Mysticism keeps men sane. As long as you have mystery you have health; when you destroy mystery you create morbidity... it is exactly this balance of apparent contradictions that has been the whole buoyancy of the healthy man. The secret of mysticism is this: that man can understand everything by the help of what he does not understand. The mystic allows one thing to be mysterious, and everything else becomes lucid... The one created thing which we cannot look at is the one thing in the light of which we look at everything. Like the sun at noonday, mysticism explains everything else by the blaze of its own victorious invisibility.

-Chesterton, Orthodoxy

The Castle-Builder

A gentle boy, with soft and silken locks,
A dreamy boy, with brown and tender eyes,
A castle-builder, with his wooden blocks,
And towers that touch imaginary skies.

A fearless rider on his father's knee,
An eager listener unto stories told
At the Round Table of the nursery,
Of heroes and adventures manifold.

There will be other towers for thee to build;
There will be other steeds for thee to ride;
There will be other legends, and all filled
With greater marvels and more glorified.

Build on, and make thy castles high and fair,
Rising and reaching upward to the skies;
Listening to voices in the upper air,
Nor lose thy simple faith in mysteries.

Longfellow

a schizophrenic e minor
hits his heads
against the wall
his sister chords spiral
from the strings
in echoes and chants

they fly
reciting rhythms
to the windows
they fly
then shatter
and burn

last i saw the
e minor die

his mouths were
reciting rhythms to
the windows

I find that in the summer's end, while many things change,

many things stay. I take the taxi to the hill. I scatter dust
as I run down the sloping grass, wondering why --
why the days blink so fast? The season is changing and so is my
mood. My thoughts are flying a million directions; and to my
indignation, some are wanting to lie dormant, wrapped cozily
in a tartan plaid! My summer impulsive wildness is getting sleepy
and swirling smoke and fires and flickering shadows on the
walls sound nice. The warm breeze reminds me of coldness and
scarves. My ideas are starting to turn... turn colors like the
leaves soon will. And my thoughts... oh my thoughts... some are
flying south, but some... some are dreaming of cinnamon and
wool, hungrily dreaming of past summer days as if they were a
custard of pleasant fairy tales. Oh. And taxi! Could you please
stop at the next coffee shop?

I need some warmth from this sudden chilliness.

I've always loved Chesterton. Before I've wished that Madeleine L'Engle had been my aunt; now I doubly wish G.K. Chesterton had been my grandfather. His simple mirthful innocence and honesty in approaching Christianity never fails to broaden and sharpen my intellect. I am having a delightful time reading Orthodoxy. It's one of those books that I thought I already read years ago, but obviously I realized, never did.

Existence and it's meaning, and life and love-- and trying in vain to discern God's reasoning behind bubbles and bell peppers, have been intensely lurking in my thoughts and under my bed for weeks. This short poem of Chesterton's marched through my mind all day like a somber hymn, strumming the strings of my mind like an ungraceful harpist. It's nothing new. I've read it before.

Here dies another day
During which I have had eyes, ears, hands
And the great world round me;
And tomorrow begins another.
Why am I allowed two?

Meaning. I'm struggling with meaning. Can a Christian be lost? Not lost in the truest sense, because my darkness is illuminated by the light. But lost as in, what is this light? "I felt in my bones, first that this world does not explain itself... Second, I came to feel as if magic must have a meaning, and meaning must have some one to mean it." One of my favorite passages so far is when he describes this world as a sort of cosmic shipwreck:

"A person's search for meaning resembles a sailor who awakens from a deep sleep and discovers treasure strewn about, relics from a civilization he can barely remember. One by one he picks up the relics- gold coins, a compass, fine clothing- and tries to discern their meaning. Fallen humanity is in such a state. Good things on earth- the natural world, beauty, love, joy- still bear traces of their original purpose, but amnesia mars the image of God in us."

I was so excited upon reading this that during my break at work, I called an employee over and read it to her. I was so excited. To me-- what a genius way to describe it-- this world, truth and life! Sometimes little things have a way of exploding my overly eager mind to produce dramatic thoughts, and well, this quote did it. It brought me abruptly out of my body and jolted me into the space of time- in my mind I surveyed the world and humanity- and I was overwhelmed with the feeling of God, and of the beauty of this place, of its desecration, of its mystery, and of its mystic magic and pure and holy beginning and hope of redemption. We live in a Narnian world.

My spine just tingled.

Sometimes I find myself getting into a routine. A life routine. I wake, eat, work, sleep. I eat my toast without philosophizing about the art of chewing. I breathe without realizing it... I forget about life every day. Every other minute I seem to get caught up in the swirl of living that I completely forget what I am doing-- I am living! Isn't this amazing?

I am life. I breathe. I live. I move. I hear. And speak. I love. I weep. I sense. I fear. I believe. I feel. I hope. I...live. This reality- this concept of life, of my life and your life- should never cease to amaze us. Never. The profound mystery of this breathing and pulsing world should grab our hearts and dwell within our souls. It should race within our minds every day and excite us with an amazing love and gratitude for our Creator. It should knock us off our feet! It should blow our minds. It should send shivers down our spines. It should overwhelm us. Convict us. Inspire us.

It should intoxicate us. It should intoxicate us with love for life-- for our beautiful, beautiful lives.

She had just heard that her friend of 50 years had died. "I didn't even know she had cancer," she told me. She stared through the open door absently and said, "I didn't even know." I put the card back I was looking at and picked up a different one. The birthday greeting inside was exceptionally lame. I put it back. I turned to look at her. I watched her, curiously. Her light, white hair framed her pixie face. Her eyes were vibrant and sparkling. She was very lovely. I felt so young looking at her. Childish. Inexperienced. What wise condolences could I offer her? I prayed for her, silently. "It's very sad when your friends start dying," She said, looking at me. I couldn't say, "I know." Because... I didn't. "When you know someone for so long, it kills you when they leave you. It does, " she said, looking at me thoughtfully. I twirled the card stand, and watched the colorful cards spin. I tried to share in some of her pain by telling her of my friend who had just left that day for Marine boot camp. I think that made it worse and I berated myself for telling her. So, I decided to just listen, silently. Attentively. My heart going out to her, quietly. "I really hate goodbyes, you know." She said. "And... I've learned that, this is what life is; a series of goodbyes." Her soft, wistful voice smote my heart. "I really, really hate goodbyes." I ended up buying a card. I didn't want to leave so quickly, but I was late for an appointment. I tried to say everything encouraging and loving that I could think of. I walked to the door. She smiled, "Thank you for coming, dear," she said. I smiled too, wanting to run back over to her and give her a hug."Goodb--" I started to say. "I hope you have a lovely evening," I quietly said instead. I walked down the cracked sidewalk, clutching my card.