Pursuit

At the gentle touch of God's word, the unveiling of His grace, I knew I was no longer the ugly, unloved Orual. I shed away her loathsome face, her painful losses, her unspoken sorrows.

I experienced the peace and stillness of the moment as time froze in His presence. With His gracious hands, He lifts the baggage off my shoulders and leave me with the lightness of my spirit. His beauty poured generously into my heart, overflowing from the vessel. The joyous songs of His love sing to me, the captivating view of His art work wooed me, silenced me, awed me.

I feel like I just heard a really beautiful love story, realising the author had written it for me.

My Lord, I feel beautiful as Psyche tonight.

Pensive Moments

"The heart knoweth his own bitterness; and a stranger doth not intermeddle with his joy." -- Proverbs 14:10

So the good news came. The heart was relieved of its long-carried burdens. Some joy was expressed, a prayer was said and thanks given.

But the flight of words also brought along a tinge of sorrow, a heaviness that began to sink in. Sorrow started as a small teardrop, that slowly, quietly, madly spread like a crimson ink blot over a white bibulous paper, a wildfire in the rainforest. It uncontrollably expands its circumference across the territory, contaminating the purity of the land and robbing it of any joy and life that previously sprouted.

I tried to contain the fire, I tried to stop the ink. But the selfishness that I did not discard catalysed the catastrophe. Bad thoughts fuelled the imagination, and imagination ignited more bad thoughts.

I re-read Till We Have Faces and felt like Orual in her veil. The ending lifted my veil, and brought some light, but I remained unconsoled.

It has only been a short journey, a small fraction of my entire life, but it felt like forever. It still feels like forever before eternity.

In between work and sleep, in between morning and nightfall, in between now and then, I carry this cup of penitence in hope that age will one day take it away from my hands.

A Silence that Sinks

Words fail me.

A long drought

It has been almost two years since the wonderer came to this piece of land and settled down. When she first arrived, life was scarce and the vegetation was sparse. The land had been battered by harsh weather condition, and there were still evidence of desolation from the ravage of the last habitants.

The wonderer had come in search for companionship. She came in search for peace and warmth in a place that she can call her own. Realising the state of the land had been poor due to a long drought, she started tending to the land in good faith that the land will one day blossom and bloom. She began to water the land with the spring water that she had previously collected and carried with her, leaving only some for her own subsistence. She listened to the sorrows and troubles of the land, and felt a deep sense of empathy towards the hardship that it had been through. Gradually and naturally, the wonderer began to grow roots to the ground.

All would have been rosy, if the Lord had put a quick end to the painfully long drought. Unfortunately, the wait had been futile and the land did not bear fruits. As the days went by, the wonderer grew more and more disheartened. Everyone sows in hope of a fruitful harvest, but for the wonderer, it has been a barren effort. As much as she enjoyed giving and tending to the land, she became downspirited when the people of the land started making demands of the wonderer, sometimes picking on her flaws. She longed to relinquish her role and assumed responsibility, but felt a sense of obligation and sympathy for the land and people. After all, life always has its ups and downs, and kindness almost always bear good fruits for both the giver and the receiver. As a consolation to herself, she made up her mind to leave when heaven finally decides to open its floodgates.

It has only been two years, but it felt like ten. And month after month, the wonderer continues to wait, continues to pray for the drought to pass, and for the life-giving showers to arrive. Spring will certainly come, and everyone's miseries shall end with His deliverance.

Buried

Often in my lucid moments
when I'm lying
in bed and deep in thought,
I question
the irrationality of my actions

Like a gambling addict who claims,
"I will throw in the towel after this round",
I never do.

And the casino,
sensing my forlornness,
hands me a new stack of chips at the exit
lures me back to a new game

Certainly it is not the acrylic's fault.
I am buying hope with my time
I'm burning the wick on my head
I'm living on the words in a book

But maybe when I finally win a game,
and I bring the chips to the counter
only to get paper in return
Then the full magnitude
of my foolishness shall
befall me.

Awake, await
Bury the dead and marry life
The Lord is my gold.

-

I don't know better but I pray He does.

Lovely song for a lonely afternoon

Withering, blooming

Ever since I started serious doodling (which sounds like an oxymoron), I have almost completely abandoned writing altogether, apart from the regular emails and reports at work and the daily prayers in my journal.

2011 had been such a slow year. When I was going through the days, it felt like a painful crawl. But now that it is over, it feels like it had happened at the turn of a page. I feel a little sad to confess that the year had started like a flower budding with hopes for a beautiful blossom, only to wither and die before its time. And when it died, it took away a part of me. I woke up from my dream in the middle of summer, and started spending much of my off days hiding in the shroud of anonymity of a crowded cafe, busily reading or drawing away. And time, the magical solution, shall distort memories, dilute sentiments and dispose whichever of the two that we choose not to keep.

I really delight in this solitude while I am at it, but the comfort of this reclusiveness may end as I move on to a new workplace and possibly new phase of life. You know, one of the most beautiful things I find about life is how with every fall of a fruit comes many new seeds, with every dark chilly night comes a new dawn, and with every winter comes a blooming spring. As with nature's cycle, with every fall comes a rise, with every loss comes a gain, with every end comes a new beginning.

My friend, thank you for dropping by. May the new year bring joy, comfort and peace to you. :-)

Only God Knows

As the book of life says, there is a time for everything.

There is a time to sow, and a time to reap,
a time to give, a time to take
A time to speak, and a time to be spoken to
a time to coax, a time to rebuke

A time to rejoice, a time to be in remorse
a time to laugh, a time to cry
A time to run helter skelter, a time to be at ease
a time to fall, a time to rise

A time to be afraid, and a time to be brave
a time to be strong, a time to be weak
A time to be young, and a time to be old
a time to be first, a time to be last

A time for rain, and a time for rainbow
a time to hurt, a time to be healed
A time to love, and a time to be loved
a time for fellowship, a time to be alone

A time to fill the cup, and a time to empty it
a time to embrace, a time to withdraw
A time to build houses, and a time to tear them down
a time to seek others, a time to be sought

A time to keep, and a time to throw away
a time to hang on, a time to let go
A time to open a chapter, a time to close it
a time to linger, a time to move on.

-
Certainly, there is a time to show appreciation, a time to praise, a time to give thanks. Of everything that is not going well in my life, I pray I will always remember the many others which are.

And the greatest One above, who lays out every time for every thing. There is a time to be near, and a time to be far that I scramble my way back.

-
Ending with a lovely melody that makes me wonder if every song was written with someone in mind, and if every song was sung for someone we have met, or have yet to meet.

Just A Song by The Crookery

The cloud that weeps

The cloud that weeps in the sorrow of the night
Falling endlessly on every tent
Thunder roars in protest of your grief
Lightning runs to strike the ground
That has long become dry and barren
Tell me my cloud, when will you gather the water again?
To carry them all up to you as fruitful grain

The cloud that weeps in the sorrow of the night
Lands on every concrete wall and floor
On towers and obelisks that lie far beneath you
On asherah poles that decay with passing time
On metal that corrodes, and mud that erodes
Tell me my cloud, is there anywhere you haven't been?
The traces you have left, few have seen

The cloud that weeps in the sorrow of the night
Taps gently on every window pane
The children peer out in curiosity
But the fathers close the curtains tight
And the mothers that pull the eyes away
Tell me my cloud, will you have many more tries?
Before you turn your back and say goodbye

The cloud that weeps in the sorrow of the night
The one whom I sob quietly to in my bed
May the tears bring me closer with you
As you read my thoughts and search my heart
As you open my mind and open my eyes
Look on me my Lord, here is my door
Please come in to stay, it's you I've been longing for