Chasing your dreams: The space in between.

As you may have noticed I have not written for this series in a while. The spaces in-between inspiration to write is filled with the everyday voracious survival tasks.

And so like a soul survivor in a treacherous land I am reminded of the spaces in between. The spaces between the inception of the dream and the fulfillment of that dream are sometimes many and sometimes long but we must survive them. The spaces in between are also the times between revelation of different aspects of the dream like a much needed encouragement/confirmation, the appearance of a divine connection or the sudden realization of what is needed for your next future move. The space in between are many and in between (no pun intended)

The spaces in between are where most of us spend our lives. They are those pleasant platues filled with the sweet fragrance of everyday living that slowly lull us into a cycle of wants and needs. There are like the mirage in the sun scorched desert, a hope that our parched throats will soon be sated. They are ever present but always far. And so we keep walking.

Like the mists of an English bog, they cover the pitfalls and paths, obscuring our way forward and our way back and so we wonder aimlessly constantly aware of the danger that lurks in the murky depths.

And so we walk hunched over, watching the ground in constant fear of falling into poverty, our dreams lost to sight and our consternation growing and growing and our journey seemingly endless. For a person of faith, it’s not the brutal onslaught of the Devils blows but the subtle espionage of a weary soul that will get you.

I have to constantly remind myself what this dream is, what it is for and why it was given to me. I also have to remind myself of the one who gave me this dream and the promises He gave and continues to give.

I must also prepare. I love the story of the building of the temple. David had a dream to build a house for God but Solomon was the one appointed to build it. But David prepared. He was not allowed to build it but he saw nothing wrong in preparing for it. In Isaiah, we are encouraged to “enlarge the place of your tents”; Elijah was sent to prepare the way for the messiah. The reference goes on and on.

And so I prepare, my heart, my mind, my spirit, my hands and my substance (home/house, equip etc.) for the time when the dream comes to fruition. In my case I have seen the dream unfold like a parchment, and for each page, each chapter I must be ready.

So my dear friend, as we seek out the dreams God has placed in our hearts, use wisely the spaces in between. 

Flags of our fathers: Unclaimed Baggage.

We are the sum of our experiences. My earliest vivid childhood memories are of my parents separations and the premonition filled dreams I had before. It’s a dream that recurred over and over in varying degree throughout my life.

My second most vivid is sitting on the floor at my mother’s feet playing with toys as she sipped her trademark cup of tea. In almost movie like frames I remember her looking at me and smiling as me totally engrossed in my toys.

The rest of my memories are snapshots of various events but most of my childhood seems black or at least locked away in some deep memory vault until the right key is found.

I do however fondly remember my petrol sniffing escapades. I and a couple of friends would sit behind a friend’s dad’s car and through a hole in his makeshift petrol cover inhale the petrol fumes. We would then lie back and giggle away in a petrol buzz. We would then stagger home eat everything in sight and then repeat. I can tell you this ended quickly when our moms found out. We never did it again. Our bums still tingled with the memory of a well taught lesson.

Today I sit here a little sad and angry. I am sad because in the space of 24 hours I have had major run-ins with two close friends and mad that I feel apologetic for speaking honestly. I am mad because I find myself afraid of being alone and wondering whether I should have spoken the truth. I am more afraid of being alone than standing up for myself.

I am mad because I should not be here letting another’s  behavior go un checked especially if I am constantly being hurt or put down for being human, for being me.

As a man of faith I have continually vowed and tried to be different, not in the hip cool way but in the Biblical way. I have despite my inclinations to anger and resentment tried to be more forgiving, understanding and patient.

I chose to not hold a grudge which seems simple if you are not a choleric for whom grudges and vengeance come easy. Take a survey of a choleric's weaknesses and you shall begin to understand the extent of my cross (smile)

More than my inherent weaknesses I am weighed down by some pretty deep mental chains. All the unclaimed baggage left by careless words and actions. To deny them would be foolishness. To allow them to rule me would be suicide. And so I write.  

To get over my fear of failure, loneliness, losing people and to an extent being a victim I write.

I write to tell myself that I don’t deserve to be treated badly and yes I am worth being loved or fought. I write to extend my boundaries and discover my limits, to learn to shove some shit and also not to take some shit.

I write because I hope that someone else will find the strength to start their journey and face their demons, to take inventory of their baggage and to day by day remove all that is unwanted, perhaps put in some much needed supplies and with each passing day travel light.

My pen is the blade that cuts away my pain. It is the surgeon’s scalpel that allows me to dig deep and find the cancer. It is the rescuers search lights that allows me find myself in the night and it is the scribes torch that illuminates the library that is my soul and allows me to find the answers. It is the gift that God gave me to deal with all this excess unclaimed, unwanted baggage.

Flags of our fathers: Silence of the lambs.

The internet is filled with many blogs full of emotional gash written by people screaming for attention and willing to do anything to get it including wanton revelations of everything and anything personal.

This is not that kind of blog though it is filled with screams of attention of a kind. This is another reason why I write…and I hope why you continue to read.

I write because there is too much pain and darkness where emotional wounds fester and cankerous sores multiply.

I write because I must find healing. Perhaps this is the famed mid mid-life crisis, I don’t know. But one thing is for sure my ghostly sirens have been released from their dungeon, stirred up by the father’s hands. I must banish them at once or risk my future and the future of my sons and daughters.

And so I write. I write because I must be heard. I write because my existence should be more than just a scream, it must be a life well lived. A life of peace, serenity and completeness.

I do not write to stir controversy, at least not all the time nor do I write to engross myself in the vagaries of my own darkness. No, I do not write to create a rallying call for like-minded demons-of-the-past infested individuals seeking consolation in self-pity.

No, indeed I write because it is my light, my door, my path to a new tomorrow, to redemption.

I do not, through my pen, undress myself to stand naked before the world to satisfy its lust for voyeurism but because I must unclothe myself of filth to be able to arraign myself in the light of my father.

I write because the silence of this lamb is no more.