Winged

 

Somehow I landed on the documentary about Mark Bittner and his care of a wild flock of cherry-headed conures on Telegraph Hill in San Francisco, California. I watched and I wondered. Mark had been homeless for many years. At the time he began feeding this flock, he was a property caretaker. He's obviously intelligent, is highly articulate and completely sane. These traits are fully incongruous with the fact that he lived on the street for many, many years. It seems to me that there was a restless wandering inside him that would not allow the confinement of a regular routine for very long. He described bits and bobs of odd jobs. Nothing that would point in the direction of a career. Nothing that would yield the professional and financial stability and/or trajectory that the rest of us scurry about grasping for. I was particularly confounded by him and, yet, I understood him on some level to his very core. 

If I did not have Jesus as the anchor of my soul, my heart would break free and wander untethered, too. I would look under every bush and in every back alley for that thing, that something that would fill me up. I have the soul of an artist and I, like Mark, need a spark. I need passion in my life. As I watched the beautiful birds bobbing and weaving as they interacted with Mark, I saw the essence of life. God made us to need the beauty, intricacy and joy of nature. He expresses Himself perfectly in all of his creation. He also made us to wander and to wonder what exactly it is that we are to do here on this planet. We each have unique gifts, talents and passions. They were hard-wired into us for His purposes and we must suss them out. The good news is that God will help us do just that! I keep, as I have mentioned before in this blog, a cross-stitched picture with the words "My sheep hear my voice" embroidered on it.  (John 10:27) It's displayed in the room pictured above, the place where I seek His face, look expectantly at Him in prayer, ask a million questions and cry a billion tears. It's my private cathedral and I am so thankful for it. Guess what my calling is? It's this. This very thing I do tonight. I write and I write and I cry (sometimes) and I write some more. I go away from this computer spent and happy and not at all concerned how many of you read what it is I have managed to spew. 

If God were the only one who saw these things I express, that would be enough. You see, I believe just being and doing who we are created to be and do is an act of worship and, as much fun as it is for us, it is a holy thing. I believe God gets the same joy from it as we used to when our small children built forts or drew pictures, completely absorbed in the joy of living.

By the way, the wild parrots of Telegraph Hill were once domestic pets. But you can't keep a bird from flying. Not for long, anyway.

Everywhere

 We know that spring is very nearly here. We can hear the birds singing, their songs an effusion of colors on the wind. There is joy in the sound. Many dread the heat of summer, which follows the spring as swiftly as an antelope its herd around the brambles of the desert. I don't. I love the endless parade of sunny days the hot season cranks out. The reds, yellows, pinks, blues of summer flowers, a profusion of love and joy sent by the Father of Lights. Speaking of lights...what about the fireflies that illumine the night just beyond my candle glow on the porch? They are magic and they are creativity and they are, also, love. The Father's love extends to us on every whistling breeze. We need not climb a majestic mountain to experience it, though He is there in the heights as well.

He is in the newborn baby's cry, the litter of kittens mewling like a living, moving, bouquet of flowers beckoning us on the journey of ownership. A journey to last fifteen years of companionship and understanding the unique personality of the creature, which reveals to us, yet again, another layer of our Creator's mind. He speaks in the love of our family and friends. Their kindness, their generosity, their faithfulness.

Where can I possibly go where Jesus is not speaking to my heart? Even in the darkest, most sin-ridden place, God would certainly whisper to my spirit, helping me to hold on until I see His deliverance from it. Even in their evil I would see the sharp contrast of His goodness, know His comfort, understand his strength as I stood in firm opposition by His power.

I absolutely love to hear thunder. I know it brings rain and, with it, refreshment for all living things. I like to read while the gale pounds. However, the thing I most love to do when the wind is tearing at anything frail, is to sleep. I know God is holding my home in His loving hands and I enjoy the peace of my shelter in His unfailing love.

I just noticed that the March winds have blown out my candle here on the screened porch. I'll light it again. And again. And again.

Writers Write. (It's what they do. And DON'T do.)

 

If I had to choose one activity to spend all day, every day pursuing, it would be this. Writing. Taking words and phrases and bending and shaping them into narratives that describe the never-ending variety posed by the human experience. It's fascinating and hard and mentally sweaty and cathartic and grand, all at the same time. If I had to choose one activity never to do again, it would be writing. Yes, you read that right. It is difficult, mind-bending, soul-wrenching and utterly exhausting. Why is it that whatever it is that you have been placed on earth to do is, while your grand passion, also your nemesis. 

If a writer has social tendencies...said writer never writes. He or she has fragments floating in his or her head, sees potential characters in strong personalities all around him or her, and yet, the page is blank. The page. Is. Blank. Two years ago I started a novel. I wrote 100 pages and landed on stop. Oh, I've done some things since. A few things. But my grand work of creative fiction is moldering in a shared desktop. 

Guess what? All of those intense characters will live again. They shall! I shall begin again. Just like that. As if I have opened a children's pop-up book and, instead of a mass of heavy paper in an assortment of contortions popping up to be understood, a party of people will emerge. I'm getting excited just thinking about it. 

I am so thankful there is something that I love to do. Even if I hate to do it. Even if I have to lock myself away from human society in utter silence for hours to do it (my attention span is as fragile as a robin's eggshell after the baby has kicked it two floors to the forest floor). 

Thank you, Lord, for the gift of a gift. For the gift of work that I love to do. For people who believe in me as I do it. Help me never, ever, ever again take them for granted.