Subconscious Storm – The questions of illusion – Part 3

The shivering cold, the drifting ache, the cutting wind spray; it was all pointless. Not in the sky nor the deep just the lukewarm of churning stillness. Rocking back and forward always in motion, yet never arriving.

All emotion seemed futile except escapism. So I escaped into my head. Dreaming yet conscious, I drifted above and sensed a feeling.

I saw infantile images of horses running. It flickered like a propaganda movie. Birds flying, up and down looping the same story. I would splash all day to earn my right to fall unconscious and watch the birds fly so I could be weightless for a moment. When it was finished the cycle compounded the reality that I had just created another empty universe.

As I slept awake I saw a bird swirling above my head. Its silhouette shrieked of hope. As suddenly as it appeared it was gone, but it dropped a small round thing. I quickly paddled to the dollop hoping I was not asleep. It was a worm. A caterpillar, green and unsightly. Yet it was the only thing in my life worth protecting. The only thing which made my spirit leap. I was tempted to eat it but then felt terrible for the thought. I had been here before, but for some strange reason things were different. It was daylight and although the butterfly kept no secrets I did not know its intentions.

“I must have been awake” for the sun sank and rose cyclic with the tide yet the caterpillar remained. I lay on my back and rested it on my chest. With the warmth of my organs I incubated it, for it was safest there. After one particularly cold night I felt a shifting on my head. A rustling in my hair. As the sun turned the water silver, I noticed there was a butterfly walking down my cheek. Its little legs tickled.

I admired it distantly and dared not make a move although it was so close. I was still bleeding and the thought to eat it although innate, seemed peculiarly unnatural.

The day was delightful. My heart rose and fell with the waves. I heard a voice carried like the sound of many leaves shimmering on the waters edge. It was weary but sincere.

“The horses are coming!” “If you are bleeding they can smell your scent on the air!!”.

“What does this mean?” I cried.

The voice did not answer, but continued “The horses are coming…thundering horses”

Fear gripped my soul for I could not stop the bleeding. “Will some body save me for I am lost?”

Subconscious Storm – The moth is painful – Part 2

My body trembled with delight. When you are hungry even a mouth of sand fills our habitual motions. Why had I been so stubborn to the moth? It had chased me. Why did I not relinquish my reservations earlier? In a feeding frenzy motivated by the fear of dying I tried to clasp as many as I could. Like black ashen flower petals the moth remains, lay scattered on the surface of the water. Before I savoured the moment, the sweet taste in my mouth turned bitter. I felt the turn of an infection like the taste exposed milk. The itch on the back of neck could not be soothed with water, for it was salty and only aggravated the rash.

My skin began to bleed. The scent of blood was in the air. At once I felt foolish. The red ink wrote my story in the water. My reflection was distorted and coloured in this aching meniscus.

I felt a target; vulnerable. Screaming in pain under the surface of the water as if my body wanted to launch flares for help.

“It was just a moth in the moonlight. “ I thought to myself .”And now I am poisoned. I wish I never looked into those eyes!”

It felt so ridiculous that such a small thing would warrant so much of my attention; so much of my energy. My fingers couldn’t stop the bleeding. They created it in the first place, by grabbing what was not mine and crumpling and tearing the delicacy in a moment of curios desperation. I thought the moth would fill my stomach with sustenance, but it was as nutritious as grit in my teeth. I wish I could grind my fingers with my gritty teeth. How I longed for the arms of strength to rest my head and be upheld by a stronger frame. But the water was like quicksand jello , so unsupportive.

Everything hurt. “That moth was to blame.” I continued in my mental monologue, “It knew what it was doing all along. It had eyes that could see”.

That night was long and memorable yet short and repressed.

”I did not even eat a moth. What evidence is there to show except for a little blood and a few broken wings?” I tried to argue.

Yet my body turned against itself, the conflict no longer external but deep within. I wanted to dive deep, to find a familiar friend or at least to hide the blatantly obvious. The dawn was coming and my shame would be on parade.

“Run!, run like a legless man in quicksand! Run, you cannot remain here!” The thoughts beat my mind into a corner and like a snake they bit the sensitive bits.

I dived deep; it was black, and I was more afraid. I wasn’t necessarily afraid of the dark but of what could lurk in the dark. I couldn’t breathe and I knew I couldn’t linger in the in the shadow of death. So I pushed the weight of the water and willed myself back to the surface. The familiarity made me sick to my gall. But at least I felt safe.

Subconscious Storm – In the beginning – Part 1

How can I speak with you? I hope you understand my language because the words are not the message but the meaning behind; the senses still commune despite your mother tongue. I call water as it is ;but to you, you may have another word, depending on your heritage, but in essence it is the same. It is an expression of an impression. It cannot fully describe, but gives a doorway to a facet of the jewel.

How do I know it is water, when I have nothing to reference? I’m speaking to those who speak my language, those who cannot, will found my sounds, shapes and sights nonsensical, just like a jabbering mad man. You may create your own meaning which to me is satisfactory .If you can decipher the riddle, and pull yourself from the middle of the restlessness, the blindness, and mute frustration of so many passers by, you might find something sacred; those others in the water.

I will try to understand their language too, for it has a different emphasis, intonation and accent. It is the other side to the story. Those stories can only be spoken with a different voice. Not familiar but kindred. It is imperative to join with those that are kindred so we ought not be a one winged bird, 3 legged octopus or a deaf evangelist.

Subconscious Storm – In the beginning – Part 1

I awoke falling like a dew drop from the stars into a heavy mass of deep water. As I hit the concrete water I was knocked unconscious.

The water was sickly warm with cold pockets of turbulence from the deep. It was a black limitless abyss. As far as my eyes permitted me to see were a curved horizon of two shades of blue. My head was level with the water.

How could I see?

With beating kicks I tried to propel myself into the air, but flailed like a deflated buoy. Exhausted I felt nothing, saw nothing, but I could hear a whimpering sound. The sound of a drained soul carried in the wind. Its freshness did not mix with the arid salted drifting body we floated in. We were in an unnatural place. We were not made to swim.

Would somebody save me?

The sun blistered my face while my body shrivelled water logged and tender. White, wrinkled and decayed, my face darkened with spots and callous creases.
Hours, minutes, seconds, days with no reference point, except the movement of the sun, the ebb and flow of the waves put me to sleep.
I saw shapes of others in the darkness

and decided to dive deep. For a time I sat, willing myself to dive, deliberating because I was afraid and needed to build to the occasion. Under the metallic speckled sky of stars the moon attracted the water. In the caustic reflection a moth landed on my head. It must have been attracted to my light, to my warm blooded soul. I was hungry and wondered if it would satisfy. I picked it from my head and looked into its winged eye pattern. Its appearance left me wondering, but the moth looked so drab. With too much time on my side the temptation beckoned me to act.

The moth cried in a barely audible high pitched frequency. Like the call of bats it pierced my ears attracting only the dogs attuned. I should have thrown the delicate moth into the water, but because of my close proximity and the curiosity that so easily ensnares I closed my eyes in the liquid oil and threw back my head to swallow. The itchy irritation fluttered down my throat drowning in saliva. Out of the mist of the night a cloud of moths drifted around my face. I clutched wildly, grabbing fluttering hand fulls of moth, throwing them into my mouth like a man plucking paper money from the air. I was surviving without daily bread and this it appeared was my only hope of sustenance.

Beauty is Holiness

According to Wikipedia (the fountain of truth that we know it as) the classical Greek word for beautiful was “ὡραῖος”, an adjective delivered from the word “ὥρα” or hour. In Koine Greek, beauty was thus associated with “being of one’s hour”. A ripe fruit (of its time) was considered beautiful.

Mulling over this concept of beauty I began to apply it to the beauty of God. If beauty is something that is revealed in its due time and then decays I wondered does Gods beauty fade?

Beauty from an earthly perspective may include the brightness of a geranium, a fluffy Labrador pup, the innocence of a newborn, the rapturing moment of a bride stepping down the aisle, the panorama of a mountain vista, the design on a Milan runway, the goose-bumps from an entertaining performance, or the iconic lines of an architectural landmark. Some like to call it the “wow” factor. Moments in time that take our breathe away. The moment to shine, the hour of beauty. For many it is fleeting. As the object or idea has a life span, a duration, a use by date. One can only stand and look at a painting for so long no matter how beautiful it is before our attention wanders. It is a reflection of God, yet earthly beauty fades.

As a Christian it is sometimes a struggle to explain this faded beauty, the ‘ugliness’, suffering, and pain. Equally a universe devoid of God makes it difficult to pinpoint the root and existence of beauty.

I believe God is the substance of beauty and his presence is tangible, beautifying everything he comes into contact with. Although eternally the same, he is perpetually showing us new revelations. A continual eternal revealing, every split second on multiple levels. Mind blowing earth shattering revelations about his love, creation, creativity, truth, science and salvation. Revelations about ourselves himself and humanity. His beauty never deteriorates, dates or withers. God is ahead of the fashion industry, latest trends, hair styles, art movements and pop cultural phenomena. Those are old creations from yesterdays God inspired moments breathed upon us. His finger print of beauty is on everything he touches.

As he draws close to us we are exposed thoroughly and profoundly to his beauty. In vulnerability as we remove our veils of shame and condemnation we are adorned by grace in his presence. We are perfected in love. Like a jewel new facets of his glory are directed through us as we surrender.

It is in this “Holy of Holies” where his beauty is the most captivating. It is the place of “His” eternal moment to shine.

Holiness to some may be considered bland boring and irrelevant. Sometimes I picture a strict school master with her knitted sweater and the mouldy smell of institutionalism. It is as if “Holiness” is clutching to a by gone era in a last ditch effort to protect oneself from the changing times.

Fortunately holiness is the exact opposite. Holiness is at the very centre of attraction and desire. The centre of immediacy, freshness and vivacity. The heart beat of creativity and beauty.

David understood this as a worshiper beholding God’s beauty entering into this sacred place.

Psalm 50:2

2 From Zion, perfect in beauty,

God shines forth.

Beauty is at the centre of the gospel. This beauty and holiness radiates from his house calling us to intimacy. To connect heart to heart, mind to mind, spirit to spirit.

For King David the presence of the Lord was so intoxicating and so fascinating that he sought it above all things. Extremely wealthy he found Gods infinitely satisfying holiness priceless.

He gave the present day equivalent of 56 Billion US dollars in gold, silver and other precious materials from his own private money to build the temple. He was surrounded by creativity and the arts from all around the known world, yet found the most inspiration from one place. He had several of the most beautiful wives in the nation but he placed Gods beauty above that. He knew all the beauty of this natural earth were just a glimpse of the heavenly world.

For a man who could have anything this earth could offer he single heartedly sought one thing first.

Psalm 27:4

4 One thing I ask of the LORD,

this is what I seek:

that I may dwell in the house of the LORD

all the days of my life,

to gaze upon the beauty of the LORD

and to seek him in his temple.