Echoes and Moments

Author's Note: This poem is born out of some therapy that I did this past month where we visualized our "inner child" in its natural environment. Unsurprisingly, my "inner child" was, to my mind's eye, surrounded by the verdant greens and summer hues of suburban Richmond, Virginia. I encourage you to check out one of my more recent blog posts to get a sense of how I relate to the natural world, and in the meantime, enjoy my latest work, taking the form of a series of questions to this metaphorical young one within. In case you're wondering, this conversation goes back in time, starting from my more recent memories and ending from a time quite a long time ago, in my estimation. Oh child, why wander? Why doubt the intentions of your Creator? Why suffer under the yoke of your own words? Did you forget the cool breeze outside, The warmth in her eyes, And the laughs shared at that place down the street? Did you forget the stories you used to tell ...

What a year 2015 has been, and although this post may strike you as a bit late (thank you late-winter chills and El Niño storms), I've compiled my annual list of music to satiate your earbuds for the time being. Per tradition, the music is listed by artist, followed by album title, and is listed from my lesser favorites to the number one (which should be no surprise to those of you in conversation with me). Thus, without further ado, I submit my list for your humble consideration. 10. Kamasi Washington, Epic Washington has come a long way as an artist rising out of the sublime musical swamp that is LA, and, because he was featured in Paste Magazine  and other musical pulp, he grabbed my attention immediately. What we find is an incredible blend of hip-hop and jazz; twinges of radio-ready beats mixed with the newest and most progressive expressions of right hand wizardry. I love this because it is, as I've come to learn, the sound of a city coming together. LA is one luck...

As a child, summer was always my favorite season. I was not exceptional, as I'm sure most of us can recall our fondness of what little freedom we had: no school, family vacations, and lots of time to play outdoors. My brother and I would construct wild imaginative adventures in our wooded backyard in the suburbs of Richmond, Virginia. We would envision a whole world under the canopy of the longleaf pine and green, gently swaying maple trees, which served to shelter us as we engaged in an epic clash of Union and Confederate forces, or as we crossed swords in some imaginary medieval landscape, or as we stormed the beaches of Sicily in 1944. Violence to me was not yet deadly serious, as it would become during my years in downtown San Jose, or as I now witness it in my daily life in Fresno. Because it was contained within the safety of our shared imagination, it could do us no lasting harm. Sure, we had times to enjoy the winter snow (and I have one early memory of crawling through...

Why weep when there will be nothing But hard ground to receive the tears? Salt remains after water returns to the sky, an Offering to the Creator yet again, but bitter. In the lands where His son walked There are tears again, and blood. In the lands of many more There are tears again, and smoke. Why weep when the tears cannot nourish The earth and its fruit, the grass And the life that blooms without me They do not feel my grief, but still grow. I've made this offering before When a devil snuffed out lives in a school, In a church, In a restaurant, In a theater, But also down the street, in a blue uniform. Here, too, the tears cannot nourish For nothing grows out of the asphalt, Yet He whispers for me to let them fall I obey, I shudder, and they do. And so the Mountain Spirits dance around, Their healing from ages long gone. Creator's Mother looks down, and smiles The snake destroyed beneath her heel. This is why I weep: I see those Who Have taken...

The last few weeks have put me through the wringer. I can scarcely remember the last time so many converging factors amounted to a barrage of crises to manage. External circumstances and the changing landscapes of work launched me into a realm of terrifying speculation about whether or not I would have a job at this time next year. If things stayed the same, or continued to develop at their current rate, I would be forced to leave my ministry assignment at the end of the academic year, earlier than I would have planned. My mind grappled with a catastrophic sense of having to make a decision without the freedom to do so unencumbered by the failures of others. I have been reeling to recover a sense of rhythm, clarity, and peace in the midst of a difficult and ongoing process to move forward. Luckily, I had the chance to have a literal escape by visiting some close friends for the weekend. Although Santa Barbara is in the midst of its warmest months of "summer" (a phenom...

Spring and Fall, by Gerard Manley Hopkins Márgarét, áre you gríeving Over Goldengrove unleaving? Leáves like the things of man, you With your fresh thoughts care for, can you? Ah! ás the heart grows older It will come to such sights colder By and by, nor spare a sigh Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie; And yet you wíll weep and know why. Now no matter, child, the name: Sórrow’s spríngs áre the same. Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed What heart heard of, ghost guessed: It ís the blight man was born for, It is Margaret you mourn for.

The Transfiguration, John Giuliani After I wrote my last post , many of you reached out to me with words of encouragement, support, solidarity, and appreciation. All of this I am immensely grateful for, especially since much of what I wrote delves into deep, unexplored, and certainly vulnerable parts of my being. There is a challenge in writing to invite your readers into your journey, whether through story, song, or poetry, each form allowing the writer to share a larger narrative where our humanity is allowed to shine through a little more freely. So much of our culture, I lament, is focused on self-perfection and independence. Individualism is a gift; it is not wrong. Yet it is only part of the story. Paradoxically enough, I've found that in order to reach into the deepest parts of my unique identity, I must explore the stories of the many who came before me. As I learn more about my ancestors, particularly those Indigenous peoples of the American Southwest, something awak...