Spring Rains - Ephemerals

There is something about the rain each spring, that stirs the melancholic in me. It triggers feelings of restlessness, exhaustion, and yet gratefulness, rest and comfort. Ambivalent deep sighs that cannot decide if to be resignation or resolution.

Like the last breath drawn before a deep long dive.

Its been a journey, but more than ever, home and origin now seem distant, hazy and elusive. I'm far away enough now to start wondering. Where have I come from? and does that measure up in where I am going? Is it like chaos theory where one's starting conditions inadvertantly "predict" the final outcome (a paradox then, for a 'chaotic' system)? Is it a closed universe, or is there leeway for grace? A grace singularity, maybe? Perhaps one's past and origin matters less than I thought in this journey of faith. Its always the present process that matters; the product will speak for itself, but it is the now that matters - how I face the present - the present presence.

Its always crossroads, and its always decisions. And yet, at some level, nothing's changed. Its always christmas, its always easter; its always summer, its always winter; its always a drought, its always a deluge; its always laws, its always mercy; its always foolishness; its always wisdom; its always change, its always constant.

Ephemerals - meaning to the transient. Oh, to have a sacramental view to life, to attach meaning and significance to the ordinary, the extraodinary in the mundane. That has faded, like old shades. Have I grown, or is that the effects of 'maturity' or a certain cyni-skeptism that's crept in.

Transcending the transcience, putting landmarks to the journey? Perhaps that is the futility of it all, and a question begging. Perhaps that's not needed, and life is just meant to be lived, breathed, walked, and not analysed, contextualized and verified. There is a certain veneer of incredulity and insincerity in that, cringing much like name-dropping or other nasty social habits. A certain sheer over-romantization.

But I guess at some level, its not a bad thing. Taking stock. True, one does not drive looking through the rear-view mirror, but one has to, sometime. Its important to mark the signposts, but signposts are important for the now, and not good at all in the past tense. Signposts in the rear view mirror are almost useless - inevitably NOTHING tagged on the behind, just the post, and a few rivets. Inadevertantly, after the decision, that event's probability is 1 or 0. Nothing inbetween. Yet we are often muddled up in paralyzing double crossing self doubt.

Friends, fellow pilgrims, let us walk the walk, run the race, fight the good fight. 'Tis grace that's brought us safe thus far, 'tis grace that'll lead us home. His grace is sufficient for me, his glory shines in humble earthern vessels, these fragile treasures within. Come dance with me, come grow old with me, for the best is yet to be.

Amazing Grace
John Newton (1772)

Amazing grace! How sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me!
I once was lost, but now am found;
Was blind, but now I see.

’Twas grace that taught my heart to fear,
And grace my fears relieved;
How precious did that grace appear
The hour I first believed!

Through many dangers, toils and snares,
I have already come;
’Tis grace hath brought me safe thus far,
And grace will lead me home.

The Lord has promised good to me,
His Word my hope secures;
He will my Shield and Portion be,
As long as life endures.

Yea, when this flesh and heart shall fail,
And mortal life shall cease,
I shall possess, within the veil,
A life of joy and peace.

The earth shall soon dissolve like snow,
The sun forbear to shine;
But God, Who called me here below,
Will be forever mine.

When we’ve been there ten thousand years,
Bright shining as the sun,
We’ve no less days to sing God’s praise
Than when we’d first begun.

Oda a Los Calcetines

(1954 - 1959, english translation below)
Pablo Neruda

Me trajo Mara Mori
un par de calcetines,
que tejió con sus manos de pastora,
dos calcetines suaves como liebres.
En ellos metí los pies
como en dos estuches
tejidos con hebras del
crepúsculo y pellejos de ovejas.

Violentos calcetines,
mis pies fueron dos pescados de lana,
dos largos tiburones
de azul ultramarino
atravesados por una trenza de oro,
dos gigantescos mirlos,
dos cañones;
mis pies fueron honrados de este modo
por estos celestiales calcetines.

Eran tan hermosos que por primera vez
mis pies me parecieron inaceptables,
como dos decrépitos bomberos,
bomberos indignos de aquel fuego bordado,
de aquellos luminosos calcetines.

Sin embargo, resistí la tentación
aguda de guardarlos como los colegiales
preservan las luciénagas,
como los eruditos coleccionan
documentos sagrados,
resistí el impulso furioso de ponerlas
en una jaula de oro y darles cada
día alpiste y pulpa de melón rosado.

Como descubridores que en la selva
entregan el rarísimo venado verde
al asador y se lo comen con remordimiento,
estiré los pies y me enfundé
los bellos calcetines, y luego los zapatos.
Y es esta la moral de mi Oda:
Dos veces es belleza la belleza,
y lo que es bueno es doblemente bueno,
cuando se trata de dos calcetines
de lana en el invierno.

==================================
Ode To My Socks
Pablo Neruda

Maru Mori brought me a
pair of socks that she knit
with her shepherd's hands.
Two socks as soft as rabbit fur.
I thrust my feet inside them
as if they were two little boxes
knit from threads of sunset and sheepskin.

My feet were two woollen fish
in those outrageous socks,
two gangly, navy-blue sharks
impaled on a golden thread,
two giant blackbirds, two cannons:
thus were my feet honored
by those heavenly socks.

They were so beautiful,
I found my feet unacceptable
for the very first time,
like two crusty old firemen,
firemen unworthy of
that embroidered fire,
those incandescent socks.

Nevertheless I fought
the sharp temptation to put them away
the way schoolboys put
fireflies in a bottle,
the way scholars hoard holy writ.

I fought the mad urge
to lock them in a golden cage
and feed them birdseed
and morsels of pink melon every day.

Like jungle explorers who deliver
a young deer of the rarest species
to the roasting spit
then wolf it down in shame,
I stretched my feet forward
and pulled on those gorgeous socks,
and over them my shoes.

So this is the moral of my ode:
beauty is beauty twice over
and good things are doubly good
when you're talking about
a pair of wool socks
in the dead of winter.