Why I Write

 All of my life has moved to this point.

That's the way it is.

For good or for ill.

And a little of both.

And in the midst of all that motion.

Commotion.

Coming and going.

Words came to matter to me.

Because I read a lot as a child?

The Hardy Boys.

Zane Grey.

The Weekly Reader.

National Geographic.

A Bible illustrated by Albrecht Durer.

U.S. News and World Report.

Reader's Digest and it's "Word Power."

All along the way, Words.

The Word made flesh.

Reality yearning to find a home.

Words to capture it.

Which can never be captured.

Reality, Divinity, the Universe.

It lends itself to us.

And then walks away.

And we wonder what happened.

We had it for a moment.

And then our hands are empty.

And we grasp again for the illusive wonder.

And it welcomes our embrace.

And it dances with us.

For a time.

And then it's gone again.

Leaving us with memories.

Thoughts almost forgotten.

A sense of once possessing, and then losing.

Only to try, and try, again.

That's me.

I sit here with reading.

Yearning to know.

I sit with my cup o'coffee.

And the crumbs of a breakfast sandwich.

I sit with my computer.

Playing with these words.

Infinite words that pull the heart.

Tease the mind.

Point to never never land over the seas.

Somewhere long ago.

Somewhere maybe ahead.

Old and new.

Tried and true.

Or just plain worn out and tired.

Words.

Ideas.

Images.

Enough to make the mind reel.

Or real.

Or true.

Or sad.

And blue.

Or full of energy.

Crazy hope.

Because out of the dusty words arises the Christ.

Stones get rolled away.

Angels say, "He's not here."

He's ahead of you.

Over there, up there, beyond the horizon.

Follow him.

Follow your dreams.

Your childhood dreams of adventure and discovery.

Never stop being a child.

Because children know.

What we're all likely to forget.

So, here I am.

Words piling out of me.

Clowns with sad or happy faces.

Piling out of the clown car of my soul.

And the audience scratches it's head.

Or laughs, or cries.

As the clowns entertain, entice.

So humbly at our service.

Self-deprecating.

Pointing never to the self of words.

But to the worlds beyond.

The sky so brilliant and blue.

The night ringed with stars and moon.

So, I write.

In the hopes of giving expression to truth.

Or at least which I think it might be.

To find the world to which all these words point.

A place where folks can sit in the sunshine of the day.

Or in the moonlight of the evening.

With quiet in the air.

And contentment in the spirit.

That's what I am for.

And if my aim is poor.

Well, I'm not the first to miss the point.

But that's as it should be.

No graven images said God.

Nothing sent in stone, or word, or words.

Except the Word made Flesh.

Which only proves the point.

Because Flesh never rests until it's dead.

Flesh moves and changes.

It's here one moment, and then somewhere else.

And then it's gone.

To find another home.

Somewhere.

So nothing set in stone.

Noting definitive.

But only questing.

And questioning.

And singing.

And some poetry.

To suddenly find Majesty

Sitting by your side.