Trees and Things

Dear Readers,
I've been meditating for the past couple of days what it means to be saved by faith. Or more specifically, saved by faith and not by works. The Bible says a lot about works - both the Old and New Testaments stress both good deeds and righteous living. This is seen in the OT with laws and regulations, living life according to the moral code. The longest chapter in the Bible is Psalm 119, a song about the glories of God's law: "I treasure your word in my heart, so that I may not sin against you. . . .Turn my heart to your decrees, and not to selfish gain" (Ps 119: 11, 36).

But why is that? If we are saved by faith, which is the free gift of God (Eph 2:8-9), why work for anything? And why emphasize works in the first place? And what do we do with James, who writes: "What good is it, my brothers and sisters, if you say you have faith but do not have works? Can faith save you? . . . So faith by itself, if it has no works, is dead" (James 2:14, 17).

Works are important. Faith is important. What it boils down to is: which comes first.

Let me give you an example: the Pharisees. The Pharisees were a religious sect within Judaism, one of the three main sects at the time (the other two were the Sadducees and the Essenes). Their basis of religious life consisted of the law, and nothing but the law. They had rules and regulations for how many steps you could take on the Sabbath, the right ways in which to wash yourself, how to dress, how to eat, etc. This rigorous adherence to the law gained them righteousness. But Jesus calls them out on it: he says they have a false righteousness: "Either make the tree good, and its fruit good; or make the tree bad, and its fruit bad; for the tree is known by its fruit. You brood of vipers! How can you speak good things, when you are evil? For out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaks" (Mt. 12:33-34). It's pretty clear: purify your heart and then your body!

Works can't get us into heaven. That phrase I've heard often: As long as I'm a good person.... And lets just put aside the fact that we have all sinned and fallen short of the glory of God (Rom. 3:23). But what if we could make it to heaven on our own merit? But see, therein lies the problem: our own merit. It is for God's own glory that He saves us, not for ours. And by attempting to make it to heaven with our own hands, we put ourselves in God's place. We hold our hand up and say, "That's enough Jesus, I can take it from here."

But the thing is, we can't! Not in the least! There is nothing that can give me eternal life, eternal happiness, eternal pleasure, endless joy other than accepting and sharing in the love of the Father for the Son. It reminds me of a scene in the movie Ever After, when the king, enraged by his petulant son, declares: "Then I will just deny you the crown, and live forever!" We laugh at that part, for we know that this is impossible: obviously the king has spoken before he has thought. Its like trying to make the freckles on your nose disappear or your legs grow longer - you have no control. We cannot save ourselves no more than we can make our hair turn grey.

But that's the great thing about Easter: Jesus does. He descended to earth, humbled himself and took the form of a man, died on the cross for my sins, and rose from the dead. He conquered death so that I might live. And that's why I have faith. Faith as a core, belief as a statute. Works spring forth from a pure heart, but are not the source. "Figs are not gathered from thorns, nor are grapes picked from a bramble bush. The good person out of the good treasure of the heart produces good, and the evil person out of evil treasure produces evil; for it is out of the abundance of the heart that the mouth speaks" (Luke 6:44-45). Amen.

People

Dear Readers,
Its almost been 6 months since I last posted.

That feels refreshing to admit. My writing has almost completely deadened for the moment, with the exception of a few crappy poems. I still feel this love for writing, like if I could only write down to the foundation of who I am, I could hold the world in the palm of my hand. Maybe I should become a cloistered nun, like Julian of Norwich. She found that kind of peace. But I don't think I'm the cloistered type. I like people too much.

And that's what I've been discovering these past 6 months - I like people. There aren't many things I do well, and fewer things that I feel absolutely passionate about. Working with people is one of the few that fits both of those categories for me. And it sucks too, because people hurt. They scratch and bite and frown and cry. But I love them anyway. And that's why I'm feeling more and more of a draw to work in the church long-term. Taking two of my greatest loves - God and His creation - and combining them.

We'll see.

If Music Be the Food of Love

Dearest Readers,
Does a melody ever make you want to cry? And not just cry readers - bawl your eyes out until you have nothing left, like you could gather all your emotions in your hand, open your palm, and let the wind carry them away? Sometimes I want to do that, just so I could have a second start, forge a new path for myself, clean out the furnace and put on a new log. But I don't think life works like that. I was just talking with a friend today about marriage. He said that he wanted to take a year-long honey moon so that he and his wife could reenter their lives completely reoriented toward each other. And I think in some ways, that would be nice. To take a vacation from the world, come back to find all your neighbors moved and tangles of weeds in the front yard, then start fresh. Pack your bags and move to a new city, a new life. A new world almost.

But somehow we carry ourselves - and not just ourselves, but our friends and families, the chipped blue paint on the front porch, the scar from the rusty watering can - all with us. We can't escape who we've been made and who we are being remade into. Maybe its all in our mind. But we can't remove our mind and wring it out like a dish towel.

In some sense though, we don't have to let our thoughts fester in our minds, to let the juices sink so deep that they dry into the foundation. We remake ourselves, freshen our lives with books and gardens, get away from ourselves by staring into the sky and then come back again to rediscover who we were all along.

And that readers is what happened to me. I was sitting in the sanctuary after church, just me and the stained glass. Everyone had gone home. The counters were cleaned and the dishes put away. And I played the piano and sang, and it felt like if I just kept singing, somehow I'd be able to break through the glass keeping me here - cut down the trees and see the horizon for what it really is: a crisp clear line in the setting sun, shades purple and gold rather than the watered blue that I can see from between the branches if I strain my eyes upward toward the heavens.

Coffee

Dear Readers,
Today I finished my third consecutive day of working at Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf in Carpinteria. While its not the most glamorous job, I decided to take it for a couple of reasons: 1. I want experience handling food 2. I don't want a stressful job and 3. I want FREE COFFEE! And the perks of this job only go as far as that, although I think I get $15 a month to purchase on store items. I first wanted a French Press, but after trying it today, I think I'm going to stick with plain coffee flavored with tons of cream - or a Chai tea latte (best thing EVER!).

So what haven't I learned how to do? Make a latte! Can you believe it? It seems like such a basic thing, but actually lattes are more complicated than the iced blended drinks because you have to deal with steam, which can be really scary. Plus, getting the milk to foam perfectly is quite an art (one that I'm beginning to master though). Espresso goes bad after 30 seconds, so you have to be really quick about serving it or putting it in a drink. I haven't even been told about different powders or syrups (maybe tomorrow...)

But more importantly, I'm learning. And as my boss always tells me: Its just coffee. No pressure.

Revision

Dear Readers,
I hate to revise my work. Especially my poetry. For some reason, I can't get it through my head that the finished product will be better than the beginning. And this semester has taught me a lot from that standpoint. Having to constantly revise my short story for Creative Writing taught me a lot about how to use the delete button on my computer. And while I still have a hard time letting phrases disappear from the page, I'm becoming more used to it.

So without further ado, here's a revision of the poem "Joy Eluded Us". I really like the way it turned out, which I guess speaks to the benefit of revision *shudder*. haha, but really readers, sometimes only practice makes perfect.

The day we learned

Joy eluded us in that moment, took
its black coat and slipped softly
out the glass doors. I remained
with the cold sunlight
that somehow pushed its way
through the black glazed windows.

There were violets outside the hospital,
rich blue-purple velvet, the kind of color
you want to dive into. They drooped
a little with the heat. Water would have helped.

That day we learned that germs
can’t travel through white, and hospital
beds can resemble coffins under the right
circumstances. But he wouldn’t go in one,
wouldn’t stop the day for a moment
to take off the stiff lab coat and enjoy
the weight of the full April sun
which burst through my open windows
where I sat thinking not of philosophy
nor the fact that my yellow roses
were starting to wilt from lack
of water.

ALSO - I mentioned a short story. If you would like to read that, just shoot me an email. Just to whet your appetite, its about two deadbeat men who rob a 7-11 to get money to start their own basement marijuana business. Don't you want to read more? haha

Down the Lane

Dear Readers,
I'm almost done with school! I can't believe it; it seems so close in my memory when I running on the playground of RC and thinking about how far away high school was. And now I'm almost done. Completely. Its ridiculous! And I'm not trying to think of it too much; trying to make it in Santa Barbara is daunting, but I'm confident that I can scrape by. But I'm not in the mood for the future right now readers. And the present is blah right now. So its the past that I can turn to.

Favorite memories from this semester:
-Sharyna (my roomie), the "comedy vampire"
-writing TONS of poetry
-chapel band awesomeness
-making tiramisu for my friends
-making food in general; I'm shamefully good at getting an al dente pasta
-cheap daffodils from Vons
-becoming completely addicted to the Food Network
-History of World Christianity: the class that has slowly sucked the soul from my body yet been the most healing thing at the same time. The world is a paradox.
-taking an hour out of every night for one whole week to learn all the steps to the Thriller dance
-having a car and yet taking the shuttle, and getting that good feeling when you know you're saving gas
-running around trying to find a vacuum
-visiting Maria and AmaDeus and playing their Steinway
-going to the beach at 6am to watch the sun rise
-orchestra tour: Disneyland: 8 hours of nonstop craziness!
-breakfast dates with Lucia Bostick
-playing the piano for fun
-meeting new people: Aimee, Megan, Anna, Sharyna, Lucia, Sarah, and so many more!
-writing letters
-making notebooks
-swimming!
-learning that I can actually function on 6 hours of sleep
-playing the crash cymbals in the orchestra
-learning how fast time really does go by

and so many more readers! I have 3 weeks, and am determined to make the most out of those weeks. Wish me luck!

For Easter

Dearest Readers,
Its palm Sunday! Yay! I didn't realize this until my Italian phrase-a-day calendar told me that todays word is "alleliua". I thought to myself "That's a strange word," and then it dawned upon me - my Italian phrase-a-day people are clever. heh heh. Anyway, here's a poem to commemorate this upcoming week. The story behind this poem, like so many of my recent poems, is that I had to write it. I have to do this project for my New Testament class where I create something (aka, a poem!) having to do with a Biblical text, then write a review on why I did this and blah blah blah. The point is, I have a new poem, and I actually really like how it turned out. Looking for inspiration, I stumbled on a William Carlos William poem that I really like. Hence, I stole the format he used and decided to condense my images into just a few.

One disclaimer: I just finished this poem. Therefore, its in its super-rough phase, but sometimes poems are the best like that. Besides, wouldn't you like to have it before Easter, since it turns out that I accidentally wrote a poem on the Easter story?

The Resurrection
Matthew 27:50-52

No one could
ignore
the blackened sky,

a black like burnt wood.
And then
the cry stabbed through

that black, a curtain
dripping
with purple velvet

ripping just like the sky
and the graves
bursting forth with people,

their sweaty, grimy bodies
filling
the streets, bones rattling

the blackened cobblestones
that Augustus
had worked so hard to standardize.

Loss of a Friend

Dear Readers,
This has been a good poetry weekend for me! Sheesh! I'm having to revise a bunch of poems (and write a few new ones) so you guys are totally reaping the benefits; that is to say, if you like reading my poetry. Anyway, this poem started out as a "Nonsense" poem (like Lewis Carroll's Jabberwocky). I tried really, REALLY hard to make it nonsense, but it wasn't really. Dr. Willis told me "Maybe you're just not meant to write nonsense". And I think he's right. So I completely revised it, added on a couple stanzas and made it into a coherent poem. And again, this one isn't about an actual event at all! I just bought daffodils today for our house, so that's where that image comes from, but the rest is completely made up. Let me know what you all think!

Loss of a Friend

I plucked from the ashes of this
slow burn of a friendship the tattered
remains of bubblegum wrappers - plastic
lace like a lady’s gloves, fitted tight
around diamond rings, like the diamonds
your mother used to wear. They sparkled
at the parties with champagne and strawberries.

Those summer nights we hid beneath
the stars, tucked away between the arms
of weeping willows. That place was
filled with honeyed air and your blue
eyes, the blue that you find beneath
stones at the beach and, if you’re lucky,
in the frozen center of a peach pit
just pulled from the refrigerator.

Then we woke, opened our eyes to find
the cold dawn rising from its bed. We
rose too - but now the grass stained our shorts
and your blue eyes turned black as the back
of your mothers hand ran across your face
like it was slapping all of me out of you.

Your red-brick house never looked the same
to me. And sometimes, when I’m out picking
daffodils among the fields across the river,
I’ll pluck from our time together the hard edge
of a dirty rock and throw it as hard as I can.

Moving On

Dear Readers,
I just finished a sonnet! Woo hoo! I met with Dr. Willis, my creative writing prof, about my other sonnet (Comments to a red rose) and he gave me the option of writing another one since that one wasn't strict iambic pentameter. Well, I don't think this sonnet is strict either, but I kinda like how it turned out so I'm going to keep it in my portfolio (which is due next week, btw!) Readers, confession time: I usually write from actual experience, but this sonnet is totally made up! hahaha! Its about breaking up with someone, which I haven't ever done - but if I did ever break up with someone, hopefully I wouldn't do it like this. Anyway, tell me what you think, I always enjoy all of your comments. They are so encouraging.

Moving On

It once was with this old blue coat, stuffed in
my closet now, you covered the cold thoughts
that spread beneath my trembling lips like thin
cracks in summer ice. Pictures, like ink blots
on white napkins, stain my house with your face -
they’re packed in boxes now - shadows without
a meaning, yet the past I can’t erase.
Was it just yesterday you called about
the coffee stain I left on your brown couch
the night we learned your grandma died? I held
your hand, even though all you did was slouch
back in the seat. And there among the swelled
remains of once a love and now a lost
desire, I found I hadn’t paid the cost.

Lunchtime

Dear Readers,
So sorry for my long absence! It has just been a crazy semester so far, so much so that I'm still trying to prune my schedule of anything excess. For example, I dropped chamber singers this week because it was much more stress than it was worth. But readers, I've been writing poetry! Although this is a requirement for my creative writing class, I can feel myself getting better and better at poetry - its fantastic! Sometimes I read my old poems and laugh at how much image I crammed into those lines, while now I look for the one image that will be convey my experience exactly. So readers, without further ado, I give you my latest poem; I'm not saying its perfect, but I feel pretty proud of this one. Let me know what you think!

Lunchtime, February 16, 2010

Today the black tar asphalt sizzles
beneath our tires.
I can’t breath; the air lies down upon us
like an old man slumped in his rocker,
but here I am, stuffed in this blue sedan, surrounded
by Snickers wrappers.

How can Allison and Kat not care
that my stomach feels
like an empty plastic bag?

If only I could reach up,
pluck the sun
from the egg-blue sky - peel back
the rich skin and squeeze the juice,
let it burst
from the packets of flavor wrapped
inside to leave tears of sticky sweetness
down my salty face.

Comments to a

Dear Readers,
I'd almost lost hope in my love for poetry, that is before I wrote this poem! Its just that my semester is absolutely crazy!!! I have no time for fun things like writing poems - I'm always reading for my religious studies courses, both of which are GEs which makes them annoying rather than fun. But readers, even though I don't even have time to be writing this, I wanted to share this small sonnet I just completed for tomorrow's creative writing class. I'm not a big fan of sonnets, so I didn't really have a purpose when I started writing this. But I think it turned out pretty well, so let me know what you all think!

Comments to a red rose

Once in these petals, soft as night, that blur
into my rusted gate, bees took their fill
of sweet white wine. The golden nectar
that drizzled down their legs fell on your frills,
your sweet red dress then stained with amber jewels.
I watched awhile on those blue steps before
the door leaned into me, the handle cool
upon my fingers. Winter comes in poor
disguise - your petals blackened in dismay,
pooling around the earthen pot set out
to catch the final boat of the sun’s rays.
And now, the stiff air that runs throughout
the rooms meets my lungs, tightens the gap
between our worlds - my present to unwrap.

The day we learned

Dear Readers,
I'm learning that its very difficult for me to process things. One of my favorite professors is my poetry teacher, Dr. Willis. He publishes poetry pretty frequently, and most of his recent work has been about the Tea Fire - his house burned down. I think poetry is a beautiful way to express your deepest thoughts, since many of the things we know about ourselves are only snapshots. While the fire was a traumatic experience, I have yet to put into words some of the most difficult emotions I face. I think one of the things I've always wanted to have an outlet for is the experience of dad's cancer - being able to put that experience down into words, and words that mean something to me, has been one of the hardest things. And while I don't feel like I've hit the mark in this poem, I've come the closest so far in remembering that experience.

So here it is; the rough draft of my mental snapshot:

The day we learned

Joy eluded us in that moment,
slipped softly out the glass doors
without so much as a parting
word. I remained with the cold sunlight
that somehow pushed its way
through the black glazed windows.

Chrysanthemums exploded outside the cement,
blinding pink, a defense mechanism against
sticky-fingered guests. They drooped a little
with the March heat. Water would have helped.

That day we learned that germs
can’t travel through white, and hospitals
beds can resemble coffins under the right
circumstances. But he wouldn’t go in one,
wouldn’t stop the day for a moment
to take off the stiff lab coat
and enjoy the weight of the full
April sun which burst through
my open windows where I sat
thinking not of philosophy, nor
the fact that my yellow roses were
starting to wilt from lack of water.

In the Morning Light

Dear Readers,
Doesn't everything look better in morning light? I'm convinced that I could wake up early every day of my life and be satisfied just because of the light in the morning. I believe it was Henry David Thoreau who talked about how men would bottle up morning air because it was so healthy and sell it to those who slept in late. Everything seems more attainable in morning light; you have a whole 24 hours ahead of you, but only a few hours to enjoy the sense of a fully-realized day before the sun moves and all you have is a blue sky and hours of work ahead of you.

But readers, even better is the morning light that is obstructed by gray clouds. Its the perfect excuse to stay home and enjoy a good book with a steaming cup of tea while watching the rain. That may be one of my favorite things on earth to do. Unfortunately though, you need a good window, something which I currently do not have. I have a window. It, sadly, doesn't look out onto a picturesque lake, or mountains, or even a meadow. No, I get to see all of the other apartments. Yay. But readers, I have a dream that one day a lake or mountain (or better - both!) will be outside my window one day, covered in sheets of rain so I can have that beautiful light bathing my surroundings and be in the moment when life seems to be taking its time so I can have that one perfect day of reading/tea drinking.

But for now, all I can do is turn off all the lights in my room (my house-mate just came in and told me it was like a cave) and listen to the sound of the rain hitting the pavement outside my window.

Happiness

Dearest Readers,
Here's the poem I'm turning in tomorrow for my first creative writing assignment; tell me what you think!


Happiness

I bought a silk flower today,
tugged it out of the bouquet
packed into the white bucket
of the thrift store on 22nd.

It now catches sun in the window
of my apartment. I hope it’s happy
there, among the grime and dead
flies of another year that has gone
by without a breath of fresh air.

Maybe one day it will shake the dust
from its coral feathers - wake to see
that only the glass keeps it safe, confined
from the wind and earth and life
that sprouts outside the musty white
apartment where it now sits, just
waiting to be awakened.

The Day the Circus

Dear Readers,
I really am more creative at night! My best poems always come to me when I'm already in bed with the light turned off. But, I always get the best results when I actually get back up and finish the poem instead of waiting until the morning - so here it is: my latest poem! I hope you all like it, its not quite like anything I've done before. I've been reading a lot of TS Eliot and his strange rhythm and rhyme is definitely at work in this poem. Its also a very dire poem, but don't read very far into that: I've just been reading the Waste Land which is very dire. So don't call me and want to talk about this "depression" because I'm actually really enjoying my time at Westmont so far.....all 2 days of it. Also to note: this is a very very VERY rough version of the poem. I actually just completed it a couple seconds ago, so this is in no way going to be a magnum opus or anything. OK, have to go (back) to bed! Here's my poem: (PS - feedback is MUCH appreciated!)


The day the Circus came to town

The day the circus came to town
the masses came in droves,
flocked like crows
to see the freaks and clowns.
The crunch of gravel hung
between the jaded streets,
a symphony of feet
herded on by weary patrons.

But now the red tents are
gone, and the tired streets look
beaten in this light. I might look
that way too, if I screamed
“suburban”
all day long.

Look again
Look again

The streets are full of hollow men
and girls in pink tights say
If only I looked like them
to the gaunt faces of pages
who only stare back
from their windowless cages.

And now the day packs up
and leaves us only with black,
the top hat
of a day which rests on nothing but
weary bones and a sweaty forehead.

The Agony of Moving

Dear Readers,
It's that time of the year again. The furniture seems to be moving closer, the road looks like its trying to become a gate, the trees wave goodbye. That's right peeps, its moving time! But its not only moving time; its the "I'm moving into my own apartment, need to buy a whole new set of supplies" moving. aka, I'm trying to find a TV at the lowest price possible.

But its not only that readers. Its packing up the life I left behind in August, trying to find those scattered remains from this summer in the boxes and cabinets of a house that still feels a little strange to be staying in. Not only has it been tiring - almost everything has been buried under a mountain of my sister's stuff - but its also been a little sad. Sad because I have to unearth everything, that this will be my last trip down to Santa Barbara for the purpose of moving into Westmont, maybe that from this point on "home" will be a transitive place. And its scary to think about. Which might be the reason why those boxes have remained underneath the house, gathering dust among the other obscurities and faded memories that have long since gone out of style.

They're all in the car at home now, awaiting my final goodbyes to family and friends and that sound of the key in the ignition. Maybe this is just life; those final moments in which the inevitable is coming, yet you are holding onto those slippery seconds like they are your last tie to life. Hm.