Friday, July 17, 2009

Ode to Lake Travis

The sun
Sucked Up Lake Travis –
High Pressure --
Into the cloudless blue sky
Of the New Summer.

Yachts and cigar boats
Litter now permanent
Sometimes islands,
Left as fossil remains
Or to be picked up and stowed away
Like the toys of youth
In some forgotten attic.
Icons of days gone by.

We pray and petition
For something different,
Like the past.
But the changing seasons --
Like Justice --
Are inevitable.

Convicted of history,
We pack our bags
For a Journey
Perhaps toward Purgatory –
The curse
Of the Promised Land
Chases us
Into the desert.

While the clean blue water
Of Lake Travis
Flows freely
In a majestic wave
Across time and space,
To quench, for an instant,
The incomplete metaphor
Of a thirsty universe.

Wednesday, July 15, 2009

Service

Last week I participated in a camp for kids. I bring music equipment and let them play on real guitars with real microphones and real amps. The kids here were kids in an apartment complex/shelter. Most of the kids had some kind of background of severe family troubles. I do this camp with a wonderful group of people in a nonprofit called "A Spacious Place" You should look at its website. I wrote the following about my experience"

I am so grateful to be associated with A Spacious Place. Last Friday was a very hectic day. I worked straight through till the last minute to leave for camp, got to camp and the afternoon was a blur and then got home hungry, tired and, frankly, wondering a little bit about why I had come to be that way. Was it worth it? It seems that I can often make out things to be more complicated than they are – less important than my ego would like – less successful than my own sense of evaluation dictates. I had looked forward to this camp since the time it started coming together. Months of expectations became a lot of mental/emotional baggage to carry into camp along with the equipment. In just a short time after the beginning, I felt frustration; I was being overwhelmed. So we all just picked up a percussion instrument and banged away for a minute. Jimi was supportive and upbeat and, well, just right there – that helped. I took a deep breath and tried to just give it all up. We were all just going to beat on some guitars, listen to Nickolas’ rap and just see what happened to avoid the heat, the office, whatever they had going on at home and all of that. That is pretty much what we did. I got a lot out of it. I will remember the kids’ exuberance and curiosity. I will remember looking up and seeing several of the boys hugging and crawling all over Jimi. I will remember the kids running in on Friday after we had been gone hugging me and asking breathlessly, “Where’s Nickolas?” It was touching that they knew we had been gone… that they were glad we were back and that they missed Nickolas after knowing him for only 2 afternoons. I will remember the smiles. I will also remember that slightly uneasy feeling of being just on the edge of chaos, the concerns I felt when I looked at these kids wondering what they would face in the future, what they had faced already – what they are up against in their lives. That ambiguity as to whether my desire to reach out and grab them was to show love, to protect them from the world, or, oddly, just to make them still and quiet for my own peace of mind…

I have no idea what, if anything, we “accomplished.” I have no idea how my methods, actions or plans would be evaluated as to “competence” or “effectiveness.” I do care about those things, and I will think about that and ask for input and try to do better. However, I think it is important to keep that evaluation in perspective. It is those concerns that can lead to fear that can lead to intimidation that can lead to the mental conclusion that I really shouldn’t try to do such things. I know that service is hard work. I know that service is often uncomfortable. I know that the rewards of service are very often quite intangible and ambiguous. Thinking about all these things I know about service, I come to realize that service and creativity are really the same thing. How we are compelled, as creative beings, to become involved in situations where all the rules of logic, our own experience and propriety don’t quite work, and we have to interact with each other and with God to cope. I think that in the middle of that, sometimes I get my clearest glimpse of God, sense a little of what God is about. Just for an instant. Then, it is time to look up and realize that one of the kids has just run out the door toward some kind of adventure that we can only perceive as sure trouble.

Again, I am so proud to be a part of a group that is willing to take such risks for service, for creativity, for God.

I am recharging my battery for the next one!!!

Wednesday, July 1, 2009

Ghosts, Campfires and Other Faint Aspirations

Ghosts, Campfires and Other Faint Aspirations

Over and over and over
Just doesn’t cut it anymore --
‘Cause Wikipedia has all the straight facts,
Instant access --
And faith isn’t worth a damn or a dollar.

I watched the natives of someplace last night
On the Discovery channel --
Singing and dancing around the campfire.
Poor bastards
Don’t have 1-800, or text mail –
They will never have a winner,
Or know the score.

They performed anonymously
In the dim light of the torches
That flicker and blink,
Like the eyes of the anonymous gods
They dance for.

To the children of the sand,
It’s all
1 or 2 –
Yes or No –
Win or lose –
Right or wrong –
For everything.
No one needs an explanation,
Or a clue.
Hypothesis for History,
Computation for Comprehension.
Factual Fundamentalism.

I think
Simplicity is merely amusing anymore,
In a dream about falling –
I wake up,
I get up out of bed
And fall some more
In someone else’s dream,
Until they wake up.
On and on,
I sense
Faint rustling of the wind
Through my hair.
Destiny calls.

I like to dream.
All the dreamers and I
Dream
The stories
Drifting across consciousness
Like ghosts –
Perhaps holy.

I like the wind
That whispers and howls
Rumors and Proclamations
About movement and direction,
Perhaps perfection.

I like to dance
With the natives,
‘round a campfire.
In the dim light of the torches
That flicker and blink,
Like the eyes of the anonymous gods
We dance for.