Enya makes me sick

I don't mean that in a bad way. Really, I don't. I love Enya. As a matter of fact, Enya is among the select few artists whose work I've actually purchased. However, I've discovered recently that Enya literally makes me sick to my stomach.

I don't remember what thought process brought me to Enya, but I decided to have a listen as it's been a while. I labored through my CD collection, and began listening by memory to Enya's music (never found the album, though).

Anyway, I got to feeling a bit sick. It isn't the music mind you, but what the music has come to carry with it. Empathy is a great tool, but it has unforeseen expenses. I attach meaning to ideas, art, music, etc; everything really. That's just how I see the world. I won't suppose the exact same for everyone else, but I gather it's something similar.

I say again that I really enjoy Enya. She captures perfectly the essences of calm and storm in Tempus Vernum. The music draws me in like a well told story. It's like a fantasy play that the listener co-authors offering life experience against the setting of the music. I hung my hat on that music during a painful time in my life, though, and I'd rather not take it on again. Rather, I'm a bit masochistic in that I do want to listen to it, but common sense directs me otherwise.

Most of this past week has included somehow a nostalgia of the bygone. Dreams and daydreams, very vivid, of the mundane or profound details of the life that has led me here, were a prominant feature this week past. Silly things with no meaning replayed in my mind with such clarity- bus rides with the middle school orchestra, building things with friends, catching bugs at recess- why do I miss that so much?

Maybe I forgot to say 'goodbye' when I grew up. Or, maybe I said it too soon.

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Pilgrim
by
Eithne Ní Bhraonáin (Enya)

Pilgrim, how you journey
on the road you chose
to find out why the winds die
and where the stories go.
All days come from one day
that much you must know,
you cannot change what's over
but only where you go.

One way leads to diamonds,
one way leads to gold,
another leads you only
to everything you're told.
In your heart you wonder
which of these is true;
the road that leads to nowhere,
the road that leads to you.

Will you find the answer
in all you say and do?
Will you find the answer
in you?

Each heart is a pilgrim,
each one wants to know
the reason why the winds die
and where the stories go.
Pilgrim, in your journey
you may travel far,
for pilgrim it's a long way
to find out who you are...

Pilgrim, it's a long way
to find out who you are...

Pilgrim, it's a long way
to find out who you are...

Cults of Personality

I decided to dress a little differently that day. I tucked in a button up shirt, spiffed my boots- "clean" is a good word for the way I looked.

The walk home was especially enjoyable. It was just cool enough to keep me from a sweat without chilling me. I had a good smile on my face, a rare enough occasion as to sweeten its present company.

I passed the same few whom I pass each walk home. My smile would increase, and with a nod I'd say 'hello.' Most responded in kind. Most all, except for one.

He was tall for his age; still in high school. His long, straight, hair, parted sharply down the middle, reached his jaw line. His arms didn't move when he walked, nor his head. His baggy, black pants mirrored the loose flow of his hair as he walked. His eyes would dart toward anything new in view, then return blankly to the fore.

"Hello," I said.

His eyes jumped to me, then away as he scoffed. "hmmpf, preppy," he accused me under his breath, turning his eyes aside. As I said, I wasn't in my normal scrubs. I kept smiling, kept walking, then stopped quite still. I had just walked past myself, or me from years back.

I turned and said, "Young man." He looked back, ready to apathetically shrug off everything I was about to say.

"Rebellion," I continued, "is in the mind. Don't let your eyes fool you."

The readied "whatever" faded from his lips, and I could see the interest sprouting in his eyes and face.

"Have a good day," I said, and went home.

* * *
The next day on my walk home he was waiting for me at the corner. It seemed I had taken on a pupil.

"People living deeply have no fear of death."

~ Anais Nin

Funny thing about death is that it's a part of life. Death comes for all of us eventually. She visits some many times before finally taking them on the journey home. Others she warns of her coming far off in the horizon. We shouldn't avoid her company.

This is something I struggle with quite often. How often is health care just an avoidance of death? Most would agree that an early dinner guest can be quite unsettling, but being a little late isn't all that unacceptable, maybe even preferential. We think of death in the same way. "Get here on time, but if your late I'll certainly understand," we tell her.

We shut the curtains, dim the lights, and speak softly hoping that Death won't hear, but if she should that we might have a few last words to our loved ones. We really should be comfortable enough to open the door with bags packed, so to speak, ready to go. But then, when do we expect Death?

A nasty scrape? animal bite? indigestoin? AIDS? Cancer? Truth is that Death is in some way always a mystery guest. Even when she says "I'll be along shortly" we don't really know. Thousands of years ago cutting your finger, or smashing it with a blunt object guaranteed Death's visit. Anymore, medicines take care of most everything. That is, if the medicine is available, or within someones means. No one wishes any other to suffer, but death is a part of life.

I struggle with this because I love my sister. In some roundabout way I suppose her illness will invite Death eventually. Until then, and that time appears far off, I'm cherishing my sister. However, I've also come to accept that people die. I will die, as will my friends, and when Death comes for any of us I will not fight her. She is not to be feared, or ignored; she is a part of each of our lives.

Still, when to treat the ill, when to acknowledge that death is ringing the doorbell . . . I can't explain how I balance this out, but I do.

We avoid death because we squander our days. "So teach us to number our days that we may get a heart of wisdom," the Psalmist says to God. We can only waste what is finite. Our days are numbered always, not just when we count them.

All of this to say that I really dislike the idea of socialist healthcare. People die. Let's get over it together.

Who is like God?

I've been plagued with doubts for months now ranging from the existential to the earthly. I'm pretty well out of the doubting stage for now, but I'm sure I'll eek back into it sometime shortly; perhaps while writing this.

Self-discovery in Others
I spent six hours with a good friend last night. He's one of the people I intentionally call 'friend.' We always have meaningful, revealing conversations when we get together, but not in any mentally taxing or spiritually exhausting way; just good conversation. This meeting was a little different, though- we talked a lot about me.

He told me I shared a few qualities with his brother. It was welcome commentary as I've been learning a lot about myself recently (and his brother is a really cool dude). We determined that I'm the kind of person who looks at things from every possible angle, or tries to incorporate as much as I can into every consideration. Due this tendency I usually bring unique questions, insights, etc., to discussions, problems, planning. It really helps when mentoring others, counseling, etc. Sometimes people need extra perspective before taking a leap. Great for helping others, not so great for me.

The downside, we realized (I don't remember who realized it first), is that in adopting every perspective I neglect to commit to an action. This has been a huge problem in my life. I get so caught up in thinking about the "how" and "why" and trying to process everything that I just don't do anything. Everything has to be a process, or processed, packaged, and neat. At the same time, I'm definitely not a perfectionist. The search for Truth has blinded my sense of living Truth.

Who is like the LORD?
We talked about our names, what they mean. He joked about how precisely his name applies to him. I lamented that mine really doesn't have anything concrete like "courage" or "warrior" or something. "No," he said, " your name really does say a lot about you. You're always asking questions, you want things to be right." I don't really remember everything he said, but it sounded spot on.

We talked about it a little more, and it really does apply. I hate social injustice. Moreover, I hate the roots of social injustice. My blood boils over people who subjugate others in any situation from hate-spewers to self-preserving bourgeois capitalists to the simple prick bent on winning. I hate it. For some reason this reminded me of Michael the Archangel. I envisioned fronting on Lucifer after kicking him out saying "Yeah! What!? What!? Who's like the LORD now, be-otch!" All told, it probably didn't go quite like that.

edit: no, I'm not saying that I want to likewise usurp the people that anger me. It's like President Nixon said: "Always remember others may hate you but those who hate you don't win unless you hate them. And then you destroy yourself."

My Old Home Kentucky
I'd lamented privately to another friend some months ago that I'll be the last one in Wichita pretty soon what with people going off, getting married, etc. He replied that I really just need to get out and about, explore. This is made very difficult by the previous section, but it really made me stop and think, and I'm working on incorporating this into myself. Along that line, a good friend invited me to move with him to Kentucky if he pursues his Masters . . .

Garden Valley by Dougie MacLean

This is really not my home
Where are you, my lovely Jenny?
I'm afraid and all alone
There is no peace for me
And I'm sitting in the stranger's room
Playing at the stranger's table
Shining empty like the moon
There is no peace for me

But in the darkness struggle cold
I think about a garden valley
Gentle as the leaves unfold
Singing out across the Tay
Distant and so far away
There is no peace for me

I'm blinded by your city lights
I wander through these fearful places
The colors fade to black and white
There is no peace for me
These are not the friends I know
These are not their smiling faces
A desert that no one should know
There is no peace for me

Now I know and feel it well
The immigrant's deep sunken feeling
Standing at the gates of hell
There is no peace for me
Burned out by their master's greed
Cruel exile, transportation
Robbed of every love and need
There is no peace for me

Fell in Love with a Girl

Well, not really. I fell in love with a voice. I don't really expect much to come of it, but there's nothing wrong with being keen on a voice.

As you can see I've been largely absent from this blog. Well, no more! The previous scope and hope for the blog was too limited to really allow me to do much at all, so I'm widening that gap just a smidgen. There'll be regular weekly updates on my many golden, worthwhile perspectives, so keep coming back and I'll be talking to you soon. Until then, I'll be counting the seconds. 1 2 3 4 . . .