Immersed in Beauty

We went to New Zealand. Here is the rest of the story.

17^th of November – Sunday – 2013 – entry 136

"How in the world can a massive, heavy, metal bird lift above the earth like this? My first overseas flight since I was two, and I got a good one. It was rainy and overcast on the ground; the same clouds are now under me, golden and whipped into frothy puffs of sunkissed glory. This is wonderfully impossible. This is the stuff of my imagination. Reality has hit the mark that my imagination made in the ether; now I will have to dream up new things(...)"

18^th of November – Monday – 2013 – entry 137

"It is hard to feel anything but awe when you are sitting by the shores of one of the bluest glacial lakes you have ever seen. I'm here, cold, in a lovely red jumper that is comfortingly warm, and I have beside me a cup of plunger coffee. I'm on one of a series of boulders that blotch the shore in a beautifully untidy splat, and I am alone. I and God. I always thought that photographers touched up the photos of these lakes to make them look bluer. Now I know God does the touching up before they even take the photo. But you look- I look, and all I see is the arm of God sweeping over this land. Ridged, white-capped mountains edge, bold and silent, around the edge of the lake, and the peaks on the far side are all but obscured behind a heavenly curtain of cloud. How I wish more adjectives had been invented before I saw all these things that cannot – will not be described(...)"

19^th of November – Tuesday – 2013 – entry 138

"It is a quarter past eight. A whole quarter past, and the Sun is still up in the sky; it is setting, but it will be nine before it has set completely. The motorhome is much too much too bumpy. I'll finish the entry later.

...

Today we walked along the Hooker Valley. This is a four-hour round trip trail that meanders this way and that towards a silty little lake, smattered with little icebergs, at the foot of Mt. Cook. The grandeur is incomprehensible, literally. I stood there and wondered, then walked for four hours staring up at the mountains (...) The peaks always looked so close, but I never got closer to them, even with all my walking (...)"

20^th of November – Wednesday – 2013 – entry 139

"Lord, help me love. Campervanning is not easy. If ever anything tested my character, it was campervanning with the whole family. Who you are in a campervan is who you are. And when I forget you, God, I am the worst. I love you, and help.

Today, I opened up the window while we were driving along the top of Dunedin. I let the icy wind just whip into my face and eyes while I watched the moving landscape slope and roll all over my vision in the purest greens and further out, the nostalgic blues. I've been reading during our drives quite a lot since our first day, but it was lovely to succumb to the sheer glory of closing my eyes and just knowing that Heaven on Earth was spread before me."

21^st of November – Thursday – 2013 – entry 140

"BUTTERFLIES! A beautiful, three-story green-house at the Dunedin Museum; it had a little pond on the first floor, and then steps and bridges spiralled about, and everywhere – butterflies. The room held possibly thousands of them.

I am now so in love with the greens and the blues and the sky and the grass, and the beauty, beauty, beauty(...)"

23^rd of November – Saturday – 2013 – entry 141

I don't know how to explain Milford Sound. I have completely run out of adjectives to describe it; I'll try. The cruise we went on was a two-hour ride that went from a dock through Milford Sound to the Tasman Sea...Looking up, these huge, huge mountains towered over us in greens and greys, rising out of the water to heights of one and a half kilometres, and plunging 300 metres more below the surface of the water. The water was deep and dark; looming rock overhangs bouldered out metres and metres above us; spray from the dancing, white waterfalls caught us as the boat went in close. Massive hyperbolas were carved out of the mountains all around, evidence of fearsome glaciers of indescribable weight, mass, depth, channelling towards that great silky mass of water that sombrely and elegantly moves out to sea. I didn't know places like that existed; I didn't dare to hope that I would someday see what I saw today."

25^th of November – Monday – 2013 – entry 142

"I got sick yesterday, and I got worse today; this is bad because the feeling of having my head tightened into a vice seems to inhibit me from enjoying and gasping at my surroundings.

This afternoon, we parked the campervan across the road from the beginning of a short but beautiful mossy, foresty track. Even in what I felt was some half-state of delirium, I felt calmed and heart-warmed and loved in the trees. Green bales of moss clung to and hung from the soaked trees, rain pitter-patted through the leafy sky onto my muddy sneakers. My nose was blocked, which is sad because I can imagine that the smell of rain in a forest is one of the best things ever, but I'm sure it will be in heaven, so I do not mind so much. I got to taste it though, when drops spilled off my raincoat onto my lips(...)"

27^th of November – Wednesday – 2013 – entry 143

"This morning, we woke up on the side of the road to the almighty noise of a coal train roaring past our campervan. Dad says I mumbled, "I thought for a moment that it was the end of the world!" before rolling over to snore a few times.

We went to the pancake rocks today and got mistaken for locals by asian tourists. They started taking photos of us as Dad confusedly stated, "what...are you...doing?" I played along with peace signs and exaggerated smiles. What they don't know won't hurt them, and hey, all us white folk look the same, don't we? (...)"

29^th of November – Friday – 2013 – entry 144

"...We have come to rest at a place just short of Akaroa called French Farm Bay, (and speaking of rest, Jesus promises it if I come to him heavy laden. Where have I been today when I should have been with Jesus for goodness sake?!) The tide is out, leaving a plain of exposed, grey rocks. There are so many shells scattered amongst them and there are crabs underneath that dart back into the ground like shadows if you turn them over, but it is so lovely just to stand at the grey and blue centre of this broad funnel of luscious green landscape and breathe; and then; if I close my eyes gently and be still, I can hear the sound of a thousand little shell-dwellers moving, breathing, opening, closing...I hardly know what to compare it to, except perhaps the sound of rice bubbles when the milk has just been poured in. This God I serve; he creates beautiful things and these beautiful things give fleeting respite from the hard parts of life..."

1^st of December – Sunday – 2013 – entry 145

"We are going home. What has been our house for the last two weeks is ours no longer and I will sleep in my own bed tonight. Oh joy. I believe that I will understand now how big and spacious our house is now that I will have something to compare it to. I will not be living out of a suitcase anymore and that is wonderful.

I have loved New Zealand. I will come back one day."

 

Drive, Darling

It is sundown. Sunlight is wistfully dancing in golden floods of deep warm hues on the leaves of the evergreens outside. Clouds scatter across the sky like a tearing blanket, dousing it in colder purples and blues. I am not feeling well. Mind and heart have taken a beating and I'm wearing it; on my face, on my sleeve, in my heart, and I hurt.

I want to drive.

I can drive now. It took a while, but now I am on my own, window down, engine roaring in a pulsing rhythm that comforts me in a world that has gone a little mad. The wind swishes past my face and I let the cold air bite my nose and ears and cheeks; I let it tangle my hair. I love this; the freedom of knowing I am on my own. I am part of this incredible engine, I control it, I am powerful. I can drive. And for the moment, driving makes everything seem alright, even though some things are not, and I am home. 

 

Opera

We made fruit mince today. Christmastime is soothingly melting towards us over the horizon, so we prepare with citrus peel and brandy. November. Perhaps it is not yet time for carols, but maybe for Pavane and Christmas-flavoured adagios? We know a few good ones. And so they play.

They play the way the flavours of fruit mince mingle in your mouth. Tossing and turning in a sea of colour; reds and greens and golds, mixing, folding, wrapping into one another. I put a spoonful of raw, pungent fruit into my mouth and it turns into something extraordinary:

OPERA.

I can almost hear the voices swelling in a vibrant, incomprehensible language that somehow doesn't need translating. Dried fruit swollen in butter and brandy numb my tongue; warm it down the throat; settle it inside me. Christmas is coming. Just wait a moment while I calm the flood of '!!!' that has risen, unbidden, into my lungs and heart. Opera in my mouth. Strong, dramatic, exquisite song with a sharp, gorgeous stab of nostalgia. This is the land-ahoy moment of Christmas. Somehow, it is also opera. But don't ask me how. It just is.

Be-ing

We are change. 

In books, the plot moves, the characters develop, in science, the variables change and warp, cells live and die, and in reality, things are changing at infinite rates. Things age.  Reality is in constant flux.

 

At the essence of being human is change, affecting how we live, where we go, what we do. Don't breathe on me, I will get a cold, don't go there, you'll get an arm chopped off, don't slide down the banister, you will hit you head and get a concussion. Most of the warnings we give or receive arise from the urgency to protect someone from unfavourable change.There is no way we could be human with being succeptible to change. It is how we were made. 

We are change.

The only being not subject to change in all of reality is God, so much so that even his goals, his character, his attributes, his desires, his loves and hates, do not change. He is perfect be-ing. As humans, we are fallen become-ing. Though God remains constant and steady, always the same, always as true and righteous, we are ceaselessly becoming something, someone else. What is that end? What are we going to become? Will we ever stop?

 I think perhaps we might. 

When in heaven, I am sure that time will not be. Eternity will be our clock. We will not age, grow weary, get angry. We will always be honouring God in all we do. I have no idea how we might change physically, if at all, but I do know that our hearts and souls will not change in one aspect at least. Thye will not become dark again like at the beginning of time, and they will not depart from God ever again.

Becoming, changing. These are the themes for our very lives. They are visible in books, movies, reality; in the play of children, in the interaction of work colleagues, in the 5:00pm clean-up times of families. They are obvious in every aspect of our lives, highlighting the incredible God who is not subject to fickle fluctuation. This stark difference between Him and ourselves should make us want to cling to him, because he will not change his mind one day, nor leave us when we most need him. 

He is a constant, the best thing that could ever be hoped for in this universe. 

The best that could ever be. 

Merci

The last few days have been a string of ughs and uhhhs. Eyes heavy, distressed, a combination of misfired shampoo, rubbing eyes with chilli-covered hands, flies flying into my face , and a sticky lack of sleep. Lids refusing to stay open far enough to see. Arms useless, shoulders tense. Ribs aching with too much something.

Hhhhhh. . .

I wrote three letters yesterday, before I had to teach a score of young things. Two of the notes were thank you notes, and the other was a three page complaint. I felt the difference of thanks and complaint acutely. I muttered and stormed my way to the letter box at 1:40 in the afternoon, knowing I had to come back to teach piano, and I just didn't want to. I had 20 minutes of freedom. So I continued on, huffing, puffing, scowling.

Now, here I will mention, it is often in these moments that I pray for beautiful things from nature, or a little helpless animal to be placed divinely in front of me so that I have a release for my tension, or some sort of catharsis.

Yesterday, I didn't pray for that. Often they don't show up anyway. And I'm a grown-up. I was going to sort this out on my own. I wanted to grumble.

And then.

From somewhere in my peripheral vision, my eyes-- those hurting, aching, worn-out eyes-- stumbled on the most beautiful thing I'd seen for a long time. Upside down. A nest. I went over to it, half-crying with it's perfect wholeness, turned it over, and found myself standing there with my letters in one hand and the most beautiful bird's nest in the other. A few moments passed. Still there. I had to teach. Sshhh... The complaint went away. Relief and release replaced it. The rest of the walk to the post box was thankful; thankful for the nest, thankful for God's sharp knowledge of where I was at and what would graciously, lovingly heal that moment for me. Thankful that I am not alone in those moments where I lose my sense.

Thank you. 

 

Blur

 
October.

Arm up, in the air, watch it dance across the sky, to and fro, to and fro. Let my fingers twist and twirl in the air; let them glide. Both arms out; up; background of blue and white, bundly perfection. Close my eyes, breathe in. Feel the sweat on my back and the burn on my shoulders – distracted; the jacaranda has burst into purple flame. The still air wills the little flowers to the ground and they drop – amethyst falls out of the sky. The grass is yellow and plays a warm symphony to the sun-drenched earth. It is a frantic, heated polyphony. Still, quiet, loud, ever moving, all at the same time, somehow, someway, and not slowing enough to be known through and through. It is a blur.

It is Summer.

There is no Spring here. Summer simply has attributes of Spring, and here, we must be content with that and watch the season turn on a dime; hairpinning its way from Winter in a fleeting instant.

Summer. Golly.

October.

In eleven days, I will turn seventeen. I will get my Ps. I will finish school. I will pretend to be a responsible adult for a year before becoming one; officially. I cannot hairpin like this warm season, into a more beautiful, loving, obedient woman. No. I will continue on slowly, learning always and never stopping, until I am made more like Him every day. And one fine morning-

One fine morning I will awaken with a clean heart and a renewed spirit. But I will beat on, boat against the current, through 'life', bearing always toward that one, radiant moment.

And then forevermore.

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Swirling Swell

I have been at the beach; the glorious, pounding, grey and green, swirling swell. Heaven. I have a confession, though, I cannot deny. I am chilled by and scared of the beach. The tossing and crashing of that chaotic beauty is slightly more than I can bear. And yet, when I swim out, fresh and scared, I settle. I find the peace that I was desperately searching for on the foamy shore in the cool, blue, rolling hills. The waves are behind me, the sky is ahead. Heaven. I love coming back, digging my bare, pale toes into the sand, down, down,down, and then letting the incoming tide wisp more sand around my ankles and up, up, up. The water goes to my waist. Laughing, my head goes back as the next wave splashes into the clouds above me. Euphoria bubbles out in an expressive expanse and flail of the arms; in the shake of my head as I blink the salt out of my eyes; in the uncontrollable giggle that escapes- loud and full- into the air. Heaven. Heaven, heaven. Beauty and freedom surround me and soon, become me. Beauty. Freedom.