Clothed in spring.

An excerpt from “John Redding Goes to Sea” 1921:


Springtime in Florida is not a matter of peeping violets or bursting buds merely. It is a riot of color in nature—glistening green leaves, pink, blue, purple, yellows blossoms that fairly stagger the visitor from north. The miles of hyacinths lie like an undulating carpet on the surface of the river and divide reluctantly when the slow-moving alligators push their way log-like across. The nights are white nights for the moon shines with dazzling splendor, or in the absence of that goddess, the soft darkness creeps down laden with innumerable scents. The heavy fragrance of magnolias mingled with the delicate sweetness of jasmine and wild roses.



This paragraph is important. It was part of Zora Neale Hurston's first published short story in the literary magazine of Howard University. The paragraph is for some, too indulgent in detail. For some, the plot was overdone. I've only read this paragraph of the story, and still am glad that she wrote it. I also happen think that it's beautiful.


She took a risk by making this intimate gift of her writing public. She was born at just the right time for this manner of self-expression; her literature, rich with renderings of black culture and folklore at the outset of the Harlem Renaissance. But I'm sure there was a moment she hesitated to share it. A moment that if she yielded to her insecurity, I wouldn't be celebrating her artful prose.


This is the gift of community, the risk that makes writing slightly embarrassing. Committing words on paper is unavoidably introspective and mixed with a fear that what we've created is not really "us". Or if it is "us" that it is not what we wanted to see about ourselves. But if what we've written is honest, it will indicate the distance between who we are what we long to be.This is a hinting at our true identities.



The disparity between what we say and what we do is hypocrisy. We are least desirable in our own eyes when we trade actions for words and they grow anemic. We are most beautiful when in humility, our actions leave no need for words. I want no headstone for my life, because I would like it lived with entirety, with nothing left to say when its done, but these simple words of Jesus: "It is finished." This kind of life is barely the one I am living now, though the one I am stumbling toward. All my obsessive fears, anxieties and inconsolable longings are for a wholeness that I have yet to taste in food, or laughter or friends. They are for the meantime--joyful preoccupations, but only stand-ins and shadows of the greater things.


The tempestuous spring stirs all of these thoughts within me, and I am dividing reluctantly to events beyond my control, like the flowers in Hurston's story.  I want the clothing of nature: the flower's glorious potential achieved in simply being alive. It has no concern for the heat of day,or the cool of night for each will come at it's appointed time. Yet at the looming storms, I shirk this kind of flower-like peace, to toil for what cannot be gained without surrender: the use of my gifts, the cultivation of relationships, the quieting of all my discontentment and the courage to communicate his power in both word and deed.


Without animation from his Spirit that brings me daily life, I close up like a plant without rain, and well with no spring or animation within. And he asks me again:


“So why do you worry about clothing? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin; 29 and yet I say to you that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. 30 Now if God so clothes the grass of the field, which today is, and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, will He not much more clothe you, O you of little faith?" Matthew 8:28-30.


It then becomes not a matter of control, but the assurance that what shakes loose in a rumbling storm is the sweetness of rain. Open is the only way to receive.

At the community table, let's be nice.

Washington,


I want to love you. I really can't love you, but I want to.
You're assertive and unhelpful in manifold ways.
A city that wishes not to be civil, despite the political charade.
The blessed are not one step ahead on the escalator.
The blessed are not those who will to power, who run the races but have no riches in character.
To settle for the game? To this I am indignant.


I want to love you but I want to train you more.
That is no healthy relationship, that involves a sort of leash.
I sit down at your community table to reconcile and am looked over for my seat by a lunching couple.
They didn't want to dialogue, they wanted to eat.
Next to me, not with me.


My manner is hostile to you, Washington, and mistaken for naivety.
Like the waitress who pulled me aside on "a personal note".
She said to me: "You don't have to move for them. Next time just let them find another place to sit."
I understand that I need not always be "nicey nice" but to scold me for making a little space?
Pardon me, if it is some infringement on your conscience.


She is nice, even while growing teeth!

In the smirks of my niece is where I come home, and in a strong cup of Peets.
Both are not "of" you Washington.
And it's true of me too.
I'm not sure if I'm settled with that paradox.
Warm sentiments have their place, and it isn't here.


I want to love you Washington, but I wish to teach you a lesson  more.
The wisdom of my older sister is profitable in all this foolishness.
At four-years-old, she made this declarative statement into the video camera that is hard to forget:

"When tigers bite, you have to stand back."

The truth could not be more plain.
She didn't say that tigers don't bite.
Or even to get mad at tigers when they do.
She only said that when  tigers bite,
When they push and shove, and blast that sucker who cut them off in the round-about,
now subjected to a sounding horn for the next minute, to stand back.


To take in what has happened to make that person such a pill, and determine not to become one.
As quick as I am to point out the faults of others, I bear my own too.
I won't justify them.
No, I don't have to scoot over,  but I will.
And I will also let the waitress keep her two cents.


This city has bared it's teeth a time or two, and it has not gone unnoticed.
But according to Jamie, this is natural. Some creatures bite.
A city built to prosper will be abrasive.
But if I stand back, if I expect what is coming.
I will not be devoured by it.
I may even gain a kind of understanding for it.


For the many cultures, for the interns who bus my table when they're not engulfed in what's changing the world.
For the spoken word poets, who drop a line of tribute to Langston Hughes.
For the future Martin Luther Kings and Mother Teresas who are surely around me.
For the man or woman being Jesus to the forgotten and dejected in this urban wasteland of loneliness.


It is a tangible presence, the loneliness here.
That is why I stand back, why I push away.
Because sometimes it threatens me too.

District of Colombia, you are vast.

Yeah these are old shoes, that I've been walking in

I'm wearing weary, like it's a second skin

I've been looking for a place to lay my head

All this time like a vagabond, a homeless stranger

I've been wandering, all my life you've been calling me

To a home you know, I've been needing

I'm a broken stone, so lay me in the house you're building.

-Audrey Assad

Here find newcomer infatuations squashed beneath the gritty heel of urban anonymity. Something happened to me, and since it has, a strange disenchantment clings to my every thought about DC. I expected it to pass, as cantankerous moods often do, but this one has stuck to me like bad gum on a shoe.


What happened to disrupt my pleasant complacency? It's a bit of a gut punch to admit, but I'm beginning to tire of the vagabond life.


From the suburbs of sleepy Northern Virginia I went with a full weekend unplanned, and a backpack with limited outfit changes. To find myself in the disjointed sprawling complexity of District of Colombia, I wandered blocks without purpose. Should the marble and brick woo me into the right neighborhood, maybe I'd find a door with my name on it.


This as my motivation, I was more than willing to contend with the two following unknowns: who would join me on this adventure and where I would sleep when it was done. More descriptively than a vagabond, I have also become a mole. A traveling mole with bags. Bags with useful things--but  for  the airtight density in which they are packed.


My purchasing power lessened as my wallet became less easy to render. Imagine dodging an umbrella, a headband, bunchy scarf, bottle of sanitizer, lone makeup brush and cell phone charger before brushing the quilted sides of a grey wallet to pay for a latte. Stoop to pick up the stray leather glove that  leaped on the floor in the frenetic search, and you begin to see.
Every male now nods his head in agreement with the complete uselessness that is a woman's purse. I do not disagree, but challenge one to propose a more functional solution that does not evolve into a fanny pack. My city flats, which so neatly fold in half to be wedged also into the bulging mass of my handbag, remain the only concession I am willing to make of fashion for sensibility.


At times, there is no pride in standing on these two feet of mine, even with great shoes. The loneliness as I wandered, unearthed many undesirable questions in this time of being subjected to my own decisions. There are places to act and others to pause in my life, and no one to tell me which is the other. This street or that street?


 I even sat at the communal table at Le Pain Quotidien in case Yoda, or possibly, a friend were to emerge and offer some advice. Organic jams and morning brioche comforted me instead. To soothe is not always with words. Yes, I've become somewhat of a foodie, and even with an extra pound(ish) to show for it! But my suits still fit....I hope to stumble upon enthusiasm again and will search all the tucked away corners. You'll know it when I find it.

A manner of traveling.

Happiness is not a station to arrive at, but a manner of traveling.

--Margaret Lee Runbeck

I take the train to work. It might be my favorite part of the day, an excuse for my thoughts to slow down and settle, for one whole, protected hour.
Within that hour, these two truths have surfaced:


1. That time is a good gift.
2. That life proves truly miraculous when I slow down enough to get a good look at it.

Onboard, a sigh of preparation for work is released as the train pulls away from the platform at 7:21 AM and again at 5:41PM to chase down the sun.
Sometimes the continuum of days is dizzy and nauseating, like a cheap and spinning fair ride that I want off of.  But others days are a symphonic and lovely march, onward through the year.


Existing in a state of perpetual wonder is not something that humans do well. We're are too overstimulated and unimpressed to take in the glory of something as basic as "being."
We are simply too full to make room for the wonder. Full of agendas, full of emptiness, full of ourselves.



Oh Lord, God of our Fathers
This day, let it be known
That You Lord, are God of the present tense
Oh Lord, father of history
This day, let it be known
That you Lord, are present in our human events.
--Jon Foreman



The God of the present tense is in every moment, and when those moments are stolen for fears of the future, or regrets of the past, He is simply crowded out.


Taking a posture of boredom in these rare, in-between moments of travel is even more absurd. So much of life's"waiting time" could be assigned away as a petty inconvenience of adulthood, but the thanklessness of that perspective troubles me.


I will fight the apathy more, because God breathed one potently creative breath of life, just to make me "be." The world of my perception is far greater than the sum of a few predictable reactions in the universe. Everything around me, was a God-thought before it came to be, what we call so plainly "laws or theories" originated at the center of a being who calls himself the "I Am."


What a wonder. The weather is my favorite tangible reminder of this wild God I serve. I could spend hours marveling at the power of the storm or the tenderness of an afternoon downpour that suprised even the weatherman.
My minutes, my hours and seconds are all on loan. The 60 minutes to an hour, the 365 days for a year, the 100 years or under for my lifetime, all these things,will return to their true owner.


Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and comes down from the Father of lights, with whom there is no variation or shadow of turning.


James 1:17 illustrates perfectly, the beauty of this continuum, a God who says that it is of His very essence and nature, to never change.


I guess riding the train makes me aware of my time as a gift. It burdens me with blessing to think of my Father's patient dispensation of freedom to humanity through time. Will we love or despise Him freely in the years yet to live, and in the end, what will our lives have to say? That we treasured Him more than gold and lingered in the moments slow, just to feel Him near?  Or did the days slip idly through our fingers? Forsaking His table of communion leaves little to speak for at the end.


Those who consider hell to be an unjust damnation of humanity would do well to reconsider. If the extravagant and costly sacrifice of Christ does not cause a yearning for Him to utterly consume our present moments, how much less appropriate would it be to demand the promise of His home beyond this earth? What a strange request that would be. Even the living God respects the spaces where he is not desired.  He takes no interest in prisoners, of that I am sure. But more certainly, He will take the  days of a servant with a deeply grateful heart.