This morning

I'm not the kind of person that can eloquently describe scenes in poetic terms, and my prose is limited too. But feeling you in my arms again, this morning, was so delicious that I almost cried in my pillow. Feeling you nestled there in my arms gave me a purpose to stay in bed instead of rushing to work, a reason to turn my phone off instead of chasing down each missed call. I wanted to hold you, and to feel you, and to kiss you. Most importantly, I wanted to love you.

And I do. Now you sit at the piano in the next room, sightreading a song that I know you don't know. It's called "And I was beautiful".

And that's exactly how I felt this morning.

I'm going to join you over there now. One day, you'll finally find this blog. I hope you remember this moment, because it is one of the sweetest we've known so far. You just don't know it yet.

Today.

So, I lost my car this week. I had to put her down after I was t-boned in an intersection. Like all accident victims, I have been thrown into the whirl and swirl of insurance agents and rental cars. Why couldn't I have waited ten more minutes before going to church? Why did I have to be punctual?

Anyway, I'm growing. That's what I am telling myself. This is a part of the long road that will stretch to my death bed and allow me to smile at my life and feel that I have grown. I doubt that I will care what I grow into, as long as I have grown. Hope that doesn't sound too Tolle for you.

At least I have rediscovered pandora.com. It has to be the best website on the planet.

People, look east.

Furrows, be glad.
Though earth is bare, one more seed is planted there.
Give up your strength the seed to nourish,
That in course the flower may flourish.
People, look east and sing today: Love, the rose, is on the way.
--Eleanor Farjeon (1881-1965)

As I prepare for a long Second Sunday of Advent tomorrow, I have to pause to remember why this season exists in the church year. The secular world jumps straight from Thanksgiving to a glorious month of Christmas. Lights cover everything, and Christmas cards stuff mailboxes. Series of Christmas parties litter the first weeks of December, and there are sales, and carols, and charities and a thousand other "Christmas things" that pop up as soon as the turkey starts digesting.

Growing up in the Pentecostal church, I too followed that model. But I've become more aligned with the liturgical seasons of the church over the last few years, and Advent has become a part of my faith. It's not a pause before Christmas. It's not denying the joy of the holiday season. Advent is a moment of expectancy.

Advent is when I should reflect on the Hebrew expectations and longings for the coming of a Messiah. It is also when I should reflect on the Christian expectations and longings for the second coming of Christ. It's a dual season. One that prepares the Christian for the beginning and the end of the Christian Era.

For that reason, the lyric above is the central design of my Christmas card this year. Or maybe I should call it my Advent card. Either way, it is about the need to rejoice in the coming of Christ, but also commands action and sacrifice. I think it is a strong message, and a beautiful way to possibly inspire others to join in the spirit of Advent.

L'Indifferent

Tes yeux sont doux comme ceux d'une fille,
Jeune étranger,
Et la courbe fine
De ton beau visage de duvet ombragé
Est plus séduisante encor de ligne.
Ta lèvre chante sur le pas de ma porte
Une langue inconnue et charmante
Comme une musique fausse.
Entre! Et que mon vin te réconforte...
Mais non, tu passes
Et de mon seuil je te vois t'éloigner
Me faisant un dernier geste avec grâce
Et la hanche légèrement ployée
Par ta démarche féminine et lasse...

Once, I was called l'indifferent.
In class, as we studied this very poem, someone raised their hand and said,

"This sounds just like Daniel."

The room was silent, and my cheeks flared as I tried to determine if I was shocked, flattered, or angry. Surely, this wasn't what our class was intended to teach. My yeux were not on the syllabus.

The teacher, without missing a beat, said, "Yes, this does sound like Daniel."

What's up, Doc?

Every boy needs his grandfather.

Tonight, he is in my mind, although half a country is between us.
I wonder what he is doing. I know that he is probably still awake. Some leg pain, or back ache from various injuries and nerve disorders have him wondering the one hallway in his house. He thinks of his wife, sleeping in the blue bedroom beside the unused Nautilus. He wonders if I am awake, if I am in pain.

He stops to think of his other grandsons. Criminals from broken homes, fathers without wives. He thinks of how they have wrecked his cars, snorted and injected, whored with who knows who, and worst yet, rejected to be helped by his love.

And then he remembers me. This is how it should be. His other boys need his love to be proven and offered, for it is one of the few hopes of which they can boast.

His love for me? Lost, sometimes, in a world of love that surrounds me. The grandson from a happy marriage. The grandson with only a record of measurable success and happiness.
The grandson that he needn't worry about in the cold of a night like this.

A new start

I do not know why I am doing this. Blogs and I never have good relationships.

My first relationship with a blog was at sixteen. I was still unsure of myself and was not ready to commit to the level that the blog needed. Due to that fact, it quickly deleted itself from the server. I will admit that it hurt. I thought I would never be able to open up to a blog again.
So that led to my rebound relationship with a blog at seventeen. I had realized the amount of commitment needed to keep a blog relationship alive, but I was still unsure of myself. I could not open up to the point to keep the relationship growing honestly. Still afraid of losing my second blog like the first one, I began to invent new aspects of myself to keep the blog interested. Over countless dinners, I told my blog the "true stories" of my days. I reduced our relationship to the level of lies because I was too afraid to be myself.

That relationship did not last long, as all false relationships do.

Still whirling from my second blog, I stumbled into my third relationship. This one caught me by surprise. I became strangely honest. I told my blog many different aspects of myself, and it responsed by opening up to me in so many beautiful ways. I would type everyday; sometimes more than once. My blog responsed by showing me so many beautiful patterns in my life. It was glorious. But sadly, my blog left me without a word one day. It's company couldn't stay afloat, so I had to type my last word and say goodbye.

Then came the era of "backhanded blogging" where blogs were turned into tools and weapons where people could attack under the guise of self-exposition. Unable to advanced in such a theatre of war, I withdrew from the common blogs and found obscure regions where I could blog in peaceful neutrality. But only the most intrepid explorers found my words, so these blogs soon became mental notes and sketches that held little meaning. They too fell short of the call.

But then maturity allowed another go at sharing my thoughts with the world. I joined a "networking" site and blogged as a man possessed. Then the site became little more that a host for advertisments of breasts and movies. My words--as mundane as they were at times-were pearls before swine. I took my voice away.

Now, something stirs within. I feel that same old itch for a relationship; one with honesty and dual commitment, but also out in the open world for people to see, in a place in which I do not feel ashamed to speak. So, in the quest for the perfect blog, I will write again.