This was meant to be a blog. But as I read it again, I realize it sounds a bit like poetry also, without quite being a poem... So, this will be an unpretentious poetic blog, or simple blogging poetry, whichever you prefer best.
Either way, sit back and imagine this:
Fast and furious,
Frantically rushing Colorado River,
Uncontained,
Almost reaching the railroad,
Inches above,
Swallowing the trail path below.
Velvety green mountains,
Comforting sun
And warm salty breeze
At Glenwood Hot Springs.
People of various shapes and sounds,
Imperfectly outstanding,
Beautiful in uniqueness,
And avid time collectors,
Laughing while splashing,
Trees rejoicing in the wind,
Bridges filled with cars,
Transporting dreams,
Words growing on birds' wings,
Flowers splashing the air with colors.
Moments captured in the glass case of words.
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
He Held My Hand: a testimony
I was alone with the Lord.
Every time and in every church. Since I was a little girl C, wearing my best Sunday dress, spotless white tights and pretty shoes that made clickety sounds as I skipped or walked to church holding my sweet grandma's hand, every Sunday.
God was waiting for me every time. He was faithfully there, smiling at me, sometimes staring, sometimes with a mysterious smile on His bright face. I looked at Him, sometimes I peeked from the corner of my eye, sometimes we stood face to face and I smiled back, marveling. Yet, I never held my hand out and whispered in my heart: "I love You with all that I am. I want to be Yours."
I still belonged to myself for many long years, years of growing up, years of watching an old country being silenced into darkness, crumbling during the Communist Revolution in 1989, shivering at the chaos and turmoil that followed. I watched it rebuilt on lies, quickly stolen away into prominent pockets and drained of values.
The post communist era opened the flood gates, my beautiful country was suddenly invaded with new ideas, both good and bad, concepts, and things of wonder ... Eastern mysticism being one of them.
Since I was little, I was fascinated with things unseen and uncertain... All through my childhood I wanted to become an astronaut, the universe casted a spell on me every night, as I gazed into the Milky Way and the glory of the sky, in my grandparents' home in the country.
Later, I started to realize numbers were not my strength at all, and I reached a point when I was writing poems about numbers, during Math tests. I was fortunate enough to have a teacher who, though a brilliant mathematician, was also a poet at heart. He loved my poems, but also confirmed that I wasn't going to make a good astronaut, if I ever became one.
Astronomy falling, I embraced its stepsister, astrology, zodiacs, which lead me to the land of metaphysics, yoga, meditation, karma, crystals, you name it. I was gaining insight and knowledge at a fast speed, I was becoming so very smart, and so very good, and so very powerful with everything I knew. Occasionally, I went to church, God was still there, but a bit in the corner, hiding, preoccupied with His saints and rituals. I was mighty and I couldn't understand why my dear mom would often cry while talking to me, why she wept when I gave her a note with Khalil Gibran's poem" Your children are not your children"... and why I could hear her silent prayers from her bedroom before falling asleep. Every night.
Until one day, just like the others... I received a card in the mail letting me know I had won a prize for a poetry contest, my poems were in their files, since I had been a member of the city poetry club for years before. I had completely forgotten about the club, but poetry was still vital to me, flowing through my veins daily. With a bit of a metaphysical tinge. I was supposed to stop by the Palace of Culture, and pick up my prize in person, the card said. Curious enough, since it involved poetry, I rushed to the Palace and showed up in front of a lady librarian, ready to receive my gift. I still remember how the afternoon rays of sunshine were softly falling through the tall windows on the rows of books in the library. I still remember in slow motion how the librarian leaned and reached under her desk, and how she placed the gift in my hand. The Gift. A beautiful black hard cover Bible. Time stood still for a few minutes, and I was frozen within it. I have no words to describe how it felt to hold that Bible in my hand, the weight of it first of all. I thanked the lady, and rushed home. And, as I was walking out of the Palace, tears were streaming down my face, yes, people were staring, and I kept walking home, holding the Bible close to my chest. It was all I had at that point, beside a bus ticket somewhere in my pocket. No one had ever told me about the ritual to follow on becoming saved, the Orthodox priests always made it clear the works needed to be done fully and thoroughly, before moving on to the spirit, train the body first. And somehow I always managed to fail at keeping the works fully, I was the one who often forgot you're not supposed to eat cheese on Wednesdays and Fridays. Doomed and starting all over again the following week.
I finally made it home, and that evening was spent alone in my room, in a deep and private confession with my Lord. With my hand held out...
Did His healing hand make me into a strong person at once? No, not at all. Did I suddenly become a lamb? No, but I started walking in green pastures. Did I go back to the metaphysics club storming at the leader about how wrong he was? No, not at all. But my eyes started to open, my vision was clearer and the veil was gradually lifted up. Until one day, soon after I held His hand, I realized metaphysics was not the way, nor the absolute truth, nor the life. I left, never to open that door again.
My mom had the most beautiful smile on her face... To this day, I believe it was her prayers and her tremendous love that opened the door for me, and brought me to my knees that day. To me she is the most precious woman in my life, worthy of most praise.
To anyone trying to make sense of my humble experience, and if any of my words resonate true to you somehow, I won't say "repent and become saved". But instead, remember this: before you rest your body, soul and spirit at the end of your day, truly unlock the door and leave it open. The purest night air will gather your stars, free your soul from any bondage, and give new meaning to your mornings. And, as the sunshine comes in bright and refreshing, you'll know you're heading home...
He held your hand.
Every time and in every church. Since I was a little girl C, wearing my best Sunday dress, spotless white tights and pretty shoes that made clickety sounds as I skipped or walked to church holding my sweet grandma's hand, every Sunday.
God was waiting for me every time. He was faithfully there, smiling at me, sometimes staring, sometimes with a mysterious smile on His bright face. I looked at Him, sometimes I peeked from the corner of my eye, sometimes we stood face to face and I smiled back, marveling. Yet, I never held my hand out and whispered in my heart: "I love You with all that I am. I want to be Yours."
I still belonged to myself for many long years, years of growing up, years of watching an old country being silenced into darkness, crumbling during the Communist Revolution in 1989, shivering at the chaos and turmoil that followed. I watched it rebuilt on lies, quickly stolen away into prominent pockets and drained of values.
The post communist era opened the flood gates, my beautiful country was suddenly invaded with new ideas, both good and bad, concepts, and things of wonder ... Eastern mysticism being one of them.
Since I was little, I was fascinated with things unseen and uncertain... All through my childhood I wanted to become an astronaut, the universe casted a spell on me every night, as I gazed into the Milky Way and the glory of the sky, in my grandparents' home in the country.
Later, I started to realize numbers were not my strength at all, and I reached a point when I was writing poems about numbers, during Math tests. I was fortunate enough to have a teacher who, though a brilliant mathematician, was also a poet at heart. He loved my poems, but also confirmed that I wasn't going to make a good astronaut, if I ever became one.
Astronomy falling, I embraced its stepsister, astrology, zodiacs, which lead me to the land of metaphysics, yoga, meditation, karma, crystals, you name it. I was gaining insight and knowledge at a fast speed, I was becoming so very smart, and so very good, and so very powerful with everything I knew. Occasionally, I went to church, God was still there, but a bit in the corner, hiding, preoccupied with His saints and rituals. I was mighty and I couldn't understand why my dear mom would often cry while talking to me, why she wept when I gave her a note with Khalil Gibran's poem" Your children are not your children"... and why I could hear her silent prayers from her bedroom before falling asleep. Every night.
Until one day, just like the others... I received a card in the mail letting me know I had won a prize for a poetry contest, my poems were in their files, since I had been a member of the city poetry club for years before. I had completely forgotten about the club, but poetry was still vital to me, flowing through my veins daily. With a bit of a metaphysical tinge. I was supposed to stop by the Palace of Culture, and pick up my prize in person, the card said. Curious enough, since it involved poetry, I rushed to the Palace and showed up in front of a lady librarian, ready to receive my gift. I still remember how the afternoon rays of sunshine were softly falling through the tall windows on the rows of books in the library. I still remember in slow motion how the librarian leaned and reached under her desk, and how she placed the gift in my hand. The Gift. A beautiful black hard cover Bible. Time stood still for a few minutes, and I was frozen within it. I have no words to describe how it felt to hold that Bible in my hand, the weight of it first of all. I thanked the lady, and rushed home. And, as I was walking out of the Palace, tears were streaming down my face, yes, people were staring, and I kept walking home, holding the Bible close to my chest. It was all I had at that point, beside a bus ticket somewhere in my pocket. No one had ever told me about the ritual to follow on becoming saved, the Orthodox priests always made it clear the works needed to be done fully and thoroughly, before moving on to the spirit, train the body first. And somehow I always managed to fail at keeping the works fully, I was the one who often forgot you're not supposed to eat cheese on Wednesdays and Fridays. Doomed and starting all over again the following week.
I finally made it home, and that evening was spent alone in my room, in a deep and private confession with my Lord. With my hand held out...
Did His healing hand make me into a strong person at once? No, not at all. Did I suddenly become a lamb? No, but I started walking in green pastures. Did I go back to the metaphysics club storming at the leader about how wrong he was? No, not at all. But my eyes started to open, my vision was clearer and the veil was gradually lifted up. Until one day, soon after I held His hand, I realized metaphysics was not the way, nor the absolute truth, nor the life. I left, never to open that door again.
My mom had the most beautiful smile on her face... To this day, I believe it was her prayers and her tremendous love that opened the door for me, and brought me to my knees that day. To me she is the most precious woman in my life, worthy of most praise.
To anyone trying to make sense of my humble experience, and if any of my words resonate true to you somehow, I won't say "repent and become saved". But instead, remember this: before you rest your body, soul and spirit at the end of your day, truly unlock the door and leave it open. The purest night air will gather your stars, free your soul from any bondage, and give new meaning to your mornings. And, as the sunshine comes in bright and refreshing, you'll know you're heading home...
He held your hand.
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