Small sparks. I can see the flames trying to dance out from beneath the surface. I can feel the heat, sense the urging; the longing for fuel to feed the blaze that can be. It shimmers and shifts; seemingly a mirage, but the depths of me knows that I have touched eternity.
What if film becomes more than art? What if music becomes more than words and melody? What if art becomes more than presentation? What if words become more than just ideas?
Imagine these tools in the hands of artisans skilled in crafting message, experienced in communicating purpose, desperate to weave eternal into fleeting things. What if we finally begin to touch something larger than ourselves, and begin to reveal Him who is greater than all things and in all things?
Hope brings life, and life brings light to tear darkness from its throne and death from its feast. Saturate your mind with the impact of these tools. Now use them to bring hope.
These are the thoughts in my mind. I wrestle with these instructions, I find myself desperate to build my kingdom of fame and fortune. Hollow mountains made of thinest glass. Dreams separated from purpose; vain ambitions. They mean nothing if they do nothing for anyone but myself. Oh let me see outside of my tiny kingdom of filth to a life extraordinary.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Saturday, December 8, 2007
Small set
Last night I had the privilege of playing a small set at an art gallery exhibit opening. I was invited by another musician, Seth Hall, to come and play a half hour set. The artist, Ashley Lathe, was an incredibly genuine person that I enjoyed talking to and learning the history behind his works.
The crowd that came was gracious, and as I played all I could think about was how much I like doing this. I watched as people sat in their small subgroups and talked and laughed, enjoyed the artwork and the evening. I just hoped that in someway I was able to contribute to their night out in a positive way.
The crowd that came was gracious, and as I played all I could think about was how much I like doing this. I watched as people sat in their small subgroups and talked and laughed, enjoyed the artwork and the evening. I just hoped that in someway I was able to contribute to their night out in a positive way.
Sunday, December 2, 2007
Cove of Recovery
Finding the right words to describe this weekend is going to be hard. I had wonderful moments of complete faith, and within an hour crumpled to the ground in complete bitterness and defeat. My head is reeling from the circular, internal storm that has raged.
My mind has anchored in the shallow waters of a peaceful cove, but the ship has endured much damage. The sails are tattered, the rudder is splintered, the mast has cracked and I am exhausted. I have sailed long and hard on a voyage that has been my own. Pride, fear, anxiety, selfishness, and greed have been my invisible crew and treacherous soothsayers. Listening to them I have wrought unspeakable damage to this vessel.
But the vessel is not beyond hope, it is not beyond repair. In this cove I have reunited with a master craftsman and mentor. One whose gentle words have reminded me that life is more than my ambition. Narrower is the path and harder is the journey than can be imagined. And I am gently reminded that my frail attempts to bargain for my way are no good where I am heading.
Preparation begins in the heart. This is where the story begins. This is where the story's end is determined. I am mulling over what this means: letting go of everything that I hold as necessary to trust one who is trust's author.
My mind has anchored in the shallow waters of a peaceful cove, but the ship has endured much damage. The sails are tattered, the rudder is splintered, the mast has cracked and I am exhausted. I have sailed long and hard on a voyage that has been my own. Pride, fear, anxiety, selfishness, and greed have been my invisible crew and treacherous soothsayers. Listening to them I have wrought unspeakable damage to this vessel.
But the vessel is not beyond hope, it is not beyond repair. In this cove I have reunited with a master craftsman and mentor. One whose gentle words have reminded me that life is more than my ambition. Narrower is the path and harder is the journey than can be imagined. And I am gently reminded that my frail attempts to bargain for my way are no good where I am heading.
Preparation begins in the heart. This is where the story begins. This is where the story's end is determined. I am mulling over what this means: letting go of everything that I hold as necessary to trust one who is trust's author.
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