Gânduri de trecut, în ziua de astăzi

seninul de sus curge-n ochii mei
primăvara-mi şopteşte-ncet, am venit
păşesc agale printre petece de ploaie
şi cânt cu paşii mei rătăciţi, un mozaic
cu sufletul pe un asfalt, rece, încremenit

sus, plâng norii printre copaci cu crengi
de gânduri, prin muguri rătăciţi
şi florile-şi scutură-n vânt nebun petale
de ieri gândurile le-am făcut inele, pentru
trei de mâine şi astăzi, visările le-am adunat
de la fereastra trecutului tău şi-al meu, în mine
apoi le-am dat păsărilor care zboară-n, înălţimi
de suferinţă, să le poarte în depărtări, de tine

am rămas cu o rană-n soare, care mă doare
pun lacrimi în ţărână, pansând tristeţi
întorcerea lor îmi va fi balsam în gânduri
să sădesc în pământul vieţii şi-n arături de timp
iubiri în primăveri care renasc şi nu în veri
aştept acum un fragment de ploaie, îngândurat
asfaltul să fie cald, pentru ca lacrima mea
ce-mi picură, să se evapore în calea ta
şi-n gândul tău, să pot sa zbor prin el
pe-o pasare albă, pe cer senin, cu adieri de dor

How many thank yous is too many thank yous?

This is something from when I was living in Britain.

I’m sitting alone in a restaurant by a train station to shelter from the rain and get a bowl of soup. Hot soup on a rainy day! I;m like a weather-warrior. I’ll take your rain and make it taste like minestrone.

“It will be two minutes”, says the older  lady who runs the place to me, her only customer. “Thank you!” I say

I turn and watch commuters hold newspapers above their heads or dash into taxis as the heavens whip the world with water. They’re not getting soup, these clowns. It didn’t even occur to them. But I am.

“Thanks,” I say, as the lady puts a glass on my table and walks off to get some water.
“Cheers,” I say, when she returns and pours it in my glass. “Thanks.”
“Your soup will be two minutes,” she says, again, reassuringly.

I nod.
“Thank you,” I say.

She brings me a knife and fork and places it on the table in front of me. “Ta,” I say, and I ignore the fact that I am thanking her for a knife and fork when in fact I am having soup, and she wanders off.
And then she comes back with a spoon and places it in front of me.

“Thanks,” I say.

To be honest I’m starting to feel like there’s a bit too much thanking going on here. She’s staggering her efforts and I’m having to register my appreciation at every single stage of our interaction. I feel like I could be in danger of going thankrupt. I will have to file for thankruptcy. But what else am I suppossed to do? Just sit in silence? I have to say something, and it has to mean “thanks”, otherwise it’d be, “Oh,water”, or “great cup” or something from a Seventies comic like “Brill-o!”. Thanks are important. After all, this is Britain.

And then I hear her put my soup in a microwave and I realise, wow, this really is Britain.

“Two minutes!” she calls out.
“Would you like some bread?”
“Thank you, yes,” I say, sighing and slowly she ambles over with a little basket of bread.
“Thanks,” I say, bitterly, and she turns and walks off, but comes straight back with a small bowl of butter.
“Thank you,” I hiss, because this has to end, but bringing someone a small bowl of butter is already a thankless task, without making it a task without thanks.

I pick up my already-thanked-for-knife, we’re evens on that, but she’s nack offering me an as-yet-unthanked-for butter knife. A specialist knife.
I take it and nod.
She hovers.

“Nice one, cheers,” I say, trying for an alternative, and she goes again.

She wasn’t hovering because she wanted thanks, I think. She was hovering because she wanted confirmation that I knew I was holding a butter knife. Something that meant, “Yes, I register this knife and it has passed my initial knife-test.”
It’s impossible to stop thanking her if she goes on like this. I cannot seem rude. I’ve apologised to bins I’ve bumped into before, and this woman is an actual personwith feelings and thoughts and…
Bzzzz ding!Soup’s ready!

“I’ll bring you your soup now” she calls out.
“Thanks,” I reply, shaking my head at myself, and “Thanks,” I say when she brings it over.
“I’ll get you salt,” she says.
“Thanks,” I say.
“Pepper?”
“Please,” I sigh. “Thanks.”

I have never resented someone so much for doing so much for me. But I know that all this is about to change. Because soon I will have the power. I will give her something! Payment! And we all know what will happen then!

So I scoff my soup and drain my drink and wait for rain to abate, then ask for the bill and when she gives it me, I smirk and say “thanks…”.
She can have the last one. I don’t care. Because then I hand her a crisp £5 note, and I look deep into her eyes, and she takes this note from me, and there is a moment of pure understanding, a shift in roles and power, and she looks at me, and she says, “I’ll just get your change.”

WHAT? NO! That is not fair!

She heads for the till as I stand there, a potential thankee unthanked, and feeling like a proper thanker.

“Here you are,” she says., popping the change in my hand.
“Brill-o!” I say.

 

Contagious, Audacious Love – by Bob Goff

I used to think being loved was the greatest thing to think about, but now I know love is never satisfied just thinking about it.

We have a house down by the water, and there’s a little grass path where couples hold hands and walk along the bay front. My wife and I sit on the back porch and hold hands a lot too as we watch the couples meander by. We’re close enough to the water that they wave to us, and we wave back, a nostalgic snippet from another time where people waved to each other during slow walks. This is how I met Ryan.

One day, Ryan came walking down the path all alone. Ryan waved to us and we waved back like we did to everyone. But instead of moving on, Ryan just stood there on the path, waving and not moving. Because he kept waving, we kept waving. It was a little awkward, honestly. I wondered if perhaps this young man wanted to talk, so to break the tension, I made the short walk from the porch to the path to say hello.

“Hi there, how’s it going?” I said, reaching out to shake his hand and give him a break from all the waving.

“Hi, I’m Ryan and I’m in love,” he said confidently. Ryan had that glazed-over look that smitten guys get.

“Well, Ryan, that’s just great! Congratulations.”

“No, no… that’s not why I came,” Ryan stammered. “What I wanted to say is that I walk by your house all the time… and I have this girlfriend, you see… and…” He paused.

“I want to know if it would be okay…” He paused again. “. . . if I asked my girlfriend to marry me in your backyard?”

He talked like he had been holding his breath for quite some time. I was taken aback by this love-glazed kid who would approach a complete stranger and ask to use his house to stage a great caper. But that’s the way it is when you are in love, isn’t it? All he knew was that he wanted the girl and was going to do whatever it took to get her.

“Ryan, that sounds like a fantastic idea!” I said, laughing.

“Really?” Ryan answered. I guess he had expected an instant no or a gentler “I’ll think about it.”

“Sure! Go get your girl and let’s get you two engaged!” With that, Ryan went half skipping, half floating down the grassy path. I think his feet hit the path about every twenty feet or so.

He was being strategic; he was being audacious; he knew what he was going to do. He was going to get his girl.

A few days later, we were sitting on the back porch again.

Couples were walking down the path holding hands. We would wave to them and they would wave to us. Then came an animated figure bouncing and waving happily with both arms. It didn’t take long for me to figure out that it was Ryan, and I walked down to the path to greet him.

“Hi!” Ryan yelped with his wonderfully goofy, glazed-over, I’m-in-love grin.

“Hi, Ryan, what can I do for you?”

“Well, you know how I am going to propose in your backyard?”

Yes, I remembered that. “I was wondering if you think it would be possible for us…” He did another Ryan pause, so I knew whatever followed would be a whopper. “… to have dinner on your back porch before I pop the question?”

I bit my tongue to keep from laughing out loud.

I’d never even met Ryan before that week, and now he was asking if he could have a marriage proposal and dinner on my back porch?

This kid has it bad! After a short pause, I shot back to young Ryan, “What the heck, of course you can have dinner on my porch, Ryan! That’s a great idea! What can I make for you?”

I don’t think he heard the question because off went Ryan, down the path. He seemed to be levitating — he may have touched down on the grass once or twice over the next hundred yards.

Ryan was another step closer to the prize. He was all in. He was all about doing and not just dreaming. He was going to get the girl.

By now, I found myself looking forward to my afternoon encounters with young Ryan. It reminded me how fun it was to be young and in love. I even started coming home early from work to sit on the back porch waiting for him, checking my watch every five minutes or so, wondering when he would come bouncing down the path with another outlandish request for a total stranger. And sure enough, Ryan came bounding down the path again, so I went down to greet him.

“Hi, Bob. Hey, I was thinking…” And then the pregnant pause. “Would it be possible for me to have some friends of mine serve us when we are having dinner on your porch?”

“You bet,” I shot back, laughing. I was already this far in with Ryan; what could it hurt to have a few of his friends over? “What a great idea. How many would it take to serve you two dinner?”

Ryan looked up with a Cheshire cat grin and sheepishly said, “Twenty?” Did he just say he wanted twenty people inside my house to be his servers? I was wonderfully stunned by the consistently audacious, almost vertical trajectory of Ryan’s plans. He wanted twenty people to serve a dinner for two? Now that’s service.

But when loves does, love does it big.

“What a great idea, Ryan! Twenty it is!” I said without hesitation.

Ryan bounced away down the bay front. I could tell that his head was ready to explode with anticipation. He had the vision, he had the plan, he had the place, and he had the staff. He was trigger-locked on the goal, and he was going to get that girl.

A few days later, I was at my post. Almost on cue, Ryan came galloping down the path.

“Ryan, how are the plans coming?”

“Well,” he said, “I was actually wondering if it would be okay if after dinner, and after my friends leave, you could put some speakers on the porch and maybe we could dance a bit?”

Of course you want to dance on a stranger’s porch. “Speakers it is,” I told him. “Anything else?” I was trying to get all the possibilities out of him now.

“Well, I think that about covers it for now. I’ll ask her to marry me after we dance for a bit.”

“Great idea,” I said to Ryan. “Go get that girl!” Ryan skipped off.

A day or two passed with no Ryan sightings. I almost felt a low-grade depression sinking in on me. Was the planning over? Were there no more whimsical and outrageous ideas from Ryan as he planned his caper? Was the mischief done? I sat on my porch, reflecting on how contagious Ryan’s brand of love was. And then, almost on cue, Ryan came running down the pathway again.

At this point, Ryan was a regular and he bounded across the lawn and up to the porch without hesitation. He was pretty winded, actually, leaning over with his hands on his knees trying to catch his breath. I wondered if I should give him a paper bag to breathe into. After a few long moments, Ryan straightened up. There was a pause while our stares met. I had learned that a pause by Ryan meant there was another whopper of an idea brewing in his head.

“Hey, Ryan, what’s up? It’s great to see you. How are the plans coming?”

“Do you…” He exhaled. “… have…” He inhaled. “… a boat?”

“A boat?!” I was belly-laughing as I asked him to repeat what I thought he’d just said.

“Yeah, do you have a boat?” Ryan asked more confidently as he straightened a bit.

“Well, actually, Ryan, I do!” I said with half enthusiasm and half awe at Ryan’s love-induced, audacious bender. He had that glazed look again as he looked me squarely in the eyes.

“Well, can I borrow it?”

Ryan was out of control. He had no idea what an outrageous thing he was asking. But you see, to Ryan, I wasn’t a total stranger — no one was. To him, the whole world was full of co-conspirators when it came to winning over his love. He was completely unaware of and unimpeded by what was proper, what was acceptable, and what was conventional. Nothing was going to get in the way of what he decided he was going to do.

“Okay, Ryan. The boat’s yours!” I said. “I’ll take you and your girlfriend out on my boat after dinner at my house, after your twenty friends finish serving you, and after you dance together on my porch. You can pop the question to your girl up on the front deck of my boat.”

Ryan floated away once again, clueless of the beautiful ridiculousness this girl was bringing out of him. Ryan was a study in focus, tenacity, and abandon. He was all gas and no brake.

What Ryan didn’t realize is that I decided to one-up him.

Why should he have all the fun? That night, I called the Coast Guard and told them about Ryan’s elaborate plan and his glazed over enthusiasm for his girl, which had swept him into a state of unparalleled whimsy. Ryan’s enthusiasm was contagious, and pretty soon the guy on the other end of the phone had caught the bug too. The Coast Guard officer and I hatched a plan of our own.

When the big night came, everything was in place. The night was balmy, the air was clear, and I think the stars even came out a few minutes early to see Ryan’s elaborate scheme unfold.

Ryan and his girl came walking down the path. When they got to the white Nantucket house on the bay, he led her up the stairs and across the lawn toward a candlelit table on the porch.

“Ryan, what are we doing? Is this okay? Whose house is this?” she whispered as she held his arm a little tighter. Ryan pulled out her chair and said this was for her as he sat her down.

The service at dinner by the twenty servers was impeccable, and the after-dinner dance was endearing as these two stood with arms around each other, slowly moving together on the porch. As they danced, they twirled and talked quietly. By now, evening had fully set in and the lights of the city mixed with the stars were starting to dominate the skyline. It was as if the early appearing stars had gone home and invited all of their friends, telling them, “You have got to see this.”

The evening was coming to its natural end, and Ryan took his girl by the hand and they headed back to the path. I’ve always wondered what was going through her head during all this. I hope it all felt like a dream.

As they got closer to the dock behind the house, Ryan gripped her hand, turned, and took her toward a boat that was tied to the end.

“Ryan, what are we doing?” she half demanded.

“C’mon,” is all he had to say as they came onto my boat. I was at the helm and they made their way to the bow. With the stars out in full view, we slowly motored out into the bay. After a short time, we approached the spot where Ryan and I agreed I would stop the boat so he could pop the question.

In a total coup de grâce, Ryan had fifty more of his friends on the shore to spell out “Will you marry me?” with candles — just in case he got tongue-tied or overwhelmed in the intensity and whimsy of the moment.

With their flickering sign as his backdrop, Ryan got on one knee.

“Will . . .” He exhaled. “. . . you . . .” He inhaled. “. . . marry . . .” He paused. “. . . me?”

There was a gasp followed by an immediate and enthusiastic yes.

In this, the most special moment of their lives, neither Ryan nor his bride-to-be noticed that the Coast Guard had pulled in behind us with their firefighting boat, just as the officer and I had planned. I gave the thumbs-up — the sign that she said yes — and he shot off every water cannon he had on the entire rig! It was a scene that belonged in New York Harbor on the Fourth of July with the Statue of Liberty in the background. But it wasn’t happening there, it was happening for Ryan because that’s the way love rolls; it multiplies. Ryan and his bride-to-be let the mist from the water cannons settle over them like a thousand small kisses.

Ryan’s love was audacious. It was whimsical. It was strategic. Most of all, it was contagious. Watching Ryan lose himself in love reminded me that being “engaged” isn’t just an event that happens when a guy gets on one knee and puts a ring on his true love’s finger. Being engaged is a way of doing life, a way of living and loving.

It’s about going to extremes and expressing the bright hope that life offers us, a hope that makes us brave and expels darkness with light. That’s what I want my life to be all about—full of abandon, whimsy, and in love. I want to be engaged to life and with life.

I enjoy those parts of the Bible where Jesus talks about how much He loves His bride. It makes me wonder if the trees and mountains and rivers are things He planned in advance, knowing they would wow us. I wonder if God returned over and over to this world He placed us in thinking what He had created was good, but it could be even better, even grander. I wonder if He thought each foggy morning, each soft rain, each field of wildflowers would be a quiet and audacious way to demonstrate His tremendous love for us.

I don’t know if God was a little bit like Ryan when He created everything, or if Ryan was a little bit like God. But what I do know is that Ryan’s audacious love is some of the best evidence I’ve found of the kind of love Jesus talked about, a love that never grows tired or is completely finished finding ways to fully express itself.

After A While

After a while you learn the difference,
The subtle difference between holding a hand and chaining a soul.
And you learn that love doesn’t mean leaning,
And company doesn’t always mean security.
And you begin to learn that presents aren’t promises.
And you begin to accept your defeats,
With your head up and your eyes ahead.
And you learn to build all your roads on today,
Because tomorrow’s ground is too uncertain for plans,
And futures have a way of falling down in mid-flight.
That after you have done all you could.. hand it over to God.
Ussualy the best results are when we leave it to Him anyway.
After a while you learn, that even the sun burns if you get too much,
You learn that the true friendships,
Continue to grow even from miles away.
And that what matters isn’t what you have in your life,
But who you have in your life.
You learn that when everything seems like it’s falling apart,
That is when God is putting things together just the way He wants them.
You also discover that the people who you most care about in your life,
Are taken from you so quickly,
So we must always leave the people who we care about with lovely words,
It may be the last time we see them.
You learn that the circunstances and the enviroment have influence upon us,
But we are responsible for ourselves.
You start to learn that you should not compare yourself with others,
But with the best you can be.
You discover that it takes a long time to become the person you wish to be,
And that the time is short.
You learn that it doesn’t matter where you have reached,
But where you are going to.
But if you don’t know where you are going to,
Anywhere will do.
You learn that either you control your acts,
Or they shall control you.
And that to be flexible doesn’t mean to be weak or not to have personality,
Because it doesn’t matter how delicate and fragile the situation is,
There are always two sides.
You learn that heroes are those who did what was necessary to be done,
Facing the consequences.
You learn that patience demands a lot of practice.
You discover that sometimes,
The person who you most expect to be kicked by when you fall,
Is one of the few who will help you to stand up.
You learn that there are more from you parents inside you than you thought.
You learn that we shall never tell a child that dreams are silly,
Very few things are so humiliating,
And it would be a tragedy if she belived in it.
You learn that when you are angry,
You have the right to be angry,
But this doesn’t give you the right to be cruel.
You discover that only because someone doesn’t love you the way you would like her to,
It doesn’t mean that this person doesn’t love you the most she can,
Beacuse there are people who love us,
But just don’t know how to show or live that.
You learn that with the same harshness you judge,
Some day you will be condemned.
You learn that it doesn’t matter in how many pieces your heart has been broken,
The world doesn’t stop for you to fix it.
And you learn that you really can endure
you really are strong
you really do have worth
and you learn
and you learn
with every goodbye, you learn…

Meditaţie Pruncului

 
În prima zi a anului întâi, din cea de-a doua numărătoare a timpului, un Prunc numit Isus a lăsat în spatele Universului hainele Sale cele veşnice şi S-a strecurat prin grilajul stelelor, neobservat, poposind pe insula de lut a nemărginirii.
Mii de ani I S-a pregătit calea.
Un ţesător de vise din Ur, numit printr-o asociaţie de idei Avraam, I-a întins un covor de credinţă de la Muntele Moria pana la Emaus.
Un lucrător cu ziua din Madian, lăsându-şi la o parte ţarina clipei lui, a săpat cu târnăcopul blândeţii 80 de ani, bătut de vântul pustiului, ca să-I deschidă o trecătoare prin muntele istoriei.
Renumitul dăltuitor de psalmi din Valea Terebinţilor, cu o praştie şi câteva pietricele, a făcut de strajă în jurul Betleemului, ca să-I păzească locul naşterii.
Câţiva necunoscuţi I-au făcut ieslea, iar alţii I-au prins în cuie neştiute grinzile staulului.
Nenumăraţi oameni au cărat în palmele lor de ţărână, pământ şi I-au înălţat un deal de pe care să-L vadă cerul şi pământul.
O fecioară L-a coborât de pe zidul cerului în lume, unde a crescut cu pâine şi apă obişnuită, învăţând pe oameni cum să facă binele din orice fărâmă de clipă, din orice respiraţie, oricât de neînsemnată.
Apoi a spălat pământul cu sângele Lui, ştergându-l cu cămaşa Sa, şi de-atunci pe colţul de iarnă al Universului, în bătaia de viscol a păcatului, sub un adăpost de stele, vinde îmbrăcămintea caldă a Cuvântului lui Dumnezeu, vinde băutura fierbinte a jertfei Sale pe un dinar de credinţă, pe drahma inimii.
Resemnat de cruce, cu braţele pline de daruri preţioase, mă strigă şi te strigă, invitându-ne la cel mai avantajos schimb: pentru lacrima Sa cât cerul, lacrima mea cât mine, cât propriul meu trup. 

Așteptări…

Aştept ziua când vara să rămână spânzurată de catargul datoriei. Să plouă în mai, să fie zăpadă la Crăciun, iar în octombrie să fie lună plină. Trezeşte-mă iubito când vine toamna…

Aştept ziua când o să fiu privit în ochi fără teama că oglinda verde sau albastră în care îmi scald întrebările, mă va minţi.

Aştept ziua când primul ministru Boc să spună „Această ţară e atât de prost guvernată încât interzicem tuturor să o părăsească ca să nu plece toţi” şi să îşi presare cenuşă în cap lui şi doamnei Udrea.

Aştept ziua când biserica va înţelege că dacă nu iese dintre ziduri va muri în cetatea asediată. Aştept ca tinerii din biserică să înţeleagă că două vieţi au doar practicanţii urino-terapiei lui Bivolaru, nu şi creştinii. Creştinii au una şi nouă.

Aştept ziua când ceasul obosit al planetei va refuza să mai bată orele şi se va prăbuşi cu limbile ruginite în faţa veşniciei.

Aştept veşnicia când…

Şi moartea nu va mai fi

“Şi moartea nu va mai fi” – Apocalipsa 21.4

 

“Află că floarea cea mai frumoasă este totdeauna cea dintâi veştejită”

Andre Gide în Noile fructe ale pământului

         

       

      

Tratarea subiectului numit moarte într-un articol sau o predică (discurs) primeşte în mod obişnuit conotaţii de patetism ieftin (lacrimogen) cu o nuanţă de disperare imuabilă. Nu mă consider a fi un personaj cu înclinaţii macabre înspre dimensiunea funebră a existenţei (o dimensiune dealtfel cu puternice veleităţi estetice exploatată ca atare într-un mod fertil de mulţi scriitori remarcabili). Cu toate acestea câteodată, îmi permit să privesc moartea într-un mod cât se poate de simplu şi de neacademic mai exact să simt moartea, pentru că realitatea morţii poate fi mai degrabă simţită decât gândită.

Moartea mi se pare a fi, în aceste momente, o plutire, un zbor deasupra norilor într-o seară întunecoasă de toamnă târzie, când vântul îmi bate în faţă dinspre apus aducând cu el o ploaie măruntă şi rece. În aer plutesc mirosuri de flori precoce, ce s-au născut şi au murit prea repede, şi mai ales un miros pătrunzător de liliac.

De jur împrejur o liniştită aşteptare. Un moment de încremenire, când timpul se opreşte în loc şi aştept. Aştept ? Ciudat lucru că aici în lumea de dincolo mai există încă aşteptări! De curând coborât de pe scena vieţii aştept aplauzele sau huiduielile finale. Şi aceasta este ultima aşteptare.

Prima imagine legată de problema morţii de care-mi aduc aminte este paradoxal una luminoasă. Îmi vin în minte zilele însorite de primăvară, când copil fiind, în neliniştitele-mi peregrinări escaladam cireşii sau prunii de prin cimitirul satului natal. Cu siguranţă, nu cugetam atunci la “adânci” probleme legate de sensul şi finalitatea vieţii. Treceam prin acel loc cu acea nonşalantă insolenţă specifică copilăriei.

Max Frish susţine inutilitatea investigaţiilor ce analizează dimensiunea funebră a existenţei, pentru că, spunea el, nimeni nu şi-a simţit vreodată moartea. Cu alte cuvinte moartea este o problemă despre care nimeni nu poate vorbi din experienţă. Este absolut logică afirmaţia acestui scriitor elveţian. Cu toate acestea nu pot să-mi limitez imaginaţia şi ori de câte ori mă gândesc la moarte îmi vin în minte în mod inexplicabil aproximativ aceleaşi lucruri.

Încă o dată plutirea, aceeaşi seară, aceleaşi mirosuri de flori veştejite prea devreme, aceeaşi aşteptare încremenită undeva dincolo de bariera timpului. Da şi încă ceva, de undeva din îndepărtările unui nou răsăritse aud acordurile unor instrumente muzicale. Plutirea, mirosul florilor, muzica, toate acestea îmi confirmă ceea ce ştiam deja anume că pentru mine, ca şi creştin, din spaimele morţii nu au mai rămas decât simple iluzii…şi moartea nu va mai fi.

Mâine?

Îmi lipseau lungile discuţii din seară până adânc în noapte, apropiindu-mi sufletul de extaz, seri în care perfectul timp nu conta. Trăirea în prezent îmi pare grea, însă oricât de frumos se aşterne viitorul tot ce am acum este timpul petrecut cu tine, indiferent de depărtarea textelor dintre minţile noastre. Îmi este uşor să cad în capcana unor fericiri ce vor fi, dar nu pot anula acum-ul celor mai frumoase momente în care vocabularul este doar o altă afazie a stărilor noastre.

Când eram copii ne doream să devenim mari, să avem puterea de a ne decide viaţa, însă abia apoi aflăm că de cele mai multe ori ea doar se întâmplă, ca un joc prost al destinului. Chiar şi acum visăm cu ochii deschişi la un bine viitor, blocând posibilitatea întâmplării lui în prezent, devenid incapabili de recunoaşterea timpului. E boală curată să trăim prinşi în viitor, cu atât mai grav în trecut, uitând că viaţa se întâmplă doar în prezent, niciodată în altă perioadă a timpului. Întotdeauna va exista un acum continuu, niciodată un mâine, niciodată un ieri fatal, mereu acum, mereu cu puterea împlinirii acum, nu în altă epocă în care poate credem că ne-am născut. Capcana timpului este periculoasă în măsură în care uităm să ne ridicăm astăzi şi să spunem cuvintele de mâine, dorinţele viitorului, devenind reali acum, nu mâine, indiferent de emoţia ce ne sparge pieptul sau poate ne îngenunchează înfrânţi de teamă.

Pentru mine este important ca astăzi să fiu visul tău de mâine, imagine ce nu ştie durerea timpului indiferent de complexitatea momentului la care este supusă.

litere obosite de perfect

era aproape sfârşitul lumii când te-a strigat în acea seară. simţeam că marea se agită şi vrea să fugă din calea ta, explodând în ploaie sau fulgere, poate chiar în ninsoare. ştiam că Te apropii să-mi vorbeşti, ştiam că erai acolo să-mi răspunzi la orice nemărturisire ce-mi spinteca sângele din vene. se apropia a toamnă, iar eu mă depărtăm de toate obstacolele pe care le creasem intenţionat în dreptul rătăcirii. eram deja într-o stare de banal eşec, dar poate chiar acolo, în liniştea aia se scria lumea din nou, lumea ochilor mei, lumea vieţii mele. am tot căutat să văd unde ştergi şi cum rescrii, am îndrăznit să Te provoc la un duel nedrept, trişând oarecum cu biblia, cu promisiuni ce nu mi le făcusei mie, pe care eu nicidecum nu ştiam să le respect. nici nu ştiu dacă Te-am îndemnat să mă mistuiesti sau poate asta îmi tot doream eu de o vreme. ştiu că ai zâmbit destul de dureros, pradă parcă tuturor răstingnirilor din epoca prezentului meu. şi cum se mai converteau păsările în poezii, de parcă albatroşii şuierau fum şi deveneau culoare pentru peniţa mea ruptă. Te-aş fi scris cu italice, dar aveam mână rupă în mai multe locuri, exact de acolo de unde se porneşte alfabetul vorbelor mele. mă priveai în ochi şi eu mă aşteptam să leşin, să gust fundul mării cu corali, să înghit apa rece şi să trec în realitate, însă ai îngăduit să fie doar o revelaţie a chipului tău uman, nedorind o moarte prematură a sufletului meu. apoi doar am vorbit, eu certându-mă cu Tine, tu mişcând o altă foaie pentru iertare. nici nu ştiu de ce ai rămas acolo sau cum se face că mi-ai golit buzunarele de gloanţe, fără să mă întrebi dacă aş îmbrăţişa moartea ca trecere în raiul Tău? într-un fel ştiam că ai în tâmpla Ta toate răspunsurile şi eu te ispiteam cu alte întrebări. tot scriai cu degetul în tina fărădelegilor mele litere pe care nu le puteam desluşi, de parcă aş fi încercat să înţeleg creaţia. şi tot scriai la îngeri de se plictisea marea să fugă. poate nici nu erau îngeri, poate erau doar alte forme pe care eu puteam să le am dacă ascultam căutarea. apoi s-a făcut iar seară, iar dimineaţă şi iar eu. m-ai făcut din nou după placul vorbelor tale, ca şi cum aveam nevoie să-mi măsori tâmpeniile cu metrul dragostei tale, găsindu-mă rătăcit între absurd şi reverie. după aia nici nu ştiu dacă m-am rătăcit sau dacă mergeam încă pe ape. ştiu că m-am trezit îndreptându-mă către acei copaci împletiţi, plutind într-o barcă majestică, însă nu singur. oare asta scriai cu degetul în tina neînţelegerilor mele? numele ei?

Happy Birthday, John Wesley. Two Silver Spoons. And Thousands of Souls.

 

Thank you, John Wesley, for your practicing what you preached about money. John Wesley was born on this day 1703 (same year as Jonathan Edwards). He was one of the great evangelists of the 18th century. Today I want to celebrate his attitude toward money.

He is famous for saying: “Having, first, gained all you can, and, secondly saved all you can, then give all you can. (Sermon 50, “The Use of Money” in The Works of the Reverend John Wesley, 1840, edited by John Emory, Vol. I, 446). Here is how he lived this out.

In 1731 he began to limit his expenses so that he would have more money to give to the poor. In the first year his income was 30 pounds and he found he could live on 28 and so gave away two. In the second year his income doubled but he held his expenses even, and so he had 32 pounds to give away (a comfortable year’s income). In the third year his income jumped to 90 pounds and he gave away 62 pounds. In his long life Wesley’s income advanced to as high as 1,400 pounds in a year. But he rarely let his expenses rise above 30 pounds. He said that he seldom had more than 100 pounds in his possession at a time.

This so baffled the English Tax Commissioners that they investigated him in 1776 insisting that for a man of his income he must have silver dishes that he was not paying excise tax on. He wrote them,

I have two silver spoons at London and two at Bristol. This is all the plate I have at present, and I shall not buy any more while so many round me want bread.

When he died in 1791 at the age of 87, the only money mentioned in his will was the coins to be found in his pockets and dresser. Most of the 30,000 pounds he had earned in his life had been given away. He wrote,

I cannot help leaving my books behind me whenever God calls me hence; but in every other respect, my own hands will be my executors.

In other words, I will put a control on my spending myself, and I will go beyond the tithe for the sake of Christ and his kingdom.
(Quotes from Mission Frontiers, Sept./Oct. 1994, nos. 9–10, pp. 23–24)