The Answer

I have been horribly remiss in my duties as a blogger as of late. I make no apologies or excuses and I make no promises to do better, but I will say that I am trying.  In the mean time, my wonderful sister has submitted a post for all of you.

“The Answer” — Submitted by Brianne

“I love kids. They’re short, highly emotional people, who don’t know anything. They rely on their creativity and imagination to get by in the world. A world, I might add, filled with giants. Amazing feat.” ~ character of Arlen Farber in The Answer Man

This comes from a man who is searching for peace. He’s searching for a definition of himself so that he knows where he fits in the world.

I find that the premise of this film is that the world has been shocked by a man who is presumptious enough to say that God speaks to him, and gave him answers. He wrote about what he felt about his relationship between himself and God. But as you come to meet him, you realize that he doesn’t believe any of what he wrote.

Why is it that we can’t see God’s guidance in our lives, in the sun rising every morning? Where are the answers we’re seeking for? Who are we turning to to find our answers?

Our family? Our religion? Our work? Our play?

No matter where we look for our answers, I think that ultimately we find the guidance we need in the way we define ourselves.

That’s all I’ve got.

Which might be why the idea of children defining themselves moment by moment in a world dominated by huge people that don’t seem to care what you want, only what you “need”, is so inspiring. Life is okay. Life is good. No… no… Life is GOOD. I am good.

I’ve been feeling the need to write again recently. It’s something that’s been nagging at me. I don’t know what to write about, but seeing other people’s moments… in film, in theatre, in literature, in popcorn flicks, I hear the emotion. I see the truth of what, of who people are in the little moments.

I love art. I admire art. Good art is a bit of exposed soul. Excellent art is soul. Not necessarily the artist’s. Excellent art belongs to the viewer who relates to it. I think that’s the truth about all relationships. We belong with who we relate to well.

Family are the people who listen. Family make us feel safe when we’re scared.

And that’s why I define myself by the people who love me. The people who love me the longest, and the hardest…God, my parents, my siblings, and my fiance.

I’m not sure who I’m writing this for. Mostly this is for me. And the things that scare me when I’m home alone at night. I’m writing this so that I know that I can achieve something with my life. I have a purpose. I have reason. Therefore, I write. Though I certainly can’t proclaim that I have any answers.

That really is all I’ve got.


A Little Fall of Rain

I’d like to make a small interjection and thank my wonderful sister for supporting me by continuing to submit. I’d also like to renew the invitation for all of you to send in your stories and blurbs.  Share your light places with us, and help us illuminate your dark ones.

“A Little Fall of Rain” — Submitted by Mikaela

There’s a chill and steady rain sweeping through my sweet little Buena Vista. It’s been coming down for two days. It’s the kind of rain that makes a person forget that there is sunshine. When this rain falls there has never been any sun, and there never will be–the word “sun” ceases to have meaning. Yet, as there is no opposition, there is nothing to regret. And so the rain comes slowly, and the air I breathe out slowly becomes more gray. My soul grows a wistful longing. Not for incredible adventures or dramatic horizons, but for a star. To know where true north is, to see my star and to follow it into the disappearing distance of time. To wear out my life reaching for that unreachable star.  My song of the week is from Dar Williams.

Oh my fair North Star
I have held to you dearly
I had asked you to steer me
‘Til one cloud-scattered night

I got lost in my travels
I met Leo the lion
Met a king and met a giant
With their errant light

There’s the wind and the rain
And the mercy of the fallen
Who say they have no claim to know what’s right

The rain falls, I fall.  Every day, many times, I fall.  Then, with a pearly pre-dawn study of the words of prophets, I find my North Star. A star that is always true north and always with me.  The rain still falls, I am still fallen, but I claim the mercy for the fallen.  I do claim to know what’s right.  In my next exhalation the gray has turned to silver.