Silence is so beautiful, in it you see that every colour is just a colour, each shade is as vibrant as each other if it's allowed it's rightful place. And silence spreads, like a breath blown and so easily intercepted. It seeps into your blood and bone, cleaning and yet revealing what was always there. It makes you admit your failures, not to make yourself any cleaner but to heal the wounds they inflicted. And in the silence the spirits behind the vale move, experiencing it, feel the draught of their gowns on the floors, and the hum of their conversations. You can see the shadows that claw away and the light that defends you. I wonder so much at the moment. I'm rediscovering the beauty of listening, of just waiting to hear what sound will erupt to cover the silence next. I keep reading and I keep rediscovering a new idea, a new thing that excites me, it's not something huge, just something that makes me look through a slightly different angle, and for that I'm so thankful. I'm not sure where it started or where it will go, I'm not sure if it's the flippant remarks, the present situations or the deep wounds that fuel it, but there is something new and now I've got hold of it I simply don't want to let go. I just wonder when the time will arise to use it. To step out of this temporary world and into another.
0 Comments
It's so difficult to rule, to decide the policies and actions and stances of groups of people. To lead them into a morality or out of one. I envy not the politicians and religious leaders of today. One day the trees went out to anoint a king for themselves. They said to the olive tree, 'Be our king.' so they appointed the thorn bush king, taking the branches from it's own stem and twisting them into a crown. And the thorn bush wept for it's battered limbs. They tried to shelter under it's eves but ended up in the mud, they planted their crops beside it but the bush had already taken the goodness of the ground. Then one day a man, with a red swath of fabric crossing his chest, passed the thorn bush on his way to an execution. He plucked it's withered crown from the branches and pushed it onto the prisoner to be executed. The trees swayed, they rustled with anxiety for their dis-crowned leader, and looked on to the battered man who now ruled over them. He smiled at the olive as he remembered the disgrace of her oil anointing his feet, nodded to the fig that his breathed words had made wither, barely glanced at the vine that had been so redundant in his ample wine, and whispered a faint thank you to the thorn bush for the gift of his rightful crown. The trees watched as the men hoisted this new king up and took the life from him upon their own brothers limbs, watched as the crown they had made stuck to his hair as he was taken to his tomb. The trees nearest the tomb watched, they silenced their swaying, not a leaf rustled as they waited and waited, someone would come, someone would take the crown and let it out of it's stone prison, let them crown anew a king. Three days they waited till two men whiter than the snow appeared and rolled away the stone door, behind the door stood the prisoner, still wearing the crown, and the trees bowed, they clapped their branches in a shout of acclimation, their king lived, he lived. The Spirit to guide the promise you made. It's a lyric, I know quoting others words is something anyone can do, and they can make them mean just about anything. It's a problem the bible seems to suffer from continually. The approach of society and bible at loggerheads to each other seems still to be the main approach even if we have to ignore the cultural element to the teaching. Not until the culture has progressed so far, can we look back at the foolishness of god's foolish and humbly apologise to those we have hurt along the way. The catholic church is still apologising to the Jews, the protesting still estranged from the catholic, the slaves still hearing the echo's of the chains, the darker hands still begging for acceptance by the tan-less skin, the poor still staring at the riches of the church statues, the disturbed still wondering why they were incarcerated, and the ladies sighing at the marks of their segregated seats. Some of the apologies never end, some never begin to meet their need, some never begin. Some wars fight on, in academic halls and dusty desks, some fight on on shuffle worn asphalt and modern Christian temple bricks. i'm still working on it. slowly admitidly and it's becoming more three dimentional as it's now got bits of ribbon on as well as lots more words. i must admit the ribbon looks a bit naff in the photo but works well in reality. i've got some decopatch papers that i'm hoping to get some scraps from once i've finished the project i bought them for, but i'm a bit stuck on other ideas. thoughts appreciated. |
The other siteWho is GfeefGfeef is the name that my writings have been under for some years. As far as I know it's unique to me. Originally from the UK, I now live in Serbia but continue to have a passion for childrens and youth ministry. Archives
October 2014
|