Meaning in the Mundane

Deep in the woods, the frail dry branches of the trees reach up to the heavens, straining to capture what little sunlight this January day has to offer. A few crisp brown leaves still cling tightly to the branches as they sway in the winter wind, though most have fallen down to forest floor below where they coat the frozen ground. At first glance, the forest and all that is in it seem dead. Dried up. Glory days behind them. Long past their prime.  But if you listen, you will find, in the silence of the winter woods, a breath that still breathes. There is no finality in the slumber of these trees. No, their silence is merely a pause: a pause pregnant with hope.  Hope that whispers of beauty to come. Of buds to blossom. Of vibrant tones of green amidst the brown. No, the Breather of Life is not finished here. There is more good to come. More glory to be unveiled. More of the song to be sung. And so the trees wait. They wait in the silence. They wait in the cold. In ...

I walk through the garden on the beaten path of the many who have lost themselves in cold, frozen, darkest days of winter. The winter has been long. I am the dead twigs. I am the dry leaves. All around is evidence of beauty that once was but is no longer. As I walk I notice little plaques stuck in the ground, placed there to label what once grew there but since has succumbed to the frost of this life: little tombstones marking the graves of once-blosssoming things. As I walk, I look closer at all the dead things. The skeleton trees start to speak words of life. From their weary branches sprout buds and soon blossoms. Through crunchy brown leaves pierce fresh green stalks. It is then that I realize the plaques are not tombstones at all. Though they reference the past, they do not stop there. They are bold declarations of all that is still to come: the beauty that will be restored! Although for a while, the plants that they mark are buried deep in the ground, soon from their earthen t...

Today I had the opportunity to view nativities from around the world. Each was culturally very different: made with different materials, featuring different animals, different colors, and different designs. I was struck by these differences among scenes that each proclaim the same message: that God has come to man.  And not only did He come to us, He made Himself like us. And how better to convey the message that God came for all men than to portray His coming with so many different mediums? That God did come for the prim and proper is shown in so many nativity scenes. But God also came for the poor and disheveled, for those elegantly clothed and those who wear rags, for those of all colors, all shapes and all sizes. People from every corner of earth get to celebrate God coming to THEM! Today the nativities taught me again that God's coming to us is a personal gift. He comes and He is just what each of us needs. We don't need to chase after Him hopelessly. Instead ...

Nevertheless. What a powerful word. It injects hope when placed after any trial, tribulation, failure, or sorrow. It acknowledges the past but doesn't let me stay stuck there. It reminds me that my past does not dictate my future, that none of my failures indicate that I will never succeed, that even in weakness I can be strong. Tacked on to the end of every sentence that describes my shortcomings, nevertheless is a tool that enables me to be kind to myself, to hope that tomorrow's outcome might be different from today's, and to remember that one thing does not always lead to another. Nevertheless I persisted. Nevertheless I stand tall. Nevertheless I have worth and significance. Nevertheless tomorrow will come. Nevertheless gives me hope.

Some people climb mountains by choice. Chasing adventure, the rush, the beauty of nature, the glory, or the fame they go out of their way to find majestic hills to venture up. But then there are the mountain climbers who climb out of necessity. They climb because, on the journey of life, they've been placed at the foot of a mountain range and over is the only way through. The thing about this kind of mountain climbing is that you don't feel brave while you're doing it. You didn't choose to climb for sport or for fame or for glory. You don't feel exhilarated by the beautiful view, for you never have time to stop and take it in. Desperate you cling to the side of the mountain as you scramble for footholds and fight to catch your breath. Rain beats down on your back as the slope grows slipperier. Sometimes it's all you can do to hang on for dear life and to hope that by morning your strength will return to propel you up the steep terrain. No, you don't feel...

I don't know how to spell the word gray. Black and white are easy to spell - but gray? I never know whether to use the e or the a. But maybe there's meaning there... Black and white are definitive colors. They have one shade each. And one spelling each. As soon as black is mixed with the tiniest drop of white, it is considered gray. Similarly the tiniest bit of black turns white to gray. Appropriately, gray, which comes in many different shades, also has more than one spelling. Gray is neither up nor down. Neither here nor there. Neither right nor wrong. It's inbetweenness is what makes gray gray. Or grey grey...? The people I look up to and hope to emulate the most are those who know how to live in the gray. Certainly there are some things in life that truly ARE black or white. But there are so many people who make up blacks and whites about the way other people behave and live -- blacks and whites that don't belong in gray areas. But then you come across the rar...

I work as an office administrator in a busy doctor's office. Creating and maintaining order in chaos is my job. With so much to keep track of, forgetting happens frequently. My forgetting can negatively impact our patients as well as my coworkers. DAILY some piece of information or other slips through the cracks in my brain and falls into the abyss of forgotten information from whence it cannot be retrieved. Occasionally I can bungee jump down into the abyss and bring up small loads of previously forgotten information. But for the most part, once it's fallen down there, there's no retrieving it. But where is the meaning behind all of this forgetting? It means that I am human. And maybe that's all that it means. My forgetting doesn't mean that I don't care. It doesn't mean I'm not working hard. It just means that my brain has limited storage space. Because I'm human. Maybe to be human is just to experience forgetting sometimes.

The words are stuck today Like gum in a child's hair Like chewing gum in a tangled, mangled mess of a child's hair. The words feel dull today Like rain on a gloomy day Like rain on a very grey, overcast, colorless day. The words are asleep today Like a bear in hibernation Like a bear in a deep and unwakeable hibernation. The words won't play today Like children who have a fever Like very sick children in bed with a terrible fever. The words are stuck The words feel dull The words are asleep The word won't play The words are just stuck today

I cannot focus today. All the stuff in my brain is in the way. I cannot work today. Can't keep track of it all, my brain is too small. I cannot smile today. The world is weighing me down. I've got to get out of this town. Got to run with the wind at my back through the fields Got to swim in the clearest crisp waters Got to ride on horseback through the cool green woods Got to feel, got to live, got to be No more of this stress No more of the hurry No more of the ever-persistent worry I just want to fly I just want to soar Higher than ever I've soared before O'er puffy white clouds Past migrating geese I want to splash down into salt water seas Want to swim with sea turtles, Slide with grey seals I just want to know how all of this feels. I cannot stay here today. All the dreams in my head cause my thoughts to stray I cannot focus today. I'll daydream the day away.

I'd like to sail away today on a ship run on stardust and rainbows We'd sail along o'er sparkling seas Where dolphins and whales dance about Occasional mermaids are spotted afar as they leap from the sea out into the sun. We'd anchor the ship along islands where bright colored butterflies flutter through tropical leaves Lizards would live there The friendliest kind Whose scales are soft And whose colors are vibrant They'd gracefully glide 'cross the sand on the beach Stopping to hide 'neath the shade of the palms Occasional crabs would poke out their heads And they'd grab at the seagull's food with their claws. Then back to their homes they would creep with their loot And the seagulls would caw and mourn their lost meal as they circled about in the clear blue sky, diving down toward the water when silver fish lept In the shimmering waves of the crisp cool sea And the warmth of the sand would feel nice neath my b...

Head spinning Vision blurring Racing, racing, racing, racing Heart pounding Legs shaking Racing, racing, racing, racing Mouth dry Palms sweaty Racing, racing, racing, racing Get it all done Finish on time Racing, racing, racing, racing Do it all well Get it done right Racing, racing, racing, racing Stop. Listen. What sounds do you hear? Cars Zooming by Birds Softly chirping Stop. Look. What sights do you see? Sunlight Filtered through Green Tree leaves Stop. Feel. What sensations do you feel? Warm Sun on skin Breeze Gently blowing Stop the racing, racing, racing Listen. Look. Feel. Be.

Boredom is grey. Dreary. Long. Drawn out. Draining. But... It leaves time for the dust to settle. Time for the thoughts to simmer. Thoughts that are often Pushed to the back of my brain Now Linger. Time for processing. For mulling over The events of the day, of the week, of the month. The hurts that stung, The joys that delighted, The puzzles that puzzled me deep down inside. In boredom they float To the surface once more They percolate And drip Down Through the filters in my mind Like balls in hungry, hungry hippos When The balls are sorted and then come to rest Inside their respective hippos So my thoughts are sorted into their homes In moments of boredom comes rest And yet So often when I am bored It agitates me Irritates me Infuriates me Drives me to seek out something to do Something to distract From all of the thoughts inside my head Instead of allowing them To sit, To sort, To settle.      

As a babbling brook ripples over smooth pebbles so language runs over my tongue. The stones are set free by the waters to tumble and roll as they travel downstream. And my tongue rolls freely through icy cold waters refreshed as they splash all about it. In the water the stones can express themselves through motion. The current allows them to brush against others - bumping a friendly hello as they glide through the crisp cold creek. Without it they're stuck in the dusty dry earth. Lifeless and dull they're abandoned by silence. The wind cannot blow them toward neighboring stones. But when the dam breaks and the waters rush through, the pebbles come alive to once more dance in the stream.

Routine seems to loom like a dark cloud over my Sunday evenings. A sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach reminds me that Monday is coming. My anxieties start to bubble up along with my self-doubt. Will I be able to handle everything that Monday throws at me? Where will the energy to face Monday's challenges come from? And the voices in my head curse routine and its monotony. Its bland and mundane gray existence. "What does it mean?" the voices scream out, "All this trudging around day in and day out." In the panic, I forget that routine is my friend. That with each passing week, as my Mondays become more and more routine, they also require less and less energy. Less and less thought. Less and less panic. They become second nature. A tool in my toolbox, routine empowers me to glide through tasks that I once stumbled over. I can rest in routine. Suddenly, routine is no longer the cause of my Sunday freak-out, but the antidote to my Sunday self-doubt.

Wind. Exemplary of the way in which two opposing things can both simultaneously be true.  Comforting as it cools off hot humid days.  Beautiful as it swishes through our hair, blows fall leaves about, sways through the branches of the trees.  Gentle as it brushes our cheeks and glides across lakes.  Invisible to the naked eye, though it can be felt and heard.  Empowering, allowing kites to fly and flags to wave proudly. Inconvenient as it blows sand in our faces and turns umbrellas inside-out.  Commanding as it directs the clouds and dictates the course of the sailboat. Powerful, knocking down trees and ripping the roofs off of houses.  Beautiful and Invisible. Comforting and Terrifying.  Empowering and Inconvenient. Gentle and Powerful.  Wind.