…Is rain.
There is something contemplative it. The quiet, constant rhythms, the grace by which it rolls off leaves and roofs and cheeks, the way it turns a city street into a watery painting.
It waters the lonely soul and inspires the wild garden of the mind.
There are days in a year, moments in a day, and seconds in a moment–when I feel old. It is hard to explain. In reality, I am so young. But I’m not speaking of realities. Crying with no tears, aching in my smiles, grimacing in every embrace: there is a certain weight coupled with my joy in each that makes me feel aged. Old is an odd word to describe it, I would think so anyway. But when I evaluate the mess of my feelings and perceptions it is the best I can find. My heart feels old in a way that is because of wisdom. Old because everyone is wiser then me. Old because of things seen and enjoyed. Old because of cloudy memories mixed with the clear new ones. Old because I am weary but more alive than I can ever remember being. Old because the longer I embrace it, the more time is of no consequence. Old because innocence and naivety seem sweet and nostalgic. Old because a touch or a smile or a perfect word brings me to tears. Old, because the hard edges of the world grieve me in a way that only grows. Old because the sensational and the subtle meet me in the middle.
Instead of lines in my face, there are lines forming in my soul. Wrinkling deeper with each smile, with each breakfast with the sun, and with each tear on my pillow–the lines grow. Perhaps feeling old is simply me being reflective. Sometimes I wonder if it is good and right to think so much on my journey. I still wonder.
My soul displays her movements in pictures before my mind’s eyes. Like vibrant colors bleeding into each other, like watercolors running down a page…it is as if my lines are being faded and my boundaries blurred. I am malleable, I am soft. I am quiet, I am dark. I am defined, I am unseen. I am broken, I am moved. I am wandering, I am free. I am jagged, I am worn. I am open, I am bright. I am nothing of my own.
I find no identity in the things I once thought would bring me distinction, essence, substance, and unique manifestation. I suppose these convictions will be rediscovered, again and again. I am anticipating a life of constant release. One that pries open my hands and lets them dance in the wind of this ride. One that lifts my cheerless eyes and fills their emptiness with light. One that frees me from my prison mind and allows me to be directed, inspired, and devoted–to Something beyond myself.
People. Sometimes I feel as if I have never seen them before. Their brightness, their diversity, their unpolished personalities, and their madness–there are moments when I sit back, truly bemused at my own feeling of unfamiliarity with my own kind. In many ways, I see it as a beautiful mystery. I have come to believe that the exploration of the human soul is something worthy of pursuit. I have come to know without doubt that connection between human souls is not only something good, it is something vital to life. Our hearts ache to be known, and to know another. Our eyes long to be seen, to be understood, to be cared for, to be spoken to in silence. To deny this is to deny a life of wealth. In purity and in truth, human connection seems to me, to be one of the most colorful, and real emprises of our journey. Thoughts like these make me feel old. Even so, I indulge myself. It is nearing the fourth hour of a mellow morning. Here are my musings. Travels have brought me into the world of internal reflection, and outward attempts to express it all. I assume it is mostly for my own sake….perhaps.
Shalom.
We are extraordinary. Humans, I mean. We have been fashioned by The Extraordinary. We have been built to experience the very essence of all that is real. Have you ever had certain moments of your life that you felt were being carved in your flesh–it was that memorable? Perhaps it was nothing “grand” in the way the world defines it. Maybe it was that puzzling moment in the kitchen when you were eight, when your mother started to cry because she burnt dinner. Maybe it was that day after school in senior year when you dropped your book in the gutter on your way home. Maybe it was the moment you looked in the mirror after your first child was born and saw a rainbow in the light of the shower window. Confused? I’ll muse some more.
There are two spheres of thought which I believe a fully living soul partakes of simultaneously.
The first is this:
This universe is overwhelmingly large, and we, however loud our circumstances may be…
are just.
one.
person.
The other sphere is this: the sphere of miracles. It is essential to be aware of the magic that is before us in every moment if we want to drink life, instead of just stare at its delicious luster on the table. The cracked pavement, the hum of traffic, the smooth rim of my coffee mug, the dancing flame by your bed last night, the sparkle of the sun as it peaks through the morning window–the smell of books. All of these can be the most glorious thing you or I have ever seen.
When we drink of both cups–drowning in awe of the great universe, while also tasting the vivid sweetness of each moment in equal awe–life places her seal upon our hearts.
I spent a weekend in the beautiful city of Chiang Mai, Thailand–a city pregnant with beautiful treasures.
The city itself offers a plethora of sensational experiences. Streets bustle, teeming with people and vehicles like a moving puzzle full of exhaust and noise. Ancient trees paint a rusty green into the heavy urban landscape, crowding around the brown river for a drink as its waters slug along. Hundreds of lanterns set the city to glowing at night–lacing riverboats and transforming the archaic buildings into something inviting and warm. The stunning night markets seem to take all the brilliance of a harvest sunset, and scatter it among all the hand-made silks, the painted umbrellas, the rouge of the flawless Thai women, the perfect fruits, and Asian trinkets. Chiang Mai. Where the blind sit together and play music. Where there alleys are full of prostitutes and gutters of stink. Where sex tourists sit in the thick haze of smokey pubs and dimmed lights–with mixed drinks and mediocre covers of songs meant for romance. Chiang Mai. A place where the morning couldn’t be any sweeter.
The taste of morning sun is something I will forever let linger in my mouth as long as it is alive. It’s a miracle.
It was Monday morning, my last day in Chiang Mai. I woke early to bid a heartfelt, but sleepy-eyed farewell to my dear friend, Jia Ling Yong. We spent a treasured weekend together, exploring, discovering, marveling. Her perception of the world teaches me things. She lives in an incredible perception of the world. Everything tiny thing is sacred in her eyes. And yet–everything is cosmic and huge. Her eclectic taste and somewhat esoteric personality has always left me hoping to meet her again. We shall. She is a gift. After we parted ways, I packed up my clothes, checked out of our lovely hostel, and stepped outside to take in the morning air. The sun was shining. My skin delighted in it. There is nothing about the morning that doesn’t promise something new. I love it.
After my belly had found a place to grow full and happy, I tossed my scarf loosely around my neck, and wiped the sweat off my face. Time to explore. I discovered an alley devoted to selling a brilliant selection of used books. Oh the joy. I came out two hours later gingerly, wearing my cumbersome but effective headphones, my red backpack, and a big grin–all while pressing my new pages of Steinbeck, Shakespeare, and an old Bible to my chest. I love the smell of Books.
As I strolled along, the sun warm and the music taking me somewhere else–something occurred to me. It was the fourth of July. Here–no one cared. No one noticed.
Of course, it’s not America, you know. I thought. That’s obvious, but what struck me about this thought, was the potent sense of “small” that came like a wave over my bones. I was reminded of the earth. That it is round. That it bears many tongues, tribes, and nations. I just happened to be born in one, and visiting another–completely ignorant of hundreds and hundreds of cultures and ways of life that I will never see. In a way, it’s freeing to feel small. Life isn’t so bent upon one day, one place, one circumstance. One thing. Life expands when we embrace this feeling of “small”. The first sphere.
God is big. Life is big. Truth–is big.
In this same moment, I looked down and saw my dusty sandals and a tiny shrub finding it’s way to the sun from a crack in the gray pavement.
A miracle.
I smelled my books. Another miracle. The complexity of a single shrub, finding it’s way to the morning sun blew my mind. A seed fell where this drop of green began. The seed somehow managed to find enough water and sunshine to present itself to the world. The cellular structure of each leaf would take a 30 page essay to even begin to describe. And then, there was my books. Their smell. The smell of old, yellow-paged, flaking books. Do you know what smell I’m talking about? I marveled that I carried to my chest a copy of “Love’s Labor’s Lost” that had been read and handled and owned and forgotten and found for over forty years. And here I am, walking along in a city in Asia, proud to be sharer of the book.
The shock of beauty in that moment got me to thinking: to thinking about God. If this shrub, and the smell of these books, is indeed such a miracle…and if the universe is indeed equally incredible and unfathomable..how does God, the Maker of it ALL, see it? A shrub–is it as glorious as a mountain? A ripped up book pressed against the beating heart of a girl–is that as precious as a newborn? On a different plane, take doing the dishes–how does God see that? Is it glorious? How about going to Harvard or building an empire of business–is it more holy than doing the dishes? In my perception of God through a shrub and my books on that dusty street in Chiang Mai–I started to believe in the sacred act of every moment. Nothing is insignificant. Each moment has the potential for holiness. Better yet, each moment IS holy, and we have yet to partake of it, to dig it up, to discover it. It’s called Abiding. Abiding in a Vine.
This is how my mind processes life.
Aren’t you glad that you are not my brain?
So. This moment? It was etched into my heart, as a lover etches his beloved’s name into a tree.
Just as the moment in the kitchen might have taught you about the profound depth of a mother’s love, or as your book falling in the gutter might have taught you about the possibility of living life without a box to fit into, or as the rainbow in the bathroom window taught you that Agape love is real: a seemingly insignificant moment on that sunny morning was of utmost significance to me. I smelled some books, and saw a shrub. It taught me about living in the Glory of God. About the Celebration of Mystery. About the Holiness of every moment.
—
Chapter 6 : The Speaking Voice : Pursuit of God
God is here and He is speaking.
God did not write a book and send it by messenger to be read at a distance by unaided minds. He spoke a Book that lives in His spoken words, constantly speaking His words and causing the power of them to persist across the years.
The universal Voice has ever sounded, and it has often troubled men even when they did not understand the source of their fears. In the living, breathing universe there is a mysterious Something, too wonderful, too awful for any mind to understand. The believing man does not claim to understand. He falls to his knees and whispers, “God”.
Whoever will listen will hear the speaking Heaven.
The Founding of Narnia // The Magician’s Nephew //
“Hush!” said the Cabby. They all listened.
In the darkness something was happening at last. A voice had begun to sing. It was very far away and Digory found it hard to decide from what direction it was coming. Sometimes it seemed to come from all directions at once. Sometimes he almost thought it was coming out of the earth beneath them. Its lower notes were deep enough to be the voice of the earth herself. There were no words. There was hardly even a tune. But it was, beyond comparison, the most beautiful noise he had ever heard. It was so beautiful he could hardly bear it.
“Gawd!” said the Cabby. “Ain’t it lovely?”
Then two wonders happened at the same moment. One was that the voice was suddenly joined by other voices; more voices than you could possibly count. They were in harmony with it, but far higher up the scale: cold, tingling, silvery voices. The second wonder was that the blackness overhead, all at once, was blazing with stars. They didn’t come out gently one by one, as the do on a summer evening. One moment there had been nothing but darkness; next moment a thousand, thousand points of light leaped out–single stars, constellations, and planets, brighter and bigger than any in our world. There were no clouds. The new stars and the new voices began at exactly the same time. If you had seen and heard it, as Digory did, you would have felt quite certain that it was the stars themselves which were singing, and that it was the First Voice, the deep one, which had made them appear and made them sing.
Far away, and down near the horizon, the sky began to turn gray. A light wind, very fresh, began to stir. The sky, in the one place, grew slowly and steadily paler. You could see shapes of hills standing up dark against it. All the time The Voice went on singing.
The eastern sky changed from white to pink and from pink to gold. The Voice rose and rose, till all the air was shaking with it. And just as it swelled to the mightiest and most glorious sound it had yet produced, the sun arose.
The earth was of many colors; they were fresh, hot and vivid. They made you feel excited; until you saw the Singer Himself, and then you forgot everything else.
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It’s Sunday Morning.
It’s rainy season. Glorious.
I’m sipping my second cup of French pressed black coffee–I was impatient this morning–it’s a bit weak.
Currently Listening: the Schindler’s List soundtrack. One of my favorites of all time. I remember listening to it because of my adoring mother when I was little–perhaps that is why I love it, just like I love Enya and Sting and Annie Lennox–they remind me of her. With that said, Schindler’s List moves me deeply in ways the others don’t. Something about it tugs on the strings of my soul in a way that brings me close to tears. I can’t listen to it too often–i’m not yet comfortable with crying often. Perhaps I should invest in embracing my femininity more…
…right.
It’s been a while since I let the gray of my thoughts rain words. I have started to feel that if i do not release some creative energy, I will self-destruct. In order to prevent myself from cutting off my hair, dying it green, or painting my walls–I have been keeping these hands busy with paints and charcoals and braids and books, and here I am again, in the sweet release of expressive thought.
It’s a terrible thing–discovering God. Terrible, in the sense that I lack words to describe it. As I said to a dear friend who is always singing…”It feels like knifes and wings at the same time–which is often a clear indication that it is indeed Papa to me.” God is big. I am sure I have said that in previous posts and have claimed that as my own even before I arrived here. And yet, every time I arrive at that conclusion (which is more and more often) I am sure that I have never truly believed it before. The “eyes of my heart” (Eph 1:18) grow wide and I cannot move. My soul skips a beat and I feel like I have never felt love before in my life.
Alas, just when I decide that I won’t go too crazy in expressing my thoughts–I go and start talking about the Mystery of God. But then…what greater thing is there to speak of?
I have never before studied the Bible. I have read, enjoyed, cried with, and loved the Bible, but I have never studied it. I have dreaded that idea, in fact. However, something changed in the breeze that blows through the home of my heart–and I cannot ignore a longing I now am experiencing to drink the Word like water and eat it like Bread. A facet of this growing tree of desire has been diving into the Old Testament–the epic wealth of truth that I have passed up for the past–ever. In my notes for Genesis…I began with explaining my struggle, along with my amazement that my readings have been “Free from dry, lifeless facts—free from ritual, from spiritless monotony and academic praise. Free from questions? Far from it—I have more than ever before, and the deeper I go, the more questions born.” Learning the history, the customs, the geography, and the original meanings of words has been giving everything I have ever read in the New Testament real time, place, and personality. It’s pretty cool to realize that John the Baptist actually lived–and was weird, radical, “organic”, and someone I just might hang out with if he was still around. Anyway–this seems like my ever constant song, but in short: God is blowing my mind.
Alright, I am officially done rambling about the nebula of color in my mind. Sometimes I write these things and by the end I think to myself, “oh yeah…I’m in Thailand…these people probably want to know what I have actually been doing here“. Then I chuckle. So, to all (three) of you who read this…I am sorry if it’s been disappointing.
My parents spent three weeks with me here. They left a week ago. Words do no justice in giving a correct idea of how meaningful their trip was to me–and I hope to them as well. We laughed, cried, endured Cambodian heat and shared many hugs from happy kiddos. My mom made my apartment beautiful–clearing out years of dirt and making things shine. She washed screens and scrubbed floors and did things only few will thank her for. I hope some day I am more like my mom. I see Jesus in her eyes, and her hands. My brother Jacob made every child in this place laugh until their bellies hurt. He also tickled my soul and wiggled even farther down into my heart. I am positive that he must be the best brother in the world. He does things to my heart that I can’t put into words. My Dad gave me hugs. There is something heartbreaking about a hug from my dad. The same kind of heart-break that Papa leads me through–in which I can only fall deeper in love with Him. I fell deeper in love with my Dad here in Thailand. I think that is beautiful.
I was sad to see my real family go. I’m just getting back into the swing of things now–teaching, driving, giggling with girls–enjoying my times of solitude. Every day is something new. Isn’t it cool how life does that?
While my parents were here I made a friend. When my family was here we traveled down to Cambodia for a week and while I was there some birds made a nest in my bathroom here, and then abandoned their little one. I gave it water, fed it, and pretty much loved it for a week. I decided it was a girl, and gave her a name. We enjoyed each others company, and then I finally took her out and practiced flying–she finally got it after a couple of hours–when she took off, I cried. It was just…beautiful. It’s these things that send me into crazy realizations of what life is really about.
Speaking of which–one final thought:
Fireflies. Have you ever seen them?
On May 29th, me and my mom saw them for the first times in our lives.
It was her birthday.
I have decided that they are one of the most magical things I have ever seen.
I’m celebrating mystery.
I’m not sure why I enjoy Bon Iver so much–perhaps it’s Justin Vernon’s melancholy harmonies, or the fact that he recorded the Emma album while all alone in a cabin during the winter, or perhaps it is his abstract lyrics that captivate me. Maybe it’s his mood–whatever it is…he meets me in many places, on many days. I am thankful for Bon Iver.
It has been a long, long time since I have written any thoughts down. Cambodia made it hard to do much of anything on the internet, and Singapore swept me away to another planet for a while ( in case some of you don’t know, this is where my biological father lives…i went to stay with him for the first time for two weeks) so this draft has been in the makings for more than two weeks now…perhaps I will finish it today. (one week later: didn’t happen)
Thoughts from the rainy afternoons in Singapore:
by artist // Teo Chai Guan
I went to a photography exhibit her in Singapore with a good friend last week–this artist was my favorite. On a rainy day after he lost everything due to the economy…he started drawing on his window with a sharpie pen, and then began to take photos of the world he saw from his apartment every day. He drew smiles on people, leaves on dead trees, and birds in the air. In this photo, he made the gray rain. I like it when gray rains. It’s like an artist letting loose, a bird being set free–the gray accumulation of thoughts into a rain of words. I suppose that is what I am doing now. Raining. With my friend, Justin Vernon, and my dad’s gray cat, Suki. She has the biggest yellow eyes i have ever seen. I am sitting Indian style on the bottom of an old iron bunk bed. Staring at the white walls of my dads guest room, and occasionally peering out the window on this eleventh floor. I wish I could paint rainbows and butterflies on my window with Sharpies. Perhaps my life is that–painting rainbows on old grey windows. Or, even better…maybe i am meant just to breathe on the glass and watch them appear. If you understand the far-out connection I am making to life in this ramble–you’re crazy.
It’s a curious thing, being in Singapore. Especially coming from Cambodia. From slimy dirt roads to paved streets and manicured lawns–from smelly, colorful street markets to Orchard Road–which is lined with elaborate shopping malls 7 stories high with brands that i have never cared to memorize the names of…from water holes that are a steamy 85 degrees to blue swimming pools and saunas…from community meals to fine dining in town for lunch and dinner every day. I’m a bit stunned, I guess. I was told that I might fall in love with this country no bigger than San Diego–i was told that i might like it so much, that I wouldn’t want to leave. I disagree. It is beautiful, I might even say it is stunning in many ways–but I feel like the easiest mode to be in here is autopilot–and that scares me. I need to be stirred, to be in motion, to be searching deeper, wider, higher. I need to be in love with life, and it’s Giver.
Having said that, there are many, many things that stirred up my heart from my travels–some of which are just starting to surface. My heart broke more than once. I cried myself to sleep more than twice.
Thoughts from back here in my Asian home–Thailand.
I am now back home in Thailand–welcomed by smiling children and moved by the beauty that the rain has poured on this already beautiful landscape. Thunder is cracking (some of the loudest i have ever heard) and lightning is flashing through my window. The rain should pour any moment now. A huge moth is hiding from the coming rain, and glued to my window. It looks like his wings are battered from the wind. I’m going to let him in. It’s pouring now. The moth let me hang out with him–I think we are friends now. At least he isn’t in the rain. There is something mysterious in the way that a gentle hand can draw seemingly wild creatures to be still and kinder than they look. I like it.
I’ve been thinking. About God. And about children. These two are often on my thoughts–and they cross paths once an a while. I’m reading “Velvet Elvis” by Rob Bell for the first time…and in it, he says this: “Questions. Questions are not scary. What is scary, is when people don’t have any. What is tragic is a faith that has no room for them.”
I’ve come to the conclusion yet again, that I know nothing. I think i should be in this state of being more often. Like a child, i can purely and unashamedly ask questions, inquire, and even more–marvel. Be in awe. Soak up the life around me. Insist on touching, tasting, and seeing everything for myself. A phrase that Rob Bell uses in his book that i have claimed as my own is “celebrating mystery”. I shall celebrate mystery.
However far out this sounds, I feel like time is playing games with me. On the one hand, it is moving painfully slow–some nights i sit and lay on my bed just waiting to fall asleep for hours. But the thing is…i’m going on my fourth month here already. Really? Yes. Really.
As you have all probably noticed by now in my lack of posts–i have had a brilliantly abundant lack of words lately. Another month has passed. The kids are back in school as of today (may 17th). Mother’s day has come and gone. The rain consistently comes every night with loud cracks of thunder and flashes of lightning. My Thai is more readily on my lips as I am surrounded by it every day. My parents and brother are currently in the air somewhere…on their way to meet me in Bangkok tomorrow afternoon. (big smile) After we spend two days there, I’m off to Cambodia again–just for a week this time. All of that–and these are the thoughts that have been able to surface in a somewhat coherent form of rambling.
Inexpressible depths of my mind and heart are being carved out, explored, and made new. The carving leaves me in emotional heaps and many times on my knees crying, but only to discover a deeper understanding of Grace–of Care. These two things have become attributes of God that I feel I have only just seen for the first time.
Well..it is nearing midnight..and I have lazily neglected packing fully for this trip tomorrow morning. Hm. Perhaps I should get started on that.
I am again listening to Justin’s echoing harmonies…and laying my mind to rest for the evening…until next time.
Date: April 10th 2010
Name: Sre Tay
Country: Cambodia
Language: Khmer
Temperature: 95F (thank God for fans)
It is 11:22 pm.
Sometimes I can’t believe I am in Asia.
The creaky fan is blowing my hair away from my sweaty face.
I have never sweated so much in my life until I entered this country.
I have drunk more than three liters of water today, and only peed once.
Yep. Perhaps that was an unnecessary detail, but it gives you a good idea of what I mean.
Music is thumping loudly outside from a wedding in the distance.
It’s Cambodia…the wedding could be miles away, and yet we hear it for three days from 5am until around now. There have been about five weddings so far…so…if you do the math, that means there have only been a few quiet nights in this beautiful city. I am starting to like techno for a lullaby.
In all seriousness now…
Before we try to wrap our heads around infinity, or understand light—can we just reflect on how insane it is that you are reading this? You are reading. You are reading from a screen composed of tiny dots projecting electrons of which your eyes are receiving in shapes, lines and dots that we use to communicate. Somehow you are reading it, after I have typed it: on a different day, at a different time. I am thousands of miles away.
I can’t comprehend that.
This room, this home, this city, this life here seems so huge to me—like everything else revolves around it—and yet, it is only a speck within a country, and a country within continent, and only one continent within seven that each reside on a planet who vanishes to nothing in the expanse of her universe. Feeling small yet?
A close friend of mine asked me if traveling seemed to make the world a smaller place, or a bigger place. I think I could answer that question both ways. But, right now…the world is bigger than I can handle with my small imagination.
This is the part of my deliberation where I start drowning in my own wave of nonsensical thought. What a mess I can make of a single idea. Sheesh. I guess all of that to say:
Wonder should be a habit. It makes everything new, and truer to reality. I ate an apple today—and was marveling at it. It brought my day to life.
Poipet, Cambodia.
This is where I have been living for the past three weeks. Have a need for thrills on the road? Come here. This city must have the craziest drivers and traffic I have ever seen. We make “s” shapes as we drive to avoid potholes in the dirt roads while swerving in-between oncoming motos, Lexuses of the black market, trucks, water buffalos and kids. It’s a blast.
It’s amazing the epiphanies I have had driving through these streets. As I smack my head on the window of the Happy Home’s old truck after running over..something..I think to myself, “why wasn’t I born here?”. Of course no one answers my internal question, and the truck bumps along, never getting past second gear. Naked children holding babies only slightly smaller than themselves skip through the mud and trash to smile and wave at me. I smile and wave my white hand full of sentimental jewelry and think—that could have been me.
I could have been the six year old girl I saw today with make up on sitting outside of a house full of men in the slums. I could have been the old grandma hobbling through the trash, picking up plastics so that she can wake up the next morning. I could have been the kids dumping stagnant water on themselves for showers in the muddy streets of the city next to the burning trash, dying dogs and screaming cars. Any one of those glimpses could have been my story. But it isn’t. I was born in America, and raised in a beautiful home where trash is taken on Thursdays and the showers are always warm. I have a mother who loves me more than her own life, a brother who is also one of my best friends, and a father who cherishes me dearly and likes to take me to breakfast on Saturdays. This is Taylor’s story.
These Khmer people have such beautiful, big eyes and radiant smiles. The massacre of their people has left them crippled and fighting for survival. Their history breaks my heart, and has made my existence seem so small, and yet so close to me and new.
I could write about my daily routines here, about my travels to Siem Riep and Pnom Penh. I could write about the colors of the markets and the tastes of the country, but I am struck with awe about the breath in my lungs and the bright sun that rises over you today, and me—over America—over Cambodia.
If any of this is making sense to you—you are crazy. Congratulations.
..and the monks are mediating and chanting in the distance–it’s a sound I had never heard until I came here…and is still unfamiliar to me. There are temples everywhere here…and everyone has shrines in their yards for the spirits to make their home. The sound is a bit haunting…and mingles with the howls of street dogs and strange birds that sing out their souls at night.
I moved back into my original room. I opened all the windows, and mopped all of the floors…everything is clean and fresh. It’s a good feeling. The candles are burning, my voice is sore from singing in this echoing room. It is a warm night in Thailand.
All of the kids left a couple of days ago–they are on summer break, so many of them went to stay with friends or family ties they might have. Some got summer jobs, internships, or went on missions trips. I miss the girls already. It’s weird for me not to hear their giggles and eruptions of laughter in the evenings. They have found a spot in my heart that won’t ever be filled by another. I just got a phone call from Faa..she called to tell me that she missed me already, and that she loved me, and hoped that I slept well. How sweet is that? Not even a day…and I already got a phone call. I feel loved, to say the least.
I reached a record. I currently have 26 mosquito bites. that is only from tonight, and last night. Itch itch itch…What isn’t fair…is that I was sitting with five other people tonight, and they got NONE…but I got ten. Why? Sheesh. I”m trying to figure out why they were created. Any ideas? If God gives you an answer on that one…let me know. :]
…I started writing this a couple of nights ago…and here I am about six in the morning writing again. I have been up for a few hours. I treasure mornings like this. I got to witness the rosy fingered dawn stretch out her morning fingertips. The sun is just now beginning to rise…it’s a bleeding sun–red with smoke and beautiful. The birds are louder than ever hopping to and for, and having pleasant conversation on this beautiful day. Hundreds and hundreds of birds. The Cicadas are already humming too. I can hear the gargling engines of trucks on the highway far off in the distance as workers begin their day of sweat and sore muscles. The bats are all coming back to their home–my roof. What silent, mysterious creatures they are.
This is what happens to me in the morning. Everything is romantic and beautiful. It’s something I treasure–the first thoughts of the morning. There are no moments like it in all the rest of the day. Everything is new. Everything is fresh. It’s such a miracle to rise again and again, breathing, and even smiling.
Today is my last day here for about a month an a half. I leave tonight on a bus at 7pm for Cambodia, and am off to Singapore for two weeks immediately after that. It shall be an adventure…one that I’m excited for. I am traveling down there with Rose, another woman from Sweden who was here teaching at a YWAM base and is now coming along, and then 6 boys from the homes here. We will be doing lots of construction work and building projects. It’s much much hotter there…it is supposed to be between 98F and 107F all week…and the sun is nothing like it is here…it is harsh and burns even Rose’s Indian skin. I am looking forward to sweating and working heart–it is always good for the soul. It’s an eleven hour bus ride down to Bangkok, where we will take another bus to the border town of Poipet, Cambodia..where we will be staying. The country has been devastated by a genocide in it’s history which I know little about, unfortunately, but it has left the country crippled, poor, and violent. The situations are much more desperate there…and Thailand is a safe haven in comparison.
I feel like I am going to learn a lot on this trip–it is a funny thing, traveling within travels. The more I do this type of thing..the more I fear that I will never lose this bug to get out and explore. I guess that is a good thing. :]
In may my lovely family is coming out for three weeks. I cannot express my excitement. I have missed them entirely more than I thought I would…and it has been a beautiful work in my heart. There is a sweetness in watching each of them change and grow from afar. I am in awe…and adoring it. I melted to tears last night after speaking with my mother, and looking at a beautiful drawing she did the other day with a good friend of mine, Rachel Welchons. Sometimes little things embrace my soul and make me burst with life. That was one of them.
I have had so many epiphanies lately–too many to articulate fully. I have been scribbling in my journal..which I am seeing the last three pages of (i can’t remember the last time i fully filled in a journal)…and sketching and painting ideas. So many ideas! It is hard for me to sift through everything and speak clearly, but there is one thought that is ringing loudly in my heart, mind, and spirit that is an eternal truth that is being revealed to me in this time.
I wrote this in my journal the other day. “John 15:4-5…..Abide, abide, abide–apart from this we can do nothing. EVERYTHING flows from intimacy with Papa. Everything. “Christianity” is one of the most empty, hypocritical, and foul words if it does not hold this truth as it’s foundation. As its meaning for existence. How many of us who claim, “Jesus! Jesus!” are missing the point? It says…”apart from me…you can do nothing”. It doesn’t say…”you can do little things…” or “you can do significantly less”…it says…”you can do nothing”.
The beauty of Papa is that He is abundant. He is the highest of Heights. The Deepest of Depths. He is infinite–beyond all measure or words. With that truth being true…”my cup overflows”. When we abide, He fills us to overflowing. and it is only in that overflow that we can do anything good. Only in the overflow of His love can we love, or of His Peace can we bring Peace, or in His wisdom can we be wise. We are alive..only because Christ is alive in us.”
–so I have been thinking..why do we try and do it backwards? Square one. Is me and Papa. That’s it.
So that’s what i’m chewing on….it seems like something I should know already…but He makes all things new, and reveals mysteries in it.
My thoughts are with you all on my travels….I will not have internet for a lot of my trip…until I get to Singapore on the 18th of April…but feel free to write…I might find an internet cafe here and there during my stay. :]
Love, light, and peace be with you all.
–taylor
My mom. Is. Amazing.
I am a lover—a lover of beauty. Because of this, I see much of it, and seek only to see more. It comes in many shapes and sizes: wrinkled hands, warm kisses, sunny mornings, frail wings, glorious mountains, aching pains, whispers, bruises and blemishes. The meaning of beauty is made new again and again.
Yesterday, beauty took on a new face again…the entire day was full of things I have never seen before. Not for myself, not in film, not in photographs—not even imagination. I drove about an hour northeast until the hills to host some “English games” for a group of about sixty kids at a summer camp. The games were simple ones, but held in English so the kids could learn. We played bingo, charades and telephone. It’s amazing how little is needed to have fun with kids who are already extremely wired because it’s summer, and it’s camp! Needless to say, we had a blast. I only had to entertain for about two hours, so, for the rest of the time, me and two girls from the home that I brought with me explored.
I was upset at first, because I forgot my camera. Slowly however, I began to be glad I did. I got to take in more because of it I think. The spot was beautiful. The camp was held in a huge open grass field that swarmed with dragonflies—more than I have ever seen in one place in my life—hundreds of them. Surrounding the field were forests of bamboo four stories high, and huge, old trees that seemed to each hold secrets of decades past. The forests here are so wild—although this spot is an attraction of sorts, it is not tame…all of Thailand seems to scream of contrasts…here there was a lot of death and life in one eyeful. Hundreds of thousands of dead leaves lie cluttered and decomposing everywhere. Besides the paths, I rarely ever see the ground. Felled trees, stagnant water, decay, parasitic insects, and dead animals lay natural and bare for everyone to see.
In the last two hours we had, me and Faa decided to attempt the hike to the top of mountain…which was also the top of a glorious waterfall. Being 800 Kilometers long, the hike was beautiful and steep—I almost want to say it was magical. We were short on time, so much of it was spent running, racing, and laughing hard. Cicada’s were buzzing loudly, and Faa asked me if I thought they were tasty…I said I didn’t know, I hadn’t tried them…apparently she loves them. We finally reached the top an hour later. The waterfall was powerful and cool. The day was hot, and we were both drenched in sweat after all the running and steep climbs so we played in the water, washed our faces and let the cold spray of the fall soak our clothes before heading down the mountain. Yesterday was the first time I have seen clear water here—every river I have seen is brown and murky. I can’t say enough about the trees, and yet I can’t describe them either. I guess I should try. Everything is so very old here. Some of the trees are even over a century old…and are so tall that I have to lay on the ground to see the tops. Their bark is smooth, and a beautiful color brown that I have never really seen this much of. The branches of the trees don’t begin until almost the very top, and so the trunks of the trees are incredibly tall. Roots dangle from the high branches all the way to the ground, and hang in-between trees—making a web of vines that remind me of Swiss Family Robinson, or even Tarzan. I suppose forest isn’t the right word for these parts. Perhaps jungle is better. Screeching birds, humming bugs, and the rustle of leaves set the soundtrack to the glorious picture of my day. Little snakes slither along, and butterflies flutter everywhere. The day was a beautiful gift. I will treasure it forever.
The next morning was also a new experience here—the blood sun rose as usual, and I woke to birds, the smell of smoke, and the morning announcements over the city speakers. The only difference was—it was chilly! The skies were gray, and there was a good wind kicking up—sure enough, it started to rain today. This, was also a gift. I felt like Papa was hugging me with sweet refreshment.
–I wrote this a week ago…wasn’t going to post it..but while I am here…I might as well. :]
Butterflies and Epiphanies 