I must begin this blog with an apology; it has sat in various edited forms for nearly two weeks now, and it is purely down to the business of life that it hasn’t been finished. I must admit, I am rather impressed at how this little blog has maintained hits during that time. Moreover, I now know at least one person who reads it, which makes me happy and fearful in equal measure; I suddenly have to consider the weight of these words more carefully, because they mean something real to somebody else.
I wrote recently on the topic of New Years Resolutions, and in it talked about life, stories, climaxes, and dreams. I return to similar ground, not to give you some superfluous update on on the promises I made therein, but only because it is a topic that has continued to sit with me and speak in the days following the original post.
I have found myself writing many more words this year, but only a few of them appearing in public. I came to the understanding recently that I sit and spend a lot my time mulling over words, describing what I see and jotting things down, but never mould them into things that are solid statements; rather, I allow them to fade from my memory. So much poetry has been lost, its as if it just floated away like a leaf on a breeze. These words are something I value, yet fail to invest in, so I decided it needed to change. It began last week; I sat and wrote two thousand words about how nothing significant happens in coffee shops, an unusual topic of literature you might think, but I only wrote the thoughts that rolled around my mind and over my tongue (as you may expect, I was sat in a coffee shop at the time). I wrote about how we, as young, attractive, middle class people with messy hair and a poor grasp of proper grammar, have idealised the coffee shop to be a place where we expect the dramatic and important things in life to happen. Simply put, I stated quite clearly that this wasn’t true, mainly because coffee shops are places designed to remove us from serious issues and allow us to relax, some sort of oasis in the desert. I placed the blame at the feet of television, how our love of Central Perk and its occupants have duped us into believing that the humble cafe is the mecca of Western existence, and that we are its worshippers, shaped and changed by our God, the powerful coffee bean.
This rant arose from the fact that recently I have been through the process of evaluating how and where I, as a young, attractive to some, lower-middle class person with messy hair and hopefully a decent grasp of grammar, place importance on events. I ask myself why I remember some things, and why I don’t remember others, and in every situation, what will live on in my mind. This epiphany occurred to me as I met a friend for coffee. I looked around the room and wondered what I would remember, and only one thing truly remains, a snapshot I took in my mind of a person sat down. It may seem like nothing, but in that moment they were colour breaking out from the grey, a flower bursting forth into creation. The words we shared rattle around somewhere, but the image is what I chose to invest into.
As I pondered this dilemma, of where the significant events in life fall, my mind brought me back to a memory, which despite not having a life changing effect on my life, I recognise as a moment which captured me.
I was 15 years old, and my parents had divorced. This was probably one of the few nights during that summer of 2004 when I decided to stay at home rather than my fathers new house. My mother had gone to London, something she did regularly during this time, probably seeing Sandy. All of these details hadn’t impacted me yet; I walked on in ignorance, simply enjoying life as I experienced it.
This one night, I decided to stay up all night, not an uncommon thing to do at the time. My sister was in bed with her boyfriend, so I stayed downstairs, and opening a few beers, began to watch Gladiator. I remember surprisingly a lot about what I thought that night; I remember thinking that ‘For Rome’ would be a great band name, and I remember that this was the first film I’d sat and enjoyed in a long time. I also remember what I saw next.
I looked to my left into the sky through the uncurtained window to see the air glowing orange, the sun creeping over the houses. It was like intuition; I grabbed a guitar, and went and sat on my front garden wall. I watched silently, perhaps strumming a little, as the rays began to emerge above the roofs of my neighbours, sweeping over the ground and warming the tarmac, warming my toes. I remember, probably for the only time in the months past and the months to come, being at peace. I prayed, probably the first time I knew the presence of God.
The thing about the sunrise is that during its symphony, everything seems different. It’s as if the sun died at dusk and has been somehow resurrected in the dawn, riding back into town to save the day from the shadows. The light it shone on my simple suburban street made everything seem more beautiful, more dramatic, somehow more memorable. The colours of slate, wood, leaves, and clouds became dynamic, perhaps even alive. Birds awoke, singing into the atmosphere, taking flight into the heavens. It was as if God, grasping a moment when my eyes were opened, decided to allow his creation to paint a masterpiece, where all my senses were subject to glory, and all my emotions were seized by awe.
But as the sun cements its position as king of the sky, our eyes adjust to its brightness once more, and we tire of the same old things. Suddenly its not beautiful anymore, its just life. I would dare you to take a walk down that street at midday, take a walk and what will you see? Delicately pruned gardens, tidy lawns, a few cars. You’ll hear the sound of children playing perhaps. Will it melt your heart? It’s hardly the stuff of master paintings, or epic poetry. Its just life. Did you catch that? Just life.
It’s a challenge to ignore the bigness sometimes, and look at the beauty of the smallness. It’s something Jesus did masterfully. He told people stories, not about kings and warriors and battles, but of a man who lost a sheep, or a woman who lost a coin. The Kingdom of God isn’t compared to Mount Everest or the Grand Canyon, but yeast in dough, or a mustard seed in the dirt. And who are we to to think of as lucky? Try the birds of the air, try the flowers of the field.
Last night, I racked my brain and was amazed to see the things that came to me; all-night phone conversations, trips to places, being naughty, being nice, kisses, cuddles, fights, heartbreak, and tears. I don’t remember what I got for Christmas, I don’t remember much of school, but I remember where I was when we won it five times.
The picture that tops this blog is the same image that grabbed me that morning, but it was taken at a later date. In Read the rest of this entry »
