Of Flesh and Bones

 Jan - July 2025 Wandering Archive

No Labours Lost

Sitting still is difficult, even in this beautiful place.

The river flows and the sun sets, and the earth is still, except where its tiniest creatures sing from the banks, hidden between the reeds and under leaves... 

I’ve spent a long time chasing wonder; not just knowledge, but the feeling of meaning. I have sought the shimmers around moments that make them holy, and that lift in the chest when something feels true, even before it’s proven. As a child, I was drawn to the tales where the hero was saved by friendship, but saw it as secondary to their main pursuit of that one special person. The love of their life, their other half, without whom they are not only incomplete, but utterly incapable of achieving true fulfillment. What is the support of the friends, and the successful final battle for, if not to lay the groundwork for the possibility of this deeper connection? It feels irreverent to suggest, since in the kingdom we are as siblings, but, even as I might argue that our mission on earth is slightly different than his, Adam was also not meant to be alone, either. But then... Elijah's helper was God, and how could that be insufficient?

And yet, this idea, I find, does not leave me. Even as I am or have been surrounded by friends, I have still longed for something more intimate, more piercing. To see, and be seen into. And when it felt like I'd finally loved-- truly loved-- everything about my longing seemed to click into place. My soul was stretched open, not in pain, but in recognition. It felt like true communion, and like prayer without words, and a connection to the sacred. That kind of love gives one's whole life meaning, it made my creativity flow, and my heart feel like it belonged to a story... the story.

And now... Now, by the river, miles from the familiar, I realise I have also been reaching for has not just been that special person of my own, but the echo of God in them. The holy shape of something eternal wearing human features. And though life coaxes one into giving up on hopes of what might have been, despite this I have kept my love, even when pain has been of equal measure. As I've walked, my longing has since been like a rope hanging loose in the wind-- whipping about, catching here and there on passing people, on characters, on dreams... for anything like what it was like in the time before... and yet, far from letting go, I wish to tether to what I still have, or rather, what I have gained from coming as close as I ever have been to something so divine... So exactly like what I imagine love in God's perfect kingdom must be like. And as I walk alone I must do this with not just with what love I found in one, but in many. To... build a rope of my ache, to carry me toward God rather than being dragged forward or backward. Something, God willing, that is not at the mercy of the wind... Perhaps even in a way that frees me from longing for anything but Him again; and to remain safe in at least the echo of what I have experienced of divine love in human form… one that still carries the shimmer of something holy... So that I might carry myself and others without ever needing to think about settling for something less than what has already been my greatest blessing, and remains my one earthly wish, even if it may not be answered. I remind myself that it has always been in God's hands, though love always remembers where it first unfurled.

 

Lacrimosa

Again by the river, day after day. After all I have seen and felt it washes by, not in desperate gushes but in generous flow. Tensions, challenges... Those things that have been overcome, but left behind in the name of the next. All flowing in this space made for me. This modest table where I can sit and simply chat with God, without thought of things to come, and to allow all that has followed me to catch up or pass by, as He wills, not I. 

But there are spirits that sit with me. Ah yes, and some that rattle in the windows and crawl over the mossy roof of my little cabin in the night. I can see their spider-like fingers curl around the edges of dark corners, waiting for my moments of peace. 

There have been nights where I've wept hard enough to burn out my own voice. Times where I have curled beneath the aches that find me, and yet I find I am strong enough now to let them speak. What comes from their songs is not comfort, and they can speak truths that rend the vulnerable mind. But even a visit from a grotesque creature can be kind, in this unintended way. They remind me that even at night, when they catch me or I am already aching, there are some things they cannot take away. And indeed, it is often what they leave behind that tells me what I can feel most secure about. It gives me hope that perhaps their nightly raids may come to an end once they no longer find anything to cling to. 

And there is a place they cannot go, inside of me. It is not a locked chamber of denial, nor a shrine of obsession, but a space I chose to build with reverence, where my heart's treasures may rest without ruling me. It is a door that memories wait behind. Memories that become gilt by the passage of time, and greater understanding, and the blessing of retrospect. 

Much has transpired. Much will. And I am not, nor have I ever been the map maker, only the one who walks. 

 

In the Grey-Blue Hour

I felt it again this morning, as the world was just beginning to turn blue. It was... something I haven’t felt since I was a child. Not hope, exactly. Not even joy, but a sort of "spaciousness."

When I was eleven or twelve, I remember asking the universe for a challenge. I didn’t know what I meant by that, only that I was restless to become something. I wanted meaning, and I didn’t want to be owned or directed by someone else, I just wanted to find something. Why was the adult world so repetitive, and so many things they worried about so minor, where there were problems to be solved in the world, waiting for heroes to appear?

Even still, when I did set off on my own I never expected the kind of dragons I’d have to fight, or the heartbreaks I would fight to survive. I didn’t know that saving the princess would mean saving myself. I didn’t expect the treasure to be God. And yet, here I am.

This morning felt like a return to that early, unwritten feeling-- a soul hovering over the blank page, waiting for God's quill. There is fear in it, yes. But also freedom. The future has stopped being a threat and started becoming a mystery again.

I don’t know what forward looks like, but I know that I am not lost.

 

Lamps and Oil

The birds quiet their song, and the sun shines, sewing golden hems to summer leaves on this beautiful warm evening. The river flows so consistently, but it all comes together even in its transience as something solid, trustable, and familiar even in its newness.

Beautiful.

And what part do I play in this, except that of an observer, honouring through witness what would otherwise remain unseen? This is the only gift I can give. Perhaps my only true contribution is not to interfere, simply be in it, and consider stillness as an option for myself as well, and let the world move around me, for once.

But something does stir in me today, that I have no answer for, but comes to mind nonetheless; I feel like now... I am waiting. Waiting for something. Waiting to be found? Waiting for some star to appear, that I might begin walking again? I don't know. But something tells me to stay still, remain vigilant, and be patient. 

This is a new sort of feeling for me, but it is not uncomfortable. On the contrary, I have great faith that this time, all will unfold in its proper time. However, even this very moment, I feel the pull of activity, but I know that even it is toward some sort of active waiting, like the wise handmaids in Matthew, who carry extra oil, waiting for the bridegroom, even though it was never clear when he might arrive. 

There are many more precedents in scripture for this sort of waiting, however, and since I am certain that God brought me here, I am also certain that He will reveal only what He must, in due course. In the meantime, perhaps my vigilance simply looks like continued firekeeping, sitting by the river, and speaking to the dark, until further notice. Perhaps it looks like cultivating a small garden plot, and becoming intimate with the area around my cabin for foraging and stewardship purposes... Being my best self, internalizing and putting into practice all I have so far been taught. Whatever the case, He knows, I do not; and so I will take this day as a blessing, whether it is the first of many, or the last before another storm.  

 

Emerald Vistas

"If the air feels clear, then why not climb a tree to look around?" said the man.

He had been walking by, and when we glimpsed each other through the undergrowth around my cabin, I realised that I wasn't as far away from the road as I'd thought. It momentarily concerned me that I may have taken up lodging on his own property, and he had come out to investigate, yet there was no such issue. He stayed for a meal by the fire and shared some of his stories, of which he had a decent few, and they were refreshingly good listening. 

I shared with him my feelings of clarity, coupled with the stillness. He suggested that these states should be embraced, but pass; that our lives have these moments in them for us to have a point of vantage, to discern a future path, and get a bit of rest before the next walks. It was comforting for me to think that I might experience this spaciousness again someday, even if I'd always known in my heart that it was a transient state. I never assumed that it was permanent, really, since few things really are, and what but death could really offer full release?

And so, after the moments of pause after he left, I set to find the highest point of vantage, though I did not wish to wander too far. After walking for less than an hour, I came upon a tall, rocky outcropping made of the bones of some ancient mountain, on which I climbed the highest tree. It was here that I realised that though I had assumed that I had been walking on flat terrain, I was simply on a plateau that rose high above the lands around it, and it seemed to drop off dramatically on the eastern side. Coming out of the tree, I walked for a few more minutes to the edge of the cliff, looked out, and sat down. The view was beautiful... and yet, I confess nothing my eyes fell upon truly called to me. It was enough that all I saw was at a distance. The forest canopy stretched out for miles in every direction; a sea of undulating green. With the exception of a small town, again, closer than I'd imagined, I saw nothing of note. 

Still, I know now, and the cliff is not far. I will check again later, perhaps. 

 

A Pause

There is something I do not say out loud every day, but in this stillness I will say it now: I am tired. 

Like the boot that doesn't want to go back onto a tired foot, or the muscles that reveal themselves only after a period of rest, I find myself hardly able to do more than stare at the river again today. But something in me says that this is all I was meant to do, anyway; that perhaps I needn't fight it. Not right now. 

I have walked when I was carrying more than I could hold, through the death of things I once thought permanent, through the shattered mirror of home, romance, and future dreams. I have walked through my own mistakes, and through the tensions of my own longing, versus my own unrelenting hope. And I am, in my stillness, finally feeling the weight of my own exhaustion. 

I am not undone, or faltering in spirit, but simply weary, because all things have a toll, even when you've become stronger. I don't wish for someone to reach down and pull me up anymore... I have learned I can do this myself. I don't need anyone to feed me anymore, I have learned to do this myself. I don't need anyone to fight for me, or comfort me, or watch over me anymore, because I have God, and I can commune with him myself. Imagine what I might do... If I just let myself do nothing, right now. 

 

A Dream of Plenty

In the dream I was standing on an outcropping of bare rock, looking down over what was once a garden seemingly only moments before, but I had gone away to tend to myself and come back to barrenness. I did not have time to really think about the differences, however, before a gush of water slid around my feet and washed over the rock. I looked upstream to see that it was a man who was irrigating his plants higher on the terracing, and I went to investigate further. 

He was a tall, sun-browned man, with the kind of strength that doesn’t ask to be noticed, but was impossible not to be. He wore the garb of heat and labour: cut-off overalls, a sunhat, and wide shoulders. His expression was peaceful and focused, and though he acknowledged my presence with a friendly greeting, he did not take his eyes from his work. I watched him.

Hundreds of plants grew on grape trellises, though they were not grapes. They had long taproots like carrots, that reached down to the ground, and he was cutting them off and leaving just a few inches of feeder root, so that the plant itself was suspended above the ground. When I asked, he said that the plants gathered all they needed to survive from the air. It confused me, as I watched him gather the enormous roots for later consumption, but it seemed like each plant was sufficiently irrigated-- to the extent that they dripped, and I watched him graft each to the next along the trellises, until it seemed he had an entire garden of floating plants that grew lush greenery above, and were heavily-laden with fruits that were not only prodigiously early, but large and full of flavour. An impossible harvest, and yet… here it was.

When he was done this task I followed him as he worked, and he spoke to me with the quiet confidence of someone who deeply loved his task as much as its result. Even the buildings we passed, which he explained not with pride, but as someone sharing their plans and journey, were made with the scaffolding of living trees that he had planted and shaped into their desired form, housing a few chickens, with plans for many other animals.  

I confess that as I watched him I became shy. A long time ago I joked that I would know my husband because he could build our bridal bed from a living olive tree, and now here was a man who could grow tomatoes from dew and raise barns from the soil’s own songs. But I said nothing, because I felt I had no heart to give, and I told myself that hardly knew him.

Still, the water washed down from his garden and washed my feet, and the fruit was real in my mouth.

 

Chasing Wonder

The way the light hit the water in the basin this afternoon and reflected lines of wiggling light onto my cabin ceiling brought me back to a simpler time in an instant. A time where I sat for hours on my bed as a child, playing with mirrors and crystalline doorknobs to cast rainbows and beams into the walls of my room. There was not a care in my mind, on those summer days... Days where I made costumes and collected curios and props for all the imagined adventures I would do in other worlds far away and yet entirely contained in my bedroom. The hero, the princess, the sage. The worlds where evil was impending and great, but never stood a chance against bravery, prophesy, and love. Why I always went back there, I don't know. I could have gone to any number of places, lived any number of lives, but I chose the one where there were dragons. 

Oh, that I could be there, still. 

In a world without grey, clear-cut and predestined righteousness, and the obvious correlation between the beautiful, grandeur, and goodness. Our world is a world for adults, where over time the mysterious becomes explained, and the unexpected becomes predictable. 

And yet...

The stories never end, they just get bigger, don't they? More complex, but never as predictable as we think. Maybe it's not that these things have ever been lost, but that, in our own anxieties and arrogance, we assume that just because we cannot see them, that they no longer exist. That somehow, because one is not wielding a sword, they are not fighting battles in their hearts. That because one is not frail in body and pure as a maid, one cannot reach for help. That evil has to be grand and dramatic for us to pay it heed, and struggle to slay it in our hearts or the world around us. 

Our bedrooms, homes, or communities may not constitute the entire known world, and the world may be vast, dangerous, beautiful, and complex, but this is just another case for the wonder, isn't it? That even though we were made from dust, and share the universe with billions of stars, God still died to protect it all, didn't he? And in whatever capacity, we are called to steward creation with our gift of being in His image. It might not need a costume, or a curio, but perhaps all those little adventures were telling us what our adult adventures would entail, all along. Perhaps they are both the same story, told with more or less rainbows, but all the same opportunity for bravery, prophesy, and love as ever. 

 

When my name is Mud

I think that it can be a relief, sometimes, to know that some things are out of our hands. Certainly I would not have said so before I was reborn, but I now see that it is true. In fact, it has been a theme since my conversion that even as I try to continue trusting in my own strength and plans, I am simply setting up opportunities to be humbled, instead. 

When it comes to the cleanliness of my soul, it is no different. Far from the scared child I once was, however, I now know that I might come to God with my soiled being and ask for assistance, rather than feeling the need to clean myself beforehand, which simply cannot be done. This I have been taught, this I finally understand. But something I continue to struggle with, like the child I am, is that while I may have once come to God covered from head to foot like some small, helpless creature with fleas and filth clinging to its fur, I now fall into the category more often of a child covered with the mud of puddles they could not help but jump into, despite how ill-advised it may have implicitly or explicitly been to do so, because sometimes one loves the dramatic flair of the splash, and the pleasure of mud slipping between their toes. And Christ giving the Sermon on the Mount would have much to say about the time spent staring out the window, hoping for rain... just to do it again. (Ah, forgive me, Father!) 

I have wrestled with scripture in the past over various things, and found that though I still hold proper exegesis in high regard, something more akin to negotiation is usually a sign that I have done something that I am trying to get away with. And yet, I have made peace with most things, and do feel cleaner now than I have been in the past. Sometimes it is because I realise that I may have been punishing myself over being human, accidentally, and other times I realise that my concerns are partially on account of my having a higher standard to measure against than when I started. A single dirty dish stands out on a clean counter far more than when it is surrounded by other dishes (though of course, it still must eventually be dealt with). And yet, I find myself neither deterred, nor crushed by the slow pace of progress, and effort to develop good habits. I don't believe that God wishes any of us to wallow in grief and self-punishment, after those feelings bring our need for repentance to the fore. Instead, I sit with my sin, still displeased but knowing that I am better than yesterday, and that my choices today will help me be even better tomorrow.