It is difficult to explain the depression. It is not unwelcome; contrarily, it is cathartic. The intensity is addictive, and so few feelings of late beset me, of any manner or intensity, that the melancholy is heartily welcome. I am quite sure this state is diagnosible as manic depression, bipolar, or some such; yet, I am not so quick to address the issue, as the state is a euphoric release from the apathy, frustration, and callousness which have haunted me for nigh two years.

This is not to say I desire my situation to continue its decline. I should like few things more than to return to a stable income, surround myself with friends of like faith, and find a woman in whom to confide. But at present, the solace is to be found in silence, sadness, and tragic nostalgia.

Though, like any addiction, there is danger in morose musings. It is a tree branch, heavy laden with snow. The weight strains the branch ’til either the bough breaks, or the snow is shed in a cascade of white. The danger in mounting snow lies in the limberness of the branch, for each successive snowfall weakens the integrity of the tree.

Walking with a limp

Cool of September welcomed,

My thoughts are elsewhere.

Twenty-seven, yet complaints:

Journeyed through many autumns.

Unsure as to if

I need complete solitude,

Or lost in a crowd.

Such vacillation of late

In the constant autumn rain.

A leaf in the wind,

Once fixed firm on mighty oak,

Is tossed on a whim.

Does it resist, or am I

Resigned? We neither yet know.

Knowing the need for action, not knowing on what to act.

Knowing the need to change, not knowing what to change.

Knowing desire, not knowing what to desire.

Knowing pressure, not knowing release.

Knowing God, not knowing the world; knowing the world, not knowing God.

Wanting apathy, knowing doubt.

Doubt.

Doubting change, knowing loathing.

Doubting hope, knowing depression.

Doubting good, knowing cynicism.

Doubting, despairing, derelict.

Apathy: known defense and catharsis returns.

Ticking. The incessant ticking of the clock, and steady murmur of the HVAC. An insufferable weight of contemplation growing denser with each tick. Tick, unavoidable loss. Tick, unsure future. Tick, diverging paths. Tick, financial pressures. Tick, relational anxiety. Tick, doctrinal wrestling. Tick, questioning calling. Tick, duking depression. Tick, emotional whirlwind. Tick, existential echoes. Tick, tick, tick…

…silence.

The clock still ticking without sound. The HVAC still blowing without whisper. The web of thought has muted exterior distraction. Suffocating, paralyzing, inescapable. Then, one enters the room. Talking, the clock tocks its ticking. Talking, the HVAC gently resumes whooshing. Talking, the coffee pot gurgles. Talking, the birds sing. Talking. Talking about nothing, talking about news, talking about life, talking about Scriptures.

Peace. Peace from the sun shining. Peace from sipping coffee. Peace in sharing experience and pain. Peace in discussing, peace in the Scriptures, peace in God. Peace: weight lifting, fear lifting, existence lifting in the ticking and the talking.

At the Nelson today, I lingered in the Asian Art wing. One of my favorite forms is calligraphy, and they have quite the display. A piece which especially resonated with me was a copy of the four Gospels in Armenian in an illuminated book format. Mesrop of Xizan is responsible for this masterpiece, created over the span of 1618-1622. Such intricate detail, diversity of precious materials, flawless scripting and penmanship, not to mention the artistry befitting of the words and message the text illuminated.

I am reminded, upon reflection, of the movie The Secret of Kells (2009), a fictional work about the creation of the Book of Kells (800-820), which is perhaps the best known illuminated manuscript of the Gospels in existence. In the movie, Brendan, an apprentice at the Scriptorium in Kells, bucks the sternness of his uncle in order to pursue the art of calligraphy and illuminating texts. He goes through trial after trial in order to assist Brother Aidan in the completion of the Book of Iona (which becomes the book of Kells).

The dedication, mastery, and persistence of Mesrop of Xizan, and the fictional Brendan (the real artist of the book was probably St. Columba), challenged me. These people were so dedicated to their work, the transcription of the Holy Scriptures, and used every ounce of their supernatural, God-given talent to produce these masterful works. It really made me question whether I am pouring as much energy, time, and care into the talents given to me for His kingdom. Not that I have the insane talent of St. Columba or Mesrop of Xizan, but I do have inherent talents given by the same God. Am I as diligent and faithful to the execution/creation of things the Lord has given me? I feel we all can be illuminated by these illuminations.

There is a paradox in the allurement of snow.

No other display of nature can arouse so wide a swath of emotion. When joy is at charge, the snow is ascribed as glittering, merry, sparkling, dazzling, and the crown of winter’s beauty. When rushed, the snow is cursed as inconvenient, a nuisance, a hazard. When sorrowful, it is oppressive, insufferable, deafening in its silent assault. It buries familiarity, yet also that which may wish to be forgotten. It amplifies light, yet limits mobility. It is the glistening, gilding of winter’s mantle, and the opaque curtain that ceases vision.

The duration of descent, the intensity of the fall, accompanied by its surrounding elemental force, and the quantity hoarded by the earth all contribute to which facade the snow dons.

When it is gentle, with but a breath or so of wind, and light cloud cover, it is peaceful. A serenity and joy well up as the docile, taciturn crystals flitter to earth. When patches of sunlight slip through, they enchant the flakes, igniting them into iridescent glitter against the backdrop of dormant trees. The modest cache retained by the earth serves as a glistening blanket, gilding the barren land. The hearts of children, and those who never lost what is important in life, are kindled with glee, wonder, and mirth

But if the clouds wax more somber, or the flitter flurries into an assault, or the wind rages, or the earth’s apatite becomes insatiable, then the silent flecks don an ominous mask. The air itself seems to soak up joy like a sponge. The horizon becomes closer as sight is squelched by the maelstrom of white. Fear like concrete sets as mobility becomes infeasible. The laughter of children is absent, and those who lost important things in life loose mournful sighs.

Oft I am tossed about the vitriolic sea of life. The tempest’s encompassing fury batters and seeks my sanity. The dark, the wind, the waves — in concert surmount their tireless sieges against my mind and toil to shatter my vessel. If I could get a moment’s solace from the relentless onslaught, I might regain bearing and better concentrate on the treacherous navigation ahead.

Music provides the ultimate refuge, but the sea is so persistent; it often dilutes the potency of music in my mind. I need first to block out the storm. Thank the good Lord and Nathaniel Baldwin for the advent of headphones. The technology is so fine that now I may cancel the cacophony encircling and retreat into the harbor of melody.

The quality of the music improves the ability to focus. Personal and intimate: allowing myself to be completely absorbed into the melody and lyric. To allow the words and rhythms to refocus, redirect, and repose my restless soul. My being seems to blend, depend, and transcend as I regain composure. I am renewed, recharged, resilient.

I retake a firm grasp of the helm, having harbored in my headphones, and steer fast in contention of the waves — forward toward shore.

I am told that like a phoenix from the ashes I rise; I was unprepared for the lay over ’til take off.

The apathy before drowning.

Not from the inability to swim, but the relentless swim to shore. At first the fight is desperate, but as I stroke and stroke without a shore in view, day in and day out, my limbs tire. After a time I begin to stop caring about reaching the shore. Then a surge of survival, revival, desire to thrive again surges and the paddle continues–though often weaker than before. Then the clouds turn from gray to nothing as darkness ensnares the ocean. All is black, then numb; I cannot distinguish the texture of the water from the oppressive night. “Rejoicing with those who rejoice” only offers solace if there are those in view rejoicing, but the few, far-out souls in the waves are also tiring of fighting the current.

In my mind, I know the unseen shore is close, but I have paddled so long I know my limbs do not have much longer. Apathy is the enemy. It is the undertow, the perilous surf, the frigid water. It is strengthened to demonic levels by the oppressive night of circumstance that suffocates the ocean and masks any shore. I know that on shore I can reconnect, renew, redirect, resurrect, but I must fight apathy.

And then I feel it. The beacon on shore. On shore? Above shore? Above the dark? Transcending? Descending? Wherever it is, I feel it. I cannot see it, but I feel the light, as if it had solidified and trails across the infinite abyss of soul and psyche: a lifeline from God. As long as I feel the light, I can pull my self to shore, or at least tie it around my waist and be slowly pulled until I have the strength to fight the sea anew.

I actually wrote this in 2015, but I came across it and realized it is not on my blog; so here we are.

Zephaniah 3.17, “The Lord your God is with you, He is mighty to save, He will take great delight in you, He will rejoice over you with singing.” (NIV)

My heart cannot cease to praise the Lord. I am a poet, which means I naturally burst into impromptu fits of adoration and praise. Some days, I will make melody to the Lord for hours. Never before, however, had I given thought to the ending of that verse. God is deserving of far more praise and song than I can produce, but He rejoices over me in song?!

Song is something sacred, and one of the highest forms of human, emotional expression. Although, it must be higher than humanity because here God rejoices to the point of song. It is inspiring to know that God is so concerned for my well-being and service to Him that it moves Him to make melody.

It is also a challenge. Songs can also be mournful, full of regret and disappointment. If God can be moved to holy chorus in joy, then He can be moved to lament a dirge over my disobedience. I do not want to move God to somber song, or yet worse—a wrathful aria, by my disobedience. I wish to keep my Lord singing ‘til He calls me home.

People standing by

The placid reflection pool ‘til

Gallery opens.

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Boist’rous boy scouts shout

And dash around the calm pool

Enjoying the sun.

Serenity may be sparse,

But to view art in youth—good.

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“Mountain Landscape”, Unkoku Toeki, (1606-1646)

While the Italian Renaissance was at its height, this masterpiece was painted. Simplicity and serenity. I can feel it: the temperature, the breath of wind, the smell, and the sound of the scene are all manifest in the painting. Masterful.

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“Vying Peacocks”, Ishizaki Koyo, (1929)

Unparalleled skill, rich colors and stark detail compliment the mood.

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“Unititled (Full Moon)”, Guillermo Kuiten, (2008)

Desolation, isolation, numbing fear. Chaos, confusion, impenetrable silence, waning time.

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The mastery of Baroque, Dutch painters is “awe-founding”.

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“Twilight Painting II”, Raqib Shaw, (2012-2013)

Embedded in spiteful war as the foundations collapse around; one would think they could stop long enough to see the futility, or at least pick a wiser field of battle.

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I like Richard Estes’ works.

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Serene winter day

As I appreciate art

Too warm near Christmas!

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Picasso would have been a great guy to hang out with, but a terrible role model.

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Nazarene, Baptist, Methodist, Pentecostal, and Presbyterian sanctuaries are fine, but they do nothing to put the mind in a frame of worship, nor echo the mood of eternity.

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“True painting is only an image of the perfection of God.”

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Chickadee flitting

Under the table for scraps;

No protest from me!

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Honey bees buzzing

Near a glass of Chardonnay–

Second of December.

How unseasonably warm;

God’s grace, or global warming?