Monday, July 30, 2012

Words


Words.

Sweet, flavorful, musical.
They roll around in my mind like candy in my mouth
As I discern their flavor.

This one is sweet, with a hint of a snap after it has been fully absorbed.
That one is crunchy and textured like a wafer cookie that crumbles as I imbibe it.
This one is bitter, jarring, sour. The edges are sharp, and I spit it out.
That one is chewy…it’ll be with me for a while. There’s something more to that one. Let me ponder it.

This one has a hint of salt
That one too much sugar
This word isn’t right
Time to choose another.

Some I like, some I don’t, but that’s not the real question.
I must ask, for it is my nature.
Which one, which word, has more than the flavor of joy or sadness, sugar or horseradish?
Which one, which word, has that ever so important hint of that one flavor
That matters above all else?
Like a chocolate bar with a caramel center,
Which word is filled
With the essence
Of Holy Spirit? 

Thursday, July 19, 2012

Porque es... somos


Hay muchas cosas que puedo usar
Para adorarte.
Puedo cantar, puedo bailar.
Y puedo hablarte.

Es regalo para mi
Que te puedo adorar
En dos idiomas
La verdad a nombrar.

Quiero fluir
En inglés y español
Para que todos sepan
Que Yahweh es todo.

Todo que existe
Es todo que habló
Yahweh en el principio
HalleluYah para todo.

Yahweh habla sí mismo.
Porque Él es el verbo.
Siempre existe, siempre es.
Y porque es….
Somos.

Wednesday, July 18, 2012

Merry Christmas!!!


Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh! It’s CHRISTMAS!

I can barely contain my excitement as my eyes pop open. No need to set an alarm! I wonder what plans there are for me today. I giggle a little as I turn over in bed, my pink fuzzy nightgown getting tangled in the sheets.

I force myself to lie still a little longer, knowing that the rule is I cannot wake Mommy or Daddy before seven o’clock in the morning to go open gifts. I wriggle in anticipation, staring at the clock and wondering how long I can contain this excitement. Surely 6:59 is close enough to 7:00. Surely. And that means I only have to wait 19 minutes… 19…

What waits for me under that tree? My mind turns over the possibilities, knowing what I asked for, wondering what surprises there will be. I know that whatever I get will be wonderful, because I know the people who gave them to me.

Not that I am not willing to be flexible. I won’t be disappointed with any gift given in love.

Finally, it is 6:58, which really is not that much earlier than 7:00 than 6:59 is. Plus it will probably take me at least 2 minutes to walk down the hall to their bedroom. Really. I bounce out of bed, promising myself to walk slowly even as I take long running leaps down the hall.

“Good morning, Mom and Dad! It’s CHRISTMAS!” I said, opening their door. They stare at me with bleary eyes and grins. My little siblings appear beside me as Mom and Dad climb out of bed. When they reach the doorway, we each take a hand and pull them toward the living room and the Christmas tree and the shining, wrapped packages underneath.

Then, I tear into it. The first bright package, neatly wrapped and shining. It’s all I hoped it would be. I squeal with delight and exclamations of gratitude pour from my lips.


***

Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh! It’s TODAY!

I can barely contain my excitement as my eyes pop open. No need to set an alarm! I wonder what plans there are for me today. I giggle a little as I turn over in bed.

I force myself to lie still a little longer, inhaling the sweet aroma of the early morning when everything still smells fresh and new. I wriggle in anticipation, knowing that at any moment the uncontainable excitement will force me to bound out of the soft, warm bed into the morning air.

What does he have for me today? My mind turns over the possibilities, each one sweeter than the one before. Yet I know that nothing can compare to the reality that awaits me.

Not that I’m not willing to be flexible. He could never disappoint me. And if what I imagine isn’t what he has for me, I know whatever he has is better.

Finally, the moment comes—as I knew it would—when I can contain it no longer. I throw the covers back and my feet hit the soft, carpeted floor. I grin in expectation as I stretch, automatically entering a position of praise and adoration for the one who has given me…

Oh what is it? I can’t take it anymore. I know, I know, the gifts will come in their own time, but the first one… I can have that now. “Good morning, Yahweh,” I say. “What do you have for me today?”

Then, I tear into it. The first bright package, neatly wrapped and shining. The revelation. The Word. He whispers mysteries to me, and I squeal in delight, exclamations of gratitude inadequate, as other sounds flow from my mouth expressing what can’t be put into words.  

Saturday, July 7, 2012

See What I've Spoken


(This is a poem I wrote one day at ecclesia. It grew out of a word and later became a big part of my novel, "The Chronicles of the Zadokim.") 

Faith: See What I've Spoken

I am the Creator
You help me create
See what I've spoken
Open the gate

See what I've spoken
Cause it to be
Come into agreement
With me. 

Allow me to save you 
My own heart's desire
See what I've spoken
Enter the fire

See what I've spoken
Bring Heaven to Earth
See what I've spoken
Inherit the Word

Faith comes by hearing
I've given you ears
See what I've spoken
Abandon your fears. 

See what I've spoken 
Have mature faith
See what I've spoken 
We will relate

See what I've spoken 
Give it substance
Stare at it, live in it
Don't just glance

See what I've spoken 
Bind yourself to me
See what I've spoken
Be all you should be. 

See what I've spoken 
Look into my eyes
Focus only on me
I'll cause you to rise. 

See what I've spoken 
Look on my face
See what I've spoken
And I give you grace. 

Thursday, July 5, 2012

Complete (Part III)


“Now I will show you what they really look like,” the other said, “instead of just what is physical.”

The observer blinked, and suddenly the tableau before him looked vastly different. The people looked different. Bigger, though that wasn’t really the right word for it.

“What is all that stuff clinging to them?” the observer asked, noting the things the girl was clutching, the things sticking to her. People, places, words upon words, some of them seemingly good in and of themselves, some of them obviously evil. Pretty. Stupid. Blonde. Richard. Matthew. Carol. Tall. Lazy. Bold… the list of what clung to her trailed on and on, and it was this that made her look bigger as the bulk of these false identities obscured reality.

“Those are the things that they have added to themselves, or that have been added to them,” the other said. “It makes them look different. I never meant them to look that way.”

“Why have they added these things?” the observer asked, knowing that it really is impossible to improve perfection.

“They don’t see who they are—that I have made them complete,” the other said. “And so they try to add things to themselves because they feel so incomplete. They think these things shall complete them, or else they take these things on because someone else told them that this was how they were.”

“But you made them whole and complete?” the observer asked, though the question was rhetorical. Of course he had made them whole and complete. He could not make anything less than perfect! It was the illusion of incompleteness that caused these people to attempt to improve on perfection, and in so doing, to hide who they really were. “Actually,” the observer said, the idea dawning on him, “in adding to themselves, they make themselves incomplete.”

“Yes,” the other said, “because there are certain things I will not be bound with.” And he gestured to an object on the young woman’s back. “And so when I must separate myself from them, they become incomplete.”

“That’s…terrible!” the observer said. “Because they’re actually doing to themselves what they feared all along!”

“The ways of my enemy are crafty, and the first thing he does is start layering these false identities on them, thus obscuring their vision, until they cannot see me at all.”

“How do you stop him?” the observer asked, eyes narrowing in righteous anger at the one who would try to steal creation from its creator.

“I have already stopped him. He was long ago defeated, was always a failure. Because for one moment, I did bind myself to all those things they added to themselves. Every impure and vile thing became a part of me, so that I had to separate myself even from myself.” The other looked at the observer, and what was in his eyes made the observer cringe and look away. “Do you know,” the other asked, “what it is like to bear the pain of the aeons?”

The observer could barely choke out the word, “No.”

“I do. I have died a thousand deaths, have taken on the basest impurities, have worn every false identity. So that they wouldn’t have to.” And he gestured to the people before them, each going about their evening desperate and afraid, hiding themselves from themselves.

“But…they do! They still do. When you ensured that they don’t have to. Why don’t they…why did you… it’s not… fair!” the observer finally choked out, though he knew that even these words were not accurate.

“I have made a way for them,” the other said, “my children. My sons. It is up to them to take that way. I shall not force them, for that is not of me.”

“But what of those who never do. Did you die for nothing?”

The other smiled. “I have a remnant. A people who are willing to die for me because I died for them. And I have made them perfect, complete. They are my people, and I am their God, and together we redeem creation.”

And as they watched the tableau, the observer noted a newcomer. This young woman did not seem encumbered, as was the young woman who was getting out of the car the young man had driven.

The car was parked in front of a house, and the young woman climbed from it, promising to call the young man later. The unencumbered young woman was walking her dog. She waved to the first young woman and continued walking with a light step.

“She is one of yours?” the observer asked.

“Indeed,” the other smiled. “Notice how beautiful she is, how free. See the smile on her face as she thinks of me? Notice the slight jaunt in her step?”

The observer nodded, his smile matching the other’s.

“Well,” the other said, pointing to the young woman who was slinking unsteadily into her parents’ house, hoping they wouldn’t be home or awake to notice she was coming in, yet hoping they were so they would show her they cared. “They used to look alike. Until I freed her.”  

And the other threw back his head and laughed for the pure joy of redemption. 

Wednesday, July 4, 2012

A Lovestory (Part II)


“But I thought you said they were looking for love,” the observer said, watching the tableau before him.

The young woman regretted her decision, the observer noted. She slunk from the house, clutching a coat to her, sneaking out the front door. She took great gasps of the night air when she reached the outside, attempting without success to stop the tears from falling in rivulets of regret down her cheeks.

The young man still slept, oblivious to the woman’s desertion of him.

“They are,” the other said, also seeing the tableau. “But I AM love.”

“But sir,” the observer said, “I thought they loved nachos and pizza and kittens. All those things. What do they have to do with you?”

“Well, the good things I created, though I did not make that glop they call nacho cheese. It’s not even dairy! They did that on their own. But they misunderstand love. They think it is a feeling. It is not.”

“Did she find it?” the observer asked, gesturing to the young woman who was already talking on her cell phone to another young man, hoping he might give her a ride.

“No,” the other said. “Of course not, though she has bound herself to someone now. Breaking those bonds will hurt, but they must be broken. For they were never meant to be bound.”

“Bound?” the observer asked. “She looks free to me.”

“Not physically,” the other said. “But whenever they think they love something or someone, they bind themselves to it in their souls. Their emotions and their thoughts center on that thing, and they think for a time that this will make them happy, but it is only a temporary feeling of lightness, unable to be sustained for long.”

“Could they not add you to the mix?” the observer asked. “Would that not make them happy?”

“No!” the other glowered at the observer, “Why should I have to share them? I made them! They cannot have both that,” and he gestured to the young man drinking his sixth glass of scotch, his steps already wobbly and his eyes already glazed, “and me!”

Though the ferocity of the other’s voice almost made him afraid to ask the question, he knew that the other understood the righteousness in his heart and his true desire to know to do right, so he said timidly, “But why?”

“No one can serve two masters,” the other said, his voice less fierce as he explained to his observer, “when they love someone or something, they bind themselves to it in hopes that it will make them whole and complete, but only I can do that. I REFUSE to be bound to some of those things they become one with. That is not of me, not worthy of me.”

“But then how will they ever become complete?”

“They will have to break the bonds they made with the world. This is why they must die, and the pain is at times excruciating, but those who know that I am on the other side of this do it willingly, for being one with me is worth everything.”

The observer took his eyes off of the tableau before him for but a moment, daring a glance at the other. How arrogant he sounded! But with one look, the observer knew he was right. The other was worth everything.

“How do they not see that?” the observer wondered aloud.

The other glanced at the observer as well, a small smile on his face. The observer studiously avoided meeting eyes with the other. He had forgotten the other was omniscient and knew his thoughts.

“They are blinded,” the other said, “unable to see me as you have just done. It takes a long time before they have eyes to see, and the process of creating eyes in them is long and difficult. Few are willing to undertake that process.”

The observer looked again at the young girl, who was shakily holding a cigarette to her mouth and tapping her foot impatiently as she waited for the person who would give her a ride. She would, occasionally, glance back at the door to the apartment that she had just vacated, both hoping and fearing that the young man she had just deserted would come after her. Show her he loved her.

But he did not love her, the observer realized, for how can one love when one is incomplete?

The other knew his thoughts. “Yes,” he said. “I AM love, and only when they are one with me—and thus whole and complete—can they truly love anything. Each other, my creation, me. Even themselves.”

A fire engine red car sped into the parking lot outside the apartment complex. The young man in the driver’s seat wore a predatory expression, his hunger ten times that of the man the young woman had just left. The driver reached across the passenger seat to open the door for the woman, who dropped her cigarette hastily on the ground and with one last glance at the door of the apartment she had just left, got into the car.

The other sighed. “She will bind herself to this other young man, too, and many other things I never meant for her to do.” His voice took on a note the observer couldn’t identify. “I have so much more for her than this!” And the power in his voice shook the observer, and the young woman even glanced upward, as if she had possibly heard some faint echo of the truth, but it was just beyond her reach.

“Will she ever find it?” the observer asked. “Will she ever find you?”

The other smiled. “One day,” he said, “after a long journey to the bottom of the abyss, she will meet me in someone who is already one with me. We shall be a light in that dark place and she will want what this person has. Then she shall submit to the process and become who she really is.”

“Who is she?” the observer asked.

“MINE.”

Tuesday, July 3, 2012

Desperation (Part I)


“Can they see us?” the observer asked, receiving a headshake in response.

“Look carefully,” the other replied. “What do you see?”

He looked carefully at the tableau before him, as if he had just been given a test and could, by looking, fathom the correct answers. His eyes took in the color of the garments and the cadence of the voices, hoping to find the right detail that would unlock this mystery.

For mystery it was, this tableau. It truly made no sense to him.

The young woman wore clothing that was far too revealing, as if she were willing to give everything she had away to the young man, who was only too willing to accept it. His friend looked on with a piqued expression, nearly invisible to the young woman or to the man who stared so arduously at her.

The young woman’s eyes bespoke desperation. They were wide and falsely bright. The young man’s eyes were hungry, consuming, but equally desperate.

“What are they doing?” the observer asked the other. “Why do they look so…sad?” Though he knew sad hardly described what he saw.

“They are searching,” the other said, “for love.”

“Love?” the observer asked. “Why is that so important? That can be found on every corner there from what I’ve seen. They love hamburgers, nachos, shoes, dresses, dogs, cats, sunny days, fireplaces, cars, houses, places, people, things…”

“Ah,” the other said. “That is the trap they have fallen into. They have overused the word, and drained it of its meaning. Even when they do mean it, they cannot really adequately express it anymore.”

“Love? What do they mean, then?”

“What is love? They do not understand it because they so desperately seek it. And they can only desperately seek what they do not have. When they have found it, they will not be so desperate, and then they will better understand it.”

The observer frowned. That hadn’t really answered his question. He watched as the girl made a motion with her hands that made the boy go nearly crazy. His friend, with a grimace, stood to leave. The observer didn’t know if this had happened often before, but the friend seemed to be used to this sort of thing, taking his keys from a side table and letting himself out the door.

He walked, shoulders slumped, to a vehicle that was waiting outside. He sat in the car for a while, hands on the steering wheel, face bleak as he stared out at the darkened landscape.

“Where is he going?” the observer asked.

“He isn’t sure yet,” the other replied. “He doesn’t really have anywhere to go. He is alone, and lonely.”

The observer watched the young man and woman retreat to the bedroom, deciding that this was enough to see of that scene. He turned back to the car, watching as the man pulled out of the parking lot and drove down the street to a large establishment in the center of town.

There were many people in the establishment, though they all seemed no less lonely because of it. “Scotch,” the man from the car said. He held the glass in his hand as he surveyed the room casually, yet desperately, searching.

“What is he looking for?” the observer asked.

“The same thing they’re all looking for,” the other said.

“Will he find it?”

“Not here,” the other replied, “not tonight.”

“When, then?” the observer asked. “Where?”

“They cannot find it in each other, in mind-numbing substances, in possessions, or in any created thing. And they cannot find it until they are willing to die to all of these things. To each other, possessions, false euphoria, and even themselves.”

“Why?”

“Because only once these distractions are gone can they find the truth. Only when these distractions are gone can they find themselves.”

“I thought they had to die to themselves,” the observer said.

“To who they think they are,” the other clarified.

“Why? Don’t they know who they are?”

“No,” the other said sadly. “They walk around incomplete, as pieces of a whole that have not been joined together, as parts of something that desperately need an ever elusive something else to make them something worth being.”

“But that is not who they are?”

“No!” the other said, fiercely, “Never! I did not make them thus! I made them whole, unique, united, purposed. I made them part of me.”

“Of you?” the observer was incredulous.

“Yes,” the other smiled faintly. “You see, I AM what they are all searching for."

Wordsmith

This will probably be the only blogpost that is not a work of fiction in some way. But I wanted to explain what the purpose of this blog is, and thus, this post.

I am a wordsmith. I wield words, powerful weapons, against the enemy of Yahweh, who with words created all things. As a wordsmith, I have written stories, poems, short scenes, and even a novel. And I want to share them with people that they might see and know the glory of Yahweh and marvel at their creator.

But by what medium do I share these things, I wonder? Publishing is complicated and it either costs money or means I give up the rights to what I've written. Not wanting to hand a sword to just anybody, I wouldn't want my words to end up in the wrong hands. But I researched copyright law and found that anything written after 1978 is automatically copyrighted as belonging to the author, so everything I write is mine unless I give it away to a publisher or something similar.

Not that this is far beyond the realm of all things possible, but for shorter scenes or poems, I find it more likely that this blog will be the spot to showcase what I've written. Though you never know...

Anyway, all this to say, welcome to the blog.

My name is Cassondra. And I am a wordsmith.