A Summer's Matter

Mark Twain once wrote: "Life does not consist mainly, or even largely, of facts and happenings. It consists mainly of the storm of thoughts that are forever blowing through one’s mind."

So do you remember the smell of last summer? When the hot moist air stifled you as you rode your bike to class? Do you remember taking French, and waking up early every morning? Do you remember your sense of accomplishment, or the friends that you didn’t even realize you were making as you shared an apartment with complete strangers? Do you remember what you were doing a year ago? Does it feel any different now? Does it feel like another lifetime ago?

So much has changed; things never thought possible to change about me have changed. And yet here I am, it’s summer again, and it might just start all over… Will I even realize that it’s happening, or will I sit blindly and let the summer pass me by? Am I going to be able to take advantage of every opportunity, or will it be too late for me to recognize the opportunities?

Now, will you let yourself live this time to its fullest, or will you once again try to hide behind walls and under covers, trying to escape the reality of the life before you?

A Matter of Fact

To write what is on one’s heart is not exactly an easy thing to do. It’s easier to write a piece of fiction based on facts to try to tell the story that needs to be told, rather than tell it exactly as it happened. It’s easier because you can choose to leave out the hard parts, or make the good parts seem not so good, depending on what you want the reader to feel when he or she picks up your work. Most of the time fact based fiction is written in order to be more interesting or more emotion provoking than the real instance actually was. Or maybe it’s just that the writer cannot see how great the story is in its entirety and its rawness that he or she feels the need to add embellishment despite the fact embellishment isn’t needed.
I have a friend. I know that generally people say that they “have this friend, who has done such and such, or thinks this and that,” and really they are just talking about themselves, but this isn’t like that. I have a friend, and he’s in a dark place. He has tried to take his own life three times now. The reason he hasn’t succeeded? That would be God. There’s just no other explanation for why he is still alive. He shouldn’t be, he should at least have major damage to his body due to his major drug abuse, but he doesn’t. And granted, that has made him rather ticked, but I’ll take him ticked over dead any day.
The problem is, despite the fact that another friend of his and my-self have tried to get him to realize that he is meant to be here on this earth, he just doesn’t believe that. He has convinced himself, through lying to himself, that he isn’t supposed to be here. How do you change a person’s beliefs? If someone is set in believing something, especially if that person is stubborn and closed minded, how do you change their mindset? Is it even possible?
And if it isn’t possible, then how are we supposed to help keep him alive? Aside from keeping him in a hospital bed with sedatives and a feeding tube? It would appear that whether he lives or dies is up to him entirely. So how are we supposed to convince him that he needs to choose life over death? I feel entirely helpless. And I’m fighting against feeling entirely hopeless. Emotionally, it’s draining. But again, I would choose to be emotionally drained because he is still alive, than find out one morning that he has chosen to end life.

A Matter of Mountain Rain

The smell permeated the air hours before it could be seen or even heard. The scent grew in strength throughout the day, and the anticipation of what was coming caused excitement to surge through my veins. My spine tingled. It was coming. The rush started in the distance, echoing off of the mountain walls, echo growing louder, an Indian’s rain stick had come to life. The torrent was rapidly moving towards me, for a moment, one very brief moment I saw the wall of pouring water. Nothing separated it from the sky. In that moment fear tugged at my heart, rushed to my feet; but quickly receded, joy replaced it as the rain touched my skin. Pure ecstasy, that’s what it was, pure, unhindered, ecstasy, a result of mountain rain.

The water rushed into my open mouth, childhood songs about lemon drops and gumdrops came to mind and I smiled. The water seeped into my skin. It was in me, the torrent of rain coursed through me, strengthening my body, weakening my knees. Joy was in my face, Song was in my heart, Dance was in my feet, all the emotions rushed together, overflowing into beautiful terraces of laughter. I gave into Dance, arms outspread, face to the sky, with eyes softly shut, and my feet moved. I didn’t know the dance, the rain led me, it guided my steps, gently but firmly, the rain led, I followed. And it was beautiful.

As the dance finished I looked around me, arms slowly lowered to my sides, rain still flowing freely over me, tingling my senses, raising the gooseflesh on my arms. The sky was beauty, solid, brilliant, deep gray. The aspens’ multi-colored leaves gave compliment; the high-rising mountains gave accent.

It was the last rain of the season. Soon the last season would be upon us, the one that never seemed to end. It would bring the final rain, the first snow. Fall would be over; the rains wouldn’t come again for another six months at least. I was taken out of the rain.
Everything was powdered white, with bedroom window open I could smell the next storm coming. The smell resembled that of the rain, but it dull. The flurries started, it was stark, the scent still tingled my senses and I would wake at any hour to sit in the ledge of my screened open window, breathing in its briskness. Its smell refreshed my senses and made me eager to begin my day, but I didn’t dance. It wasn’t exhilarating, it didn’t seep into every part of me, and it would never lead me in a dance, though I sometimes attempted to coax it to. Its little stars of frozen water would flat by my eyes, tickle my cheek, and rest on my sleeve. When the stars stuck together as they fell, some would get caught in my lashes, others would pile high in my hand. When they clumped together they lived longer. They were beautiful, them, in all their purity, would deem everything around them as pure. Snow’s beauty is easy on the eyes, things transform, barren trees become full once more, but they still remain dead. Nature doesn’t even dance with the snow, snow may bestow beauty, but it won’t start an epic dance; unlike rain.

When it rained even the sky sang, it’s deep full voice would shake the mountains, and in times of its silence it would add a flash of brilliance, accenting the dancers’ movements and giving light to the rain. It’s mountain rain; its fragrance heightens all of nature’s senses. It teaches its dance to any willing to let it lead, and it permeates the heart of any who join it underneath the glowing gray skies. It’s mountain rain, just wait for it, it’ll come.

A Matter of Scripture

"I will sing of steadfast love and justice; to you, O Lord, I will make music. I will ponder the way that is blameless. Oh when will you come to me? I will walk with integrity of heart within my house; I will not set before my eyes anything that is worthless. I hate the work of those who fall away; it shall not cling to me. A perverse heart shall be far from me; I will know nothing of evil."

- Psalm 101:1-4

"Praise the Lord! For it is good to sing praises to our God; for it is pleasant, and a song of praise is fitting. The Lord builds up Jerusalem; he gathers the outcasts of Israel. He heals the brokenhearted and bind up their wounds. He determines the number of the stars; he gives to all of them their names. Great is our Lord, and abundant in power; his understanding is beyond measure."

- Psalm 147:1-5

"And it is my prayer that your love may abound more and more, with knowledge and all discernment, so that you may approve what is excellent, and so be pure and blameless for the day of Christ, filled with the fruit of righteousness that comes through Jesus Christ, to the glory and praise of God."

- Philippians 1:9-11

"Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice. Let your reasonableness be known to everyone. The Lord is at hand; do not be anxious about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus."

- Philippians 4:4-7

An Impulsive Matter of Superstition

Have you ever been lying in your bed, unable to sleep, and you looked at the clock only to find that it was eight o'clock in the morning on a day you didn't have anything to do? You want to pull the covers back over your head and drift back off into the land of dreams, maybe even finish the one that ended when the sunlight on your pillow awoke you. Instead, that same beam of sunshine tickles your face until you get out of your bed, toss on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, throw on some jogging shoes, and greet the briskness of the day head on... Maybe it's wondering if something might be different today, if something might have changed and today you can make it the whole loop around the neighborhood without turning back out of fear. Maybe it's the fact that it's a new year and you are trying your best to turn over a new leaf. Or maybe it's that something outside of yourself is calling you to come and join it. Maybe, just maybe, it's something more than you could even imagine, and maybe you might just meet someone who could make all of this understandable... Maybe. And then again, perhaps it was just an odd impulse, and you obeyed it.

Kind of like when people see a black cat, and avoid it. Or knock over a salt shaker and then throw a handful over their shoulders. Or when a person refuses to go into a room with an upside down horseshoe above the door. And then again, it could just be like the person who refuses to pass under a ladder, but instead insists on walking around it. Eventually these actions become impulses, or maybe they just started off that way. Personally, I'll take the quickest route if I can, and if I can't, well then, I enjoy the trip.

Superstition has never quite been my forte. I'm not one to hold my breath as I pass by a graveyard, but rather sometimes I purposefully drive slower. Enjoying the tragically beautiful scene that lays beside me. Maybe that's the opposite of superstition, although I'm not exactly sure if that's what it should be called.