worry, water, and whimsy

Another batch of my notoriously mismatched and random collection of questionably interesting things compiled as a poor excuse for a post:



Arthur Somers Roche:

Worry is a thin stream of fear trickling
through the mind. If encouraged, it cuts a
channel into which all other thoughts are
drained.


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The dirty truth about bottled water


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An artist asked the gallery owner if anyone
had shown interest in his paintings.

"I've got good news and bad news," the
gallery owner replied. "The good news is that
some guy inquired if it would appreciate in
value after you died. When I told him it
would, he bought all 15 of your paintings."

"And the bad news?"

"The guy was your doctor."

abideth faith, hope, charity

"And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity."

(A draft uncovered from May 9th 2008, published October 10th 2008)

I grew up in and around churches. Not necessarily attending one and only one church consistently through consecutive years, but in a church for the most part of my childhood nonetheless.

My parents were married in my mom's hometown church. She played in the bell choir in said church when I was a young child. Not so young I can't remember, but young enough that it's quite very fuzzy.

My mom also played/plays the flute. Being a flutist/flautist, she played in a number of churches (and coffee shops) throughout the years. She always took beta-blockers before she performed. But that's something entirely beside the point.

I have early memories of huge pipe organs and rows upon rows of hard wooden pews with little nooks for hymnal books and other special treats. Exploring such places while she rehearsed was the only thing to do. Let us not get into the fact that she was also a member of the Daughters of the Nile and all the exploring I did in the Masonic Temples. Yeah. Crazy stuff.

Nonetheless, my parents gave up church-going several times during my childhood. The most extended period being during my mother's pregnancy and after the birth of my one and only sibling, my younger brother, born nine years after me.

During that time I had the most estimable hope and faith to bring it upon myself to attend church on my own. Eight, nine and ten years old and I walked, each and every Sunday, with bible in hand (or in satchel), to the nearest church. The nearest church was the baptist church of our hometown in which my grandparents were wed. It was all of a quarter mile away, if that.

At the age of twelve I was baptised there (full immersion) in their public tub in front of the entire congregation. I truly believed I was cleansing myself from sin and beginning a new life. I even promised myself to change the roll of toilet paper at our home when I finished it from thereon in. Little did I know that a bit over a year later, I would be the victim and participant of one of many sins itself. But that is not what this post is about.

What, then, is this post about?

It's about how pure and beautiful that hope is. How I could endure just about anything going on in my world, at least to a relatively manageable degree, at that age because of faith and hope. And a hell-load of crap had gone on, and was going on, trust me.

I truly admire others who have the capacity to believe and have faith. It is a wonderful thing, for the most part, for most folks. I only wish I was capable of believing still. Unfortunately, I have tried, and tried, but no longer am able to believe. For the longest time, in vain, I wore the cross, wanting to believe. I wanted to have a promise of redemption.

But I fail at doing so. I can't believe. I just can't. I want to, but I can't. I've lost that innocence and faith. I've read so many works. The Oxford Bible. The Tanakh. I've taken college courses on religion. I've refreshed on Mere Christianity. I've read the God Delusion. I've read Answers for the Skeptic. I've read so much and yet can't find that spiritual push and conviction I long for.

I feel guilty for such. I feel like a bad person. And I could use it more than anything, but I can't lie about my very being and beliefs. *sigh* I want to believe. I can't lie. I can't. And I envy those who can because I can't find the strength and resources alone within myself.

deep blue day

after a while

After a while you learn
the subtle difference between
holding a hand and chaining a soul
and you learn
that love doesn't mean leaning
and company doesn't always mean security.
And you begin to learn
that kisses aren't contracts
and presents aren't promises
and you begin to accept your defeats
with your head up and your eyes ahead
with the grace of woman, not the grief of a child
and you learn
to build all your roads on today
because tomorrow's ground is
too uncertain for plans
and futures have a way of falling down
in mid-flight.
After a while you learn
that even sunshine burns
if you get too much
so you plant your own garden
and decorate your own soul
instead of waiting for someone
to bring you flowers.
And you learn that you really can endure
you really are strong
you really do have worth
and you learn
and you learn
with every goodbye, you learn...

© 1971 Veronica A. Shoffstall

100

Hit 100.

Here's to keepin' at it.
I'm hurting for motivation.