It was 56 degrees in our bedroom at sunrise today. I can't say enough the perfection that this is; it has primed my body with an expectation and obsession with Fall - one that heralds the promises of the damp mists of morning, the crispness of cold, and all that they provide in terms of clarity, consciousness, and the cleansing power of awareness found only from the inability to ignore the goosebumps of a morning chill. Reviving, really. I do believe that each of us and our respective heritage, as part of a comprehensive genetic makeup, also influence what we can tolerate in that respect. And so it is that I think to myself that I'm very definitely a mixture of refined and wild - of Scottish, English, and Welsh descent. And if I could, I would whisk myself away and dance in such daybreak bliss to revel upon the sodden moors of Britain, basking in the wanderlust of introspection and imagination - indefinitely. For always. And for everyday. For in the unconstraining dimness and openness of a land and time lived between the perspicuity of sight and the foggy strongholds of blindness, our thoughts are free to encounter and entertain a relativity and release that chooses to see that the locks upon the gates of our own secret gardens are self-made. And often unnecessary.
It is a space in time equal to the magic of the stars at night wherein the vastness of the universe manifests truths we cannot and should not ignore if we're sincerely interested in peace and happiness. It's a face-off with light and shadow - a contention for pennants of valor that demand fealty to responsibility. Self-responsibility. And to none other. To relinquish blame, failure, and history. To release the bedraggled cloaks of despair and grievance in an exchange for finer gowns spun solely from joy and the freshness of courage and hope. To choose to reconcile what has come to pass in a bold and measured juxtaposition against what is, and to thereafter gently release a balance that no longer serves nor uplifts us, and to step into a future of unconfined living - a future that seeks to serve others, and one that welcomes the burnoff of dead weight in an eager exchange for the summoning radiance of a cloudless expanse of crystalline blues skies. Powerful. Poignant. Pointed.
From the moment I read Burnett's novel, The Secret Garden, I knew my calling; I knew that hope was more tangible truth than blame or darkness could ever justify - and that is what I will always champion. I refuse darkness of any kind - not to turn a blind eye, not to bury, not to ignore - but to dissect and discover, to discard and uncover; and to then let it serve as a platform of resilience and renewal. All other intent is only unsanctified spew steeped within the artificial highs and lows found within the easy lure of temporary upheaval, spiralling into endless wells of malcontent. It is a design well-dressed by skillful flattery embraced into submission by the Master of deceit, disdain, and the Maker of fear. Fear of being worthy. Fear that the allowance of forgiveness of self and others might somehow minimize very real heart-break and reduce credible validation. Not so. And yet therein lies the trap. And confusion.
It has been written that "No man can serve two masters." That is such a truth; the two cannot exist together. One cannot forgive a few things and yet deny grace for many things and still expect to live in peace. One cannot claim grace for self but pick and choose grace for others. We are all chaff and grain and sparrows and want. The dust of the earth, in fact.
Grace is no respecter of persons. It is not dependent upon the sum calculation of others' opinion, whatsoever. And so it is that therein lies a conscious choice to give to all, to want to serve and become outside of the piteousness of self, or therefore gravely face the consequences of remaining in a mire of defeat and illusory machinations. It is to either accept the poison of a bitter pill with the intent to justify ill-will (and further misery), underscoring those merely interested in prolonging reconciliation for their own selfish allowance; or it is the honest intent to wish for the prosperity of every soul, and to bask in wholeness and drink in, with generous draughts, a chalice that contains the same experiences but with a perspective and a taste that releases and heals.
I think I was nine at the time when I immersed myself in the pages of The Secret Garden and played alongside Mary and Colin - fascinated, curious, heart-filled, and welled up with a ferocious protective fire in support of the redemption of individual value (not excluding my own - with an added "thank you" to my parents who encouraged us to read every classic book from Dumas and Tolstoy, to Jane Eyre and Burnett). Many would see this world as crippled, unforgiving, desolate, and unwanted. But I would see potential and possibility - a freshness of energy always opening up to new flowering thought - singular, precious, and vital. And it is within these squares of sunshine patterns, illuminated from flinging open the darkened drapes of antipathy and dissonance, that the insistence of determination in the discovery, perseverance, and prevalence of a wider scope of intimate dissection of those who would misrepresent and confine us for their own misbegotten safety, brings about the purity and uninhibited sense of the sacredness of self.
We are spirits who have been blessed and bestowed by the Great I AM. Cutting back the overgrown shrubbery of history and shame and the unyielding rust of disinherited chains, frankly, is Freedom. It is to accept Christ's grace in entirety, or it is a flagrant mockery of his crucifixion. There is no selective in-between.
Our secret garden is ours. And it is shared with only those who want for their own walled-up gates to open and for the sweetness and beauty of pathways that meander among birds, song, and a vision of wholeness and life that rest exclusively within productive thought and the opportunity to reach new heights - expanded awareness, and therefore Joy. It allows for laughter to ring out in bellyaches and waves of mirth - a confounding display to those who would endeavor to dissuade others against such in an endgame of damage, distortion, maligning, and contempt. To somehow disregard their own history and responsibility. One already forgiven and forgotten. One dredged up time, and time again, for no apparent edification.
In our house, there is laughter and revelry. It rings loud with a wit and a glee of unconstrained refreshing exuberance that quite often yields decibels so loud that we must discipline ourselves to be more quiet or shut the windows. It is a happiness that ricochets from what had been closed-in darkness and the imprisonment of esteem and potential, manipulated and reduced against the measurement sticks of the unscrupulous who would not care. Defiance "to be" is everything. And it upsets the paradigm of dysfunction for what once was, for sure. A revolution of proclaiming and becoming and for it to be rightly so.
I say, LIVE JOY. Abide in peace. One of my favorite songs is "Abide with me." And it is just one of several hymn and songs that fill up my heart quite out of the blue and lend themselves to love and life, joy and freedom. I testify that our Savior bought and paid for our sins. And no one can drag those through a mire for their own convenience. Ever. As for our house, we choose to be and to abide. We choose to offer connection without qualifiers and to be received as we would receive. And as God would receive.
Abide with me; 'tis eventide.
The day is past and gone;
The shadows of the evening fall;
The night is coming on.
Within my heart a welcome guest,
Within my home abide.
There is delicious fruit that blossoms within all of us - light and beauty, age and wisdom - inscriptions of experiences and gentleness conjured up within fond memory; the past and the present indelibly linked to a future of cognizance and consequence! Mmmmm. It is so much, and yet not enough. It is humanity, compassion, temperance, anger, temper, selfishness, and the meeting of all upon an altar of honesty. Oh, if I were to die today, I would proclaim that there is only one life. One family. One Love. And No force of any nature could possibly take away the gift of free will given by the generosity of a Father in Heaven whom none of us have ever even begun to comprehend nor consider.
I say, entreat, and live these words: Give love; be love. Do it. Be it. Live it. Love it.
- Becca
It is a space in time equal to the magic of the stars at night wherein the vastness of the universe manifests truths we cannot and should not ignore if we're sincerely interested in peace and happiness. It's a face-off with light and shadow - a contention for pennants of valor that demand fealty to responsibility. Self-responsibility. And to none other. To relinquish blame, failure, and history. To release the bedraggled cloaks of despair and grievance in an exchange for finer gowns spun solely from joy and the freshness of courage and hope. To choose to reconcile what has come to pass in a bold and measured juxtaposition against what is, and to thereafter gently release a balance that no longer serves nor uplifts us, and to step into a future of unconfined living - a future that seeks to serve others, and one that welcomes the burnoff of dead weight in an eager exchange for the summoning radiance of a cloudless expanse of crystalline blues skies. Powerful. Poignant. Pointed.
From the moment I read Burnett's novel, The Secret Garden, I knew my calling; I knew that hope was more tangible truth than blame or darkness could ever justify - and that is what I will always champion. I refuse darkness of any kind - not to turn a blind eye, not to bury, not to ignore - but to dissect and discover, to discard and uncover; and to then let it serve as a platform of resilience and renewal. All other intent is only unsanctified spew steeped within the artificial highs and lows found within the easy lure of temporary upheaval, spiralling into endless wells of malcontent. It is a design well-dressed by skillful flattery embraced into submission by the Master of deceit, disdain, and the Maker of fear. Fear of being worthy. Fear that the allowance of forgiveness of self and others might somehow minimize very real heart-break and reduce credible validation. Not so. And yet therein lies the trap. And confusion.
It has been written that "No man can serve two masters." That is such a truth; the two cannot exist together. One cannot forgive a few things and yet deny grace for many things and still expect to live in peace. One cannot claim grace for self but pick and choose grace for others. We are all chaff and grain and sparrows and want. The dust of the earth, in fact.
Grace is no respecter of persons. It is not dependent upon the sum calculation of others' opinion, whatsoever. And so it is that therein lies a conscious choice to give to all, to want to serve and become outside of the piteousness of self, or therefore gravely face the consequences of remaining in a mire of defeat and illusory machinations. It is to either accept the poison of a bitter pill with the intent to justify ill-will (and further misery), underscoring those merely interested in prolonging reconciliation for their own selfish allowance; or it is the honest intent to wish for the prosperity of every soul, and to bask in wholeness and drink in, with generous draughts, a chalice that contains the same experiences but with a perspective and a taste that releases and heals.
I think I was nine at the time when I immersed myself in the pages of The Secret Garden and played alongside Mary and Colin - fascinated, curious, heart-filled, and welled up with a ferocious protective fire in support of the redemption of individual value (not excluding my own - with an added "thank you" to my parents who encouraged us to read every classic book from Dumas and Tolstoy, to Jane Eyre and Burnett). Many would see this world as crippled, unforgiving, desolate, and unwanted. But I would see potential and possibility - a freshness of energy always opening up to new flowering thought - singular, precious, and vital. And it is within these squares of sunshine patterns, illuminated from flinging open the darkened drapes of antipathy and dissonance, that the insistence of determination in the discovery, perseverance, and prevalence of a wider scope of intimate dissection of those who would misrepresent and confine us for their own misbegotten safety, brings about the purity and uninhibited sense of the sacredness of self.
We are spirits who have been blessed and bestowed by the Great I AM. Cutting back the overgrown shrubbery of history and shame and the unyielding rust of disinherited chains, frankly, is Freedom. It is to accept Christ's grace in entirety, or it is a flagrant mockery of his crucifixion. There is no selective in-between.
Our secret garden is ours. And it is shared with only those who want for their own walled-up gates to open and for the sweetness and beauty of pathways that meander among birds, song, and a vision of wholeness and life that rest exclusively within productive thought and the opportunity to reach new heights - expanded awareness, and therefore Joy. It allows for laughter to ring out in bellyaches and waves of mirth - a confounding display to those who would endeavor to dissuade others against such in an endgame of damage, distortion, maligning, and contempt. To somehow disregard their own history and responsibility. One already forgiven and forgotten. One dredged up time, and time again, for no apparent edification.
In our house, there is laughter and revelry. It rings loud with a wit and a glee of unconstrained refreshing exuberance that quite often yields decibels so loud that we must discipline ourselves to be more quiet or shut the windows. It is a happiness that ricochets from what had been closed-in darkness and the imprisonment of esteem and potential, manipulated and reduced against the measurement sticks of the unscrupulous who would not care. Defiance "to be" is everything. And it upsets the paradigm of dysfunction for what once was, for sure. A revolution of proclaiming and becoming and for it to be rightly so.
I say, LIVE JOY. Abide in peace. One of my favorite songs is "Abide with me." And it is just one of several hymn and songs that fill up my heart quite out of the blue and lend themselves to love and life, joy and freedom. I testify that our Savior bought and paid for our sins. And no one can drag those through a mire for their own convenience. Ever. As for our house, we choose to be and to abide. We choose to offer connection without qualifiers and to be received as we would receive. And as God would receive.
Abide with me; 'tis eventide.
The day is past and gone;
The shadows of the evening fall;
The night is coming on.
Within my heart a welcome guest,
Within my home abide.
There is delicious fruit that blossoms within all of us - light and beauty, age and wisdom - inscriptions of experiences and gentleness conjured up within fond memory; the past and the present indelibly linked to a future of cognizance and consequence! Mmmmm. It is so much, and yet not enough. It is humanity, compassion, temperance, anger, temper, selfishness, and the meeting of all upon an altar of honesty. Oh, if I were to die today, I would proclaim that there is only one life. One family. One Love. And No force of any nature could possibly take away the gift of free will given by the generosity of a Father in Heaven whom none of us have ever even begun to comprehend nor consider.
I say, entreat, and live these words: Give love; be love. Do it. Be it. Live it. Love it.
- Becca
Living Joy - This Carman Girl
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