Wednesday, July 20, 2011

Finally a purpose for writing

Before life took another of it's little nose dives I was going to see a trainer/therapist at the recommendation of my chiropractor. At his (the trainer's) recommendation I finally ordered a book written by a certain fitness/health/guru, but when I went to start reading it I just couldn't. I couldn't take one more microscopic examination of my eating habits, my energy levels, my self-awareness, my my my my goodness everlasting my. I'm naturally a selfish and indolent person who'd rather read than clean and talk than listen, but even slugs have a breaking point. Everywhere I turn I'm faced with another voice asking me to consider my motivations, my interests, my level of self acceptance or self loathing. The whole world has become a mirror for my paltry humanity, and I've stared into it until I can no longer recognize myself. Standing on a ridge in the Olympic mountains I can indulge in the self-pity of not being there on a better day with more energy for exploring and less emotional fatigue. If that isn't blinkingly sinful myopia I'm not sure what is. Creation declares the glory of God, and the loudest voice I hear is my own grumbling.

So, here's the deal. I'm sure I'll write about all sorts of inconsequential things on this blog. You'll hear about my Christmas ornaments (or lack thereof) and the bread I made and that funny thing I did one Saturday, but I want the meat of this blog - my purpose for writing - to be in gazing outwards steadily at some thing and attempting to see it as it really is. I'm thinking particularly of the 6th resolution from John Pipers 10 Resolutions for Mental Health which says:
I shall open my eyes and ears. Once every day I shall simply stare at a tree, a flower, a cloud, or a person. I shall not then be concerned at all to ask what they are but simply be glad that they are. I shall joyfully allow them the mystery of what Lewis calls their "divine, magical, terrifying and ecstatic" existence.
Some of what I write might sound a bit odd or out of range. I don't promise not to write a persuasive essay on the glories of my potato masher. I just feel that I've lived too long inside myself. In another of Piper's essays he said that beholding was becoming. If I behold myself constantly and insistently then what hope is there for me? I know pretty well how much actual good lies within my own power. But, if I can even rarely, behold even the humblest item which God has give me and know that I have seen God's hand then perhaps there is hope.

There you have, the new purpose of my blog and written out at midnight on a Wednesday. I happen to think it's a decent one for all that.

God give me grace.

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