The grace that you extended to me
before I even knew your name
the bright light of day
the coolness of shade
You gave me life
before I called you Lord
And died for me
before I knew who you were
Chorus:
All things Beautiful
All things wonderful
All things, All things
Your Design runs through
All things torn a part
All things shameful
All things, All things
Your Love runs through
The Mercy that you have given me
before I had even breathed
the decaying flesh
the fallen soul
You gave me life
because I call you Lord
And died for me
before I knew who you were
Chorus
Bridge:
And in the darkness or the light
I wonder at your glorious might
and laugh and sing with joyful grace
which by your mercy saved forever
all who call you beautiful
Chorus
Monday, October 17, 2011
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Laughing on the Subway
Yesterday I did a Excel Webinar. The Webinar went well. I had a great time and felt weird leaving work at 9pm. Its funny how having a theatre background has helped me in a very weird ways in things not really related to Theatre.
After leaving work I took the El home. This is a typical practice for me, but I rarely ever take the ride so late at night. I was talking on my phone with my sister and mum, so I was not really paying attention until a couple of stops later. A group of people, probably mom, dad, son and friends, started laughing hard at something outside the subway car. I could not see what they were laughing at, at least not at first. Then I realized it was a person.
I am sure that some people get used to being laughed and made fun of. Others are totally oblivious to the laughter. Some live on laughter and need it for mere survival of their egos. I found the laughter slightly addicting, its late at night, I'm on my way home after 'performing' in a way. I'm talking to my sister and laughing with her about my family.
But there is a point when laughing at others is just wrong. This man was heavy set, clumsy, and cursed with really bad eczema. Sure his movements were kind of hilarious. But it was also sad. Sad that this poor man who couldn't stop itching was having to deal with people laughing openly at him on the subway.
I caught myself remembering a time when everything I did seemed to bring out mean laughter from my peers.
Sometimes I am reminded strongly, like a slap in your face, that there is a lot of wrong in this world.
After leaving work I took the El home. This is a typical practice for me, but I rarely ever take the ride so late at night. I was talking on my phone with my sister and mum, so I was not really paying attention until a couple of stops later. A group of people, probably mom, dad, son and friends, started laughing hard at something outside the subway car. I could not see what they were laughing at, at least not at first. Then I realized it was a person.
I am sure that some people get used to being laughed and made fun of. Others are totally oblivious to the laughter. Some live on laughter and need it for mere survival of their egos. I found the laughter slightly addicting, its late at night, I'm on my way home after 'performing' in a way. I'm talking to my sister and laughing with her about my family.
But there is a point when laughing at others is just wrong. This man was heavy set, clumsy, and cursed with really bad eczema. Sure his movements were kind of hilarious. But it was also sad. Sad that this poor man who couldn't stop itching was having to deal with people laughing openly at him on the subway.
I caught myself remembering a time when everything I did seemed to bring out mean laughter from my peers.
Sometimes I am reminded strongly, like a slap in your face, that there is a lot of wrong in this world.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
One Very Long Story
Every story is one, very long story. Somehow everything fits together, but all of human history, all story, are really just one. I say this because everything is interconnect. Everything is from something else. We share a common history, a history that is connected to the earth on which we abide. From the ancient times to the future that we can only dream of, it is all connected.
If every story is in truth one story. If everything is connected, does that mean that there is no Independence? No freedom? No and yes. That story is like a ribbon split into thousands of colors and textures. This ribbon dances through what is our history. weaving the story, telling tales which foretelling others. The ribbon dances. Sometimes the strands seem independent and heedless of the others. Sometimes the strands gather together and dance together for a time. And at some point the muddled disarray will be gathered back together in a singularity or cast off into blankness.
The story is one we are still a part of, still living and shaping. We dance, sometimes against the music, sometimes along with the crowd. We dance, because we must.
Its hard to move backward. And in our pride we gather ourselves and think our way is the best. We do not hear the music. We do not feel beat. We try making our own music, our own dance. We try, without success, to drowned out that which we can feel in our bones. We yell and scream. We run and shout. We hate and kill. We try to destroy. We just want to be free.
But we were not created to be free of the music. Free of that which we are meant to be a part of. We are a part of the story. Our story is the story, and yet the story is more then who we are. If we were meant for Freedom, we would not be connected to everything around us. And we must move to some kind of music. We are bound to it. And the best music, the best dance, is the one we were made for.
If every story is in truth one story. If everything is connected, does that mean that there is no Independence? No freedom? No and yes. That story is like a ribbon split into thousands of colors and textures. This ribbon dances through what is our history. weaving the story, telling tales which foretelling others. The ribbon dances. Sometimes the strands seem independent and heedless of the others. Sometimes the strands gather together and dance together for a time. And at some point the muddled disarray will be gathered back together in a singularity or cast off into blankness.
The story is one we are still a part of, still living and shaping. We dance, sometimes against the music, sometimes along with the crowd. We dance, because we must.
Its hard to move backward. And in our pride we gather ourselves and think our way is the best. We do not hear the music. We do not feel beat. We try making our own music, our own dance. We try, without success, to drowned out that which we can feel in our bones. We yell and scream. We run and shout. We hate and kill. We try to destroy. We just want to be free.
But we were not created to be free of the music. Free of that which we are meant to be a part of. We are a part of the story. Our story is the story, and yet the story is more then who we are. If we were meant for Freedom, we would not be connected to everything around us. And we must move to some kind of music. We are bound to it. And the best music, the best dance, is the one we were made for.
Monday, October 3, 2011
Why do I love the Fall?
(Fall is my favorite season.My Birthday happens, there is a ton of good food. The weather starts getting cold. And I start writing poetry in my head about death and life. Maybe its because its easier to see life, when death is so close by.)
Dark grey clouds hang over me
harsh against the pale blue sky
the mornings chill gets to my bones
through my coat, sweater, and T-shirt
Black birds huddle together
causing the telephone line to droop
even further than normal
The cars splash through last nights rain
And I'm smiling while I shiver
Why do I love the Fall?
Summers fingers are losing hold
The leaves are falling
And I'm wearing red in their honor
The sky is moody, flinting from light to dark
the geese are flying
in little V's high above
the creak of their wings
mixing with the trafic
And I'm smiling at the clouds
Why do I love the Fall?
Dark grey clouds hang over me
harsh against the pale blue sky
the mornings chill gets to my bones
through my coat, sweater, and T-shirt
Black birds huddle together
causing the telephone line to droop
even further than normal
The cars splash through last nights rain
And I'm smiling while I shiver
Why do I love the Fall?
Summers fingers are losing hold
The leaves are falling
And I'm wearing red in their honor
The sky is moody, flinting from light to dark
the geese are flying
in little V's high above
the creak of their wings
mixing with the trafic
And I'm smiling at the clouds
Why do I love the Fall?
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