The Resounding Ache...

"There is a pain at the heart of the
fallen world that creates a relentless
difficulty...We are dying...The Spirit
awakens in us a resounding sense that
things are not as they should be, of how
they are supposed to be, and of how they
will be again in the day to come...The
soul-deep groaning has a purpose to drive
us toward God...and the final result of all
of this is not annihilation, but rather
transformation, adoption, and glorification."
-Dr. Thoennes

The state of things here is deeply wrong.
And there are times that I fall into that
deep wrong from what I know to be right.
I guess part of becoming a whole person, and
letting people see that whole person means
letting down the mystere that can be used to
hide one's imperfections.
I am imperfect.
I do imperfectly.
I feel terrible.

On War...

It is never a good idea to start a multi-front war,
but what if you are attacked from multiple sides? Then what?
For a long time I was able to make people believe whatever I
wanted them to. I was able to play the chameleon and conceal the
innermost thoughts of my heart. If I was hurting, I made sure that
people did not ask me about it. I made them think that things were
okay. It was a useful survival skill in my earlier years but there
came a point where I wanted to show people what was beneath, felt
that I had at last found some trustworthy people, and then something
gut-wrenching occurred. I couldn't turn it off.
So it has been a long journey of deconstructing old walls that
no longer have a place in my soul. I am learning to trust again,
which is scary, but good.
It took a battle in which I was so far outmatched that I could
not breath, or take a step, or bat a lash without the pummeling of
an enemy coming down upon me. It took a beating. But in that pain
brought redemption. I fought against an enemy and myself. At the same
time there was an invader and a civil war. Thanks be to God, because
it finally got through to me.
So now I feel the war even more. I have an enemy that hates me
very much. But I have a Lord, a Great High King that loves me, who
has been telling me He loves me for my entire life, who will be telling
me He loves me forever to come. It is not about me anymore; I am Hayden
and no one; yet in Christ an heir to the victory that awaits
Forgive me, my dear friends, for my deceptions of the past. This war
has killed Odysseus. It is one more character that I am glad to leave
in the bloody dust of this battlefield. There is still a war and I feel
the fight, and I will have times where I am weary of battle, but there is
the voice of my King and the voices of those around me who whisper that
the sun will indeed rise, and that the beauty of dawn waits just beyond
the horizon.
Friends of mine, those who have stood with me in the trenches during
moments of victory and hours of darkest night, I love you, with the
greatest understanding of that as I know how, I love you all.
Until then, let us look toward that
Condition of complete simplicity
(Costing not less than everything).
And all shall be well,
And all manner of thing shall be well,
When the tongues of fire are infolded
Into the crowned knot of flame.
And the fire and the rose are one.
May you see the Love that moves the sun and the other stars.

For Storms...

...And in that moment the battered knight
aboard that earthy ship saw that God had
sent him a fiercer storm than any he had ever
faced. It was God, as well, that directed him
toward the sight of that magnificent eye, where
all was well, where one could rest in the inner
sanctum of that imitative rose. But the clouds
were meant to resume as the storm moved, and the
rays of that peaceful centers stayed with him
as the war of wind and thunder raged on, reminding
him that a brilliant and piercing light shined
beyond the clouds...

"On Maximus the Confessor"

What bitter grief and endless strife:
The burdens lovely Psyche bore
Not she of poets’ ancient lore
But she infusing human life.

Racked by temptings against the free
Though meant for freedom by her end,
Her foe did lure her eyes to tend
To fruit forbidden on the tree.

For foe was she, and foe she is,
The Venus fair, Ha! Fleshy maid;
She crafts with wicked mind to braid
Less good with fruit of fiery Dis.

At war were they the earthly foe
And gentle Psyche’s battered grace,
And sorrow marked the latter’s face
With tears of failed testing’s woe.

“Dear soul!” Said He from up above,
the Mover from his starry tent,
Afresher of a nature rent,
Conductor of a steadfast Love.

“Come to Me and clearly see
the fruit of contemplative sight.
Let virtue call you back from night,
‘neath clouded siren’s poesy!

My child scoff the Venus trap
And put all lusts beneath thy feet
And smother pride beneath the sheet
Of ‘scetic journey’s rugged map.

Thus Psyche seemed to leave the war,
Though bound was she by fleshly strife;
Conditions of a temp’ral life,
Yet newfound love now moved her core.

The soulish girl of starry fame
Then bathed in contemplative time
Recalling reason and her rhyme
And whom her being made His claim.

The author’s pen dares not write more,
But leaves the soulful girl to be
Among a holy poesy,
To not again face earthly chore.

Yet she must face the earthly brunt,
For that’s the seal the Mover set;
Dear Psyche must a peace beget,
And quell the intraperson front.

The lady returned a holy sight
forged by time in soulish skies
‘neath her Source’s careful eyes,
And Venus shrinks ‘neath soulful light.

A treaty then with terms of gold,
formed deep in contemplative fire,
bound Venus and her siren’s ire
by chains of rhyme and reason’s scold.

The journey into holiness
Did set the balance right at last;
An order that did rightly cast
Dear Psyche a Soulfull patroness.

"Ode to an Awkward Beauty"

One must love: the sunflower
To watch it grow,
To have it know
That it is simply, loved.

A passing glance can never do
To see its face
The eye's embrace
Of sadness in a sunrise.

Is it guilt, be it shame,
that has it sway
in cool dismay;
Sadness in a smile?

Then a fluttering Lethean shower:
Twelve he lovesmes
Eleven he lovesmenots.
Do you now have a soul,
or only a shade?

"Sharing a Heart-Shaped Scone with You"

Sharing a heart shaped scone with you--
An irony of...harmony--
A pastry shines beyond its due.

Drink your coffee before it cools--
Its bubbling was...troubling--
While we were yet two loving fools.

Smile, for no reason at all--
Leaves drifting are...uplifting--
Sometimes winter, mostly fall.

A Late Night Reflection on Voyage of the Dawn Treader

This evening some friends and I sat down to read aloud a portion of C.S. Lewis' Voyage of the Dawn Treader, out of the Chronicles of Narnia. While reading, and particularly during the parts where I was not narrating or taking up my role as Caspian, I began to note the numerous literary allusions in his work. Those who have read some of his stories and essays know that he pulls from a wide variety of genres in doing so. This evening, I was particularly taken aback at the imagery taken from Samuel Coleride's "Rime of the Ancient Mariner."

This particular scene is set in a pilfered and slightly modified setting from Dante's Purgatorio, in which the sterling ship from which the book takes its title is plunged into a deep night in which there is neither light nor sound, except of course from the ship itself and the solitary screaming voice in the distance. Immediately I recalled the image of the cornice of the wrathful, in which a thick smoke amends the soul's earthly tendency toward wrath, a fundamentally divisive vice. Yet Lewis twists the image in that he gives the darkness the peculiar characteristic of being capable of bringing dreams into reality. In the moment that this is realized, there immediately are formed three groups of people: first, that of the sailors, the stranger recovered from the island, caspian, edmund, and eustace, who immediately set to getting away from that place as quickly as possible; second, that of Lucy, who appears slightly hesitant, though not entirely fearful of her dreams coming true; and then of Reepicheep, who dauntlessly charges his companions to press forward.

If I may offer an interpretation of this scene, it seems to me that the object of the fear resides in the realization of what dreams are made of...fundamentally the content of the subconscious. In dreams some of the most inward-lying thoughts and convictions of men are contained, thus it would indeed inspire some sense of dread as one considers what one might see in his own soul. For all but Reep, the thought of what dreams may come does indeed give pause, but only for half a moment, before the dread of seeing that undiscovered country gives way to flight.
Yet they cannot escape the seeming inevitability of all their intentions being laid bare, and so panic arises, granting the reader a semi-candid look at the self-percieved image each man has of himself. For if each knew their dreams were good, what fear then would there be for that good night. The darkness would indeed have no reason to inspire fear.

But it does, and the large part of the group despairs and loses their wits. It is in the prayer of Lucy that hope comes to allay the ache and fear. For up to this point, they were in a dark haze without sun or wind to guide and move them. It is in the image of the light, which becomes the albatross, that hope arrives to the crew. Lewis invokes Coleridge's imagery of the wayward sailors being led by the heaven-sent bird. Yet Lewis heals the wound that Coleridge leaves untended. The crew and captain of the Dawn Treader never harm the blessed bird, and the only cross that appears here comes not in the form of a bow, but as a symbol created by the light itself, which whispers hope to Lucy and guides the wayward men through the night. Where Coleridge allows the Mariner some peace through penance, Lewis demonstrates the humility of the crew to follow the light and not attempt to supplant it, insinuating a humble nature before the divine light which leads to redemption and liberation from the fearful dark.

I find it amazing how the author takes an unsettling poem such as the Rime and in his characteristic tenderness coming from the Love of God bows it gently before the voice that spurs poetry and mythos itself. Lewis, in this short chapter, rests a stone of humility to Coleridge's verse so that his very imagery speaks in a gentle and obedient voice: "Thy will be done."

A Rough Draft of an untitled poem

Here is the real version:

Could you journey with me
'long any path or any way,
to watch the sighing pine tree sway
as heralds in her branches say,
"Today! Today! Aha! Today!"

'Long this path, long seconds pass,
and longing is a concept passed;
a relic of a broken past,
But not of a new today.

For they to whom
the ladies come and go,
to the sphere musicians of Cicero
and the earthy men of Athens' Know,
find themselves, though thinking best,
at best arrive to hell's limbo.

I found myself a Little Giddy
with Lewis, Elliot, and the Lady.
Shall all be well!?
Shall all be well!?
Said they: "Son quit thy blunted yell,
in faith the saints to kneeling fell,
so fall ye to your knees as well.

When on high crags in circles run,
Beneath the ruling, rising sun,
take heed that thou art not outdone,
by fiends against the risen Sun.

And hope, dear soul, in sinful night,
When dragons 'tempt to take their 'right.'
It is not you,
Nor your own might.
Nor should you hope to win this fight.
Hope in providential light.

And then be
Where fountains flow with charity,
and the sharpened voice of children sing.

Among the heavens moved by Love,
The new today is timeless.
New you knew, or thought you knew,
but now you know,
as blessed ladies come to show
they know by smile this:
Love commanding and compelling.
Yea there when called ye well shall go."