Apr 16, 2009

Over The Rhine

Over The Rhine..

Excerpt taken from Over The Rhine

April, 2009

Hello friends and extended family,

I know of a glass blower who gets up every morning in the dark to do his work. Before the world wakes up, before the phone starts ringing, in the sacred remains of the night when all is still, he gathers and begins to fuse his raw materials: the breath from his lungs, glowing flame, imagination, dogged hope.

I used to work from the other direction. I loved the feeling of still being up after the rest of the city (and world) had grown sleepy, the light of a lamp making my third story bedroom windows glow while I leaned over my desk and sailed towards something I couldn't name.

Someone sent me this little excerpt awhile back, in a beautiful letter of encouragement I should add, the sort of letter that makes everything slow down, hold still:

Here dies another day
During which I have had eyes, ears, hands
And the great world round me;
And with tomorrow begins another.
Why am I allowed two?
(GK Chesterton)

I'd really be okay with this being my epitaph.

When I was younger I would often write myself short job descriptions. I was thinking out loud about what might be worth hanging a life on, a life I was willing to sign my name to:

Create spaces where good things can happen.

Give the world something beautiful, some gift of gratitude,
no matter how insignificant or small.

Write love letters to the whole world.

Build fires outdoors, and lift a glass and tell stories,
and listen, and laugh, laugh, laugh. (Karin says I'm still working
on this one. She thinks I still need to laugh more, especially at
her jokes, puns and witty asides.)

Flip a breaker and plunge the farm into darkness so that the stars can be properly seen.

Do not squander afflictions.

Own the longing, the non-negotiable need to "praise the mutilated world."

Find the music.

I still crave the extravagant gesture, the woman spilling a year's wages on the feet of Jesus, the rarest perfume, washing his feet and drying them with her hair, a gesture so sensual it left the other men in the room paralyzed with criticism, analysis, theoretical moral concern - for what - the poor? Or was it just misdirected outrage in light of the glaring poverty of their own imaginations?

To read the rest go to Over The Rhine

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