I was just updating some things on my facebook page, and tried to update the emotion. I wanted it to say, "Lisa is feeling sad." Except, apparently in the world of facebook, emotions that are spelled with only 3 letters aren't emotions, so it says, "Lisa is feeling melancholy." This is an appropriate descriptor, if somewhat of an overkill from the simplicity I wanted.
I'm tired tonight, and a bit people overwhelmed. This has been a really intense week internally, and I'm feeling like I need a break. The break doesn't seem to be immediately forthcoming.
I'm feeling the wear and tear of some heavy things that came up over the weekend, that I'm not quite sure how to process and heal from.
I'm feeling the wear and tear of some decisions I quite willingly made about church, but often find myself second guessing.
I'm wondering why the friends who really challenge and inspire and encourage me in my walk with the Lord all live in other towns and cities, and how I can build more time with them into my life on a regular basis.
I'm going to bed. It's not a good idea to pontificate when I hit this level of exhaustion. Things just swirl around and around, and get grayer and more grim. Time to pull out for a while and try to sleep.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Guard Your Eyes
I keep hearing and feeling the phrase "guard your eyes" in the inner parts of me these last few days.
I received the following verse in an email on July 4th (Independence Day for my other nationality) this year. It's caught at me ever since...
May those who sow in tears reap with shouts of joy. Those who go out weeping, bearing the seed for sowing, shall come home with shouts of joy, carrying their sheaves. Psalm 126:5,6
Guard your eyes. Why the eyes, Lord? Not the soul? Not the heart? Why my eyes?
I have long been sensitive to visual imagery. I was joking with a friend who's an artist about it last night - the fact that I can't take in violent or dark imagery without paying a price. We laughed at the idea that if I was an artist, all my work would be flowers and rainbows and kittens and butterflies - pretty boring and unbalanced.
I can encounter the heavier things in word pictures. I can even paint those word pictures, but please don't ask me to attach visuals to them. Violence, in particular, gets me.
The classic example are the Lord of the Rings movies. I only ever saw the first one. I loved the books. I loved the redemption. I can't attach visuals to the things I read. I pay for it in lost sleep for weeks.
I am noticing that again this morning... slept poorly, with dreams tripping over themselves in their haste to disturb my sleep last night. Attributed, quite possibly, to the movie I saw with Tim last night (which I wrote about yesterday, and actually quite enjoyed...)
I noticed on the train this morning that I have also been particularly sensitive to things of great beauty lately. To mountains and forests. To the city skyline on a sunny day, set against the backdrop of clouds and mountains. To simple flowers as I walk in the park. To the innocence of babies. To the growth of roots on the plant slips that are being started on my desk. To the hearts of friends. To the tears running down my brother's face as he took in images of a poor orphan girl, setting up her place to sleep for the night on the streets in India.
Guard your eyes. Not sure where this going, but I'm being pulled ever deeper...
I received the following verse in an email on July 4th (Independence Day for my other nationality) this year. It's caught at me ever since...
May those who sow in tears reap with shouts of joy. Those who go out weeping, bearing the seed for sowing, shall come home with shouts of joy, carrying their sheaves. Psalm 126:5,6
Guard your eyes. Why the eyes, Lord? Not the soul? Not the heart? Why my eyes?
I have long been sensitive to visual imagery. I was joking with a friend who's an artist about it last night - the fact that I can't take in violent or dark imagery without paying a price. We laughed at the idea that if I was an artist, all my work would be flowers and rainbows and kittens and butterflies - pretty boring and unbalanced.
I can encounter the heavier things in word pictures. I can even paint those word pictures, but please don't ask me to attach visuals to them. Violence, in particular, gets me.
The classic example are the Lord of the Rings movies. I only ever saw the first one. I loved the books. I loved the redemption. I can't attach visuals to the things I read. I pay for it in lost sleep for weeks.
I am noticing that again this morning... slept poorly, with dreams tripping over themselves in their haste to disturb my sleep last night. Attributed, quite possibly, to the movie I saw with Tim last night (which I wrote about yesterday, and actually quite enjoyed...)
I noticed on the train this morning that I have also been particularly sensitive to things of great beauty lately. To mountains and forests. To the city skyline on a sunny day, set against the backdrop of clouds and mountains. To simple flowers as I walk in the park. To the innocence of babies. To the growth of roots on the plant slips that are being started on my desk. To the hearts of friends. To the tears running down my brother's face as he took in images of a poor orphan girl, setting up her place to sleep for the night on the streets in India.
Guard your eyes. Not sure where this going, but I'm being pulled ever deeper...
On the journey towards hope
The following reflection from the Henri Nouwen society (this time not written by Henri) arrived in my inbox this morning... I'm passing it along.
On the Journey Towards Hope
written by ALBERT M. LEWIS
The journey towards hope is a deliberate and difficult decision, especially if hope is not a common part of our life and vision. The extreme opposite of hope is despair, and the middle ground is indecision or ambivalence. Ambivalence prevents us from seeing the mystery and hearing the music of life; all is gray, and sameness surrounds us. Despair causes us to see and feel everything in consistently blotted blocks of black. Hope, the consciously conceived child of the desire for more, is parented by the will to dream ever so slightly about a tomorrow, and to let go of what must be cast off from today. Moses, Jesus, and certain prophets wandered in the desert of doubt and despair for as long as forty days. Yet each of them allowed himself to be open enough to be delivered, and ultimately to become the deliverer.
Hope whispers to us: "You are alive and loved, even if you cannot fully feel it." The inhale and exhale of a breath, the blink of an eye, and the yawn of tiredness or boredom remind us that hope is part of the soul yearning to be fully acknowledged. Hope rises from the soul first as a rivulet and then as a great stream. It begins in the daring to sleep or nourish ourselves. Hope is rooted in the soul, watered by tears shed and shared, and given life by us and God. At any moment, therefore, you are at least halfway there.
- RABBI ALBERT M. LEWIS is the Director of the Emeritus College at Aquinas, in Grand Rapids, Michigan, and a weekly columnist for the Grand Rapids Press.
On the Journey Towards Hope
written by ALBERT M. LEWIS
The journey towards hope is a deliberate and difficult decision, especially if hope is not a common part of our life and vision. The extreme opposite of hope is despair, and the middle ground is indecision or ambivalence. Ambivalence prevents us from seeing the mystery and hearing the music of life; all is gray, and sameness surrounds us. Despair causes us to see and feel everything in consistently blotted blocks of black. Hope, the consciously conceived child of the desire for more, is parented by the will to dream ever so slightly about a tomorrow, and to let go of what must be cast off from today. Moses, Jesus, and certain prophets wandered in the desert of doubt and despair for as long as forty days. Yet each of them allowed himself to be open enough to be delivered, and ultimately to become the deliverer.
Hope whispers to us: "You are alive and loved, even if you cannot fully feel it." The inhale and exhale of a breath, the blink of an eye, and the yawn of tiredness or boredom remind us that hope is part of the soul yearning to be fully acknowledged. Hope rises from the soul first as a rivulet and then as a great stream. It begins in the daring to sleep or nourish ourselves. Hope is rooted in the soul, watered by tears shed and shared, and given life by us and God. At any moment, therefore, you are at least halfway there.
- RABBI ALBERT M. LEWIS is the Director of the Emeritus College at Aquinas, in Grand Rapids, Michigan, and a weekly columnist for the Grand Rapids Press.
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