It's long... bare (this will make more sense at the end) with me :
I found an old draft from a late August morning, 2009:
So I had a frustrating morning on Sunday, all because a little plan I'd made didn't work out. It was frustrating. In my frustration I began to think and reflect about some of the less finer points on being a stranger in a strange land and sincerely call into question my reasons for being here, and the reality of my renewing a contract for a second year. It was really the first day in almost nine months now that I'd had of it's kind, but the revelations were along the lines of what I would have expected from such musings, and here they are... at least to some degree.
The first (and only) thing I wanted to do after this frustrating failed meeting of minor import (in the grand scheme of life) purposed to finalize the sale of the camera I borrowed for my trip to China, was to go home. However it was Sunday morning, and I was supposed to be on my way to church. I was already late for the final leader's meeting of a collage group I had volunteered for over the summer months, and I hate being late. The fact that I was a minute late for the previous meeting is what put me out of sorts to begin with. At any rate, I felt obligated, or determined, to go to church.
Then I asked myself why.
Truth be told, I don't feel that connected here. To anyone really, which is one of the reasons I volunteered to facilitate a Bible study with a few college guys over the summer. It turned out I had a good group of guys. Very involved and impassioned individuals to whom I felt I could offer little more than my limited availability, We played soccer, read and talked a bit on Sundays, but they're gone or going now, and I was faced with a microcosm of my own reflected circumstances that I had to address.
It seems for the last half of my life I've felt like I'm gone or going somewhere. This has become a little more identifiable the last few years, but even in high school my greatest excuse (for that is what it seems at times) for not being more involved in people's lives was that I was gone or going somewhere.
Which is not to say I didn't, or don't, have great friends, from many stages of life, but it is to say that those stages are clearly layered, like a spiral staircase, and as I look back I see that I'm the one who leaves each step along the way. I also seem not to have much direction, for I tread the same steps over and over again, up down and around, only occasionally happening upon a trend of greater diversity. For a time I found rest in one, but I've skipped over it the last few years, and it's a growing platform that only concerns me in the fact that I may not be able to avoid it much longer.
Whenever I think about my lack of present relationships with people, I find myself staring at that vast landing, wondering how I can get around it this time. I usually try tiptoeing across, but it creaks and announces my presence every time. Perhaps my propensity to try and talk about things without never really talking about them is part of why I feel so isolated; not everyone is comfortable being stranded on a deserted island of metaphor (or simile, hyperbole, allegory, parable, or whatever other imagery might come crashing onto shore).
...Cut to the present:
These thoughts did not die that day in August of '09... they've simply festered, like most unsolved conflicts in life tend to do before reaching their climax and resolution to eventually (we hope) fade away in a satisfying denouement. But these have not yet reached that point; in fact, they are still rising up at times given an array of circumstances that failed to meet certain expectations pertaining to this year, but I'm coping thus far, and biding my time. Still, it occurs to me that while "no man is an island" it's very easy to become a peninsula, holding on to the continental shelf of community by an eroding bridge of land, and that seems to fit the pattern I construct for myself: despite efforts to connect with the lives of those around me the oceans surrounding me churn and sweep the sands of relationship out into the abysmal thoughts and feelings and habits that years of metered solitude have carved out around me, and sure the result is a vast ocean trench with little in the way of shallow water beaches to enjoy, but I find the depths hold their own beauty, vast coral reefs gathered there in the endless time to think and ponder and pen such musings, dark though they be, on the secret nature of things most people tend to neglect, eliciting an inner life as illuminating and illusory as most external ones become: and who could blame them? Not I.
As sure as shoring up our shallowness can lead to certain facades, plumbing our depths can lead to a measure of emptiness, and both can be equally destructive when seeking understanding for others, and in others for ourselves.
While it's all well and good to know I'm never alone, not in the greatest allowance of the word, the point of fact that I am quite alone exists in such that I'm most often by myself. And it's not a new thing. It's a been a thing cultivated to perfection over years of repeated efforts since a particular relationship went south and I stopped wanting to be around people because it hurt. And for a while that was about as good and healthy a solution as I could manage. But that wound is long scarred over and it's high tide... (sorry, it's hard to escape some metaphors once begun) ...high time I built more bridges rather than canals, securing rather than separating people's stakes in my life.
So, if I've done my fair share of pushing you away, I apologize. I'm sure it will take some time for me to relearn how to effectively engage people as I should, (ie: outside of writing notes on Facebook) but I'll appreciate your patience while doing so. If you haven't noticed a change in me (for the worse)... I guess that's a good thing; hopefully that means things will only get better between us. I think this stems as much from my desire to pursue grace and share the same as any recent thoughts of mine...
At any rate, this doesn't mean I've found a home, or am heading there, but it does mean I'm ill-content with these frayed tethers that pass for lifelines in the free-state of loneliness, and would rather be anchored to something a little stronger, for a little longer, than one year-long contract at a time... especially concerning my relationships with people.
If you made it through that mess above you deserve my gratitude. You've done as much as I could have asked of anyone. Thus, next we meet in person just say these magic words: "Coffee is on you!" and if it's in my power (ie: without going into debt), I'll do my best to make it so.
- Foster
Wednesday, 5 May 2010
Monday, 3 May 2010
Magnolia Blooms vs. Cherry Blossoms
I’ve been taking a few walks around to admire the spring’s boasting blossoms, and primarily those of the celebrated cherry trees, and the rarely mentioned magnolia. I’ve been contemplating things as I’ve walked about, camera in hand, and have come to the conclusion, that for a number of reasons, I do believe I have decided on a preference of the flowering magnolia over the blossoming cherry.
Of course both have their merits. Both are beautiful in their own right, both are plentiful (at least here in Seoul), and the depths to which each can carry one’s musing thoughts can also astound, as I will soon try to prove.
On the surface, and en masse, their similarities may cause a more passive onlooker to wonder why such scrutiny is even worth enduring, however, despite their abundance in numbers, their pale hues, their seemingly scentless raiment, and their fragile, lives measured more in moments than in any span of time, further inspection reveals worlds of difference between these harbingers of longer, warmer days, of re-birth, renewal, love, and all that spring itself has come to represent, with their too-brief heralding cries, at once celebratory and lamentable, for the flickering flames too soon to perish, in the greater glow of the sun, which I will now begin to reveal, as I have witnessed these last few days.
In appearance, both are light. Though, while cherry blossoms boast of purity, transparent as they are, delicately dressed in bridal white, while baring their hearts for all to see, casting their glance downward, in feigned humility (for they know all eyes are on them), as they line the aisles all else walk, and as the gentle zephyrs breathe through the trees these fragile blossoms fall floating, carried by the breeze until they drift aground like springtime snow, ill-anchored in their Sargasso Sea of green, to carpet the passersby footfalls in their silent sacrifice, whereas the majestic Magnolia flowers are arrayed with petals of a richer hue, like mother’s milk, and hide their golden treasures buried deep within, from all but one (the sun) to whom they lavish honor with their stares, unless you coax their gaze away by force, but even then they soon return, and that explains why they’re so soon to burn, to brown, to whither away, and shed their heavier cloaks like strips of leprous flesh that break you heart to see, so tattered and torn lying abandoned beneath the tree, but there is beauty in their passing, as there is beauty in some tears, and a single petal fallen can shine, a symbol for lost years, and looking up you see all those left, mourning not those lost, but continuing in worship, celebrating despite the cost.
In texture too we find comparisons neither seen, nor heard, nor smelled (and I didn’t put either in my mouth, so taste I leave for more devout to explore and expound upon as leisure or calling dictates); where cherry blossoms feel like silken threads, so thinly spread in so small a space, a skillful seamstress’ tapestry, equal to any spider’s web’s embroidery, with veined features and seams too fine to see, the richer fabric of the magnolia is like the softest skin you’ve ever touched (yet taut), the most sensitive delicate areas, only the trusted feel, and even the weathered portions, even those sections that look burned away (whether weather-worn or devoured it’s difficult to say), but even those imperfections, if they can be so-called, feel like the healing scabs of skin deep wounds, soon to pass from itch to scar.
I heard no sound from either, I assume they have no voice as such, and in aroma, neither breathed more than the soil (or yellow dust, beside, there can be no equal to their coming kin, the lilac’s lavish lavender languishes in their shade soon to best them both), and having already admitted my unwillingness to taste, all that’s left is to examine the thoughts to which these two sensations lead…
…But I’ll leave that for a future musing, first and foremost, your own; I’ve kept you long enough already that you may miss the chance to meet these messengers in our midst now that spring has surely come.
Of course both have their merits. Both are beautiful in their own right, both are plentiful (at least here in Seoul), and the depths to which each can carry one’s musing thoughts can also astound, as I will soon try to prove.
On the surface, and en masse, their similarities may cause a more passive onlooker to wonder why such scrutiny is even worth enduring, however, despite their abundance in numbers, their pale hues, their seemingly scentless raiment, and their fragile, lives measured more in moments than in any span of time, further inspection reveals worlds of difference between these harbingers of longer, warmer days, of re-birth, renewal, love, and all that spring itself has come to represent, with their too-brief heralding cries, at once celebratory and lamentable, for the flickering flames too soon to perish, in the greater glow of the sun, which I will now begin to reveal, as I have witnessed these last few days.
In appearance, both are light. Though, while cherry blossoms boast of purity, transparent as they are, delicately dressed in bridal white, while baring their hearts for all to see, casting their glance downward, in feigned humility (for they know all eyes are on them), as they line the aisles all else walk, and as the gentle zephyrs breathe through the trees these fragile blossoms fall floating, carried by the breeze until they drift aground like springtime snow, ill-anchored in their Sargasso Sea of green, to carpet the passersby footfalls in their silent sacrifice, whereas the majestic Magnolia flowers are arrayed with petals of a richer hue, like mother’s milk, and hide their golden treasures buried deep within, from all but one (the sun) to whom they lavish honor with their stares, unless you coax their gaze away by force, but even then they soon return, and that explains why they’re so soon to burn, to brown, to whither away, and shed their heavier cloaks like strips of leprous flesh that break you heart to see, so tattered and torn lying abandoned beneath the tree, but there is beauty in their passing, as there is beauty in some tears, and a single petal fallen can shine, a symbol for lost years, and looking up you see all those left, mourning not those lost, but continuing in worship, celebrating despite the cost.
In texture too we find comparisons neither seen, nor heard, nor smelled (and I didn’t put either in my mouth, so taste I leave for more devout to explore and expound upon as leisure or calling dictates); where cherry blossoms feel like silken threads, so thinly spread in so small a space, a skillful seamstress’ tapestry, equal to any spider’s web’s embroidery, with veined features and seams too fine to see, the richer fabric of the magnolia is like the softest skin you’ve ever touched (yet taut), the most sensitive delicate areas, only the trusted feel, and even the weathered portions, even those sections that look burned away (whether weather-worn or devoured it’s difficult to say), but even those imperfections, if they can be so-called, feel like the healing scabs of skin deep wounds, soon to pass from itch to scar.
I heard no sound from either, I assume they have no voice as such, and in aroma, neither breathed more than the soil (or yellow dust, beside, there can be no equal to their coming kin, the lilac’s lavish lavender languishes in their shade soon to best them both), and having already admitted my unwillingness to taste, all that’s left is to examine the thoughts to which these two sensations lead…
…But I’ll leave that for a future musing, first and foremost, your own; I’ve kept you long enough already that you may miss the chance to meet these messengers in our midst now that spring has surely come.
Wednesday, 25 November 2009
Thanks... I think
It's American Thanksgiving here which means America has precious hours left to prep for the unbridled glory of gluttony in store... and I mean that in the best of ways.
I am blessed to be expecting a lovely celebration this evening with a few others, of which I am in ardent anticipation of, and wholly looking forward to. Especially as lunch was lukewarm rice with bean paste and some sprouts or sorts.
My real reason for this note is two fold... at least. First, the last thing I wrote with this particular holiday in mind is hardly thematically fitting. I'll post it on my writing blog (http://fosterink.blogspot.com/ for the morbidly curious), but I thought it time to express some general gratitude for my life, and the lives of others.
If you don't know if you're included in this, then let me put you at ease: if you're reading this and we've met, conversed, spent so much as a few minutes in idle conversation (you have no idea the effect you've had on me if I can spend minutes in idle conversation) or explored any greater depths in this journey called life, or if you've simply been there and offered a hand, an hour of your time, a word of encouragement, even those who cannot read this because I don't know their names, but they sent a smile my way in passing by, I should express that I am very grateful. I don't express that nearly enough.
It's been nearly a year now that I've been living day to day in a strange land, no more or less different than the day I arrived. It's funny to me that I would choose this holiday, itself somewhat foreign, to express some thoughts, but the holiday as I've come to celebrate it has had an impact.
I came to Korea with the primary goal of getting out of debt. I'm happy to say that that goal is hereby fiscally achieved. I'll be sending home my final payment within a few days to be in the black, just like the hopes of the retail world come Friday. However over the course of the year it's not only the financial debt I've come to repay. I've been holding onto numerous debts of various sorts that I feel I've lost in the shuffle of life half a world away from their origin. I feel like I've finally arrived at a place where I don't owe anyone anything, out of some misaligned sense of duty, or some other perverted imposed onus of pride or pity. It's a good thing. I'll tell you why in a moment.
There's one outstanding debt that doesn't really count, not because I'm not eternally grateful, and not because I can ever make any manner of headway in paying it back, but for the express reason that I can't. It's beyond me. It's the freedom of life in the saving Grace of Jesus. I spent a lot of my life trying to figure out how to repay that debt, but I've come to accept that I can't. It's impossible.
This is important to know because it has done two things: It has freed me to stop striving and it allows me to start serving. I've been unable to serve anyone for a very long time (at least without flashbacks of luggage, cars, and tips). You just can't serve in debt. You can work, labor, and strive, but true service will always take a backseat to the effort to make some sort of ground in the uphill battle to see the distant horizon of freedom, because debt is a prison, most debt at least.
Now that I'm semi-officially debt free, and I hope you'll forgive me if you feel I owe you something, because I really feel like I don't, and that's a first in and of itself, perhaps ever, but it's a good feeling and comes with gratitude and a desire that I may truly begin to do things I haven't been able to do for a long time: love, serve and freely give what I hope and trust will be a growing abundance of all I have to offer.
With that said, let me say again and sincerely wish you a Happy Thanksgiving, to one and all; may it extend well beyond a meal, a day, a long weekend, and a season.
Thanks... I think.
- Foster
I am blessed to be expecting a lovely celebration this evening with a few others, of which I am in ardent anticipation of, and wholly looking forward to. Especially as lunch was lukewarm rice with bean paste and some sprouts or sorts.
My real reason for this note is two fold... at least. First, the last thing I wrote with this particular holiday in mind is hardly thematically fitting. I'll post it on my writing blog (http://fosterink.blogspot.
If you don't know if you're included in this, then let me put you at ease: if you're reading this and we've met, conversed, spent so much as a few minutes in idle conversation (you have no idea the effect you've had on me if I can spend minutes in idle conversation) or explored any greater depths in this journey called life, or if you've simply been there and offered a hand, an hour of your time, a word of encouragement, even those who cannot read this because I don't know their names, but they sent a smile my way in passing by, I should express that I am very grateful. I don't express that nearly enough.
It's been nearly a year now that I've been living day to day in a strange land, no more or less different than the day I arrived. It's funny to me that I would choose this holiday, itself somewhat foreign, to express some thoughts, but the holiday as I've come to celebrate it has had an impact.
I came to Korea with the primary goal of getting out of debt. I'm happy to say that that goal is hereby fiscally achieved. I'll be sending home my final payment within a few days to be in the black, just like the hopes of the retail world come Friday. However over the course of the year it's not only the financial debt I've come to repay. I've been holding onto numerous debts of various sorts that I feel I've lost in the shuffle of life half a world away from their origin. I feel like I've finally arrived at a place where I don't owe anyone anything, out of some misaligned sense of duty, or some other perverted imposed onus of pride or pity. It's a good thing. I'll tell you why in a moment.
There's one outstanding debt that doesn't really count, not because I'm not eternally grateful, and not because I can ever make any manner of headway in paying it back, but for the express reason that I can't. It's beyond me. It's the freedom of life in the saving Grace of Jesus. I spent a lot of my life trying to figure out how to repay that debt, but I've come to accept that I can't. It's impossible.
This is important to know because it has done two things: It has freed me to stop striving and it allows me to start serving. I've been unable to serve anyone for a very long time (at least without flashbacks of luggage, cars, and tips). You just can't serve in debt. You can work, labor, and strive, but true service will always take a backseat to the effort to make some sort of ground in the uphill battle to see the distant horizon of freedom, because debt is a prison, most debt at least.
Now that I'm semi-officially debt free, and I hope you'll forgive me if you feel I owe you something, because I really feel like I don't, and that's a first in and of itself, perhaps ever, but it's a good feeling and comes with gratitude and a desire that I may truly begin to do things I haven't been able to do for a long time: love, serve and freely give what I hope and trust will be a growing abundance of all I have to offer.
With that said, let me say again and sincerely wish you a Happy Thanksgiving, to one and all; may it extend well beyond a meal, a day, a long weekend, and a season.
Thanks... I think.
- Foster
Wednesday, 22 July 2009
By way of an apology:
My last note has been plaguing me to some extent.
While a small contingent of soldiers have been milling about outside the same subway stop, down the street from the courthouse, for the past two consecutive days as well, the comparison in numbers is like the volume of Lake Erie to Lake Bikal. And the music was replaced by a man yelling... perhaps that accounts for the drastic loss of numbers, but in any case, what struck me today, that I failed to articulate in my last note, wherein I really just wanted to share the experience of the sight, because I had no story to tell, for the very revelation that stuck me today was the total absence of conflict.
Without conflict there is no story. If there was conflict in the occasion I remain ignorant of it.
As the loudspeakers were blaring the loud but surprisingly passionless words of the speaker the listless dressed and decorated sitting and squatting military men were offering less than supportive half-hearted fist raises in scattered unison while fidgeting to light cigarettes that resembled lollipop sticks. I walked by looking a few of the older gentlemen in their bored, discontented eyes trying to figure out how to walk with a closed umbrella wondering what they thought of this ignorant foreigner, or if they were thinking of anything at all.
I decided today that I don't want to be someone you, or anyone, can look at and wonder if I'm thinking of anything at all. I always want there to be some evidence, however faint or deep, shrouded perhaps in minutia or moments of worry, cares, confusion or exhaustion, but still alight, of a burning passion, a flicker of life, so that you know I'm not just sitting there, not even listening to the message, meant for me, bored and uncaring. Not that these men were necessarily as I describe, for I didn't linger and couldn't necessarily speak to them, and so far be it from me to judge, but their demeanor was such as to inspire these musings.
I'm not claiming these thoughts resolve the former, again, there's nothing to resolve. I do however hope that these thoughts offer some greater perspective than those posted prior. If to no other end, to recognize the need to identify conflicts in our lives and work towards their resolutions so that we might tell better stories to one another.
- Foster
While a small contingent of soldiers have been milling about outside the same subway stop, down the street from the courthouse, for the past two consecutive days as well, the comparison in numbers is like the volume of Lake Erie to Lake Bikal. And the music was replaced by a man yelling... perhaps that accounts for the drastic loss of numbers, but in any case, what struck me today, that I failed to articulate in my last note, wherein I really just wanted to share the experience of the sight, because I had no story to tell, for the very revelation that stuck me today was the total absence of conflict.
Without conflict there is no story. If there was conflict in the occasion I remain ignorant of it.
As the loudspeakers were blaring the loud but surprisingly passionless words of the speaker the listless dressed and decorated sitting and squatting military men were offering less than supportive half-hearted fist raises in scattered unison while fidgeting to light cigarettes that resembled lollipop sticks. I walked by looking a few of the older gentlemen in their bored, discontented eyes trying to figure out how to walk with a closed umbrella wondering what they thought of this ignorant foreigner, or if they were thinking of anything at all.
I decided today that I don't want to be someone you, or anyone, can look at and wonder if I'm thinking of anything at all. I always want there to be some evidence, however faint or deep, shrouded perhaps in minutia or moments of worry, cares, confusion or exhaustion, but still alight, of a burning passion, a flicker of life, so that you know I'm not just sitting there, not even listening to the message, meant for me, bored and uncaring. Not that these men were necessarily as I describe, for I didn't linger and couldn't necessarily speak to them, and so far be it from me to judge, but their demeanor was such as to inspire these musings.
I'm not claiming these thoughts resolve the former, again, there's nothing to resolve. I do however hope that these thoughts offer some greater perspective than those posted prior. If to no other end, to recognize the need to identify conflicts in our lives and work towards their resolutions so that we might tell better stories to one another.
- Foster
Tuesday, 21 July 2009
A Waste of a Unique Morning...
I had an interesting morning. I woke from weird dreams that I can't remember, had breakfast, went to the gym: so far so good.
In getting ready for work I realized that I had run out of what has been my staple cologne (but I've had this particular bottle for years since it only became my staple when I brought it with me to Korea), so I changed to another. Which is neither here nor there, but it ties into a theme I'll be exploring so bear with me.
Getting out of the Subway turnstile, I saw an unfamiliarly-decorated-military-uniformed gentleman cross my path, then a few steps down the wide halls of the station, another. Upon rounding a corner to a flight of stars there were a half dozen more. The last passage of stairs leading to the street opened into a mob of all sorts of military uniformed men, milling about with stern looks and cigarettes hanging from their lips.
As I wove through the mob, I started to hear music loud enough to infiltrate my ipod's offering, blaring in all directions from a van with four loudspeakers, some seeming war-time ballad-esque fare that reminded me of Lena Horne, or world war-era depictions of crackling gramophone productions ringing through prison yards, or battlefields, only in a language I couldn't understand, or perhaps that's part of why.
In passing the military men (sorry, I didn't see any military women) I was, in turn, passed by ranked police officers, all decked out in riot gear, with armor and shields, streaming by, two by two, towards the group. The streets were jammed with traffic, because police buses were lining the one nearest lane all the way to the top of the hill where the Korean Supreme Court offices are. The entrance to the courts was barricaded, which usually isn't the case until I'm leaving work. I assume all of this is related.
More police were dotted up the hill, most smoking, masking the usual smell of pine needles, that I associate with beaches (see previous note), with the choking fumes of nicotine and exhaust.
It's funny how having one sense thrown out of your routine can effect your thoughts. In seeking some solace once all the uniforms, smoke, and foreign sounds had passed, I thought of things I used to find familiar, starting with smells, and was drawing a blank. I still am, though I've been musing over smell since I received a towel from home; it was from my Dad, as requested, since bath towels are hard to find around here, and I distinctly recall that it didn't smell how I remembered my towels to smell, for the mere fact that I could smell it and identify an odor other than detergent. I remember loving some smells of certain homes or people if not for the mere fact that they're nigh impossible to replicate in memory or duplicate outside of the intimate places of their origin.
I remember a lot of second-hand smoke from my youth, but it's been so long since that's been a regular part of my days that the smell is as foreign as those emanating from the Korean cultural cuisine being served for lunch.
So I'm retreating here to try and organize the mess the morning has made of my mind and I'm still confounded, utterly unable to find an adequate, relevant thread in this to tie it all together into a neat little life-lesson or applicable sharing despite my lofty ambitions stated at the start. I keep realizing that that new smell I smell is me. And that this particular change means nothing.
Sorry to waste your time.
- Foster
In getting ready for work I realized that I had run out of what has been my staple cologne (but I've had this particular bottle for years since it only became my staple when I brought it with me to Korea), so I changed to another. Which is neither here nor there, but it ties into a theme I'll be exploring so bear with me.
Getting out of the Subway turnstile, I saw an unfamiliarly-decorated-mil
As I wove through the mob, I started to hear music loud enough to infiltrate my ipod's offering, blaring in all directions from a van with four loudspeakers, some seeming war-time ballad-esque fare that reminded me of Lena Horne, or world war-era depictions of crackling gramophone productions ringing through prison yards, or battlefields, only in a language I couldn't understand, or perhaps that's part of why.
In passing the military men (sorry, I didn't see any military women) I was, in turn, passed by ranked police officers, all decked out in riot gear, with armor and shields, streaming by, two by two, towards the group. The streets were jammed with traffic, because police buses were lining the one nearest lane all the way to the top of the hill where the Korean Supreme Court offices are. The entrance to the courts was barricaded, which usually isn't the case until I'm leaving work. I assume all of this is related.
More police were dotted up the hill, most smoking, masking the usual smell of pine needles, that I associate with beaches (see previous note), with the choking fumes of nicotine and exhaust.
It's funny how having one sense thrown out of your routine can effect your thoughts. In seeking some solace once all the uniforms, smoke, and foreign sounds had passed, I thought of things I used to find familiar, starting with smells, and was drawing a blank. I still am, though I've been musing over smell since I received a towel from home; it was from my Dad, as requested, since bath towels are hard to find around here, and I distinctly recall that it didn't smell how I remembered my towels to smell, for the mere fact that I could smell it and identify an odor other than detergent. I remember loving some smells of certain homes or people if not for the mere fact that they're nigh impossible to replicate in memory or duplicate outside of the intimate places of their origin.
I remember a lot of second-hand smoke from my youth, but it's been so long since that's been a regular part of my days that the smell is as foreign as those emanating from the Korean cultural cuisine being served for lunch.
So I'm retreating here to try and organize the mess the morning has made of my mind and I'm still confounded, utterly unable to find an adequate, relevant thread in this to tie it all together into a neat little life-lesson or applicable sharing despite my lofty ambitions stated at the start. I keep realizing that that new smell I smell is me. And that this particular change means nothing.
Sorry to waste your time.
- Foster
Wednesday, 1 July 2009
A Confession... (at last?)
Given this blog's title, I thought it was high time:
I really didn't mean it when I wished everyone a "Happy Canada Day", nor is "Happy Fourth of July" or "Happy Independence Day" anything more than a colloquial well-wishing when it passes through my lips or fingers into the realm of communication, written or spoken as the case may be. To be honest, I haven't celebrated my personal independence since it was thrust upon me a few years ago now.
The last such holiday I was anticipating in any way was when I was living for a summer back in Canada, but I had still begun seeing the holiday, which happened to be her birthday, more as a celebration of co-dependence for years already. The only thing that made this one especially anticipatory was her agreeing to spend it in Canada with me, since she had told me she loved me when I left her two months prior. Alas, she didn't make it.
I should say before I continue that I wholly support and appreciate the privilege of living in a free country, however, in so doing I fear that many people take a social principle and transform it into a personal one whereas my recent conviction is such that our freedom exists for the sole purpose of choosing who we will serve and how.
In my time, perhaps prematurely, though I've never wholly thought or felt it was so, I chose a particular individual. Ultimately, she didn't choose me. Thus, I've spent the last few years thrust into an independence I have in no way relished, appreciated or celebrated. I took a walk with a friend up a mountain earlier this week and he reiterated his concern in his way, which I know others share, and I admitted, perhaps for the first time to him, and myself, that maybe I've taken particular measures to remain in such a state, but I've most certainly not done enough to effectively alter my circumstances in any significant way (I know: Africa, now Korea, but distance is nothing to the heart and mind).
The point remains that independence has never been a sincere goal of mine. I believe whole-heartedly that this life is best served with co-dependence. The primary tenets of my faith rest on that assertion. Even the word faith, which requires a relationship with someone, something, speaks of an inherent co-dependence, partnership, or some other form of requisite connection, between two or more individuals in a situation belying some risk given failure, be it emotional, psychological or physical pain, stress, or discomfort. If your faith in a chair is betrayed, you'll fall to the gound; the height you fall from determines the cost of that betrayal. With interpersonal relationships, the complexities of the consequences are seemingly endless. That I should be over this is a common refrain, and I believe for the most part that I am, despite the daily reminders, be they willful memories or happenstance recollections, triggered from our time spent together or the resultant shards of faith from that relationship which I'm still picking out, or leaving to fester, but given all this that I know I still don't think I have a problem (even if I am the only one).
At any rate, I do believe and am opening to the possibility that there is someone out there to share these life experiences with, physical and tangible, not to say that my salvation is insuffiecient for a life well-lived, with the God who cannot leave me alone even if I think I want it so, and that is indeed my goal in my self-percieved independednce, to see that such a term is a misnomer, and that I am dependant at all times on the grace I keep reaching out to find, sometimes grabbing hold of, but still too often letting go, and perhaps that is the first step to being ready to step up on the chair again, putting my faith not on the chair, but putting it all in my constant companion, God, who, even if I'm standing on a rocking chair on a balcony, putting up Christmas decorations, twenty stories above the harsh snow-covered concrete, should the chair fail, keeping my faith and focus on God, shall keep me secure until the work I need to do is done.
So I'll still wish her a "Happy Birthday, Canada!" and a "Happy Fourth!" to my American friends, but may my sincerest wish be for a "Happy co-dependent life for all!"
- Foster
I really didn't mean it when I wished everyone a "Happy Canada Day", nor is "Happy Fourth of July" or "Happy Independence Day" anything more than a colloquial well-wishing when it passes through my lips or fingers into the realm of communication, written or spoken as the case may be. To be honest, I haven't celebrated my personal independence since it was thrust upon me a few years ago now.
The last such holiday I was anticipating in any way was when I was living for a summer back in Canada, but I had still begun seeing the holiday, which happened to be her birthday, more as a celebration of co-dependence for years already. The only thing that made this one especially anticipatory was her agreeing to spend it in Canada with me, since she had told me she loved me when I left her two months prior. Alas, she didn't make it.
I should say before I continue that I wholly support and appreciate the privilege of living in a free country, however, in so doing I fear that many people take a social principle and transform it into a personal one whereas my recent conviction is such that our freedom exists for the sole purpose of choosing who we will serve and how.
In my time, perhaps prematurely, though I've never wholly thought or felt it was so, I chose a particular individual. Ultimately, she didn't choose me. Thus, I've spent the last few years thrust into an independence I have in no way relished, appreciated or celebrated. I took a walk with a friend up a mountain earlier this week and he reiterated his concern in his way, which I know others share, and I admitted, perhaps for the first time to him, and myself, that maybe I've taken particular measures to remain in such a state, but I've most certainly not done enough to effectively alter my circumstances in any significant way (I know: Africa, now Korea, but distance is nothing to the heart and mind).
The point remains that independence has never been a sincere goal of mine. I believe whole-heartedly that this life is best served with co-dependence. The primary tenets of my faith rest on that assertion. Even the word faith, which requires a relationship with someone, something, speaks of an inherent co-dependence, partnership, or some other form of requisite connection, between two or more individuals in a situation belying some risk given failure, be it emotional, psychological or physical pain, stress, or discomfort. If your faith in a chair is betrayed, you'll fall to the gound; the height you fall from determines the cost of that betrayal. With interpersonal relationships, the complexities of the consequences are seemingly endless. That I should be over this is a common refrain, and I believe for the most part that I am, despite the daily reminders, be they willful memories or happenstance recollections, triggered from our time spent together or the resultant shards of faith from that relationship which I'm still picking out, or leaving to fester, but given all this that I know I still don't think I have a problem (even if I am the only one).
At any rate, I do believe and am opening to the possibility that there is someone out there to share these life experiences with, physical and tangible, not to say that my salvation is insuffiecient for a life well-lived, with the God who cannot leave me alone even if I think I want it so, and that is indeed my goal in my self-percieved independednce, to see that such a term is a misnomer, and that I am dependant at all times on the grace I keep reaching out to find, sometimes grabbing hold of, but still too often letting go, and perhaps that is the first step to being ready to step up on the chair again, putting my faith not on the chair, but putting it all in my constant companion, God, who, even if I'm standing on a rocking chair on a balcony, putting up Christmas decorations, twenty stories above the harsh snow-covered concrete, should the chair fail, keeping my faith and focus on God, shall keep me secure until the work I need to do is done.
So I'll still wish her a "Happy Birthday, Canada!" and a "Happy Fourth!" to my American friends, but may my sincerest wish be for a "Happy co-dependent life for all!"
- Foster
Wednesday, 17 June 2009
Faith Fills Fetid Furrows of Filth
Over the past few weeks I seem to have encountered a theme of sorts in various writings, words, messages and images. It's one I frequently find myself confronting, as a member of humanity, but I've rarely given it the thought I have of late, whether due to the frequency, poignancy, or some latent revulsion, which perhaps should be the norm, to the vile, evil, sinful, pick your euphemism, definition, or palatable poison for the term that encompasses our collective fall, and subsequent damnation outside of grace, but that's the issue.
The recent fixation settled in and culminated with some recent blogs in this small community (for me at least). When I read Butterfly Dreamer's blog, "Howl on Baby..." I had just recently finished reading the long-censured chapter of Fyodor Dostoevsky's "Devils", wherein a man confesses to what I (and most) have always thought to be the most horrendous crime imaginable. Still the confession is preempted by a question: "...can you move a mountain or not?" and the response of the isolated, aesthetic, monk is: "If God bids me move it, I can." The monk's reaction to the horrific tale told by the amoral confessor is one of the hardest depictions of grace for me to fathom; I'm not sure such forgiveness is in me, but I'm sure such forgiveness exists.
So when I read about embracing our dark side my initial response was that I've been trying not to associate humanity with darkness, or, in failing that, to be grateful for the greater things that aid us in rising above our "humanity" to become something even better:
Grace, Love, Hope, Faith, Truth, Peace, Forgiveness, Patience, Peace, every (capital letter) virtue we can name that acts as light - and darkness is nothing but the absence of light.
Thus my rebuttal to any proclamation that professes that darkness is the, or one of the primary defining aspects of the human condition, is: I'd rather not be human.
However in reading Ronnie Kerrigan's recent post, "The Human Condition, Indifference, and Evil", and having subjected myself, in degrees, to the dredges of depravity in beginning to read "American Psycho" and having watched a few random horror movies online, among them the infamous Hostel 2, (we had just booked a Hostel for our upcoming China trip) though I well knew what was awaiting me in these endeavors, I found the conclusion that "we are not all cut from the same cloth" to be slightly misleading.
I think we are cut from the same cloth, however some of us, through the accident of birth, through choice and consequence, through the guidance, care, and concern of others, but all ultimately by grace, fall into the hands of a skilled tailor, and are thereafter wrought with beautiful embroideries and embellishments, cared for, having our frayed or loose ends cut away, our tears mended, or stains cleaned, whereas others fall themselves victim to the abuses, if not of a willful other, than life at large, definitely through some volition, but without the guiding influence of those care-filled skilled hands to help, to form, to free us to be something far more than the filthy rag we could all become besides.
I try to live in the light, but there are aspects of the effort that are outside of my control. It's taken me a long time to recognize that striving for perfection is a futile endeavor. All of us need some measure of grace in our lives because we all make mistakes, willful, ignorant, or otherwise. We are all in need of someone, some human, who has endured to perfection, overcome where we have failed, stood where we have fallen, tread where we would not follow, lived in a way we wish we could, and died for all that all might live, and we can find bits and pieces of that person in the greatest people and characters in our lives, in history and in literature, but there is only one who fits the bill, and paid it in full. Perfection has been purchased for us and is offered as a gift.
We often take gifts for granted, not realizing their costs, and cost is relative, but the cost of grace is one we can all appreciate if we look at our culminated mistakes, misdeeds, and miseries and realize that they are gone, wiped clean, erased from the record of our lives except so far as the consequences play out in the here and now among our equally flawed contemporaries, but the perfect abundant grace of the only judge of life that matters has deemed that the debt is paid in full, if one would simply accept the gift.
It's not easy. There are things I've never done that I want to say are worse than those I have. The things I have done seem to me to account for a pittance of pain in the whole of existence, and of that I hope the majority has been my own, but that pain is enough to warrant the need of perfection to pay the price.
- Foster
PS: I would not recommend "Devils". It's long and I found it less engaging than Dostoevsky's other works that are among my favorites, and the passage I refer too is difficult to say the least.
PPS: I neither recommend "American Psycho" nor "Hostel 2". I feel like I am covered by grace in having subjected myself to them, but while "everything is permissible, not everything is beneficial" (1 Cor. 10:23) and I do feel all the worse for the wear, but I'm still reading the book... go figure.
PPPS: I would recommend "The Passion of the Christ" which depicts depravity, (and is equally difficult to watch at times) but those instances, those images, pale and pass in comparison the revelation of the light of the grace that shines through. So may it be for you, and I, and all.
The recent fixation settled in and culminated with some recent blogs in this small community (for me at least). When I read Butterfly Dreamer's blog, "Howl on Baby..." I had just recently finished reading the long-censured chapter of Fyodor Dostoevsky's "Devils", wherein a man confesses to what I (and most) have always thought to be the most horrendous crime imaginable. Still the confession is preempted by a question: "...can you move a mountain or not?" and the response of the isolated, aesthetic, monk is: "If God bids me move it, I can." The monk's reaction to the horrific tale told by the amoral confessor is one of the hardest depictions of grace for me to fathom; I'm not sure such forgiveness is in me, but I'm sure such forgiveness exists.
So when I read about embracing our dark side my initial response was that I've been trying not to associate humanity with darkness, or, in failing that, to be grateful for the greater things that aid us in rising above our "humanity" to become something even better:
Grace, Love, Hope, Faith, Truth, Peace, Forgiveness, Patience, Peace, every (capital letter) virtue we can name that acts as light - and darkness is nothing but the absence of light.
Thus my rebuttal to any proclamation that professes that darkness is the, or one of the primary defining aspects of the human condition, is: I'd rather not be human.
However in reading Ronnie Kerrigan's recent post, "The Human Condition, Indifference, and Evil", and having subjected myself, in degrees, to the dredges of depravity in beginning to read "American Psycho" and having watched a few random horror movies online, among them the infamous Hostel 2, (we had just booked a Hostel for our upcoming China trip) though I well knew what was awaiting me in these endeavors, I found the conclusion that "we are not all cut from the same cloth" to be slightly misleading.
I think we are cut from the same cloth, however some of us, through the accident of birth, through choice and consequence, through the guidance, care, and concern of others, but all ultimately by grace, fall into the hands of a skilled tailor, and are thereafter wrought with beautiful embroideries and embellishments, cared for, having our frayed or loose ends cut away, our tears mended, or stains cleaned, whereas others fall themselves victim to the abuses, if not of a willful other, than life at large, definitely through some volition, but without the guiding influence of those care-filled skilled hands to help, to form, to free us to be something far more than the filthy rag we could all become besides.
I try to live in the light, but there are aspects of the effort that are outside of my control. It's taken me a long time to recognize that striving for perfection is a futile endeavor. All of us need some measure of grace in our lives because we all make mistakes, willful, ignorant, or otherwise. We are all in need of someone, some human, who has endured to perfection, overcome where we have failed, stood where we have fallen, tread where we would not follow, lived in a way we wish we could, and died for all that all might live, and we can find bits and pieces of that person in the greatest people and characters in our lives, in history and in literature, but there is only one who fits the bill, and paid it in full. Perfection has been purchased for us and is offered as a gift.
We often take gifts for granted, not realizing their costs, and cost is relative, but the cost of grace is one we can all appreciate if we look at our culminated mistakes, misdeeds, and miseries and realize that they are gone, wiped clean, erased from the record of our lives except so far as the consequences play out in the here and now among our equally flawed contemporaries, but the perfect abundant grace of the only judge of life that matters has deemed that the debt is paid in full, if one would simply accept the gift.
It's not easy. There are things I've never done that I want to say are worse than those I have. The things I have done seem to me to account for a pittance of pain in the whole of existence, and of that I hope the majority has been my own, but that pain is enough to warrant the need of perfection to pay the price.
- Foster
PS: I would not recommend "Devils". It's long and I found it less engaging than Dostoevsky's other works that are among my favorites, and the passage I refer too is difficult to say the least.
PPS: I neither recommend "American Psycho" nor "Hostel 2". I feel like I am covered by grace in having subjected myself to them, but while "everything is permissible, not everything is beneficial" (1 Cor. 10:23) and I do feel all the worse for the wear, but I'm still reading the book... go figure.
PPPS: I would recommend "The Passion of the Christ" which depicts depravity, (and is equally difficult to watch at times) but those instances, those images, pale and pass in comparison the revelation of the light of the grace that shines through. So may it be for you, and I, and all.
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