I have known a few compulsive liars in my life.

They are scary.

In each case, I believed them at first as they wove fantastic tales, adventures which didn’t exist, famous family members who in fact were ordinary.

I’ve thought about their need to lie, its germ, and the purpose it served.

And..I’ve decided this morning that we are all compulsive liars to some extent.

This morning, I have come to a realization that my medicine is not working.

The cocktail I take morning and evening has failed me.

The truth is scary, for now I will need to work with my doctor to come up with a new ratio.

Perhaps, truth is a ratio, and we all live along some gradation, handling what we must.

 

I have been taking a course on Linguistics.

I have enjoyed the course more than I imagined, not just because I made Apluses on my papers and 100’s on my tests, although “we like those A’s” as my nephew once said, but because I have learned much.

My final paper and project was on the Monogenetic Theory of language—the theory that all language originated from a single source. I explored mythologies from around the globe, beginning with the Judeo-Christian story of Adam being endowed with the gift of language in order to name the animals. Through his speech, he gave meaning to what already existed, a sort of creation semantic.

I want to speak this morning about language and naming. The gift and the curse, prior to the Tower of Babel, prior to confusion, before the Spirit was necessary at Pentecost for reversal.

I want to speak about relationships and how important it is to name them for their meaning.

Often we know what others mean to us. But do we know what we mean to them?

And how can we, unless they tell us?

People come into our lives—often for a season. They change us by their presence. We are transformed.

Sometimes they break our hearts.

Sometimes they remind us of who we are.

Sometimes they ignite a passion which frightens in its intensity.

Sometimes they remain silent..and we are left not knowing how we impacted their lives. What gift we gave them.

I would ask this morning that you tell someone, tell someone what they mean to you.

Use the gift of language to name the reality which existed between you.

Like Adam, use your lips, your larynx, your letters and your words, music, poetry, art, photos, the part of you which is made in God’s image to share in creation semantics.

Don’t wait one minute, one second, one more year.

Between a rock and a hard place is a cave.

Granite outcrops, gray, tower over my head.

Lichen grows here, and faith.

The cave is an opportunity to grow.

To stir up faith.

This morning, when recalling the best verse which defines faith, I missed a word.

Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the essence of things useen.

I replaced evidence with essence.

But I like my replacement.

For to stir up faith, like a pot of soup, is to replenish its essence, to spread it around, so that the entire contents are permeated with seasoning.

I like that definition of faith and think it offers us substance, like a hearty bowl of potato soup.

All the ingredients are mixed together and nothing is missing–the salt, the sherry, the parsley, the cream. All come together to provide the essence of what we hope for–to be nourished and filled.

I did that this weekend, stirrred up the pot, replenished the flavor.

I am thankful.

I hope the same for you.

LSD and Fantasy

February 17, 2012

What is conceived well is expressed clearly.

   –Nicholas Boileau

 Once upon a time, I dropped acid.

Actually twice.

Both were bad trips, which makes one wonder why a second occurred.

However, I’m glad I did.

Like much in my youth, I learned. I grew.

God gives us a rich fantasy life without the aid of LSD.

We can see Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds everyday.

 

Beauty, Skiing

February 15, 2012

Beauty is the summation of parts working together in such a way that nothing needs to be added, taken away, or altered.

  —Carletti 

I’m going skiing this weekend.

I haven’t skied for a long time.

I am nervous.

Carletti describes what I would like to be on the slopes, dressed in a cute blue bib, darting and gliding with grace.

But I am afraid I will be an avalanche.

I’ll let you know..

When the solution is simple, God is answering.

     –Albert Einstein

Do not go gentle into that good night..

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

    –Dylan Thomas

Dylan Thomas wrote about old age and death.

But there is another kind of death, that of middle age.

When hope grows scarce and dreams are lost.

When the Light starts to flicker and begins to go out.

And that is a sad state.

Einstein kept going. Beyond the pain of childhood muteness. Beyond the failed experiment. Into the light of theory. Into the dawn of new discovery which always links us to God.

Science and theology are joined like sisters. They flourish next to each other as each feeds from the other’s hand.

Evolution and creation are woven like braids, strengthen one another into strong rope. Tether us to the Creator of the dawn, The Light of middle age.

We are scientists. We are theologians. We are evolutionists. We are creation theories.

By the time we are fifty, many experiments have been conducted. Some have failed, but some are yet to be tried.

I know we grow weary. We stutter and fall. We seek new meaning but time has muted us.

And into this faltering speech, which halts and hesitates, into the voiceless void, God speaks, “Go.”

“Go into the night of this era with confidence and grace, knowing that I go before you still, to prepare the way.

I am your Light and you must rage against the dusk, the premature darkness of old age, of death.

It is a time to create and evolve. To draw from experience and learning. To continue the narrative begun at your birth.”

The solution is simple: Rage.

Kiss One Another

February 10, 2012

Fatigued by their journey they sat down on Nature’s divan whence they regarded the sky. Pressing one another’s hands, shoulder to shoulder, neither knowing why, both became oppressed, their mouths opened, without uttering a word they kissed one another. Near them the hyacinth and the violet marrying their perfume, on raising their heads they both saw God who smiled at them from his azure balcony: Love one another[,] said he[,] it is for that I have clothed your path in velvet; kiss one another, I am not looking. Love one another, love one another and if you are happy, instead of a prayer to thank me, kiss again.

       —Walt Whitman

I am meeting a man in Paris.

He waits for me on the steps of the Sacre Couer.

Pigeons fly as I run up the hill.

My steps slow with each rise of concrete.

The white blinds me.

I am scared.

 

I am on my knees.

I am a pilgrim, crawling the last few feet.

 

Surely, the man will have mercy

Forgive me for being late.

See that I am crumpled by years of waiting.

I cannot lift my lips.

 

No-Woman’s Land

February 9, 2012

One does not discover new lands without consenting to lose sight of the shore for a very long time.

                              —Andre Gide

 I have left the shore and am swimming, swimming.

I duck into the depths like a dolphin, body sleek and fluid like the water.

I rise up to the sun, grab a new breath, and do it again.

I go down deep, below the cloudy dust of the shallows, where rust colored warmth swirls like a bath. I go where no one has been.

It is cold here and clear as a fall day.

I make my own current. There are stars in my wake.

Energy of the underworld, beneath the legs of striders, lower than the pelican’s beak, carries me.

I am one with the water.

I get lost in the sea.

According to scripture, hair is a woman’s glory.

Don’t mess with my glory.

 “A light dusting—a quarter inch” is what I instructed yesterday when I went for a trim.

I know she heard me and I trusted her to complete the task as requested.

But she didn’t. She must have cut two inches.

Perhaps, she thought I wouldn’t notice.

But I do.

My bare back knows.

My arms know when I extend them to brush.

My head knows when I turn it upsidedown.

The hairdresser betrayed me.

This fact may seem trivial to you but it is not to me.

I’ve worked hard for my hair.

And it represents something to me, like a Rasta Man or a Sikh.

It is my ideas.

It is my freedom and beauty.

It is my femininity and sexiness.

It is a work in progress and she interrupted, truncated that work.

Lord of the hair, do you see the ones on the woman’s floor, swept like golden hay into a dustpan? Do you see my tears when people betray? Help me to listen and to honor the requests of others and to value my own intentions. Help my hair to grow back stronger.