HEADS UP I tried something a little different here, so please pardon the goofy/garbage elements. Some kind of prose/fiction/essay/creativenonfiction something where I take heavy creative license w real elements.
I see you from the beach sitting on the old stone bench by the old stone fireplace on the little island just past the footbridge. I walked there with my brother one winter when the lake was frozen over. I was choking on things I could never respect and I had noplace to hold my quiet. He saw me shaking and we drove to the beach. He has a kindness that surprises. Not because he’s ever unkind, just that he’s got a tentative streak with words. Man of action. In a way I never was but should have been.
I think there’s a chance I put too much stock in words. Especially my own. It’s hard to express the extent to which I am defined by my words and the extent to which I see things through them. I think I expect people to care about them as much as I do, but that’s an irresponsible position for both parties.
Actions speak louder, they say. Maybe they do, but I’ve spent the last little while doing everything in my power to become somebody that can say their words are actions. Somebody who cares enough about what they have to say and how they see the world to make the the things they say have consequence. Good words are actions. If you trust em, they’re evidence.
But good people are teaching me that I can’t only be my words. It’s very easy for me to substitute my words for my presence. I think that’s because I spent so much time thinking they were the same thing. But you’ve (I’ve, we’ve) never been of the kind of spirit that only lives in words. To live as such truncates too much of what you need to experience to care for something/one seriously.
That was two feet of snow ago and now the surface of the lake wavers and tosses colorbars in fingerprint patterns as the sun starts to blush and hide like it’s got something to be ashamed of. So far, it’s only mild. Peach yogurt starts to bleed out from the clouds. There’s something about the way you catch the light. Something lanternlike. I have positioned myself pathetically in a shaft of light I think you can see from where you are. I put my elbows on my knees and pretend to contemplate the sunset. I think it would be good if you saw me as pensive.
I’m learning what it looks like for me to take things seriously. I’m ashamed of it, but I haven’t taken the time that caring well requires recently. At least, not to the standard I’m starting to define. Caught up in the speed again. It’s time to create some slowness. If nothing else, I’ve been talking to God a lot. I learn slow, I’m sorry. I promise I’m working very hard. Maybe part of the solution is relying less on words and more on presence. That’s not to say words aren’t a part of presence, but they’re not a complete substitute either.
I have quiet dreams. If there is anything peaceful about me, it is what I dream of. The dreams make the man, yeah? I certainly don’t seem to make the dreams. Least not entirely. Think we all have some sort of inborn loyalty to causes less chosen than given. Noggin wanders all unruly as the sun-blush deepens. Maybe it’s a secondhand embarrassment. Sees me all desperate to ooze sensitivity and erudition from under a tree, can’t wait to disappear. Don’t blame it but I wish it’d take its time. Across the water, you’re still in lanternlight and I am reminded of the quietest parts of my dreams.
O Lord please give me the eyes to see where you would have me present and the strength to stay resolute, as you’d have it done.