Till We Have Faces

There is a line one of Iris Murdoch's books, I think "The Green Knight," in which the protagonist says: "She will pay for her beauty."
I think I have written so much now that perhaps I run out of themes., but I suppose one could not ever exhaust the ideas of love and beauty, perfection and sacrifice...and others.

I like Lewis a lot. I like him because he loved God, gave up on God, and then found Him and loved Him all over again. I enjoy his work because he is not afraid to write from him heart. The truth from his heart, and as good as many ministers, priests and theologians are...they are often very careful to distance themselves from speaking from their hearts...it's all just too vulnerable. And there are consequences. Great people risk greatly, make mistakes, get up and try again. A great person who never falls in uninteresting...at least to me. It means he only speaks when he is sure he is right...he never wonders out loud.

In this culture, it is dangerous to wonder out loud. It is difficult to nurture creativity in a world that always looks for when you trip up, make a mistake...so that it can feel better about itself.

Last night, I don't think I have ever prayed harder...to rid myself of the need for approval. I laid on the dock at Montserrat with my hands open wide and asked God for a sign, something I could hang on to to believe I was really doing what He wants of me. I felt a rest, but not a peace. I was still looking for something concrete. Something to hold on to.

I poured a couple of drops of lavender oil into the lake and watched it disperse. "Let this oil, Lord, clean these waters..." and as I was looking over the edge of the pier, I saw my reflection in the water.

It was a nice reflection, I thought...not a mirror, it kind of showed only enough of me to recognize that it was me I saw...and not too much so that I might be critical of what I saw. I laughed. Then I wrote:

Staring down into the water at Montserrat, I see myself...and my rosary...I recall the trout under the pier at Mountain Home, Arkansas, on the White River...and the trout that mocked me there from the pier. He said, "Ah, you Woman! You have come without a fishing pole! I will stay here and look at you and laugh...you can't catch me...you are all the way up there and I am down here, in the cool water...I am beautiful...and you can't catch me!

And I wondered, "Am I mocking myself?" I can't catch myself because I don't have a way to catch myself. How will I ever know who I really am? I ask myself, "Am I sad today?"

And then I feel it. He, God, comes flowing over me...and I know.

You are with me Lord. How can I be sad?

And I sit a moment. The wind blows the pages of my journal and stops here:
July 20, 2009
How far it is to heaven?
Silly girl, It's right in front of you. It's all around you.
The prison is not the world!
It was the locks you put on your heart!
Silly girl! Take it now. Receive it. Bear it. Hear it. Taste it. Feel it in your marrow:
Silly girl, I love you.

Love, Cindy