Beautiful

It took me a drive to Jacksonville at 1:30 AM to understand beauty. I drove to what once was a high school, my high school, where I really grew up. It was ugly then, by all accounts. Wires protruded from walls, the stucco was salmon, and the radiators sounded as though a thousand little men with hammers were stuck inside and trying to get the students' attention. It was bought, a few years back, by some company that wanted to turn it into a quaint office building. So out moved the children and teachers, out flew the cheesy decorations and lockers and desks, out out out flew that salmon stucco. They repainted, they stripped away the practicalities that shouted high school--worn metal bars in the middle of the stairs, grated windows, oft-repaired drywall, the old boiler--and now it would seem to be a beautiful place. The old brick exposed and complemented by well-placed lights and a more reasonable paint color, it looked very much like someone else's childhood memories, perhaps a place they visited on a sunny day when they were seven and picked up leaves with their mother and they were truly happy. It was funny, though, as I looked at this new antique building, with all its refinement and delicacy, that I was stricken with a deep and abiding sadness. It was as though my childhood dog had died and been replaced with a newer, faster, more practical dog. I realized, then, that this was the ugliest place I had ever seen; because while it may have improved in every way measurable, it lost its story, it lost the ghosts that happily followed the souls within it. That's not the wall I sat on at lunch anymore, it's the divider where a worker tied his shoes before the first day of work. All this crammed into my head as I crawled by, ogling the impeccable cleanliness and remarkable restoration, and I realized that beauty isn't in the eye of any beholder, it's in the sweetness of a memory and the nuances of an oft-spun tale. Beauty is a word that we should only give to something, someone, whose story we can tell and smile, or who stands above their sordid past as a rugged survivor of a private war. That's why I hate model houses and Playboy Magazine. People drive by model houses the way they flip through Playboy, driving by and looking at what is for someone but will never be for them, those pornographic houses standing bare on well-groomed tufts of greenest grass, plying their wares for each staring John. These houses, these women, these cars and diamonds are pretty, sure, but there's infinitely more beauty in an old childhood home, the Astro van that barely runs, your grandpa's watch, the woman who stood by your dusty side when the roads got a little too rough. That's why one's mom is probably the most beautiful woman they know, or at least should be regarded as such. Maybe no one else would put them in Maxim, but to those of us who no them as the women who wiped our noses and dried our tears, they are the picture of feminine perfection, the most beautiful of God's creatures. Beauty isn't in the eyes that catch ours, or in the skin that grazes ours, or even in the lips that press against our own, but in the sights our eyes have seen together, in the wind that's blown against both our skins, and in the softly spoken words that have escaped our trembling lips. That's beauty.

God the Dentist

It's taken me a while to convince myself

That I can indeed be happy with what is

Not just joyful, which has its worth

Not just resilient, although I want that

Nut just strong, although I hope I am

But really and truly happy

Achieving

Doing

Being

Loving

Finding!

Christians may pride themselves in spurning emotion

And may well say that to float on its breezes is to invite pain

But it's a fact that God has among the fullness of his blessings

A measure of happiness, pure and completely circumstantial

A flighty and perhaps fleeting simple emotion

But one that He gives because God is a God who enjoys a good smile

He likes virtues, He loves worship and praise and perseverance

But He also loves to bless us in practical and basic ways

A job

A relationship

Safety in slippery streets

Perfectly cooked meatloaf

He's not so busy up there that He hasn't noticed we like these things

And He's not so cruel that He would disdain our joy

So allow God to bless, expect that He wants you to smile.

Breath of the day, no. 19756.

How do I describe today with regular words? I feel like it should be simpler, just to list these things coolly. I woke up and had coffee with my mom. I came back and watched sports, then lounged in the grass and played catch before going to chipotle, after which I watched more sports, watched a movie, and went on a late-night slurpee run. Simple enough; but it was too much more to leave at that.

I woke up earlier than normal, and it took too long for my eyes to adjust to this "sight" and so I sat still, waiting. I arose, prepared myself in some menial way, and ambled down the steps to greet my mother in the waiting, running car. We spoke softly about this and that but what really mattered was the sound of the words and how they mingled, shaking hands in the air above us before hurrying off to who-knows-where. We ate and drank a small breakfast and talked about computers and basketball shorts, and then she was gone, back to home, back to my past and the ever-creeping future.

My day was just starting, though, and I returned to watch grown men play games at high stakes on my TV screen. The sun, the sun called to me from beyond my screened-in hovel and I was entranced to follow, pillow and laptop clutched firmly in hand. A crowd had gathered to worship that pied piper that sat aloft above us, and all lay prostrate before it's all-seeing gaze. I tuned the radio to subtle, gliding melodies that sank me deeper, deeper into the emerald carpet until I could touch the bones of my father's father's father, and it was cool. Shaken by a sudden stirring in the outside world, up above, I rose up rushing through the waves and found that I was alive here, beneath this tree and this sun and this clock-tower. 

I whisked myself away, then, full of thought and significance, to a fast-food burrito restaurant, and I ceased thinking of why and what and how and simply thought of lime chips and the way corn feels when you squeeze it between your molars. Full, content, smiling and determined, I sat once more beneath the men who waged war with an orange sphere and well-placed elbows, and I realized that I'm an American, and that's not a bad thing, not at all. 

It all blurred together then. For a while it seemed like the day had reached a mirror and was reflecting upon itself, studying and magnifying its flaws and successes, and I was caught up in the ticking of clocks and the motion of fan-blades across dead quiet space. Then, mercifully, I sat before a movie and thought about prison, and how much I want to learn harmonica, and what it means to be free in a world of unseen chains. Then a cool drink to freeze this day in place, static for all time to look back on fondly, and smile.

Week. Ended.

I went home this weekend, and it was a needed trip. Yes, I went home for my mom because it was mothers' day, but what I found once there that I had so much more to see. 

I drove with my brother and a close friend, we talked about life and saw things I had missed for a while. The slow curve of a road in no hurry. The silence of a forgotten intersection. Unimpeded sound beneath soft tires. 

That night I got bored, it was midnight and I was the only one awake. So I got into the car and went to a sketch pool hall, and that was just fantastic. $2 for an hour of peaceful goodness? Yes, please. 

I came home, slept, and woke up to my mom's voice. That's a good way to start the day, much better than the shrill condemnation of an alarm clock. Went to my brother's game, which he beasted because he is a stud.

That night, we had a barbeque at the house, everyone came, everyone laughed, and all was right with the world. I won at poker. Life is good. 

Hung out with Rachel McCord. Awesome time. 

Church. Thumbs up!

Fites. Thumbs up!

Benny boy and new girlfriend, two thumbs way up!

This was an awesome weekend. Let's do it again, eh universe?

Positivity

I was a worrier, once, when I was thirteen. I would lie in bed and dread the next day, and that page of English would pulse in my mind as though wedged between my right and left brain, leaving both hands paralyzed because surely this was what would stunt my academic growth. A funny thing happened, though, when things of actual consequence began to happen: I gained perspective. A page of work that may or may not get done became simply that, and a friend that may or may not get their heart broken became so much more. And then I had the benefit of looking back upon how I was, how I thought, how I would dread, and I could see with full clarity that that was no longer me. I could see that I was somehow other from that, somehow changed, and that I need keep changing. With perspective came optimism, because I began to see that, in the harsh light of eternity's glow-in-the-dark and ever-ticking watch, everything else was very dim and very prone to running down the batteries. When you see how small things are, how little it ultimately helps to think the worst and how small the fallout from each tiny cataclysm, you can't help but choose to see what's best, to search for it even. That the good is better than the bad is worse is a big realization. When you find that, you're compelled to seek out the good, and even to ignore the bad that doesn't do you any good. You start to assume that things will work out, that you'll be able, that God will provide, that what someone has done was an anomaly, or better yet a falsity. Some may call this naive, and perhaps they're right, but while they pride themselves with finding your flaw and feed the furnace that is their cynicism, you can hope they find a way to change, that they can find some peace, and you can smile. Smile.