For this weather, wellybeans

Say to the sea,

Thus far shall you come, and no farther,

And here shall your proud waves be stayed.

No more. No farther.

(Not swallowed in the sea.)

Who shut in the sea when it burst out...

and prescribed limits for it and set bars and doors?

Say to the sea,

Enough. You have swirled away enough.

Who then is this, that even the wind and the sea obey him?

This Very Present Darkness

These days, I have said to friends, depression is knocking at my door, and I am fearful, though I have been told I need not, and must not, be dismayed.

It crouches at my door. I must not be mastered by it.

Some days I am inexplicably (with reference to my current circumstances) sad and disembodied. This gloomy cloud follows me.

These days, I miss her. She understood. But I don't just miss her understanding; I don't just miss being understood. I miss her. I feel her absence without jumping to fill it for someone else for the first time since that initial sorrow. I think of how a year ago around now, we were planning for our weekend in Princeton.

Therefore we must pay much closer attention to what we have heard, lest we drift away from it (Hebrews 2:1). Do not neglect your great salvation, Esther. You have a Savior!

So having put on the full armor, is our only marching order to stand firm? Will Papa really fight on our behalves?

Arm ourselves for the darkness at hand, we must.

Because the fog--It obscures the truth that He already has championed us. And He's irrevocably won.

I pray that mercy would root my heart and mind deeply in the gospel. And that the light of this victory would resight my blind fumbling aim and distorted vision.

I must see You, Jesus. Please open my eyes and fix them on You or I shall certainly get lost in the ambiguities.

A deep fog stalks me. But another cloud goes before. By day. By night (Exodus 13:21). It shepherds me along the Way.

Even those sheep who stray into rabbit trails are not lost to You.

Nevertheless, I am continually with you; you hold my right hand.

You guide me with your counsel, and afterward...

You will receive me to glory. Whom have I in heaven but You?

And there is nothing on earth that I desire--besides You.

My flesh and my heart do fail.

But God is the strength of my heart and my portion. Forever.

Potholes, 2.

The great thing about a stiff old-lady-hip is that I get to feel younger every day.

While I was injured, black people were saying the funniest things to me. Direct speech is a hilarious and lovely feature of African American Vernacular English. It took some years in Harlem to adjust to it, but during awkward furtive grocery store stare-and-averts back in the midwest last weekend, an unexpected trip, I realize that I much prefer the frankness.

Terence, my UPS guy (since I've lived at the same address for three years now, there are many familiar faces in the neighborhood) chided, "ESTHER! You get in a fight again?" A bike accident, I clarified. "With what, a rhino?! Damn."

And my favorite incident--a run-in at the corner deli with an older black woman, in a house dress and curlers. "Giiirrrrrlll, you gotta leave his broke ass." Let me tell you, the "No, no, it's not what you think" that I meant in reassurance was not what she wanted to hear. "Ohh honey child, you don't gotta cover up for him! You don't gotta put up widdat shit, y'heard? Now you run on home now and you think bout what I says. Mm-hmm!"

What laughing, coughing, and sneezing had in common: They hurt my hip. A lot. The other thing they had in common: They're involuntary. So as much as laughing hurt the last two weeks, I remember a long long season, of recent vintage, in which I did not laugh at all, and that hurt even more, even though sometimes it felt like nothing at all.

While I was getting discharged from the hospital that Sunday, my best friends' father was being pronounced braindead after a sudden and severe asthma attack a few days prior. Mercy bowed me. It's why I was home for those silent suburban stares that dared not ask, of the splotches and bruises on my face, what happened and if I was okay.

Lord, let me never pretend I've not seen. Sometimes asking real questions is awkward. But so was hanging naked on a cross, probably.

Come Thou Dayspring

the sunrise shall visit us from on high
to give light to those who sit in darkness
and in the shadow of death,
to guide our feet into the way of peace.

// Zechariah

A child's anticipation.

tell me, if love and patient joy are the only weapons against darkness and long despair:
what is patient joy? long-suffering joy?
is hope its fuel?

:') watched this 10x this morning teehee

hope is the tree that bears the fruit of Joy, Steph said.
patient Joy... it grasps onto hope and True Promises.

so we work and watch and wait.
with hope in our hearts.
anticipation in our pee-bags.

for this season to change.

in the meantime there are yellow boots, pendulum swings, morning chocolates, and many sunrises to help you stay a child at play. to help you be certain. it won't be long.

Behold the Man, 2.

As we crossed the green bridge from Kuramae exit A7 back to Asakusa,
he broke the comfortable winter silence:

You know, if you ever got too sad &

decided to jump off this bridge

I'd go in after you and try

and swim you to safety.

You can't see it from here,

but there's a ladder there out of the water.

I saw it the other day as I was thinking about this,

crossing the bridge with you.

Wow, jeez.
-- what morbid chivalry --
-- do i look like a dying, distressed damsel? --
You sure think about this kind of thing a lot.

Yeah.

I have to.  

It's the gospel.

That the man should die for the woman if--

Well, it's not even a matter of if.

When. When it came to--

-- well aren't you sexist --
I'm not sure that's a gospel I've ever received.

I know.

That's why I need to tell you.

It's good for you to hear.

That's why I sit facing the door,

so if anyone came through it...

That's why I try to make sure that

and ask in every way if

you're okay.

If your ears are warm,

how's your cough,

your toenail,

you hungry?

Well then... aren't we all called?

To lay down our lives, one for the other?

Yes, in different ways.

Women through... childbirth?

--Seriously. Who do you think you are.--

He laughed.

Sure, I guess that's one way.

sat down and wept

By the rivers dark

I wandered on

I lived my life

in Babylon

and I did forget

my holy song

and I had no strength

in Babylon

by the rivers dark

where I could not see

who was waiting there

who was hunting me

and he cut my lip

and he cut my heart

so I could not drink

from the river dark

and he covered me

and I saw within

my lawless heart

and my wedding ring

I did not know

and I could not see

who was waiting there

who was hunting me

by the rivers dark

I panicked on

I belonged at last

to Babylon

then he struck my heart

with a deadly force

and he said, "This heart

it is not yours."

and he gave the wind

my wedding ring

and he circled me

with everything

by the rivers dark

in a wounded dawn

I live my life

in Babylon

tho' I take my song

from a withered limb

both song and tree

they sing for him

be the truth unsaid

and the blessing gone

if I forget

my Babylon

I did not know

and I could not see

who was waiting there

who was haunting me

by the rivers dark

where it all goes on

by the rivers dark

in Babylon

// "By the Rivers Dark," Leonard Cohen

So Tired of Being

Tired.
Of being tired.

Two hours of tossing. And turning. And not sleeping.

One hour of vain attempts at productivity a.k.a. study/work. Ineffectual because, well, apparently not sleeping is slightly incapacitating. Quite the handicap.

One hour of further vain attempts at productivity a.k.a. sleep. I mean, try.

My pen could not keep up with my brain. So here I am again. Hello, blogger.
Typing madly. Because typing is faster than scribbling illegibly in my journal.

How is it that the mind attacks the body this way... to induce... insomnia. Or is it the soul that's revolting (in either the verbal or adjectival sense--take your pick). Maybe this merits a new tag; "psychosis" may be more apposite than "neurosis."

It's not like I don't try. I do and take everything that you say will help. I pay for your professional Dx. As to your Rx, I object. As mania is no healthier or more whole than depression, so the days at a time where I'd hibernate if society--and my roommates--permitted are no acceptable alternative to the consecutive sleepless nights.

Medicate or meditate? Beginning to lean to the latter... but how? M&M.
Maybe you need one first to be well enough for the other? Both, but one first? Which one?

Argh.

All the while, Psyche is further fractured. She clamors for Eros, because feeling... nothing... is no way to live. Sleepwalking is not waking. Wakeparalysis is not sleeping. The zombie, the robot... have only a semblance of life. Need heart. Need to feel. Need to sleep.

Once upon a time,
I would wake at this hour.
Now, I'm still awake.

God.

Who gives to His beloved sleep.
Ps 127.

Please. Mercy. Uncle. Father. Whatever.

Am Your beloved, Your creation, and You love me...
You have called me chosen for Your kingdom, unashamed to call me...

I will never doubt His promise

Though I doubt my heart, I doubt my eyes

My Deliverer is coming

I believe it!
Help my unbelief.