Monday, February 8, 2010

Applause for One

by Noah Matthews
copyright 2010

I think I can hear it over the roar of today. It rolls in like a wave upon the shore. I think I can feel it rushing over my feet, pushing against my shins and rising to my knees.

I think I can see it, vaguely making out its form in the moonlight, the dance of light upon its moving surface as it rises higher. It is warm and pushes me back but I wriggle my heels down to purchase more secure footing.

My breath catches as it rises higher still and for a moment I am caught in a tug of war of exhilaration and fear - spasms passing from my abdomen to my limbs before dissipating. My breathing slows and my nostrils are filled with the sweet aroma of peace.

I discover that I can allow myself this moment. I can allow myself to feel a sense of value in this world and that I am not defined by what you, or you, or even you think of me as we stumble across this planet.

For we are all stumbling.....

And so the wave rises, and I dare to enjoy it, and I am not defined by what you think, or who you are, or by what you are not.

For you are not all things.

Sunday, January 24, 2010

The Power of We

by Noah Matthews
Copyright 2010

It amazes me still.
My dependence on We.
My fear of We.
My quest to escape We and my need for We.

Yet We can hurt like nothing else.
A harsh word from We is worse than one hundred paper cuts.
An afternoon free of We is bliss.
An evening without We is a journey into sadness.
I daydream of a life without We and have nightmares of losing it.

Bitter sweet, is We.

We is family who have never had a kind word and who misrepresent you, twisting the truth into a thousand ugly lies.
We is the "friend" who has nothing to say to you but who lights up like the Crystal Cathedral at Christmas when another friend walks into the room.
We is the Pastor who calls only to ask for help, but never just because he wants to spend an hour with you.
We is the God who created perfection in Eden and now looks down at you day after day after day after day, seeing something twisted and ugly, not His perfect Adam.
We is a father who is but a vapor, a memory, a face nearly forgotten and a voice you can't recall.
We is me - a shell of misshapen clay spread haphazardly by thick thumbs over a frame that has rusted to dust and left a hollow center filled with regret.

It doesn't have a pretty ending, or so it seems. This thing. My dance with the Power of We.