23.5.10
i can only imagine
The fruit of the Spirit.
Pause there a moment. Fruit. Singular. One fruit. One fruit that has different characteristics of love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. A beaker pours out the blessing of the Spirit which works that fruit in us, which, in turn, manifests itself in different ways.
We try to mimic these characteristics of perfection, but how deep does the desire run? Is it heartfelt or done out of selfish ambition or a desire to make those attributes our first nature?
15.5.10
flowers were harmed in the making of this bed
[No, really, they were.]
[also entitled: 5(0) ways to leave the chill behind]
1. Dress warmly. - Always a bonus; layers are key: hat, mittens, jacket, several sweaters, t-shirt, long sleeved shirt, tank-top ... you can always take them off later and empty half of your wardrobe into the vehicle which you are using. Trust me. We have several closets in there.
2. Work hard. - This one should be self-explanatory and a "duh" [think Moose from the Archie comics]. It promises to warm every last ligament you have.
3. Drink lots of tea/coffee. - If you have the luxury of several returns to the shop where hot beverages are easily accessible ... that is the opportune moment.
4. Manure can be a wonderful thing. Including the added benefit of getting warm while shoveling it, it and its steamy scent envelop you, cascading over your feet like a warm blanket. Hey, desperate times call for desperate measures.
5. Way no. 5. introduces the classic bouncing when cold. - Works almost every time. Just not when you get strange looks and decide to stop in order to protect any last shards of dignity you can scrounge together ... that is when you get cold again.
If all else fails, well, there's always a hot shower and more sweaters waiting at home.
2.5.10
a little light summer reading
In no specific order of importance, I introduce the following:
That stack, along with the list of things I would like to do this summer, is now approximately the same height as I am. On a side note: adventuring to a used bookstore is always a dangerous thing -- especially when they have a whole section on literary theory.
I have also gained a greater respect for those who can successfully make a pie. Apparently, it's not as easy as it looks, but it tastes just as good.
28.4.10
the ninth hour
It's the last minute crunch before the end - the final exam that concludes half of my undergraduate education. Granted, the milestone isn't as large as that of finalizing that education, but it is a pillar of a kind.
Had we but world enough, and time,
This last-minute studying were no crime.
Time slips past so quickly, it's wingéd chariot hurrying near. [No, I did not write a seventeenth century exam a few days ago and just quote Andrew Marvell.]
4.4.10
Good Friday, 1613, Riding Westward
LET man's soul be a sphere, and then, in this,
Th' intelligence that moves, devotion is ;
And as the other spheres, by being grown
Subject to foreign motion, lose their own,
And being by others hurried every day,
Scarce in a year their natural form obey ;
Pleasure or business, so, our souls admit
For their first mover, and are whirl'd by it.
Hence is't, that I am carried towards the west,
This day, when my soul's form bends to the East.
There I should see a Sun by rising set,
And by that setting endless day beget.
But that Christ on His cross did rise and fall,
Sin had eternally benighted all.
Yet dare I almost be glad, I do not see
That spectacle of too much weight for me.
Who sees Gods face, that is self-life, must die ;
What a death were it then to see God die ?
It made His own lieutenant, Nature, shrink,
It made His footstool crack, and the sun wink.
Could I behold those hands, which span the poles
And tune all spheres at once, pierced with those holes ?
Could I behold that endless height, which is
Zenith to us and our antipodes,
Humbled below us ? or that blood, which is
The seat of all our soul's, if not of His,
Made dirt of dust, or that flesh which was worn
By God for His apparel, ragg'd and torn ?
If on these things I durst not look, durst I
On His distressed Mother cast mine eye,
Who was God's partner here, and furnish'd thus
Half of that sacrifice which ransom'd us ?
Though these things as I ride be from mine eye,
They're present yet unto my memory,
For that looks towards them ; and Thou look'st towards me,
O Saviour, as Thou hang'st upon the tree.
I turn my back to thee but to receive
Corrections till Thy mercies bid Thee leave.
O think me worth Thine anger, punish me,
Burn off my rust, and my deformity ;
Restore Thine image, so much, by Thy grace,
That Thou mayst know me, and I'll turn my face.
Th' intelligence that moves, devotion is ;
And as the other spheres, by being grown
Subject to foreign motion, lose their own,
And being by others hurried every day,
Scarce in a year their natural form obey ;
Pleasure or business, so, our souls admit
For their first mover, and are whirl'd by it.
Hence is't, that I am carried towards the west,
This day, when my soul's form bends to the East.
There I should see a Sun by rising set,
And by that setting endless day beget.
But that Christ on His cross did rise and fall,
Sin had eternally benighted all.
Yet dare I almost be glad, I do not see
That spectacle of too much weight for me.
Who sees Gods face, that is self-life, must die ;
What a death were it then to see God die ?
It made His own lieutenant, Nature, shrink,
It made His footstool crack, and the sun wink.
Could I behold those hands, which span the poles
And tune all spheres at once, pierced with those holes ?
Could I behold that endless height, which is
Zenith to us and our antipodes,
Humbled below us ? or that blood, which is
The seat of all our soul's, if not of His,
Made dirt of dust, or that flesh which was worn
By God for His apparel, ragg'd and torn ?
If on these things I durst not look, durst I
On His distressed Mother cast mine eye,
Who was God's partner here, and furnish'd thus
Half of that sacrifice which ransom'd us ?
Though these things as I ride be from mine eye,
They're present yet unto my memory,
For that looks towards them ; and Thou look'st towards me,
O Saviour, as Thou hang'st upon the tree.
I turn my back to thee but to receive
Corrections till Thy mercies bid Thee leave.
O think me worth Thine anger, punish me,
Burn off my rust, and my deformity ;
Restore Thine image, so much, by Thy grace,
That Thou mayst know me, and I'll turn my face.
- John Donne
26.3.10
17.3.10
signs of spring
To celebrate St. Patrick's day, the colour green has been prominently displayed about the school. However, the most popular location in which to publish the statement of green is outside. There is not a cloud to be seen with a warm sun on my back as I follow the crowds outdoors. To be sure, the natural greens are lacking but linger in the promise of a return that is near at hand.
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