsaken oscillations. Black hole failures. Time warp nothing. Cursing strangers. Begging drunkards, broken windows. Frozen memories on painted horses. Moaning eagles in search of breakfast.
The problem is when we turn our periscope inwards. When the slide under our microscope is a mirror into our own minds. Our own self. When WE become the noun-like object upon which pronounce ultimate judgment. But not just our self. Of course, we must judge our self. That is how we grow and change and learn. We judge how we are doing. We celebrate what we do right. We wrestle and strategize where we do wrong. But there is a deeper sense in which the judgment becomes problematic. There is a depth of assessment that fails us. Jesus tells us to keep our microscopes away from it. He wants to be "all," but not in that way...
We are all one melody away from an epiphany. We are all one question away from a breakthrough. When I was a child, my grandfather let me steer the tractor (he held his hands over my hands, but I was convinced I was the one steering). When I was an adolescent, my teachers let me turn in my homework late. I guess there are many mercies and graces overflowing from the seems – seeping into the streams. And even now, when I look back on it all (with Chopin playing softly in my earphones), I see that I am lucky. I am lucky not to be an orphan. I am lucky not to be deformed. I am lucky not to be a lost alien on some doomed exploratory mission. When I look back on it all now, I regret my character flaws and the sins they inspired. But there is mercy and grace from the tip of our tongues down to the inner workings of our molecular systems. And I am steering the melody tractor and I am breaking through.