Imagine

I had a great idea for a book/film plot today. What if, on one particular day out of every year, people had to tell the absolute truth? What would that be like? Hotel signs would read, "bedbugs" or "terrible internet connection" instead of "pool" and "high speed wifi."All these crazy Facebook-propagated wives tales would just disappear, or at least be labeled "unproven; probably a waste of your time." And every question anyone asked, you would have to answer truthfully--from the default "How are you?" which most people don't expect a reply to, to the questions you generally do your best to never give a straight answer to. I wonder how much better or worse a place the world would be? Would people try to live better the rest of the year so they would have no skeletons to air when telling the truth became unavoidable? Or would they just hope no one asked them those awkward questions? Or would they get sick on that same day every year with something really contagious that conveniently lasted just 24 hours?

I don't know . . . I think it would be kind of scary, but oddly liberating at the same time. At least everyone would know (after the first year) that you couldn't help it if you came across as rude/mean/tactless/weird. And we're all a little weird anyway, according to Robert Fulghum. Sometimes I get tired of the polite conversations where we never say anything worthwhile, or the other conversations where we never have the guts to express what's really on our minds.

In any case, I don't aspire to rule the world, so you don't have to worry that this day will ever make it out of the idea stage (except maybe in fictional form). And let's face it, I don't even have a good name thought up, and nowadays an idea is nothing without the right branding.

Avila Beach, May 2013

elegy

Their grief is in proportion to their affection

they know their loss to be irreparable,

but in their deepest affliction they are consoled

by a firm though humble hope that her charity,

her devotion, faith and purity, have rendered

her soul acceptable in the sight of her

REDEEMER. 
 
 From the gravestone of Jane Austen

Montaña de Oro, January 2013

Just some words

Avila Beach

I'm supposed to be editing my novel, but "Forever Young" by Alphaville came on the radio, and I can't really focus. Today the lyrics remind me that nothing in this life is forever. We just learned that a family friend died unexpectedly at age 19. When losses enter our lives, the inevitable why--as ancient as Job and maybe older--surfaces. But beyond asking God why, I find myself wondering what now. How can I let this young life impact my own? Because that seems like the best way to honor this memory. How can I live differently?

And though the Lord give you the bread of adversity and the water of affliction, yet your Teacher will not hide himself anymore, but your eyes shall see your Teacher. [Isaiah 30:21]

Shortly after hearing the news, I found myself thinking what it would have been like if this death had been that of a sibling of mine. The pain is unthinkable. It terrifies me. One pain also dredges up others, and I think again of my professor who also died unexpectedly last fall at age 44. Two such well-loved and loving souls. Even as a writer there are no words in which to frame these realities that will make them less harsh, less heart-wrenching. It's in my nature to want to fix things somehow. But there is no quick fix.

Surely He has borne our griefs and carried our sorrows. [Isaiah 53:4]

Living well. That seems to be a theme that has begun to impress itself upon my consciousness through recent life events and spoken words, and this tragedy brings that refrain to the forefront of my mind. I want to love my family and friends more deeply--even when I feel like being indifferent or irritated, to remind people of the God-breathed gift of living, to remember that myself . . . not to shrink from life in fear of pain and hurt, but embrace it with every fiber of my being.

Big Enough
by Chris Rice

None of us knows and that makes it a mystery
If life is a comedy, then why all the tragedy
Three-and-a-half pounds of brain try to figure out
What this world is all about
And is there an eternity, is there an eternity?

God if You’re there I wish You’d show me
And God if You care then I need You to know me
I hope You don’t mind me askin’ the questions
But I figure You’re big enough
I figure You’re big enough

Lying on pillows we’re haunted and half-awake
Does anyone hear us pray, "If I die before I wake"
Then the morning comes and the mirror’s the other place
Where we wrestle face to face with the image of Deity
The image of Deity

God if You’re there I wish You’d show me
And God if You care then I need You to know me
I hope You don’t mind me askin’ the questions
But I figure You’re big enough
I figure You’re big enough

When I imagine the size of the universe
And I wonder what’s out past the edges
Then I discover inside me a space as big
And believe that I’m meant to be
Filled up with more than just questions

So, God if You’re there I wish You’d show me
And God if You care then I need You to know me
I hope You don’t mind me askin’ the questions
But I figure You’re big enough
I figure You’re big enough
‘Cause I am not big enough

Life [lately]

Parli debate in La Mesa, surrounded by saws, plywood, etc.

Pacific.

Looked more like a lake than the ocean.

The long road home.

Ralph's birthday--just missing Frank.

A grayish afternoon at the beach, brightened by the company!

My brother Frank has been telling me how much he likes Rupert Brooke's poetry lately, and I ran across a lovely old collection of Brooke's poems at the local used bookstore last night. Here's an excerpt from his poem called "The Great Lover," which reminds me to sit up and take notice of the little things in life.

These I have loved:   
      White plates and cups, clean-gleaming,   
Ringed with blue lines; and feathery, faery dust;   
Wet roofs, beneath the lamp-light; the strong crust   
Of friendly bread; and many-tasting food;                     30
Rainbows; and the blue bitter smoke of wood;   
And radiant raindrops couching in cool flowers;   
And flowers themselves, that sway through sunny hours,   
Dreaming of moths that drink them under the moon;   
Then, the cool kindliness of sheets, that soon                35
Smooth away trouble; and the rough male kiss   
Of blankets; grainy wood; live hair that is   
Shining and free; blue-massing clouds; the keen   
Unpassioned beauty of a great machine;   
The benison of hot water; furs to touch;                        40
The good smell of old clothes; and other such—   
The comfortable smell of friendly fingers,   
Hair's fragrance, and the musty reek that lingers   
About dead leaves and last year's ferns....
                                    Dear names,   
And thousand others throng to me! Royal flames;         45
Sweet water's dimpling laugh from tap or spring;   
Holes in the ground; and voices that do sing:   
Voices in laughter, too; and body's pain,   
Soon turned to peace; and the deep-panting train;   
Firm sands; the little dulling edge of foam                     50
That browns and dwindles as the wave goes home;   
And washen stones, gay for an hour; the cold   
Graveness of iron; moist black earthen mould;   
Sleep; and high places; footprints in the dew;   
And oaks; and brown horse-chestnuts, glossy-new;      55
And new-peeled sticks; and shining pools on grass;—   
All these have been my loves.