Beyond the Words

Remember playing on the merry-go-round at the park? We would always get a group of three or four of us together to spin it around. It's takes a bit to get up to speed, but once the momentum is going, it's hard to stop. At that point we would pull ourselves up onto the spinning circle of death and watch as the world became a blur. That about sums up my thoughts right now. Actually, that describes my thoughts much of the time.

I'm a project person. I'm a jump into the next exciting project before the last one is barely off the ground type of person. The projects quickly pile up and before I know it, I realize that I have overwhelmed myself again. At first I try to hold onto everything. Eventually, I realize I have to cut back. I reprioritize, try to figure out what is most important to me so that I can focus on just one or two (or three) projects. Patience is not one of my strengths--the process begins again and each time I find my priorities come out differently.

Which brings me to globalization / localization. Not sure how it connects, but I'm sure it does. I don't think we were designed to operate in a globalized context. Constantly connected to hundreds of people across the world, having all the knowledge of the world at your fingertips. It's overwhelming. It wouldn't be so bad except it tends to push out our local world. Instead of developing close friendships, we seek a platform to broadcast ourselves. There's only so much space in the world and we're filling it up with noise.

Silence is something we have forgotten. What if there were no words? No Facebook, no phones, no email, no blogs. What if the only way to communicate was through physical interaction? A helping hand. A shove. A fist. A hug. Shared silence. Just something to think about. Words have a place, but sometimes oftentimes we send them off full of nothing but hot air.

So, it seems a bit ironic that I would be blogging about all of this. This is one of my many projects, placed before the eyes of the world. Whether the words are empty or full or something in between is debatable. Even words that mean something can be as nothing when placed in the wrong context (as a cup of water is life to a thirsty man, but nothing when poured into the ocean of people).

Out of all my projects, this is the one that continues through everything. Why? Because there is no goal. There are no boundaries. I am simply free to be me. The Midrash Newsletter used to fulfill this role (it went on for eight years), but I've found the blog gives me more freedom. And if nobody reads it, that's ok. It's enough for the words to be. This is who I am.

I heard someone say once that "we humans are a universe to ourselves." When I look back at the things I have written on Chasing After The Ruach, I see that in just this small glimpse of myself. And then I realize just how little I know even my closest friends. I think figuring out who you are yourself gives you an appreciation for the sanctity and depth of life--and pushes me forward to come to know those lives outside of myself. To hear their stories, to see through their eyes, to identify with their struggles, to share their dreams. To know and be known--is this not what we all long for?

When you step back from the noise and see, really see, the beauty of a human soul, the creativity and handiwork of God in a human being--it is truly a humbling experience. And you realize that it's not about what they do or say or your attempts to change them. It is enough for them to be.

What We Were Created For

I stare out at the audience, an army of eyes eagerly waiting for my message. I look down at my notes, the words carefully chosen for impact. I lift my head to the camera waiting for the signal. Waiting to speak as no teacher has spoken before. Ready to change the world. And yet...something feels off.

The audience dissolves, the dream fades and I find myself staring at my computer screen. Five new emails. One catches my eye.

The first thing I notice is a picture that can best be described as the burning bush if it were at the birth of Narnia--flames of magical color shooting forth in harmony with the song of Aslan. At the same time the place seems both homely and forbidden. Like a sort of sacred ground. And I can't help but wonder if I were invited by mistake.

Then there were the words. Only three of them. "Less of me." There were many more words in this place, all of them beautifully inscribed. But it was those three that continued to echo around my mind.

Humility is one of those traits that seems to continually elude me. I know it in my head, but I also love to put on a show. The lights come on to reveal a scene beyond imagination. The music runs through my head continually, rising and dropping with the story's tension. Like a conductor, I raise my arms; like a director, I command this universe of my own. That's what I see.

In Judaism, humility is said to be filling the space you have been given--no more, no less. Everyone has been allotted space in this world; each person's space unique.

When I imagine teaching, something always feels off. When people compliment me for knowing my Bible, I get uncomfortable. Like I am occupying a space in which I do not belong. It's different with my stories. I don't know why or if will always be that way. Maybe because it seems like less of a responsibility than teaching. Maybe because it is more personal. I don't really know. But when I write a story, I feel like that is my place to be the director, to command the song.

I look back up at the stage. That is not my space. Not now.

I look back to the Narnian tree. In wisps of fire, I see a story untold. I see raw imagination ready to be crafted into words. And I can't help but wonder, is this where I belong?