Remember.

We as humans have many things in common. We have many things that set each other apart. But One thing that we know, that we will all inevitability experience, is suffering, adversity, trials. We all walk through death, grief, sickness, heartache at some point in our life as children of God, whether we acknowledge this fact or not. And when the storms come we have this impulse, this yearning, craving (call it what you may) to know why... Why we went through that pain, that grief, that heart break, that we truly feel we were or are in alone in, why we had to experience it when others didn't, why we had to learn that lesson, for what purpose was it. This question seeps through our thoughts and sometimes into our prayers and conversations, our words begin to mirror this impulsive human thought. That almost takes over. And questions our value. 

It astonishes me that a word so small as 'why' can cause our path of words and thoughts steer us on a completely different journey that God has for us. 'Why' can mutate into regret, bitterness, hatred. Into a strong unpleasant emotion. These emotions tear down life. We become to consumed with these poisonous feelings that arise from the pit of us

These emotions often result in a questioning of ourselves, a modern day chastisement. We can loose a fire a drive that we had before. They can fade our dreams, our visions in our minds as we question ourselves. deeming ourselves unworthy. 

The world has this twisted perversion of worth. That you earn it, that you look a certain way that you live a certain way in religion, politics and media. 

Since when did we become worthy?

we don't earn worth.

We have just found the greatest grace and love in salvation through Christ, and so frequently we forget this. That this grace and love is so wide so deep that none can measure or comprehend the depth of it. That it has covered all. We Forget that he covered us, he covers us and will continue to cover us. 

In our trials we need to take our eyes of ourselves of our pain, let go of it and remember who our God is and what he has done for us. Know that he is for you not against you.

Like Job a great, blessed, wealthy man. He lost it all, his wealth, his family and if that wasn't bad enough he had pus like sores which he would scrape just to get some relief. His wife tells him to "curse God and die" And his friends try to counsel him in 'why' he is going through this tragedy. In the end GOD speaks to Job out of the storm Job 38. Job is reminded of the GOD he serves (chapter 38-41 ) Then Job replies 

 “I know that you can do all things;    no purpose of yours can be thwarted."

We don't know whats around the corner, so why waste time on the why? 

When the almighty all powerful, amazing, indescribable, all seeing, all knowing, everlasting God wants to have a relationship with you and wants you to depend on him in every season. Let us let go of our doubts and insecurities and remember our God. Let him and his beauty be at the centre of your prayers, thoughts and conversation.

May you remember that through every trial our God Reigns and He can do all things, his cannot be thwarted.

Remember him.

Woodland corridors.

There is a place, like that of imagined dreams. 

I have ventured there once before, walked the winding paths and often do now in silent reverie.

Where there are woodland corridors veiled in emerald greens, golds and browns.

And mist hovered over the damp earth, enveloping the leafy path. 

My Eyes stung at the brink of tears. 

When I breathed deeply and took in the moist air. Took in its sweet dirt-like raw sent, I invited the wintry bite it brought, how it filled my lungs so bitterly.

My breath took form in billowing mist as it protruded from my gelid lips.

And I habitually rubbed my hands together as I exhaled tepid breath into them, an attempt to allay them, from the airs inhospitable iciness

The early morning frost adorned and transformed the foliage into the enchanted virescent jewels of daybreak.  

They glistened brilliantly in the Pale Beams of feeble sunlight, which trickled through ancient deciduous trees, trees that lavished their leaves upon the dark earth.

The Falling leaves that taper at the tip, flickered and leapt around coiled and knotted branches, they danced nimbly with the crisp morning air.

So clearly heard, the ethereal song of dawn, composed in the pallid gray light.

A treasury of symphonic chirps, the birds harmoniously sang in unpredicted patterns.

The irregular beat made by the business of alert woodland creatures that burrowed, rustled and grazed the open glade and confined canopies.

And the old trees that creaked and groaned at the boughs and branches, sharing together secrets and tales of yore.  As the fiercely whispering wind lashed its hissing melody about the arboreal life.

How beautiful are the woodland corridors. I was and am deeply rapt by the intricate form, by the innate beauty.

There is a place like that of imagined dreams. Imagined dreams and beyond is this place. I have ventured there a many a time. I will venture there many a time again.

A place of woodland corridors

old house.

my other blog; The imaginery life 

My music 

Running through the rain. Dragging my heavy feet as fast as I can manage

I arrive at the old house. The house in which I spent my childhood.

The long halls and over furnished bedrooms. The tall trees and unkempt vines

Those vines that which so desperately cling to its sandstone walls.

I push the old Iron Gate open as fast as I can manage and run up the puddle Covered stones,

Past the neatly trimmed hedges and up onto the wet tiles where the two strong but somewhat eroded lion sculptures guard entry.

I knock stubbornly on the heavy doors.

He promptly answers the door- He used to be taller than me but it seems time has reversed the two.

Always dressed his best. In freshly pressed suit, polished shoes and silver badges he ushers me in concerned of the rain.

We sit in our favorite room next to the marble fireplace.

 A thick blanket around my shoulders and a hot tea in my hands,

As my wet hair dries by the fire.

I love the old house.

The creaky oak floorboards. High ceilings. Ornate Lounges and chairs

His old voice is rough and husky yet smooth and melodic

He begins to tell me of distant things.

In half dazed dreams,

Of things that have passed. Old stories I enjoyed as a child re told in their full form. Of first love and bitter heartbreak of the light horse and victory and especially of how things used to be, how much the world has moved on.

I guess that’s why he very rarely leaves the old house as it has always stayed the same. When things have not.

The fire crackling almost in time to his voice which is 

Drowned out by the crack of thunder now and then.

I am at complete ease in complete bliss

In silent reverie.

In the old house.

The map on the wall.

Forming roads in my mind from the cracks in the wall.

Every road intricately wrought through the peeled crack paint and old stains and marks.

Each time I sit and stare; a new road is journeyed in my mind.

I am daily enraptured by imagined adventure.

And from that dull old desk and abused wall, Time slips past me.

Each day I sit

Each day I dream.

before I realize it the lines between day and dream are completely blurred.

And even though all I need do is get up

I fail to achieve the one thing I pine for most.

Fail to drive myself to action.

 though that desire is well within my grasp.

For taking the first step is how all adventures begin

And in another ordinary day the longing consumes me.

I could not measure its potency.

And I absorb nothing else other than the old wall.

When finally the wall is meager.

My desk lifeless.

My reverie is insufficient.

I let it take me away.

No plan, I have.

No provision either,

Only a step.

Only an adventure imagined,

And a map on the wall.

           

the rain.

I think I enjoy the rain more than I should.

When people complain about it I simply keep shut.

For rain is to me one of creations most endearing qualities.

The smell indefinable- subtle yet strong.

Fresh but old- a distant scent yet familiar.

The sound is consoling. Like an old friend, who treats me with understanding.

For the rain and I we converse. I sip my tea while it continuously runs down my window fashioning itself in unpredictable patterns on the glass.

The rain sees the bigger picture. It is working for a brighter day.

Cold and wet temporarily it may be.

But we often forget the rain brings everything green.

It dampens the earth and brings out its raw scent.

It enhances the morning rose and beautifies the blade of grass.

It makes the awaking of unearthly hours bearable. 

And being in the inside of a house more heartening and tender.

It is an under appreciated beauty.

And though sky may be gray or cloudy, even they are in loveliness of their own.

The shade of colour, that will never be replicated.

Pale and eerie or dark and inky

The great billowing clouds everyday diverse. 

Great clouds that swell like balloons filling the sky- the part of which we see.

I think not; creation even at is worst is still breathtakingly exquisite.

The rain I find soothing- more than many things in fact.

I enjoy the rain more than I should.

The drawer.

She was never without a pencil she always had one about her. Ready at imaginations call. In slight graceful movement, with the flick of her wrist;
she formed the shapes concealed within in her mind.
For she was not eloquent or distinguished an average communicator if not that.
She had no way with words. She had nothing else but this 

The tender ways in which her lines took shape. 

It was almost dance like; the way her hand skimmed back and forth across the page

each time revealing a new dynamic to the drawing.

Yes she had nothing else than this.

But to say that was a pity would be great injustice indeed.

For as musicians play, and singers sing and writers write and dancers dance; her drawings did all these combined and more. For within the many layered lines lay the things of which they are made of.

Her drawings were her language her song and dance but more than than that they were a glimpse into a beautiful mind.

The corner store.

It begins on a rainy morning, thunderous clouds and a sky, which could not give the time of day away. Although it was 8:05 in the Morning, the sky was dark. So it was lucky that He was particular about time, and lucky that he always carried his grandfather’s gold pocket watch about him ( more for the sentimental value) But just to be careful (which he was always) His wristwatch was wound tightly around his wrist; which in turn kept perfect time. He unlocked the lock and with the click of the key pushed open the old heavy oak door and to hear the shop bell sound; music to his sensitive ears. He heaved in the smell of books. A smell he loved, the pages, the covers, the shelves. All of it his safe little adventure. He found he could become anything, anyone, see everything and anyone in the old corner store. He loved his books and his books loved him. And with each turn of a page the uncertainty of trouble, love, danger and more. From the shelves he heard them call to him, and from behind the counter he answered. Some would say he was ‘just’ a bookkeeper. Others would say he was more. But there was no doubting his bookstore on the corner was the finest. And there was no doubt this was because he adored literature more than anyone would. And even though he didn’t have to be at work till 10 he arrived at 8:05, every day for the last 7 years with new book in hand to add to his invaluable collection. He had his coffee at 8 for he would never take one in to the shop and for one whole hour and 55 minuets he walked the aisles and perused the shelves and everyday became lost in a new story. And everyday fell in love again. It was 8:10 and the shop door opened. It began on a rainy day in the little corner store.