A kiss from my love. The songs of a dove.
Coffee on my toeses. Grounds to the roses.
Sipping from a bitter cup. Water to a thirsty pup.
Morning star is on her course. Velvet nuzzlings from nose of horse.
Son is walking as we are talking.
Baby girl and cats at play. This is how I begin my day.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Sunday, June 6, 2010
beginnings of the plunge - not complete
There were no bags to pack when Arch-Angel Michael descended again from heaven to more closely experience humanity and their coping mechanisms for free will. Each trip had brought him an opulence of insight and new emotions, though he'd kept his visits short.
Choice was something angels had to overcome, a collective disability. It had been centuries since God had simply stopped speaking to His angels. When they implored Him for some direction, He smiled lovingly, wordlessly. He touched their faces and sat with His long-time companions in silence. When His every word was their command, how else could He give His servants free will? There was some disquietude. Freedom is seldom comfortable at first.
That was when angels began to walk among humans as students instead of messengers. Humans had enjoyed free will for longer than human history could describe. While they collectively did not always make the best choices, humanity possessed a tremendous capacity for joy, love, and learning. They had integrated freedom as part of every action, if not every breath. Even those in cultures or nations where choices were restricted could still choose if they were willing to accept the dire consequences for their illicit actions.
Also, because God would not command humans with his voice, He still spoke to them. The angels craved His guidance, even if they had to get it second hand.
Michael chose his form: this time a young high-school student in the United States, to begin this human life as "Michael Smith". Michael wasn't terrific at lying. He had not really managed to do so successfully even once. When asked where he'd come from and who he was, he had always answered truthfully. He'd learned on previous visits that the older the form he took, the less complicated his identity would be. Humans had little difficulty with an old man insisting he was the Arch Angel Michael. He'd visited as an old man many times. Excepting the time he'd taken up residence next door to a house of Satanists who took the matter of his name and title rather personally, he was mostly ignored. If one was observing humanity, ignored was a perfect state.
Though honesty about Michael's background had been mostly uncomplicated as an old man, middle-aged men who claimed to be angels at all were another story. If his personal history came up at all, it was a conversation killer. Even if he wasn't terribly specific about which angel he was, his companion would often change seats or even cars on the train. Middle-aged Michael had been a lonely existence. By then he'd been aiming for a more interactive learning experience. He feared that he'd have to lie about who he was if he wanted to pursue an active role in human life.
This time he wasn't going for uncomplicated. He wanted public education and a job. He submitted his adolescence to foster care, thinking it would be easier than answering questions about his origins. "I suffered a fall," he said. The authorities assumed he had a head injury - especially if he gave them details.
Choice was something angels had to overcome, a collective disability. It had been centuries since God had simply stopped speaking to His angels. When they implored Him for some direction, He smiled lovingly, wordlessly. He touched their faces and sat with His long-time companions in silence. When His every word was their command, how else could He give His servants free will? There was some disquietude. Freedom is seldom comfortable at first.
That was when angels began to walk among humans as students instead of messengers. Humans had enjoyed free will for longer than human history could describe. While they collectively did not always make the best choices, humanity possessed a tremendous capacity for joy, love, and learning. They had integrated freedom as part of every action, if not every breath. Even those in cultures or nations where choices were restricted could still choose if they were willing to accept the dire consequences for their illicit actions.
Also, because God would not command humans with his voice, He still spoke to them. The angels craved His guidance, even if they had to get it second hand.
Michael chose his form: this time a young high-school student in the United States, to begin this human life as "Michael Smith". Michael wasn't terrific at lying. He had not really managed to do so successfully even once. When asked where he'd come from and who he was, he had always answered truthfully. He'd learned on previous visits that the older the form he took, the less complicated his identity would be. Humans had little difficulty with an old man insisting he was the Arch Angel Michael. He'd visited as an old man many times. Excepting the time he'd taken up residence next door to a house of Satanists who took the matter of his name and title rather personally, he was mostly ignored. If one was observing humanity, ignored was a perfect state.
Though honesty about Michael's background had been mostly uncomplicated as an old man, middle-aged men who claimed to be angels at all were another story. If his personal history came up at all, it was a conversation killer. Even if he wasn't terribly specific about which angel he was, his companion would often change seats or even cars on the train. Middle-aged Michael had been a lonely existence. By then he'd been aiming for a more interactive learning experience. He feared that he'd have to lie about who he was if he wanted to pursue an active role in human life.
This time he wasn't going for uncomplicated. He wanted public education and a job. He submitted his adolescence to foster care, thinking it would be easier than answering questions about his origins. "I suffered a fall," he said. The authorities assumed he had a head injury - especially if he gave them details.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
our new heaven
I find myself feeling the shy customer at the coffeehouse, like I'm not supposed to be among the super-cool. I'm just visiting, that's clear. I've got my toddler in tow. Really, she doesn't want to be here. Her fidgeting gives expression to my own inward wiggling. I order coffee arabica: black, thanks. I feel a little proud at my plain-seeming preference. I feel like, "Yeah, I know I could have a mocha latte, but I really DO just want a regular cup of joe. Don't hold the caffeine." I only feel a little foolish that I'm paying $2.00 for it.
I don't live in this town anymore: The Live Music Capital of the World. How I miss it, live music on a Tuesday night over ribs. After dinners of ginger pancakes, my love and I shared ice cream made with beer. Sunday mornings meant three miles 'round Town Lake with my best friend. My nostalgia makes my eyes burn. I love Austin, Texas. She was my savior. How could I love her AND leave her?
Olive trees. That's why we left. And goats. Property taxes are too high in Austin to make either dream possible for us. We bought the farm in '05 and hill-billied it to our new heaven as soon as I graduated, a Master of Oriental Medicine in '06. I was awarded my acupuncture license in '07 and we opened Beeville Acupuncture & Herbs in a converted one-room schoolhouse in the autumn of '08. Mike finally bought our olive trees this year. An economy like this one can kill dreamers, or their dreams. We and ours remain.
I wanted to name the clinic, "Prickly Pear Acupuncture." That name still tickles my heart. I felt though that it reminded one too much of the possibility that MY needles, thinner than a cat's whisker, might hurt. Instead I chose to pledge my allegiance to Beeville. I made this choice on faith, before I knew our new home. It was not a mistake. We are comfortable here. If I wave, folks wave back, even if we've never spoken. I often forget and wave to folks in Austin, when I visit. I am reminded then that friendly is sometimes misinterpreted as crazy.
At home, the coastal breeze in the afternoon rushes through the anaqua trees on the south side of the house. The soft perfume of their blossoms often intoxicates me past caring about the finances, or the nearly incessant tending to the animals, landscaping, kiddos, clinic, and all of the maintenance-related quirks of a centenarian farm house. I think we should name the olive farm after the anaqua somehow. They preserve me. Twice a year their scent can stop me and anchor me in meditative splendor. It is enough. Sometimes I tell people, "We are money-poor, but we are wild-flower rich." The anaqua are part of this wealth: the wealth of wild-flowers. It is such a blessing that in those moments we have enough.
I don't live in this town anymore: The Live Music Capital of the World. How I miss it, live music on a Tuesday night over ribs. After dinners of ginger pancakes, my love and I shared ice cream made with beer. Sunday mornings meant three miles 'round Town Lake with my best friend. My nostalgia makes my eyes burn. I love Austin, Texas. She was my savior. How could I love her AND leave her?
Olive trees. That's why we left. And goats. Property taxes are too high in Austin to make either dream possible for us. We bought the farm in '05 and hill-billied it to our new heaven as soon as I graduated, a Master of Oriental Medicine in '06. I was awarded my acupuncture license in '07 and we opened Beeville Acupuncture & Herbs in a converted one-room schoolhouse in the autumn of '08. Mike finally bought our olive trees this year. An economy like this one can kill dreamers, or their dreams. We and ours remain.
I wanted to name the clinic, "Prickly Pear Acupuncture." That name still tickles my heart. I felt though that it reminded one too much of the possibility that MY needles, thinner than a cat's whisker, might hurt. Instead I chose to pledge my allegiance to Beeville. I made this choice on faith, before I knew our new home. It was not a mistake. We are comfortable here. If I wave, folks wave back, even if we've never spoken. I often forget and wave to folks in Austin, when I visit. I am reminded then that friendly is sometimes misinterpreted as crazy.
At home, the coastal breeze in the afternoon rushes through the anaqua trees on the south side of the house. The soft perfume of their blossoms often intoxicates me past caring about the finances, or the nearly incessant tending to the animals, landscaping, kiddos, clinic, and all of the maintenance-related quirks of a centenarian farm house. I think we should name the olive farm after the anaqua somehow. They preserve me. Twice a year their scent can stop me and anchor me in meditative splendor. It is enough. Sometimes I tell people, "We are money-poor, but we are wild-flower rich." The anaqua are part of this wealth: the wealth of wild-flowers. It is such a blessing that in those moments we have enough.
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