self-absorption.

boredom.

introspection.

call it what you will, I've been sitting here reading through old posts from my own blog.

it's been a freakishly out-of-body experience.

if I wasn't fairly convinced that it was my own blog I was reading, I'd think that the person whose words I've read has an engaging vocabulary, keen perception, and seems to be witty, intelligent, and transparent. I would think, "Oh, what a charming blog I've stumbled upon! I think I'll tag along with her for a while."

yes, I am painfully aware of how stupidly vain that sounds.

the thing is, some of these posts I don't even remember having written. I can't relate to having enough mastery of my thoughts to have communicated anything remotely coherent. I envy the lucidity and authenticity of whoever wrote and thought and felt those things.

I've felt about as un-

original

creative

witty

charming

intelligent

as a girl can get these past few months.

apathetic

dull

bland

insipid

yes, that's more like it.

I relate to those old posts so deeply that I'd want to be BFF's with the writer, but I don't think it was me. I'm standing on the outside looking in, watching someone else try to process and engage with life, meaningfully and honestly.

wondering whether I'm the one on the inside or the outside.

hilarious

humanity, that is.

my favorite sightings of our ridiculousness over the weekend:

- the lady picking up black walnuts from her driveway, which was COVERED in what must have been hundreds of them... with a trash pincer. One at a time.

- the man apparently learning how to ride a unicycle... up and down a narrow sidewalk along Main Street, and periodically crashing into the posts or storefronts on either side. He was, conveniently, right by the intersection, so I enjoyed a stop-light long show. Hope he didn't cause any accidents today.

- the hobos in the Kohl's parking lot, grazing their goats on the median. Two of them - goats, that is. I wouldn't even dream about making something like that up.

p.s.

the more I think about this the more bewildered I become, so I have to get it off my chest.

yesterday, I was overwhelmingly saturated in the wit and wonder that is David Crowder. I read his book, Praise Habit. (yes, I realize I lag far behind any self-respecting worship leader, but I've only recently had the opportunity to acquire it for a mere $3.75. Don't judge).

I also listened to his newest studio release, Church Music. That was only the auditory part of the whole experience.

what I've never known, in all these years of listening to his music yet not reading his book, is that there are several striking characteristics we share, which are, mind you, entirely exclusive of anything involving musical creativity. Allow me to enumerate them.

1) the overwhelming desire to say only things worth saying, yet insert humorous or explanatory side-notes in very small print after almost everything, and sometimes in inappropriate places. Refer to the publishing information and appendices in his book. (I rarely indulge this desire, but these notes are a constant running commentary in my head. Sometimes it's comic relief for having had to write something that seems very formal and foreign. Sometimes, and most often, it's because I'm convinced no one will understand what I'm trying to say.)

2) sudden, irrational anger brought on by undesirable colors, smells, or sounds. Refer to pages 95, 96, and 141.

3) refer to page 24. Enough said.

4) pastels never work. Refer to page 89.

5) the ability to draw illogical conclusions yet systematically convince myself they're true in a matter of seconds. Refer to page 97.

the frightening, bewildering thing about these new-found similarities is how differently they are packaged.

Refer to author photo.

praise

There were 3 Things of Excellence I noted on my drive home this dusk:

the sunset. While pastels are not my favorite, it was striking. Well done, God.

the mums. Branson does an exceptional job with the display of fall mums. They are everywhere. They are big and bushy and brilliant and full and blooming and...

thank you, Branson. Thank you.

O David Crowder, you do not disappoint me. Auditory bliss.

they escape me,

words.

illusory formulas of images that

flit

flash

shimmer

thought - vapor -

gone.

hearing, seeing, forming, defining,

joys indeed.

Soaking, they wash over me

like water that is useful and beautiful

but can't, quite

be grasped.

Others have mastered them, I know,

bent them to their purposes of communicating

beauty and truth and depth,

but I -

I cannot.

instead I fumble, as with clay in

hands harsh and clumsy

slippery

insubstantial

uncooperative

gone.

someday, perhaps

I'll learn

another way of sharing sight.

ascension

salute the last and everlasting day,

joy at th' uprising of this sun, and son,

ye whose true tears, or tribulation

hath purely wash'd, or burnt your drossy clay.

behold, the highest, parting hence away,

lightens the dark clouds, which he treads upon;

nor doth he by ascending show alone,

but first he, and he first, enters the way.

O strong ram, which hast batter'd heaven for me,

mild lamb, which with thy blood hast mark'd the path,

bright torch, which shin'st, that I the way may see,

Oh, with thine own blood quench thine own just wrath;

and if thy Holy Spirit my muse did raise,

deign at my hands this crown of prayer and praise.

- John Donne

this is the last of a cycle of seven sonnets entitled "La Corona" by John Donne, which I just stumbled upon. the book has been sitting on my shelf for several months, untouched save for a cursory thumb-through when it first arrived from Amazon - it's 10:26 and time for bed, but I realized my missed dinner would not let me rest in peace, so I'm sitting here eating lentil soup. Wanted something interesting and non-committal to end my day, over the soup, with, and aha! this was it.

after the first few lines of stuttering comprehension there was a flickering light that sputtered on - first in my head, then my spirit - until I was swept up in the mystery of the Christ event that these sonnets sing and probe and wonder at. To call them beautiful is an understatement for works of art and worship that have retained, for more than 300 years, the sheer joy that is the discovery that

God is.

that he is here now, and was then, and knows - me.

loves. me. us.

always will.

that the Spirit deigns to breathe through us the life that feeds us

for eternity.

and if the Holy Spirit my muse did raise,

deign at my hands this crown of prayer and praise.

sometimes I remember

I live in a small white house under a tree, with a red door and a porch.

to live here, it costs me only a fraction of what it costs others who live in cold, sterile, over-populated places.

tonight I am listening to the crickets (they're happy because it has rained and the evening is cool and wet) and watching the candles flicker;

tomorrow I will clean my gutters and plant the bushes I bought today -

holly, because it will stay green and sport red berries when everything else has given up;

euonymus, because it is hardy and deeply green and attracts songbirds; and

mums, yellow and bronze and wine colored. They are small, but they'll grow.

I'm infinitely excited about laying out that sweet, honey-colored cypress mulch.

sometimes I forget to be grateful for these things that are not small, but rather elaborate blessings.

today, though, I am overwhelmed by them.