Saturday, November 28, 2009

I'm going to do something a little strange

I think Kali's going to give a lovely, comprehensive run-down of our Galilean days, so I'm going to contribute by way of my journal entry from our last day there. I think it sums up the magical ten before in the best (and most personal) way I can.
Suffice it to say, like many of old, I too experienced the healing influence of Jesus Christ on the shores of the Sea of Galilee.
I committed to myself to learn faith through raging tempests.
And I lived the entreaty,
"Peace, Be Still."

November 25th   -- Special Rock, Sea of Galilee

Right now, I wish I could paint.
I wish I could somehow capture the colors and beauty and wordless thoughts rolling over each other in my mind.
Even then, how could it include this palpable presence of a Divine Creator, presiding over my last Galilean sunset? Breathtaking rays striking my very being. Inspiring Molly to be up on the rocks somewhere behind me, playing "How Great Thou Art" on her violin with such soul it drew tears from some unknown depth right to the surface of my eyes.
I never want to forget this.
I can feel time trickling, running, rushing through my fingers now. I can't paint and my camera doesn't do the scene justice, but thank the Heavens I can write.
Words too, though, sometimes fail.
I put so much trust in them, but there are so many spheres that exist and penetrate, far away from the grasp of language.
Maybe that's where music lives?
(Now she's playing "Whenever I Hear the Song of a Bird." I have such deep nostalgia over that song. And it's her anthem to this magical phenomenon. I'm glad we're sharing it, even if she doesn't know it)
I've heard "Where words fail, music begins." But even so, sometimes no words and no pictures and no notes exist to express the burning, the swelling.
And so a wordless, thoughtless, completely intangible prayer of thanks arises somewhere from my core and simply continues to exist here at the forefront of my consciousness.

I read in Jesus the Christ today:
"It is well to know that prayer is not compounded of words, words that may fail to express what one desires to say, words that so often cloak inconsistencies, words that may have no deeper source than the physical organs of speech, WORDS THAT MAY BE SPOKEN TO IMPRESS MORTAL EARS. 

The dumb may pray, and that too with the eloquence that prevails in heaven. Prayer is made up of HEART THROBS and the righteous yearnings of the soul, of supplication based on the realization of need, of contrition and pure desire."

I can't paint and I can't play the violin, but I'm pretty good at feeling, and I can pray. "Pray always"! What a gorgeous invitation.
I can write too. I feel like a poem is forming inside, but can't gather up the right words to work its way out of my psyche. I can write poems, but perhaps I'll never be a poet.
...that's a sad thought.
I'd like to found out who I am so I can discover what I can be, you know?

But it's nice to just sit on my little rock here, no immediate obligations but to periodically swat off the wicked biting flies. Just encasing my spirit with wordless prayers, trying to build up an immunity to pride and selfishness and forgetfulness and temptation, so I can retain this handful of heaven for later, lonelier days.
...When I'm not reaching enlightenment on the shores of Galilee
to transcendent violin music and an ethereal sunset,
descending like a dove
to give me a warm and reassuring kiss on the forehead.



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