A Vision of Ireland

It's a mountain, but it feels more like a large hill from this end. It’s not like you have to do any mountain-climbing to reach the top. The cost is two euros a person because it's on a farmer’s land, private property in a way made public. The path going up slopes gently to the top, straight through pastures filled with sheep. The sheep don’t really bother you, but they’ll run if you get too close. Mostly, they simply sit and stare at you, unhappy you’re there but not afraid, as though their glares are saying, “Why are you here? This is our land.” But that land has been shared against their will and the occupants begrudgingly allow passage.

The other side of this mountain is less forgiving. There is no path down, and though the cliff isn’t sheer, it would be a long fall with many ledge-like crevices, mostly rock in nature. The view is that of the ocean. Hidden bays void of anything but saltwater, rock walls, and a fishing boat, only visible because of the elevation. To the left, more ocean. To the right, a stone wall, built years prior, running the length of this stretch of land, down the sloping hill as though it owns it. Behind, Dingle Bay, the houses, the little streets, the boats coming in and going out.

Like a centerpiece to the whole expanse, on the crest stands the tower, solid all the way through, so far as it seems. Built of blackened rock, uneven pieces forming a perfectly cylindrical tower, its presence one of many established to avoid shipwrecks in years past. To its right lies a WWII outpost, cement, clearly of newer making, though now overcome with graffiti and lack of upkeep. Two sentinels of time, these physical markers represent the motion of history, the passing of what is finished and yet the continuance of the same. This is old land with old history, with new history, with the now barely impressed upon it except through the life of the land itself.

Evenings

I was watching the lightning in the north sky. It might have been heat lightning. It reminded me of last night when I watched the lightning tear through the sky, the same sky, both brilliant and terrifying at the same time. The fact that I was driving didn't help the matter. The thought of being struck pervaded my mind much of the trip. But this was different. It was far away, not causing explosions in my field of vision, with thunder echoing its response to the fissures of light spreading downward from the heavens. It reflected the internal workings of my being. Just as much as I was panicked last night, I am calm tonight. I am too alone to panic. Loneliness is like a drug. It is an addictive substance that is at once calming and terrifying. Strong emotions flee, unable to resist the pervading force of emptiness, of sorrow. Like the heat lightning in the distance. Perhaps it is something that should frighten. But the subtle beauty of it, the sad solemnity of its silence, drive away all thought of fear. A calmness spreads its way through your body, through your mind, because it feels safe, it feels empty.

The Flower

It was all she had left. Or perhaps it was the only thing she had ever had. The first real thing.

The flower still bloomed, just as the day she had found it, in a garbage can outside the grocery store, a dumpster, a place of refuse. And yet this beauty. She had refused to leave it there, though she knew taking it with her would help it no more than leaving it. While she could possibly keep it alive in its pot, the place in which she lived was no better. It would still be beauty among refuse, among garbage. Her "house" was garbage, not even a house at all, but a box in an alleyway. She was garbage. Refuse. She had been told so. And she had been refused by all. She had been turned away. There had been no one to accept her. That is why she accepted the flower. She liked to see it as herself. She liked to imagine she was beautiful, even though she knew it was not so. She liked to think that someone would see her amidst the refuse, see a scrap of beauty amongst the garbage and take her away.

Summer drew to a close. Fall drew to a close. Time passed faster than she had expected. But it wasn't the first time she had spent a year alone and wondered where it had all gone and known it would never be back. It was lost forever. Lost and wasted, just as all of her life had been. But the flower was not a waste. The time she had spent caring for it was the only time she had ever spent on something worthwhile. This was something that could last. Yet the seasons had contrived to destroy it. It could not last the winter in a cardboard box. She could not carry it with her to the bathrooms she slept in by night during the cold months of the year.

The arrest occurred before she could put much thought to a solution. In her cell she wondered if it was worth it for the warmth, that can of soup she ate cold from the can with her fingers, the one she hadn't had the money for. The warmth, perhaps; the food. In this way her life was improved. But the beauty was missing. What little she had found that made it worthwhile to live. That which she was required to care for to keep alive had kept her alive. And the thought of it kept her alive now.

She returned to the alley. Time had passed. Too much time. But she was hopeful. Too hopeful. Surely what sustained her would not be taken from her.

There was a darkened alleyway, the dimming light barely revealing a lone figure, kneeling on the ground. The light faded, taking with it the image of the figure as well as the empty alley, the trash cleared away, the boxes, the garbage, the refuse. But the darkness could not conceal the sound of the weeping that issued from the figure, the sound of a life destroyed.

Ecclesiastes Part 3

This one is pretty short...


Ecclesiastes Chapter Three

Verses 1-8

Everything has a time and a purpose on earth – even things that have bad connotations, such as death, mourning, killing, and hatred.  Although this was not God’s original plan, these things are now present in His creation.  But God is telling us that even these things can be used by Him – even these things have a time and a purpose.  In giving a positive and its corresponding negative, we are reminded that when we are in bad times, there is a purpose for them, and that there will be a time for good times again in the future.  This also serves as a reminder in the good times that there will be bad times – we shouldn’t waste our time in meaningless pleasures (though there is nothing wrong with enjoying life), and instead enjoy and treasure those times and use them to distress.

Verse 11

God puts eternity in our hearts – He lets us know that this life is not the only one, but that there is life after death, and He causes us to naturally have a desire for that.  Also, He makes everything beautiful in its time – He can make things beautiful that we do not think of as beautiful.  And even the things we think of as beautiful, if we try to do them out of context and not in their time, they will not be beautiful.

“A Time for Hate”

God tells us through Solomon that there is a time for hate, and yet years later, Jesus tells us that we are not to hate anyone, and that we are to love even our enemies.  I think that maybe he is talking about a hatred for things, not people.  We are allowed to hate, but we are not allowed to hate people.  Exempli gratia, we can hate a person’s sin, but not the actual person.

Ephemeral

Ephemeral

So many times I find joy over time, yet find frustration easier.  The joy fades in the light, or rather darkness, of my discouragement.

Why do I let go this joy so easily?  Why do I not hold it close to myself as the treasured possession it is and never let go, for it was meant to last forever?

I know the discouragements will come, but why must they overpower the joy?  Why are they stronger than this beauty I have been given?

The joy should be stronger, everlasting, and not weak and destroyed by frustration’s powerful hand.

But the joy is stronger.  It is never destroyed.  The joy outlasts the frustration, for those evils are short-lived, though often in coming, and this beauty is eternal and ever-present.

The discouragements are not stronger than the joy.  Indeed, it is not the joy that they overpower, but I.

For I refuse to hold onto the joy.  When distractions come into view, my eyes leave the joy.  The joy, this beauty, this gift, falls from my frightened hands.

The joy is still there.  There at my feet.  If only I would but glance down and retrieve it.  But instead I stand fixated by what I fear most.

If only I would turn away, for in so doing it would lose its power over me.  For these distractions are passing.  If I would stay focused on the joy, they would not matter to me at all.

Indeed, should I truly appreciate this joy, I would scorn at any frustration’s attempt to tear my eyes away from the beauty I hold in my heart.

Discouragement by the Deception of Description

     Sometimes I have this great desire to write – to describe something beautiful that I wish to remember.  But when I think about it, I get discouraged and choose to look at it only rather than trying to put it into words, for I feel inside me that no words I could ever use would do what I am seeing justice.  Its beauty is beyond words.  How can you write about a sunset or a sunrise and expect it to be accurate?  You could use the best words in your description and it would still not sound as beautiful as it really is.  Why write about something when my words would not truly describe what I wish them to, and when they would instead deceive people, leading them to believe that its beauty was at a certain level, when really it is far above?

The Evening

     Wind blew gently through the grass, causing the blades to wave back and forth – an endless sea of green in constant motion.  Although the wind was not strong, it managed still to move ever so softly through the low-hanging evergreen branches, making it appear as though they had minds of their own – as though they were long, green fingers reaching down to the earth.  The wind would grow slightly stronger ever so often, and as it did, the speed in which those green branches moved would increase, as would how quickly the tiny blades of grass moved.  And that was when you could hear it.  You could hear the sound of the wind.  It was a soft sound, a sound which is hard to describe.  It was calming, yet exhilarating.  It could make you feel relaxed, and yet excited by the wonder of it at the same time.

     The sky was not its typical blue, but instead it appeared to be a white or a light gray, and was still just as beautiful.  Clouds floated by quickly in the air overhead, but seemed to hold no threat of a storm.  The wind picked up once more, bringing with it a bit of a chill as the temperature decreased with the progression of the evening.

     There were many crickets there.  Though they remained hidden from sight, it was easy to hear them in the relative silence, as they all joined together to create their unique song.  The smell of the grass was strong and sweet if you were close enough to it.  It possessed such a beautiful smell.

     You can still hear the wind.  You can feel it on your skin and blowing through your hair.  You can hear the crickets.  You can see the grass waving in the breeze and the branches doing the same.  And now I will leave you to imagine it for yourself…