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recycled soul


a collection of quotations, poems, images, and songs that inspire me

"

If words could bind you,
I would say whatever it took
to make you stay, and
maybe then this poem would keep you.
Hold you hostage in the trenches
of my selfish desire.
I would slip love notes like stones
into your pocket to anchor you
to this moment, this riverbed of lonely.

It kills the animal in me to see the
silhouette of your body
against the light of dawn, leaving.
The moon is a snapping coyote that
wants to steal you away from me
but if I can keep it at bay,
if I can muzzle its snout,
if I can bear the burden of night
on my back, then maybe you’ll still
be here when I wake up.

But darkness keeps
pummeling my windows with its heavy
fists; baby, I think we’re running
out of time now.  
The sky is falling, the sky is falling,
I cannot keep the night
from coming in.

"
Anita Ofokansi, “The Morning After” (via petrichour)
andrea-rebekah:
“ This passage from Romans 12 was read in church this morning. (Well, yesterday morning since it’s after midnight.) I’ve read it before but these words about love and evil seem so necessary now in the wake of the recent violence in...

andrea-rebekah:

This passage from Romans 12 was read in church this morning. (Well, yesterday morning since it’s after midnight.) I’ve read it before but these words about love and evil seem so necessary now in the wake of the recent violence in Paris, Beirut, and Syria. There’s violence all over the world and in my own heart when I choose hate over love. And love is very much a choice, though not always an easy one. In the midst of chaos and grief these words in Romans remind me to hate evil acts like terrorism, but also to rejoice in hope and love my enemies. Paul reminds us here that justice is in God’s hands. Our job is to be patient, to persevere, to open wide our arms to the hungry, broken, and desperate with genuine love. In spite of my doubts, I’m a Christian because the message that Jesus gives us is one that elevates the refugees and the needy over the powerful and the rich. Sometimes the Bible gives me more questions than answers, but this passage spoke so loudly today and reminded me that in the end love always wins. #faith #scripture #ishouldbesleeping

"I’d rather have questions that can’t be answered than answers that can’t be questioned."
Richard Feynman (via elnellis)

Poetry Speaks: “Good Friday, 1613. Riding Westward”

andrea-rebekah:

Let man’s soul be a sphere, and then, in this,
The intelligence that moves, devotion is;
And as the other spheres, by being grown
Subject to foreign motion, lose their own,
And being by others hurried every day,
Scarce in a year their natural form obey;
Pleasure or business, so, our souls admit
For their first mover, and are whirl’d by it.

Like the speaker of this poem, I think it would be nice if our souls could be seen. We could see what they needed and know when they needed it. We could see the souls of our annoying coworker or nagging neighbor and maybe we could become softer people as a result. But unlike the planets, our souls cannot be seen. They are not set on an orbit. They are not controlled by gravity. Instead, like Donne points out, our devotion is what guides our souls. Our devotion serves as the intelligence that moves them backward and forward.

These lines makes me wonder:  To what am I devoted? What “whirls” my soul? What acts as my spirit’s gravity, holding me to earth where I can know breath and life? I don’t know. The answer would depend on the day, I suppose, but that answer is weak. I do know that much.

Hence is’t, that I am carried towards the west,
This day, when my soul’s form bends to the East.
There I should see a Sun by rising set,
And by that setting endless day beget.
But that Christ on His cross did rise and fall,
Sin had eternally benighted all.
Yet dare I almost be glad, I do not see
That spectacle of too much weight for me.

The speaker here is moving both metaphorically and literally. He’s physically heading west, but his soul is “bending” toward the east with thoughts about Good Friday and the images that day inspires. Donne is always smart with his wordplay, so he writes that the speaker is thinking about the sun. Jesus is the Son, of course, and is the light of the world. On Good Friday, Scripture tells us that darkness overtook the land upon Christ’s death. But this darkness was not permanent.

Christ’s life, death, and resurrection bring eternal life and light. Christians call this the “Good News” and it is. But the speaker knows it’s also heavy. Christ is indeed the light, but for a while the world was dark as our sins were upon him. It’s easy to see how such a scene could be “too much weight.” The violence of the moment is bad enough, but to accept the Christian story is to accept humanity’s role in Christ’s death. The Gospels say He died for us and carried our sin. As a Christian, sometimes I feel I owe God something for this. But obligation does not lead to love. Obligation is a contract, not a covenant.

Who sees God’s face, that is self-life, must die;
What a death were it then to see God die?
It made His own lieutenant, Nature, shrink,
It made His footstool crack, and the sun wink.
Could I behold those hands, which span the poles
And tune all spheres at once, pierced with those holes?
Could I behold that endless height, which is
Zenith to us and our antipodes,
Humbled below us? Or that blood, which is
The seat of all our soul’s, if not of His,
Made dirt of dust, or that flesh which was worn
By God for His apparel, ragg’d and torn?

The speaker continues emphasizing the weight of Christ’s crucifixion. He reminds us that the world shook and that the sun went away. Then the speaker considers the hands of Jesus, spread wide on the cross and nailed in place. He acknowledges those hands as the ones that cover the world, holding all the “spheres” in place and providing order. We get to see the power of Jesus, but are then reminded of his humanity, that Jesus was God but God clothed in flesh soon broken upon on the cross.

I’m reminded of these lines from T. S. Eliot:

“The dripping blood our only drink,
The bloody flesh our only food:
In spite of which we like to think
That we are sound, substantial flesh and blood—
Again, in spite of that, we call this Friday good.”

Good Friday is a day full of “in spite of” moments. In spite of Jesus being God in the flesh, he was crucified. In spite of humanity’s sins, Jesus laid down his life as a sacrifice. In spite of the violence of Good Friday, we do indeed call it good. Good Friday is a day full of paradox, but so is the entire Christian story.

The last shall be first.
Have the faith of a child.
I came for the sick, not the healthy.
The rich shall not see heaven.
I do not condemn you.

Christianity takes common assumptions and flips them around. In spite of my many doubts, I find this comforting, even though it seems like it would shake my faith even more. I can’t fully explain this, but that’s nothing new. 

If on these things I durst not look, durst I
On His distressed Mother cast mine eye,
Who was God’s partner here, and furnish’d thus
Half of that sacrifice which ransom’d us?

Mary is perhaps one of the greatest examples of faith in the entire Bible. Here she is, a young girl, when an angel tells her she will bear a child though she is a virgin. And Mary says okay. Mary carries the child, gives birth to him, nurses him, and then she has the strength to stand beneath the cross and watch as her son hangs there, dying. She is faithful and strong. Like the speaker points out, Mary “furnished half of that sacrifice” on Good Friday. She is a vital element in our “ransom” and redemption.

I’ve often wondered what would have happened if Mary had said no, but I suppose she was chosen because God knew she would only say yes. I envy her faith because I say “no” far more often than I say “yes.” I suppose I love this poem so much because I identify with this speaker, this one who is torn between conflicting desires and images

Though these things as I ride be from mine eye,
They’re present yet unto my memory,
For that looks towards them ; and Thou look’st towards me,
O Saviour, as Thou hang’st upon the tree.
I turn my back to thee but to receive
Corrections till Thy mercies bid Thee leave.
O think me worth Thine anger, punish me,
Burn off my rust, and my deformity;
Restore Thine image, so much, by Thy grace,
That Thou mayst know me, and I’ll turn my face.

Here the speaker gets extremely personal by saying that Jesus could see him from the cross. But the speaker knows if that had actually happened, it would have been too much. He would have had to turn away, knowing he was not enough for even God’s anger to touch him. He sees the erosion and deformity of his life, yet there is hope. The speaker wants Jesus to know him. He wants the image of God inside of him to be restored.

There is hope, isn’t there? I am a Christian, but I often lose sight of hope because I get too entangled in my doubt, sin, and self-absorption. I hear about horrific things some Christians do in the name of God and I shudder. I see Christians protest and hear them slander and I want to distance myself. I feel pain inflicted upon me by the Church and I want to flee its walls and its people.

Yet no matter where I’m headed, I too can picture the scene on Good Friday. I don’t want to see the blood, nails, and splinters, but I can see them. I don’t want to hear Mary’s sobs, but I can hear them. I don’t want to witness it as all the hope drains out of Jesus’s followers, but I know that feeling too well not to recognize it in their eyes and sagging shoulders.

And I can see Jesus there, pinned to that cross. I can see this man who changed all of human history and there’s something in his words that makes me want to follow him still. In spite of all the anger and brokenness and sin and raging doubts that keep me awake, I can see Jesus as he changes the world by subverting everything we know to be true about it.

I can’t always say that I am devoted to him, but I believe his life, death, and resurrection mean something. I have to hope that no matter my direction that small sliver of belief is enough to keep my soul in Christ’s orbit. 

My most recent piece from my other blog, which is full of original content.

Love after love

hours:

by: Derek Walcott
from: Collected Poems: 1948-1984


The time will come
when, with elation,
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror,
and each will smile at the other’s welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.

"All you have to do is write one true sentence."
We are made in the image of God and we are women.
We are made in the image of God and we are women.

“If my thighs touch, I’m too fat. If they don’t touch, I’m too skinny.

If I take initiative and lead, I’m bossy. If I don’t step up and lead, I’m a doormat.

If I act like I’ve got it together, I’m a hypocrite. If I don’t act like I have it together, I’m a train wreck.

If I wear too much makeup, I’m vain and insecure. If I don’t wear enough, I don’t care about looking presentable.

If I lose weight quickly after having a baby, I care too much about how I look. If I don’t lose the weight, I’ve really let myself go.

If I show emotion, I’m a drama queen, I’m weak, or I’m PMSing. If I show no emotion, I’m cold and heartless.

If I have a career, I’m neglecting the needs of my family. If I stay home, I’m undoing all the work of years of feminism and throwing my life away.

If I’m in charge and do the work, I’m too controlling. If I delegate, I don’t care enough to do the work myself.

If I speak my opinion, I’m aggressive or arrogant. If I stay silent, I’m an enabler.

If I don’t keep up a good appearance, it’s my fault if my husband cheats on me. But, if I look too good, I’m causing other men to stumble into lust.

If I don’t have sex before marriage, I’m a prude. If I do have sex before marriage, I’m damaged goods.

If I don’t have sex or don’t enjoy it, I’m a prude. If I do have sex, and heaven forbid enjoy it, I’m a whore.

If I don’t show enough skin, I’m a prude. If I show too much skin, well, I’m just asking for it.

We are made in the image of God and we are women.”

Nish Weiseth

"If you take something seriously, you’re ready to encounter difficulty."
"a small truth:
you move me more in a moment than
the earth moves in a year."
Salma Deera,  Letters From Medea
(via lifeinpoetry)
"I never learned to tell one from another—
swamp, field, song, vesper—they’re all scraps
of drab: rust, dun, buff, tan. Some streaky-breasted,
some not. We hear the flutter of their wings, look up,
then yawn, ho hum, a sparrow. No rush for the binoculars.
Like the poor, they are always with us. Look at them
flick and flit in this dry meadow of foxtail, switchgrass,
goldenrod; every leaf, stem, and seed head burnished
in the dying light. Maybe they are the only angels
we get in this life. But the very hairs on our head
are numbered, and the father knows them all by name.
Each sparrow, too, has a song—no flashy cardinal
selling cheer, no sky-blue jay’s ironic squawk,
no eponymous chicka-dee-dee-dee. Just us,
the unnoticed, gleaning what others have left behind,
and singing for all we’re worth, teetering on a bit
of bracken at the edge of a wild field."
Barbara Crooker, “Sparrows” in The Christian Century (Sept, 2015)