The whole picture

 I had a conversation with a good friend today that made me ponder some things. Things like:

How can two people have such polarized views, yet both be steadfastly convinced that their perspective is the true one?

(Adding to that, isn’t it a miracle how two people can be so strongly opposed to each other, yet still remain good friends after such a long and controversial discussion? Or maybe it’s precisely those disagreements that enable us to BE better friends.)

Where do individuals get their ideas of what is true and what is arbitrary construction?

More importantly, are humans even capable of discovering the truth purely by their own merit? And if so, how could we quantify said truth, or measure its validity against that of another person’s? How could the ultimate truth be realized? Is that even a thing?

Complications abound.

Because if I carefully observe and conclude that the sky is, in fact, purple, but you are staunchly convinced that the sky is actually green, and despite disparity, both of us remain irrevocably persuaded of the validity of our own viewpoint, we might come to the ultimate conclusion that both of us are right, in our own way, and that each individual is responsible for his or her own truth, and that nothing (yet everything) is certain.

I get confused just talking about it.

Which is why I am convinced that there has got to be something else.

I mean, indulge me for a second and imagine a world in which everyone has their own personal truth. And you have to choose your own. You have to trust yourself–who can’t even manage to remember what you ate for breakfast this morning, who really hasn’t even been on the earth all that long–to hold the entire spectrum of existence in your hand and choose from a menu some version of the truth that suits you. And everyone else is either right or wrong, and you might never even find out.

I ask you, what kind of existence would that be? How could you get up in the morning with that weight of responsibility on your shoulders? I couldn’t do it. I’ve tried.

So the natural conclusion is, there has got to be something else. Something that burns inside of us, driving our desire for truth, inspiring curiosity and creativity, engraving love on our souls.

Creativity. Love. How could such beautiful and paradoxical things originate from the minds of humans so small, so shortsighted?

That thing inside of you that screams for expression, that unwritten itch that moves poets and musicians, that fountain of purpose and longing, cannot be credited to tired, colorless beings such as ourselves.

The only explanation is that there exists some great cosmic absolute. An Author who wrote the truth, and impressed it on our hearts, so that we would be inspired to look for it.

Where my heart lives

 I could literally go on for hours about the North Shore and why no human being could conceivably want to live (or die) anywhere else, but to save you time and sanity, I wrote a poem instead.

You’re welcome.

 

Grand Marais

It’s hard to feel like a tourist

in this tourist town.

This quirky jumble of souvenir shops

and theme restaurants

(and one grocery store)

couldn’t be less unfamiliar;

a cool breath of lake air

gives tired buildings life

and I feel

I may as well have lived here forever.

Learning to skim stones

smoothed by countless revolutions of the earth,

wearing my own trails through the woods;

shortcuts to my favorite trees.

Everyone here knows my name,

and whether I take sugar in my coffee,

and how much.

I know their names too,

just as I recall exactly which beach-stranded rocks

are best for seagull

and star gazing.

Just as I know exactly where to look for the sun

as it sinks below ever-rolling waves,

catching one last strand of light

between the branches of distant evergreens.

 

I find my heart on a shore

littered with colored pebbles

as numberless

and named

as the stars in the sky.

(Hopefully) saying goodbye to winter

Spring officially started on Monday. Which of course, for Nebraskans, meant that there was snow in the forecast for Wednesday. Like winter had suddenly become a rich old man who miraculously outlasted the doctor’s prognosis by five years, just to spite his gold-digging grandchildren.

It seems cruel that we should have to endure such a thing. Indeed, even as I write this, a flock of bedraggled and disillusioned college students parades past my window, leveling their torsos sideways against the wind and crying, “O, Groundhog, how could you fail us so?”

These are uncertain times.

But I say unto you now, Nebraskans! Take heart! We of all people should know, the weather tomorrow is almost never the same as the weather today, and that is both our blessing and curse.

So wear your floral print.

Wash your car.

And never give up on your freshly sprouting tulip beds, because one day soon they’ll be the envy of all your neighbors.

May this poem be an Easter encouragement to you.

 

The Ghost of Winter Past

The Ghost of Winter Past

came for a visit last night.

This spirit was a bitter one,

angry at us petty humans

for not fully appreciating his glory.

For our delight

in the promise of springtime.

In his jealousy he rudely hijacked the brisk northerly winds,

turning a chilly spring rain

into a thick

heavy

snowfall.

Flying sideways through the air,

like a drift of powdered sugar with its own personal gravity,

the snow attempted to reclaim the world.

 

The Ghost of Winter Past

had proved the weather man wrong.

“Ha! See now?”

he said.

“I will not be forgotten.”

 

But just then the sun,

fed up with his antics,

decided to make an appearance.

Fashionably late.

And with a wink,

he sent that troublemaker packing.