With wearied eyes and worn beliefs,

"Desire only comes to grief;

From seeking, there is no relief." 

I asked him all that he desired--

He showed me what he had acquired:

All the time that he had spent

On clothes and food

and friends and rent; 

On chasing after selfish dreams,

Desires born of ingrown schemes. 

I said, "You simply live too small--

Why, these weak wants won't do at all!

Better to have never lived 

Than live a life of wasted gifts. 

Your heart was made for grander things

Your weight too great for tiny wings." 

He simply sighed and shook his head, 

Drank his drink, and went to bed. 

image via wikipedia 

Fragile thought is like a bird--

Evading eyes but always heard. 

Wonderous elusive creature!

With intricate and el'gant feature!

Away he jumps straight into flight,

If ever he’s caught in my sight. 

Perched upon the window sill 

Attending to his wondrous trill, 

Too late I tune to hear his song

Heard so quick, then quickly gone. 

Seen from the corners of my eyes

His home the whole of all the skies. 

With soft a step, I draw so near...

He senses me and disappears.

My eyes flicker open

Sleepily. 

Warm, golden light

Casts a magical haze

Over my room. 

In this moment, 

There is no time. 

I can picture myself 

Many years in the future, 

In the place where everyone knows my name, 

and I am loved as dearly 

as the moon, 

For there, 

In the future, 

We all reflect the Son. 

I breathe slowly 

and peacefully. 

There is no rush to be anywhere,

or to do anything in particular. 

If I like, I will do something nice,  

Such as have a cup of tea

or bake fresh blueberry scones. 

All the work of the world is done, 

Except for the work which is pleasant to do. 

Surely, there are hard things 

I can set my heart on, 

But only because they are nice in the end. 

I sigh happily. 

On this Saturday morning, 

I have gone to the edge of Universe 

and peered over 

Into the Endless Hall of Delights. 

via istockphoto.com

Since childhood, I have been a pretty serious little person. I can look at a gum wrapper (this honestly happened when I was younger) and cry about its significance. Granted, there are things in life that are serious, and they should be treated with respect. This concept is not often grasped in today's "meme culture" where everything disintegrates. Both a lack and a surplus of significance can make a person miserable because the emotion becomes unstable and artificial. Things must be what they are. There must be truth. 

To say that nothing matters means that we are attributing meaningless to things that DO have meaning. Love, life, and existence all have meaning. There are solid answers for life, despite what popular philosophy would tell us. To say that certain things, objects, and events matter simply because we wish them to is attributing significance to something that may in truth be meaningless or at least not as meaningful as we would like. 

As someone who likes to hold onto things, objects, ideas, songs, emotions, memories, and people, I have to be very careful that I am not carrying around "stuff" that really isn't all that important. The main thing that is important in my life is my relationship with God, not my relationship with stuff or even people that I deeply love. If I am trusting in God and allowing him to show me what is important, my hands are far more free to move and do the work I am meant to do instead of running around, clutching things out of my perception of their importance. When I push away things that truly are significant, my hands are empty and I am not working with the tools I need to finish my tasks. 

My goal for this month is to stop attributing too much seriousness to things in my life that are not life and death. I want to practice letting go, leaving things behind, and pressing onward in the truly important things in life. 

I am currently enjoying my last semester of college, and loving every helter-skelter minute of it. While listening to some poetry by Emily Dickinson in one of my morning classes, I was struck by the idea for this poem about memory. 

Writers are, I think, in many ways slaves to their memories. I have had a "memory hoarding" issue since I was quite young, and found solace in writing things down. When your memory is very good like mine, it's easy to go back in time and even want to stay there longer than you should. 

However, a good memory when used properly is a wonderful tool that lets you stand outside of time and space to help others see what they have forgotten about the world, or even themselves. This poem is both a sadness and a celebration of the gift of memory. 

Time does not go on for me

Forever I am crossed at sea. 

Forever tossed 

On still-same wave--

Forever here to start again. 

I look into that face of yours, 

And all I see are open doors, 

Open doors within your eyes

Forever walking into mine. 

Time makes strangers

Of loves and dangers. 

But not of me, 

It cannot be. 

Forever in my wintered mind, 

These thoughts preserved for all of time. 

I look around myself and say

"I can recall like yesterday..." 

Yet no one else remains here thus--

My memory stays, theirs fades to dust. 

So all their ships go sailing by, 

But on my boat, there is no time. 

Photo credit via - https://cverwaal.wordpress.com/2017/03/18/on-frozen-pond/