Another restless night. Dreams of murder, and fear, running and hiding. Where do they come from? As I slept my anxieties dressed up and put on a play, drama queens running wild, cavorting through my mind. Emotions danced unhindered by rationality. I would wake up, wondering Why did I dream that? But a moment's meditation would show glimpses of the root of the romance.
Over the weekend I finished a poem which began
God's on his mountain
Dreams such as this are the result of such thinking. If God be personalized, set upon a mountain far from our daily lives, we can't help but find ourselves alone in a universe of pain.
He was born. He died. In between he lived.
Did he? Do we? To live is to take an active role in the creation of the world. So many people don't. Colored as victims, products of our history and our environment, our current world view drives a wedge into the heart of man, divorcing us from the power that lives within, persuading us to cage our freedom into little boxes that contain choices like
Should I have the corn flakes or the puffed wheat for breakfast?
What kind of toothpaste should I buy?
Where are we going to order pizza from while we watch the game on TV?
We paste little bits of paper over the windows of our souls to cut the glare of the light pouring out from within, then look at the shadows and call them real.