July 13, 2008

• … I Took the Road Less Traveled By.

  “It is told in the Lay of Leithian that Beren passed through Doriath unhindered, and came at length to the region of the Twilight Meres, and the Fens of Sirion; and leaving Thingol’s land he climbed the hills above the Falls of Sirion, where the river plunged underground with great noise. Thence he looked westward, and through the mist and rains that lay upon those hills he saw Talath Dirnen, the Guarded Plain, stretching between Sirion and Narog; and beyond he descried afar the highlands of Taur-en-Faroth that rose above Nargothrond. And being destitute, without hope or counsel, he turned his feet thither.”        

                                                                                                                                                 -The Silmarillion

  

  As you can imagine, waiting for her to respond to the letter was excrutiating.

   

  “Friday, April 01, 2005

  Today I had planned to tell Mystery Girl once and for all how deeply I love her. She had promised me one hour of her time tonight but, alas, her parents are going out of town and they need her to watch her younger sister for the weekend. I’ve been anticipating this sacred hour all week and suddenly I must wait possibly another. Oh I swear I’ll go mad!

  However, the bulk of what I wanted to tell her has been put in written form, a thorough, four-page letter I was going to give her. Please think me not a coward for “passing a note” but I wanted to make absolutely clear my feelings for her. I’ve had several close friends read it and they agree it does the job.

  I think, therefore, that I will leave the letter in her care tonight for her to read at her own leisure. Then, when I finally have one hour of her time, we have something to discuss.

  Please, I ask of of you, remember me in your prayers. I have fear of few things in life, but it is times like these that tests even the most tempered courage.

  To satiate your curiosity perhaps some day I will post the contents of the letter. We’ll see how well things go first.”

   

  To kill time while waiting for her to respond that she had, in fact, read the letter, I decided it would be good of me to copy all the poetry I had ever written into one journal. Much of the poetry I had written over the years existed on separate bits of paper, and there are vast quantities still in the posession of individual young women that I have written for in the past, including my ex-girlfriend from whom, I doubt, I will ever be able to borrow from…

   

  But, days after giving her the letter, I did ask Mystery Girl if she had kept anything I had written her. Here is the entry about that (along with a poem from the same entry):

   

  “Monday, April 04, 2005

   

  The Pursuit (for Mystery girl)

  I run barefoot through tall grasses,

  Going to check the trap I set with

  My heart as bait.

  Still there my heart lies, beating

  Softly in the cold night.

  What an elusive creature I hunt!

  I follow your footprints leading

  Away then back, away then back,

  Then they simply cease.

  Did you sprout wings and fly away?

  I stop and listen to the wind, hearing it

  Whisper the way to you.

  Smiling, I take my heart and chase a

  Cloud to where you are.

  I pause at the edge of a clearing, the

  Place where the sun sleeps at night.

  Yes, only in a place of such beauty would

  A creature such as you make its home.

  I find you sleeping soundly without the

  Slightest idea I was hunting you.

  Quietly, I place my heart near you and

  Depart, for in the end it was not I

  That captured you, but you that

  Captured me.

   

   

   

  Just a quick note:

  I went to Mystery Girl and asked if, perchance, she had saved all the poetry I have given her over the past several months.

  She has. Every. Single. One.

  I now have in my possession a folder near BURSTING with notes and poetry I have given her. Soon begins the glorious and laborious task of copying every precious word into my poetry journal. I hope I have room…

  The poems she has read are in the side pockets. Those she has not yet read are loose in the center. Here is what is most touching, however: some of the poems in the center are those that she has pulled out to re-read.

  When she told me this I wanted to LEAP so happy was I at hearing that. Oh Mystery Girl, when you finish reading that letter you’ll know what I’ve been trying to tell you for these past months. You’ll know without a doubt.”

   

  I was ELATED! What a beautiful testament of her love for my work (and love for me, though at the time I hardly dared to see it this way). So while I slowly copied each and every poem into my journal I continued waiting and waiting, and though it moved slowly the world certainly didn’t stop on my account.

   

  “Monday, April 11, 2005

  So this past Thursday I was at my church, watching the Pope’s funeral. I was up the entire night, not a moment of sleep. I arrived back at my dorm a little after 8am Friday morning to find Mystery Girl working at the front desk. I saw her through the window and all I could say was good morning. That’s all that came to me. Then I went to my room, wrote her the following poem, came back down, gave it to her and chatted for a moment, then went back upstairs.

   

  For you, oh sun

  For you everlong have I waited

  Through all the night kept quiet vigil

  In hope, in strong but humble hope

  Of seeing you rise this morn.

  My quiet prayer was answered, and

  Upon my pilgrim journey you shone

  Brilliantly, heavenly

  Oh God, how this shread of Thy Divine

  Creation causes me to weep! A deluge

  Born of eyes so blessed to view a

  Beauty wrought in Thy spirit, bottled

  In a cask finely crafted by Thy

  Loving hand!

  In the face of this angel,

  Sun, resplendant flare, blossom, starburst

  Flame, epiphany

  Oh, what great words, what unsung song

  Comes to my tongue, so divinely moved?

  “Good morning.”

   

  Things seemed to be going very well, and as the two-week mark approached, I finally worked up the courage to ask Mystery Girl if she had read the letter yet. She said that she had not, and expressed her feelings that she felt unworthy to be loved by any man. I was shocked; one might as well hear the Sun’s confession that no one should gaze upon it for its ugliness! My blog response:

   

  “Wednesday, April 13, 2005

  How do you convince a woman that she deserves to be loved by a good man? Even if that man is not me, how do I convince her of that? Mystery Girl has not finished reading my letter because she feels that she is not good enough for anyone. I used to feel that way about myself, but I rose above it. If God loved me enough to hand His only son to the wolves (so to speak) surely I have enough worth to be loved by someone else. And I know she feels the same way as far as theology is concerned, and yet she feels like she does not deserve the love of a good man. I hope that I can, if nothing else, convince her that she DOES deserve to be loved otherwise I don’t know what will come of this whole endeavor.

      How strange, to think that going into this I felt that it was I that was not deserving of her. Yet I hoped, and prayed, and tried to earn her, tried to convince her that I wasn’t just some schmuck with a crush. I don’t think it is possible to deserve anything so wonderful as being truly loved by another person. I think it is something that is earned and then given. I hope I can earn her, and then be given her. If not, well, we’ll see. Don’t worry Xanga; you’ll know when I do. Take care all.

   

   

  Wednesday, April 13, 2005

  A brief entry:

  I was conversing online with my sister this evening and she was lucky enough to experience what few do: to see me create a poetic work out of thin air. Yep. She watched it happen. Here’s a bit of our conversation over my current predicament with Mystery Girl:

  Sister: love makes people act stupid

  Me: Then I am foolish

  Me: and without care

  Me: but for the love I have for her

  Me: dumb to the world

  Me: a jester in the court of ages

  Me: not caring that all are laughing

  Me: so long as one is smiling

  Have a good day everyone.”

   

  So I kicked up the poetry campaign, trying to write poetry to specifically address this issue. My attempts:

   

  “Tuesday, April 19, 2005

  Just wrote this. Sorry the blog is shortish but I am very tired. Just got back from Wyoming. I’ll try and update for real later today. Nighty night!

  I do not sleep so much as I wait

  For why bother employing the senses when

  There is nothing more that I wish to hear

  To see, to taste, to smell, to touch

  Than you?

  I go willingly into my daily hibernation

  My sense deprivation

  Hoping God blesses me with but a

  Moment’s dream

  A glimpse of your face, your hair

  Shimmering golden in the wind

  Or perchance I see nothing but the

  Black canvas of sleep, yet

  The melody of your voice

  Floats in the darkness there.

  Greater yet is my hope that one night

  A blessed angel will rest in my mind

  Composing a dream in which I see

  Not a fleshy trinket of your body

  Nor a musical note of your voice

  Nor the pleasant perfume of voice, of hair

  Nor the soft touch or warmth of your hand

  Nor even the imagined taste of your kiss,

  For compared to the beauty of your soul,

  This true dream of which I crave,

  All other qualities you possess vanish,

  Nightmares by comparison

  For only in my mortal memory will these

  Mentioned things find an immortal place.

  Your soul, beloved,

  Shines on despite the erosion of time.

  This dream of which I pray for every night

  The one I long so to see within my mind

  Is what I love about you, more than any

  Nerve you might entice, any sense you

  Might arouse with your earthly presence,

  Your look, your way

  ‘tis only light reflected from your

  Glory carved in flesh but

  Oh! Your truest beauty shines with

  Its own light and does not need a

  Star, a torch, a candle, a spark to

  Light my way through this world of

  Dust, echoes, shadows, and cold.

   

   

  Wednesday, April 20, 2005

   

  If the sun knew its own brightness,

  Would it shine brighter?

  If a flower knew its own scent,

  Would it smell sweeter?

  If a pear knew its own flavor,

  Would it taste yet more divine?

  If a violin knew its own voice,

  Would it sing more lovely than before?

  Oh if only you knew, without doubt,

  Your own beauty!

  Would you become more beautiful?

  If you saw yourself through my eyes

  You would stand before a glimpse of heaven.

  If you could inhale your breathe through my nostrils,

  You could run the length of time without stopping.

  If you could imagine your kiss on my tongue,

  No fruit, honey, candy, or drink would have any favor with you.

  If you could hear your voice in my ears,

  Even the most beautiful music would be as silence.

  All these, all this, all things of which I have

  Spoken, I receive in but a moment of your

  Presence, of a distance being an inch or a mile.

  I need not touch beauty

  to know beauty,

  I need not eyes to see it

  For what need has a heart of eyes to see

  What it already knows to be truth?”

   

  As the school year came closer to its end, each moment she entered into my day became more beautiful and precious. I did not fear losing her, but simply the thought of three months apart from her was like receiving a letter from Atmosphere Limited saying that they were cutting off my air supply for the summer. Here is a poem written about one of these precious moments, when I knocked on her door and she opened it, revealing not only herself but also the golden sunset pouring in through her open window.

   

  “Thursday, April 21, 2005

  The clouds broke for a moment

  Your golden light spilled over me like

  Holy water

  Curing me of all despair

  Washing away all doubt in

  The tides of your beauty.

  I had not realized how

  Cold I had been until I was

  Standing warm in the radiance of your

  Sight. To think that upon me you

  Looked! Of all things the sun could see,

  The things your fair, virescent eyes

  Would choose to gaze upon, of all things

  Created by God you looked upon

  Me! For that short cluster of heartbeats, one

  Tick of heaven’s timeless clock, the

  Rain stopped and there before me stood

  you, the rainbow I shall ever pursue,

  Chase ’til you’re in space, and I must

  Fly to reach you.”

   

  Alas, the summer came, and soon enough we were exchanging our goodbyes and sharing our last embrace. I would not see her until the fall, on the other side of my six weeks experience with the Jesuits in Milwaukee.

   

  “Friday, May 13, 2005

  Well I’m home, have been for a week now. Things have been relaxing for the most part, playing Xbox with my brothers, hanging out, etc. Week after next I start working for a few weeks, and then on June 16th I fly up to Milwaukee and I won’t be back until August 1st. I was accepted into a six week program put on by the Jesuits up there as a kind of vocation exploration experience. I know I haven’t said anything, but since January I have been mildly exploring the religious life. The more involved I get in my church and the more I pray that more I wonder if it is something I could do. Don’t freak out thinking I am a priest, or that I will be a priest; nothing is final. I’m just looking into it, like when you do job shadowing in high school.

     As far as the saga of Mystery Girl, I’ve been staying in touch with her via email and her summer is going well so far. I might even get to see her sometime soon, which would be truly wonderful.

     Well that’s it for my update I suppose. I’ll try and check in again soon.”

   

  On the first of every month that summer I emailed Mystery Girl, asking very simply if she’d yet read the letter. She never replied.

   

  The first half of my experience in Milwaukee was haunted by this, and I realized by early July that I needed to forget about her for a few weeks if I was going to be faithful in my promise to God that I would devote my whole heart to investigating my vocation. After doing a little “blood-letting” in a poetry sense, I prayed and then set aside my worries for the remainder of the six weeks. Here is the poem I wrote:

   

  7/3/05 (recorded in journal on 7/6)

   

  My memories of you are like dried roses,

  brittle but everlasting remnants of a flourishing

  moment of beauty

  now devoid of taste, of scent,

  but still come color remains in the petals,

  though no longer do they feel like your lips when

  pressed to mine.

  Ah to grasp my memories as I wish to grasp

  you!

  Embrace you, crush you gently within my

  arms…

  Alas, the memory would be crushed

  reduced to dust,

  so I refrain and view you from afar

  across the rift of time.

   

  The next day I found a new energy and freedom in the work I was doing as a student teacher in a high school summer camp/summer school program, as well as teaching around twenty-five 3-6 year olds in a church summer camp in a poor Hispanic neighborhood on the south side. The last half of my experience was wonderful, and I felt my vocation to the Jesuits swell within me.

   

  We ended the experience with a silent weekend retreat at Loyola University in Chicago. It was my first silent retreat.

   

  During it I was lying on my bed, listening to “O Holy Night” to take my mind off of the brutal summer heat, and I just said, “Jesus” over and over again in my head as a prayer, begging him to help me know the will of God.

   

  In the darkness of my closed eyes I saw what seemed to me to be a crown of thorns, and my heart began to race as the sensations described in earlier posts coursed through my whole being. When the experienced ceased I sat up on my bed, trembling in excitement and fright, firmly believing this to be an experience Jesuit’s refer to as “The Call of Christ the King.”

   

  I dwelled upon that experience more, and realized, too, that the crown of thorns could also mean something else.

   

  Sacrifice.

   

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