Author: Charlie Pharis (page 5 of 165)
Moon over Cherokee. #iPhone #NoFilter #ALittleCrop
Where have you been? All two of you…where have you been?
I don’t remember when or where I discovered Lullatone. All I know is I really dig the sound. It’s perfect for reading, studying, thinking, even snoozing at my desk. It has a very “commercial-ly” vibe (not “commercial” as in sellout, popular, or whatever)…more like the background music for a TV commercial.
It also has a very childlike feel, one of wonder and whimsy. It’s exactly what this old coot needs on a course to try and rediscover some creativity.
Always getting ready, never going.
Always preparing, never doing.
Always planning, never accomplishing.
Always mise en place, never cooking.
Always wanting, never having.
Always looking, never finding.
Cold, always cold so I put on the sweatshirt.
Sometimes the classic gray, others the navy blue.
New, as they were, since I was just reminded of their classic look.
Perfect for knocking about, puttering as it were around the house.
Yet, classic and kind of hip and cool,
At least for this old coot, classically unhip and uncool as could be.
Is there a sweatshirt for the soul, for the heart?
I want to sit and think and write and read and drink coffee and hide from the world. I want to be in the world among people with no fear or concern for a virus or such.
I want to laugh and I want to weep.
I want to fix the things that are wrong with my house and I want a new house.
I want to wake up from this funk and I want to sleep. I want to smile and I want to grimace.
I want to say I told you so and I want to hope for better things. I want to be right.
I want to be acknowledged. I want to make a contribution.
I want to shout and I want to pray. I want to sing and I want to mourn.
My own Ecclesiastes moment is here. Now. And vanity of vanities, all is vanity. Empty. Nothing. Chasing after the wind. A time to and a time to not.
Sound and fury, signifying nothing.
(This post first appeared in my morning pages on September 17, 2018.)
I used to love the South. Not the media caricature of the South as racist, crass, and ignorant. The South of grace and genteel charm and crisp October Saturdays and ma’am and sir and how y’all and all that. Polos and khakis and penny loafers with no socks and plaid in the spring, seersucker in the summer, and heather-toned Shetland in the brief winter.
I used to love shopping, going to the mall, browsing.
I used to love food. Cooking it, tasting it, sharing it.
I used to love Alton Brown’s podcast, where he interviewed creative folks of all kinds, not just foodies, but artists and poets and authors and whiskey connoisseurs and puppeteers and podcasters and such.
I used to love reading. Newspapers, magazines, books. Real dead-tree, dead-octopus kinds.
I used to love people. Meeting them, talking to them, learning about them, serving them.
I used to love this house. When it was new and big and cool and ours.
I used to love this community. When it was new and different and cool and ours.
I used to love to exercise.
I used to love preaching and preparing to preach and studying and standing in front of people and inspiring them and helping them think and act and do and become.
I used to love going and doing and seeing and experiencing and enjoying.
I used to love learning.
I used to love hoping and dreaming and anticipating and expecting.I used to love knowing there was always tomorrow, that things would work out, no matter how bad they seemed today.
I used to love going to church on Sunday. Even though it meant going to work, it was a good thing, a God thing. I was glad when they said unto me, and then I wasn’t.
I used to love.
I. Used. To love.
Once upon a time. In another time. As another person. As another me. In another place. In a different life. I used to love.
And then I didn’t any more.
Image: gordonplant https://flic.kr/p/5ToRh7
Reading.
I saw in someone’s blog today that they had read three books by simply setting aside 15 minutes with a timer each morning to read. Coupled with Elizabeth Gilbert’s admonition to curiosity in Big Magic, I realized I , too had reconnected with reading over the past couple of months.
I’ve always been reader. Well, let me clarify: I’ve always wanted people to think I was a reader. A voracious one. But truth be told, I’ve been in love with the idea of reading more than the reading itself. Kind of like writing. But that’s another story for another dark and early Sunday.
If I’ve cultivated a new appreciation for reading in the time I have, how much more could I read and enjoy if I really put my mind to it? For instance, if what’s her name could read three books by committing to just 15 minutes, could I do that, too?
What would I read? What am I curious about? What would nourish my mind and my soul?
There would be the Bible, of course. True confession time: I haven’t really read it beyond a snippet or two here and there for last-minute sermon prep in a long time. What if I invested just 15 minutes in reading the scripture? Surely the One Year Bible plan would facilitate that. And who knows where that might lead?
What if I added another 15 minutes of general interest reading to that? You know, whatever I happen to be curious about at the time. Maybe it’s making progress on some gigantic masterpiece like Tolkien. Maybe it’s something encouraging, challenging like Big Magic. Maybe it’s a feel good memoir like Ben and Erin Napier. Maybe it’s one of the hundreds of titles languishing in my Amazon Wish List. Maybe it’s one of the countless “to be read” titles that I never got around to reading.
Fifteen minutes. Plus fifteen more. One half hour to rekindle a love for something that I’ve enjoyed, and benefited from forever.