56th Confession

I don't make a big deal out of things. I try to keep as low key as possible. I never liked drama in high school, and I still don't like it now.

So when I went in for minor surgery, that's how I viewed it - minor.

Now, I ache in my guts. And I can't bend right. And I'm up late because I can't get comfortable. All minor things - but I'll not say much to anyone about it, mainly because that's how I am.

Sometimes, I wish I were a little more dramatic. Maybe I'd get more attention that way. But personally? Drama just isn't my thing.

Sorry for the brevity - next post will be longer when I feel more like writing.

55th Confession

It's never easy to consider the end of a thing. No matter how long one plans, no matter what safeguards one enacts, everything ends. Television series, books, lives, and (as science so comfortingly puts it) the universe are all being led along the path of slow decay, until their bitter ends. And you'd think that we, as humans, would understand that. After all, it's been going on for lifetimes now.

But it doesn't make it any easier. Especially when the pain of loss is personal.

For a while now, my grandmother has been in poor health. Her lungs, her blood, and her mind have all been tainted by various effects of the world of sickness. At 80-something - or is she in her 90's? - she's led a full, rewarding life. She's seen (or received word of) all her grandchildren marrying, even held some great-grandchildren. She's been a strong woman of faith, up until the time that her mind began to betray her.

And now, her living will is taking effect. As her body wears down for the final time, she's requested to die in peace.

And I can't find it in my heart to blame her.

In younger days, I was very conservative about such matters. "Life is life, and one should always fight for it," I thought. I believed that life was supposed to be struggled through until the very last minute. I wanted so very much to believe in life - at any cost.

And now, as I grow older, I find that my ideals are eroded constantly. There are so very few things that are black and white, and so many colors that don't fit into either category. Is it age and maturity tempering the fiery idealism of youth? Has it always been this way?

Why did no one ever tell me that "right" and "wrong" overlap so much?

Moses once asked the Lord to teach us to count our days. I know now, in part, that it's not just about the number of days there are between inception and death. I understand that it's the moments that enrich a life that we're supposed to pay attention and count. Remembering the first kiss shared between you and your spouse. The first time you saw your child. The accomplishments you may have had throughout your life. The agonizing heartbreaks that honed your purpose, focused you into what God made for you in this lifetime.

I suppose that, without times like these, purpose and destiny cannot be created. It's through the revealing of character that a purpose is shown, and character is truly revealed in times of tragedy. David's time at Ziklag, for example, shows the depth of his devotion to his God and his people.  Or that time that the child could not come to him, but David will eventually go to him. There are so many things that make a person's purpose - and not everyone can handle it.

The saddest thing to see is when a person falters against the purpose for which they were created. Samson, Amy Winehouse, Janis Joplin, Charlie Chaplin...History is littered with gifted people, good people, whose lives have been twisted, shaken, and corrupted by their inability to harness their character for something more than the "now." It takes a strong person to plan for the future - including the worst parts of it.

My grandmother is a strong person. And I am proud of her.

54th Confession

First off - let me give a shout out to my blog header designer, Sahina-Waya. You can find a lot of her work here, and I'm certain that were you to purchase some of her work, she'd not be too averse to it.

Last post, a couple questions were asked on the comments board, specifically geared to the defense of the local gathering of believers. I feel that this is a great little topic, so I'm going to dive right into it.

I believe strongly in the local gathering of believers for fellowship, teaching, correction, and worship. However, I've noticed a disturbing trend recently: a lot of "organized" religious gatherings have become focused on self-sustenance. That is, instead of being focused on the world, they've become focused on themselves. Instead of focusing on Jesus, they become focused on tenets. Or worse, they become focused on tenants.

It is a trustworthy statement: any group whose focus becomes the continued survival of the group is already dead. Any time any one is not willing to allow something to die in order to give place to something new, watch out.

But despite all this, is it wrong to take a little time to regroup, away from others? I don't have a problem with it, as long as it's only that: time to regroup refocus, and then get back into it.

For an example, let me reference the sad case of Jacopo da Pontormo, a Renaissance artist that very few people can reference. His last commissions were the frescoes in the chapel at San Lorenzo, in Florence. Getting on in years, and hampered by a fear of people stealing his ideas, Jacopo ordered the chapel sealed off, walled in, and no one allowed to look at his creation. Sadly, he died before finishing his frescoes (eleven years in the making)...and none of them survived. Why? One of his close friends, Giorgio Vasari, wrote in his journals about how scene bled into scene, characters were juxtaposed, and there was an overall lack of proportion. Quoting Vasari, “I think I would go mad and become entangled in this painting," if he continued to look at it. Obsessed with detail, da Pontormo lost the sense of the overall composition.

Isolation spawns creativity, true; however, too much time alone fosters "an obsession with detail combined with an inability to see the larger picture, a kind of extravagant ugliness that no longer communicates." (Borrowed from Robert Greene's fascinating study into the 48 laws of power)

Growth, in any living being, is dependent on two distinct and separate times: a season of self, and a season of environment. During the season of self, the organism focuses inward: a tree during winter, or a child in a home environment. This season is for the inner strengthening - roots grow deeper, wounds are healed, and armor is developed. During the season of environment, the organism focuses outward: a tree in summer, or a child in a public environment. This is the season of outreach, of experimentation, of flourishing. If one cannot thrive in the environment where there is external pressure and stress on what you believe, how is your faith relevant?

Therein lies the challenge unique to the believer, mirrored in all kinds of ways. Be salt - but not overwhelming, light - but not blinding, leavening - but not over-inflated, self-aware - but not self-absorbed, God-aware - but not God-absorbed.

53rd Confession

When we were younger, my wife called the number 53 "the evil gizzard number". I now have cause to believe that; it's taken me entirely too long to get around to this post.

I mean, four months?  Really? What have I done between them?

Honestly? A lot of soul-searching. A lot of working. A lot of trying to figure things out, and failing miserably.

The first thing I tried to figure out is whether I'm really really saved, or if I'm just playing around. I mean, I believe in Jesus with all my heart, but I have trouble with the way organized religion makes everything so cut and dried. Life is messy - why should church be any different? My best friends are the ones who believe and don't force their beliefs on anyone. Unfortunately, what they believe isn't necessarily what I believe. I have so many troubles with where I believe I'm called, including a lack of evidence of calling...

Could this be what is a crisis of faith? Or just of confidence? Or is it a test, to make sure I don't move on feelings alone?

I've always been what one would call a rational mystic - where there's a logical, natural explanation, leave the demons out of it. If there's something supernatural, let it be supernatural. But for the love of most things holy, don't go seeing demons under every bush and in every situation: they just aren't there, most of the time. But is there a need to be more rational? Or more mystic? Where does the balance lie?

I think these, and a few other things, will be looked at on a more regular basis. As ever, comments, flames, suggestions for posts, and everything else is welcome.

52nd Confession

I'm a sucker for well-written television programs.

There are very few of those around these days, sadly. With the glut of "reality" programming these days, the demand for real writers is greatly diminished. And with the ability of a network to put out 500 crappy unscripted programs to any one quality program, it's easy as anything to see why networks choose the easy route.

And what "reality" do most of these programs come from anyway? Most places I know of don't have a bunch of young folk acting as stupidly as some shows have 'em. For example, most of the girls I dated in my short span of time never would make me dress up in a sumo suit and wrestle with a professional, just to go out with 'em. I've also never seen a community of people who were so proud of their excesses, so arrogant about their poor life choices, or so particular about their vices as one sees during "unscripted" television.

It's also sad how quickly good premises go bad. Heroes, No Ordinary Family, Due South, The Cape...pretty much anything science-fiction or comic book related - they all start out so brilliantly, and then fall so flat as to be unrecognizable. There have been a very few that have kept on with their original premise and gotten better - Eureka, for one, and supposedly the entire Stargate series as well.

Sometimes, I think we should go with the British programming system: all of their serieses start out with about eight episodes, and if they are popular enough, they get more. If not, it was a nice little story arc, time to move on.

Or maybe we could do it through social media. Enough "likes" or "diggs" or tweets or hashtags, and a new show makes it through. Or maybe we could make it more interactive than that: a new show, scripted by the majority of Americans. A premise is laid out, the characters have fairly broad ranges, the situation is fairly clearly defined, and at the end of an episode, a cliffhanger ending. What happens next? That's up to the viewing audience to decide!

51st Confession

I wish I had a better lawn.

I have absolutely no talent for botany. None whatsoever. Plants take one look at me and lose the will to live. There are so many dead spots on my lawn, it looks more like the surface of the moon than it does anything American.

I used to think it would be a blessing to have mature shade trees. Unfortunately, mature shade trees make for lots and lots of leaves. In addition, there are lots of sticks: dead limbs, limbs that need to be removed - all this adds up to wood chips and time and money. Many things I have in this life, but extra time is not one of them.

Would that I had the extra resources to actually turf the lawn this year, as I've so often remarked would resolve all the issues. It'd always look good, the trees could still get water. And yet, I'd never have to mow again, and any spots on the lawn would be cleaned up with spot remover or a snow shovel. A very special, use-specific snow shovel.

Currently, I reseeded and hayed the lawn. I did it right before the heavy rains came. I added fertilizer, I tore up the dirt to lay the seed down...and nothing has sprouted. Nothing at all. Between birds and the dog, nothing.

The next thing to do is to admit defeat, call in a professional, and just redo the whole thing. I'm halfway there, but I just think that if I do the right things, it'll all come out right. Of course, that hasn't worked out for the past two years...

50th Confession

Well, here it is: the first milestone blogmark.  I had so much I wanted to write here: a piece about KBO, a bit about God and faith, a little maybe about the great mystery of synchronicity that I've noticed weaving about my life...

But I'm stuck. Again.

The words fail me. They don't come out. The thoughts and inspirations are there, and I don't believe in writer's block.

It's just that my words feel clumsy. Oafish. As though my thoughts are being interpreted into German, sent through Morse code to a Cocker Spaniel, and barked out to a chipmunk.

English is such a gracious, noble language. The way that a pun twists a word's dipthong until the listener feels the pain of a wedgie. The masterful laments of Prufrock and Josh Ritter. The power of the phrase "You Shall Not Pass," spoken in stentorian tones by an actor of the highest caliber.

But yet, it feels like this masterful tool, this glorious instrument on which I play, has become a tintinnabulation,  a cacophony of guttural lowing from a hungry herd of livestock complaining about their lot in life.

I've been reading more and more literature in the past few weeks. A lot more TS Eliot, listening to Josh Ritter a little more, crying inside a little more...I think it's a sign of another inward spiral.

Maybe the solution is in the problem: I've gotta rock myself a little bit harder. I've got to eat a peach. Let myself live a little. KBO.

I'm trying to live by a few principles: Love God. Obey the rules of the land. Honor my parents. Enjoy life.

In that order.

But some days, I'm just not...

I'm just not me anymore. I'm just a husk of Ryan's soul, biding my time, waiting to come to life again, like the storms down in Mexico. Spiritually, I'm just getting by, because I can't work in the confines of the box. My God is so much bigger than the box that many see Him as, and I don't want to be bound by the rules that others claim He wrote. The rules that leech life, stifle creativity, maintain the status quo - I can't see my God having anything to do with them, let alone writing them.

Is there not a prophet in Israel? Is there not a voice to cry out and change my future? Do they have to come from all over the place in order to revitalize a local body? If the body is going that way, won't there be someone local to be that way?

And after releasing all this, I hear a voice. It's only three words, spoken by my best friend. I can hear the warmth in his voice as he says it, although he's a thousand miles and five states away. But I can feel the power of them, resonating inside me, gripping the wildly vibrating tuning fork that has been my soul and giving it rest.

KBO, folks, because sooner or later, things will turn out right. Walk in tune with the beat that God hears, and soon you might see the dance steps you take, and learn to enjoy it as well.

Good night, folks.  Fifty-one will be better.