the darkest night of the year

the sky was black, the terrain, rough, the journey, long - with no end in sight. on the backside of a two day journey, at least (perhaps longer since one was with child). there were no rest areas or 24 hour waffle houses. no Starbucks or truck stops. just the stars above and the ground below. it was the darkest night of the year, an eternity in waiting... and she knew, in the back of her mind, that things would never be the same. but did she realize in her moments of enduring pain that 'twas not only her life that would be change forever?

just as pain was about to bring forth a blessed hope so to would pain, in time, bring forth the ultimate second chance for all mankind - but that time was not for now. the world wasn't ready for that... yet.

nor was the world ready for the humbleness of what was coming... the gentleness... and lowliness.

upon arrival in the man's hometown - a simple town called Bethlehem - it appeared difficult to find a place to house him and his young bride, now nine months pregnant. it was late and the little town was quiet. no one even noticed their arrival. whom would they bother? where could they go? the trip had taken longer than expected and the estimated arrival at mid day came and went. it was now the middle of the night and the woman was in great pain, tired and weak from a long journey. uncomfortable. out of breath. the man, Joseph, had blisters on his sandled feet. ankles scratched and bloodied. his legs shivering from the cold, trembling with exhaustion from the walk. yet, not a word of complaint dripped from his lips.

in the quiet of the night his mind raced, trying to find a solution to their midnight loneliness. his family long gone from the region left him with limited options. Mary, his wife began to cry. to be pregnant sans shelter was not the way she had imagined it all. deep down she knew that tonight was the night.

Joseph's pride was crushed, his head sulked - wishing and hoping for a miracle - that some form of shelter would appear... that some kind soul would be awake and willing. little did he realize the true miracle that would soon take place. he did his best to conceal his worry worn across his face as they wandered through town. finally, on the outskirts on the east end - a half empty stable. a few cows lingered. some sheep penned up behind. a cold wind rushed across the barren night sky. clouds now hid the stars. this place was the best option.

Mary dismounted from the donkey and crawled to a gathering of hay. her discomfort was overwhelming. Joseph did his best to make her at peace. she tried to send the pain below - but it was too much to bear. She cried out 'My God, My God - where are you now!' 'Your will be done!' the man did his best to support her, his heart aching as he watched his new bride go through torment. But deep down, both tried to squelch the little doubt that would creep into heart and mind. they yearned to believe, to hope that all that had been foretold was about to happen... that a Messiah would be born from her womb. and then the pain overtook her, to the point that not a mere thought could be completed.

Despite the smells of that old barn; despite the cold chill that seeped through the cracks; despite the small fire that barely cut through the darkness, Mary endured for what seemed like hours, the livestock none the wiser to their role in what would become the greatest of stories. the sheep resting peacefully were undisturbed from the cries of agony.

and the moment finally came.

and the world would never be the same.

a sigh of relief. a comforting husband. a simple birth in the lowest of places... the first of many unexpected signs of grace. and the Savior of the world entered the world. the cord was cut, cloths wrapped around him, now nestled tightly against his mothers breast.

and their was peace. stillness. across the land.

passed out from exhaustion, Mary lay with child, resting in the hay. and in the distance a shining light followed by what sounded like exuberant celebration. somewhat surprising at this hour. it was not quite daybreak. Soon, some shepherds from a nearby pasture made their way to the stable. Joseph stoked the fire, a sort of symbolic stirring of the gift of life, the gift of light that was to be found in this newborn son - both his son and His son. Joseph looked to the sky and gave thanks. 'Here, O Israel, the Lord your God, the Lord is One. Thanks be to God. May my lips never cease to praise Your majestic name.'

as he was praying the shepherds arrived. 'Is it true? Is this for real?' History in the making, they thought. 'We've come to see the baby - the chosen one, the Messiah!' An angel had appeared to them and told them of the majesty.

it was at that time that the Christ child first showed himself to mankind - a mankind that would, in time, betray and rebel against him. But in the humbleness of his birth a message was implanted into the hearts of all that would receive it.

The one true God works in mysterious ways. Sending his son to Earth in the form of a baby - sweet, innocent, gentle, meek and mild was the only way for hope to arrive, so that it could not be manipulated and abused.

Hope for the world arrived on that dark night. and it was the last time that darkness would have dominion. from that point the true light would shine. in time, some would attempt to extinguish God's messenger of peace, hope and love - but that too was only temporary. This new light was life - for now and always for all eternity.

and the void within man's heart could now be filled - and his name was the Prince of Peace, Emmanuel. Wonderful. Counselor. who entered the world on that darkest night of the year. and our lives would never be the same...


and so the story goes...

Joe Montana and the Empty Wallet

Creative Writing assignment. idea taken from/inspired by:
http://soulpancake.com/activities/view/1642/money-matters.html

Write a monetized micro-story. 300 words or less. Give your story a title.

[mine comes in at over 500... oops]

Joe Montana and the Empty Wallet

It was a rainy afternoon in the fall of yesteryear. The family station wagon, yellow and rusted, was filled: mom and dad up front, older sisters one, two and three in the middle, me in the back. It was the monthly Saturday shopping trip to the discount store. All of the women of the family went in, the men stayed in the car. I was no man, though - a mere 7 or 8 - but I felt like one now sitting in my mom's front seat next to my dad, listening to news radio.

And we waited… and we waited… and waited some more. My dad said "It's what men do… wait on women!" Then he laughed. I didn't. I was impatient. My mind began to think of all the things inside that department store that i would want. I made a list in my head. My eyes grew big and my heart began to race. I knew what could make the torment of waiting be forgotten and forgiven.

Football cards. Yeah. Football… I had begun collecting trading cards a few years earlier, mostly baseball but this was a November Saturday. It was football season and I wanted football cards. I didn't want the measly single pack with 15 cards, I wanted the three pack with 51 cards, wrapped in cellophane, no doubt hanging near the check out counter, luring young boys to nag their parents to buy them.

Now all I had to do was get in the store.

My dad, enjoying the newscast wouldn't budge. I asked my dad if I could "please, please, please get a pack of football cards?"

"I don't have any money" my dad said. I didn't believe him. What kid does when a parent says that? Of course he has money. He's a dad.

I pressed him more and more… begged… pleaded… begged some more. With raised voices, we went back and forth.

Then finally, the moment of infamy arrived. Looking me square in the eye my dad firmly spoke "I don't have anything."

I asked him to show me his wallet… a no no for kids… but he did it… he opened it up… and there, inside was a crisp one dollar bill. no other bills but one. Gazing at his last dollar, I asked if I could have it and he obliged.

That rainy Saturday afternoon, at the age of 7 or 8, I took my dad's last dollar, went in to the store and walked out with a cellophane wrapped pack of 1882 Topps football cards. With a Joe Montana action shot staring at me through the clear plastic wrap, I was now in heaven.

Twenty five years later as I said my last goodbyes to my father, all I could think of was that rainy Saturday afternoon when he literally gave me all that he had, in order to bring me just a fraction of joy wrapped in cellophane. Even though my dad is no longer with me, I still have that Joe Montana card. It now serves as an everlasting reminder of how great my father really was and how a measly gift of a dollar bill can have lasting effects on one's life.

~Tim Beck
Oct 26, 2011

the literal journeys from here to there and places in between [2] westbound and down

the road west is long, straight and a bit wasted.

the first thing that comes to mind when i think of the road west is abandonment. have you ever been west of the Mississippi? have you ever been through Texas? New Mexico? Arizona? wide open empty spaces liter the landscape. and then, in what seems like a mirage, a building appears in the distance - only this structure is almost camouflaged by the weeds and debris that surround it.

the old west is a cataclysmic terrain of emptiness with pockets of civilization once booming, now looming. and yet so many are drawn to its lure. perhaps its because we all know what lies beyond, just a few more miles down the old road... the pacific. the land of opportunity. the land of celebrity. California. and California, for so many, represents hope.

my views of this road west, is slim. so forgive me for calling it like i have seen it - but driving along the mother road - Interstate 40 and off to the most historic of roads - Route 66 - all that is seen are memories of what once was. it's the past that has yet to catch up with the present, eons away from the future. because many moons ago, Americans were curious, and traveled across the country - living the dream, like Jack Kerouac's On the Road. Route 66 was the road of choice and boom towns sprung up along that sacred path - and they flourished. Then, in the 60's, Eisenhower's interstate system was implemented and old 66 was bypassed for the four lane super highway, connecting the east to the west, north to the south.

depression was left in its wake.

now that i've wasted three or four paragraphs painting my interpretation of history - what is the point? because i have, on a few occasions, traveled that road - both roads. and those experiences are monumental.

on one encounter - with the family, we traveled to Phoenix, to drop my sister off at an Indian Reservation school, where she served as teacher. the memories of that family trip, when i was about 20 - proved to be an experience right out of the script from the movie Vacation. It's as if my dad was Chevy Chase - bound and determined to make the trip exciting and fresh. but alas, everything went wrong, the least of which was the motel room in Tulsa. the Roadside Inn (not a 5 star hotel in the least), had a bed that was slanted (broken box springs) and a sound-scape of gunfire outside our motel door.

on another encounter - i was heading towards hope - and hope was discovered just past painted deserts and canyons so grand; through the intense, dry heat of Vegas followed by 300 miles of nothing... and then, with all its beauty shined the lights of the big city: the hopes and dreams of Los Angeles were right in front of me.

the journey was riddled with mistakes and bad food and the unmistakable stench that was Amarillo, Texas - but the backdrop of sun, rolled-down windows and U2 on repeat was redeeming enough.

there were 5 and dime's along the road - in small towns not fit for a truck stop. in one of these we stopped for a drink. i think they sold the Coke in the old glass pop bottles still. Time moved on, except here. our journey brought us to a stop. one couldn't help but reflect. the radio was stuck in 1958. the grass was faded, burnt by the sun. The pick up trucks were rusted, the old feed mills, closed. even the stop light didn't work. this was a town drunk from nostalgia in a shot glass - and i drank it up, too. i remember its vintage hues, its passing winds. the flat terrain allowed for the eye to gaze upon the Rocky Mountains due west and a bit north. i remember wondering if the inhabitants of such a town knew what was beyond that horizon? did they dream of opportunity like i did? did they long to escape? had they held on to any innocence? had they longed for a return of simple things? like jobs and passer-bys... and hope?

but my stay was not long. after a quick meal at some unknown shack where the hostess was the waitress and the waitress was the cook, we were on our way again. it was getting dark and a storm would soon be upon us. as Kerouac once said: "one fast move or I'm gone." the storm came quickly (as they tend to come out there). i was gone.

hope was ahead of me. despair was in my rear view mirror.

yet i have never forgotten that scene. that place. those places along the road, the road west.

what happened next was an adventure of a lifetime. Los Angeles. Hollywood. 3rd Street Promenade. The Pacific Ocean. Film School.

it was this journey that - in part - shaped who i am today. my values. my vision. my dreams. all fleshed out in the warm California sun. 6 months later i was back home again. i don't remember anything about the journey home. i remember that i made it back (that's about it.)

i returned with few regrets, clinging to hope - a hope that survived the journey west and the desolation of abandoned towns and crappy motels; a hope that survived the tragedies and dramas of life in the hills behind the Hollywood sign. for me, the destination was the journey.

the literal journeys from here to there and places in between [1]

when i was a kid, my parents tended a garden out at a farm on the edge of town. my father was a pastor and a farmer in the church gave him some land to till each spring and summer. this sounded like a great idea. fresh fruit and vegetables. hands in the dirt. digging. tending. pruning. growing. the task was not as easy or as fruitful as one would hope.
none the less, we spent many evenings out in that garden.

i don't remember much about watering or any other type of care-giving that our family, together, gave to that plot of land. i was 6. maybe 7 after all. i do remember that there were beehives near by. i remember running from those bees and hiding in the rows of corn - as if bees wouldn't see me or find me there. but that's about it.

frankly, what i remember most about the garden - that overgrown piece of unfruitful land that us 'town-folk' had little success tending - was the trip to and from. we did not drive in the family station wagon. no, we rode our bikes. family exercise. family bonding. it was a bond alright. us kids were forced to do things against our will. we were fastened together and the rope was a general disdain for taking care of our plot of earth.

the trips out were fun. the trips back home, not so much. after an evening of 'bonding' while pulling weeds - you might imagine tense, exhausted nerves courtesy of my three older sisters. tired legs didn't help either. i don't know how many miles it was to the farm and my little legs never had to care. i sat in the child seat behind my dad. i never had to pedal. maybe that's what made the journey memorable for me. i soaked it up as i rested in back. no worries. care-free. i took it all in.

the sights, sounds and smells of that journey still ring true. i loved the part where we pedaled over the rail road tracks. on a good day an east bound freight train would whistle by. the fresh smell of roses as we rode past Mrs. Durfey's house was an added bonus as well. then there'd be that random chicken you'd find wandering in the middle of that old county road that led to the farm. "what would happen when it got to the other side", i'd wonder aloud. one time a pick up truck rushed by - said chicken didn't make it across. you know that expression 'running around with a chicken with its head cut off'? as a 6 or 7 year old, i understood that first hand.

the summer sun would be fading into the distance. cool breezes would flow across the terrain. waves of green and gold from one side of the road to the other were part of the larger canvas with a line of trees in-full-bloom, towering above and beyond. it was generally quiet. this was rural central Ohio. there was nothing much but farm land with houses and small communities sprinkled about.

each evening we had a destination. to take care of the garden. to make things grow. each evening we completed a journey, to and fro.

but there was something special about the journeys. special enough that i remember them vividly. Maxwell's farm with dairy cattle on the hill side. The Whetstone creek trickling by. Kids hunting for crawdads along its banks. the simplicity of that small town and large countryside. not much happening - except for the ritual of the journey.

the ritual of the journey is so much a part of who we are as humans. we are constantly in motion. from one place to another. what meaning do we find in the journey? what purpose does the journey hold? how vivid are the journey's of life? if even the simplest of journeys are forgotten - then what else might we be missing?

stop. think back. remember your journeys. what value do you find there?

that daily trip to the country - where i was a mere passenger on the back my dad's bicycle - allowed me to soak it up - to see it all; smell it all; feel it all. i was a part of the journey and i dared not miss a thing.

i still remember those summer sunsets on that old country road...

of happy trails and morning ails (or what trees would tell me if they could talk)

there's a stretch of trail that runs a few miles here and a few miles there out on the edge of town. it's an old Nickelplate railroad path - with the tracks now removed. i've been down this trail many times... on foot and on bike. this morning, the trail was nearing the end of a life cycle, giving it's all - breathing out color and at the same time, expunging its last bit of air. the outgoing air was fuel to my feet and legs. it wasn't energy-burning fuel. i was breathing in consistency.

i soaked it all in. i drank it up. the mental image of the long trail, coated with leaves, sun soaked and damp from the morning dew has now been forever ingrained within my mind. the fall foliage served as a playground for the birds of the air and the hidden creatures of the ground.

what is it that makes creation so spectacular? the cycle is repeated; the seasons the same. the sun rises and sets everyday. the gladdening light shines upon the land. the wind blows. the leaves fall. the flowers and trees die and then spring to life again every year. this is nothing new. what is it about nature that seems so fresh - when we take the time to engage with it?

like a forgotten friend, the trail is there. waiting for me. for you. for us - to take to the path - to set ablaze the road. to leave our footprints on its terrain - as if to serve as a sign of our temporary engagement. the rocks cry out and rejoice, thankful for our presence.

there is a connection between the earth and man. perhaps because we once came from the dust.

the trail of beauty was a trail of its own demise - its impending death continually serving a purpose, a necessity of nature and of the world. its necessity breeds my fidelity, ability, propensity and supremacy. i conquered the trail with invigorated steps.

to be at one with nature is a beautiful thing. to connect with a Higher power through the chill of the morning air, the color of the fallen leaves, through the words and lyrics of my iPod companion - it made for an experience to be embraced.

and i embraced it.

soon, the death of nature will be covered in white. my moment this morning will sustain me until the coming spring.

prodigal.

Journey to God-Knows-Where

The terrain ahead is dusty and frail. Cracks in the asphalt scatter outward. Stone, dirt and washed away soil mesh with the tall, burnt-yellow grass along the long and narrow ditch. A barrier of stagnant water separating the field from the road. The gentle path of the western wind blows across the soybean fields from right to left. The evidence of rain too-far-gone, can be seen in the puddles of muck and mire amidst the rows of planted crops. Will I ever escape the filth that surrounds me?

Various hues of grey and blue dot the horizon. A twinge of light from the golden sun is trying to appear; the clouds seem hard-pressed to contain it. The climate is mild, but cool. The morning dew covers my sandaled feet. I long for the sun to peek from around the clouds. I want the warmth on my skin - a deep contrast to the cold darkness that lines my inner being. Will my true self ever feel that warm sensation again? I feel too broken to be fixed.

The landscape ahead now serves as my canvas and I am its muse. But I know not how to pose; I know not where to move. I want to run... want to hide. I long to run from the inside out; from a world of darkness to a world of color. The earth around me is trying to be green, striving to be alive, but all I see is black; all I feel is death. I am yearning to stand still; to be silent; to be at rest.

High contrast. Sharp and protrusive. Dim and murky. Luminous and beautiful. The parallels of emotion and reality accompany me as I begin something that will become more than a journey. If I could only believe my destination would be anything less than disappointing. I have no other choice. Tail between my legs, I am returning home.

I wonder what awaits me there?

by Tim Beck

written for reCreative ministries

somewhere a knife.

I
somewhere a sharp knife cuts into the side of an orange.
somewhere the song of a piano plays an unrecognizable chorus.
somewhere someone is looking for something but can't find it.
somewhere questions are left unanswered.

snow falls on the trees and blankets the ground.
it resembles a peacefulness that is strangely unobtainable to many.

the blanket of peace comes up short and my feet are cold.

doesn't it make you feel good? to be lost? and cold? and without answers?


II
somewhere a dull knife splits an apple; core and seeds now exposed.
somewhere the frosting has been licked off of the cupcake.
somewhere an instrument is being tuned to the wrong key.
somewhere a truck passes by on the interstate; as does life.

there is no time for rest. no slowing down.
the snow does not stop coming down - while discontent and frustration freezes the soil.

the blanket of chaos dulls the luster and smothers the fire of life.

doesn't it make you feel good? to be lost? and dreary? and without answers?


III
somewhere a dirty knife penetrates the heart of a pomegranate as the full passion of life is discovered.
somewhere a solution is dancing wildly on the horizon.
somewhere a melody is filling the air with truth.
somewhere rescue is coming.

snow falls on cedars, compelling shelter to be sought.
the warmth of the fire within burns brightly and melts away frozen souls.

the blanket of hope comforts the whole.

doesn't it make you feel good? to be lost? and warm? and without answers?

waiting and hoping and seeking...

Lenten 40: in the mist... comes grace

there was a grim silence this morning as i woke. the early morning mist and fog provided a backdrop of mystery. but when i stepped out of the back door and wandered into the dampness, it became eerily calm. the birds were full in song, perched high above in the tree tops, but there song did not match the environment. there was yet to be a showing of the sun, and by the looks of it, there would not be a showing today, at least not this morning. perhaps later.

i walked out into the gray. the farther i would walk, the more my appearance could, potentially, bleed into one with the grayish hues coming down, surrounding me in the midst of the rain. saturated land under foot... moist air above... it was soothing.

and now i reside inside the dryness of this brick building, with plush amenities all around. yet i feel drawn to go back out to the mist. it was in many ways refreshing.

in my current stillness, a collage of music plays softly. a collection of instrumental songs that play like a movie soundtrack, more like a real-life soundtrack. my mind is making pictures. a story is playing out in my mind. it's a story of silence and solitude... of desperation and depression. of coming hope. of grace defined.

on one side is a fast forward reflection of the joyous times, of the good times... the times we all love to remember. on the other side plays slow-motion recaptured moments of disgrace.

the moving pictures are at war. which will win out?

a calm, steady drum beat begins to mount. in my minds eye, out of the mist; out of the gray, comes a shadowy figure. he stands tall, has broad shoulders and walks with confidence. i am burdened. he sees the war within me. with all exposed, poured out as if to be examined by a scientist, he comes closer. he takes my right hand and claims the baggage that i was once holding. the bags are filled with my moments of shame and dishonor... and my moments of despair: temptations given over to sin, my piercing tongue, the loss of a friend, the death of my father... all there, disheveled, disorderly inside of my suitcase.

no words are spoken. but he looks at me. deeply. as if to look directly into my very own soul. i shy away for a second, but his hand lifts my chin. forced eye contact. awkward... that is until i saw his eyes. they were so warm. how did i miss this? he takes it all, the baggage, my baggage, and all of it's contents, and throws it over his shoulder. unexpectedly, i felt no shame.

a sigh of relief. the mist becomes cooler on my face.

he then takes my left hand... and he is opened up to a world of joy. a smile lurks from behind his shadowy self. the happy times, filled with rejoicing and gladness light up his darkened face. he shares in the memories of true happiness with me, just me. again, without saying a word it is as though he fully understands each and every joyful moment, captured in time and space within the confines of my beautiful mind. he takes his hands and lifts them high... lifting up all of the good things found within me. High and lifted up. shining in the light of his glory. the light pierces through the gray mist of the morning. his face now lit up and exposed, i saw a smile... never have i seen such a genuine smile. he then speaks his first words: "we... give... thanks!"

and with that, he lowered his hands, put his hands on my face and softly gave me an assured look of hope and with it grace fell upon me. i felt it. like a warm blanket that covered all of me. the tingling from head to tow remained as he turned and waved. slowly, he heaved my heavy bags on to his shoulders and walked out until there was no line on the horizon. the light followed him, but the mist and gray remained behind.

i felt relief. i felt free.

in my mind i heard the soft melody of a piano playing music filled with raw emotion. and i was reminded of the verse of scripture that says "God did this so that men would seek him and perhaps reach out for him and find him, though he is not far from each one of us." [1]

through joy and pain... sunshine and rain... God walks with us. are we aware? do we see and hear? taste and touch?

my mind has now returned to my present reality. i am now compelled to leave the safety of this brick-laden building. ready to head back out into the mist, so that i can experience once more the wonderful, matchless grace of God. raining down upon me.

never forget. never forget.




[1] Acts 17:27

[inspired by the following songs:
Naked Snow - Decoder Ring
Please, Let's Try Again - Linford Detweiler
Failing Eyes - Jeff Johnson
Opus 36 - Dustin O'Halloran
Tuolumne - Eddie Vedder
Iguazu - Gustavo Santaolalla
Coloring Shoes - Explosions In The Sky
Residential Love Song - K.C. Accidental
Mark Jamming - Explosions In The Sky
Treefingers - Radiohead
Matador - Daniel Lanois
Scattered Black and Whites - Elbow
I Am So Much More Me That You Are Perfectly You - Eluvium
Glacial - Hammock
Garrison - Film School
Loosing Games - Explosions In The Sky
Half Time - Mogwai]

even as i sit here

at this very moment, the only sounds surrounding me are the not so smooth strokes of my fingers on the keyboard and the climate-controlled air being blown out of the vent above my desk. i can't help but think how God is in this time of silence. i rather enjoy it.

this morning, while walking over across the parking lot, the smell of a skunks ripe scent clashed with the cool air of the morning. the crows cried out to the world from atop their perch. the sun wished itself upon us - but the clouds were surrounding it as if to smother it.

earlier, upon my undesired rise (for i wished to remain in a restful bliss for a bit longer) i prepared myself and attended to my typical thursday morning functions at the middle school. i arrived just after lights first appearance in the day sky above. a morning Bible study with teachers, students and youth pastors was in full swing. the discussion dealt with the company you keep. unfortunate as it was, nae a few of my youth heard the words of truth. for the company they keep, it seems kept them away from the meat of the Word this morning.

contemplation of commitment and contentment race through my mind.
peacefulness of mornings like this are ruined in the lives of the content.
even the crow is committed to his calling... if he weren't he'd perish.

i didn't want to wake up, but i'm glad i did.
so many others are hitting snooze.

am i not awake enough so that others might desire that which brings me life? why do they not want my caffeine? some are very selective... they arise when it's convenient. not the sun. not the crow. not the air, or the electric which lights my room.

even as i sit here i can't help but ask God for inner peace to spread - and may i be that vessel of peace that continues to bring Good news.


i don't really know why i am writing this.

words.

creative writing

i am currently reading this book and will be attempting some of the creative writing exercises it suggests. i am really excited for this new challenge.

i have this strange dream to write a screenplay. i've had this dream now for about 12+ years. maybe this book will give me the brainstorms i need to take on that challenge... or maybe not.

i look forward to being creative again.


----------------
Now playing: The Album Leaf - Another Day (Revised)
via FoxyTunes

like panes of glass

looking up at the moon. a sliver, slightly tilted to the right.
laying on the ground... my back is pushing the grass back towards the earth.
a fire burns... the crackle and flicker tells me so. i don't need to look at the flame to know it is there.
it's cold. but not 'i-can-see-my-breath' cold.
a rustling of leaves to my left.
the whistle of the gentle breeze across my face.

the surface of the sky is black with speckles.
stars sprinkle the sky like dust scattered in the hues of evening sun.
dust in light.
stars at night.
and shavings of the moon light up the horizon.
reflected like panes of glass.

silence expanded too far in every direction.
this modern love... a portrait of an image that can not be fully grasped.
i might as well be staring at a painting in an art museum.
i look and gaze and try to see it for all it's worth. i cannot look away.
i am drawn in - searching for it's inner beauty.
trying to figure out what it is that captivates me.
i don't have an answer.
i don't need an answer.
i just need to remember that it captivates me.
i just need to remember to look at it from time to time.
i just need to remember that it is beautiful.
i connect with the canvas like the paintbrush connects with imagination.
the flickering spark catches my eye. i sit up.
shake the leaves off of my back...
and warm myself by the fire.
i am about to be drawn in again for the very first time.