Ifs, Ands and NO Buts...

The theme of this website proclaims “It begins with words….” I believe in the power of words, but not just the obvious power of words that hurt or console, I believe words are woven into every fiber of our existence. Words, properly understood can reveal intent and affect outcomes. Even a small change in a phrase or word choice can have a powerful affect on our lives.


Take the word “but” for example. We use it often, “I understand that, but I think it’s deeper than that.” “I want to, but I’m too tired.” “Yes you did, but that’s not what I meant.” The power of the word ‘but’ is that it negates anything said before it. Someone said once, “’But’ is the great eraser. It erases the value of anything before it.”


It is my observation that there is no better fuel for an argument than a hefty and well placed “BUT!”


I find it very interesting to practice using another word than “but.” Try “and” for example. “And” is a good alternative it makes an acknowledging, respectful way to add another piece of information or perspective to a statement.


“I understand you feel that way, and I still want you to get it done.”

“Yes you did, and that isn’t what I meant.”

“I want to, and I’m too tired.”


Using “and” gives value to both statements and allow us to add information and often depth to a conversation in a nonthreatening fashion. We can acknowledge what someone has said and then add our perspective.


I’ve tried to eliminate the word “but” from my daily speech. It takes some practice and it seems worth the effort. Give it a try. Let me know what happens.

I Found Myself Humming

I found myself

Humming into the mattress

With you

It was an accidental thing

An exhale that sent a slight vibration

Through the sheets

I enjoyed the sound

The sense

Of my humming

Beside you – with you

The vibrant ripples made me giggle

And roll joyfully

Leaving all tension and dis-ease

I found myself

Humming into the mattress

Thank you

Another Word Thought...

I often find myself looking at words or sayings and asking things like "where did that come from" or "what does that really mean?" Today I typed my status into Facebook "...is finding Friday to his liking."

What does it mean to find something to your liking? The image that came to me was one of taking the something (in this case Friday) by the hand and walking it over to wherever my "liking" was - and helping them "find" or get to know each other.

Could that be where the saying originated?

A Story to Tell...

The sun cast shadows upon the meadow, long tendrils entwining the branches of distant trees into a single shadow.

An aging warrior sat upon a rock overlooking the rolling fields that lead to his town and home, allowing his thoughts to cast their own shadows, collecting into one thought: "How much longer can I do this?"

With effort he lifted his weight and stood facing west. He felt the pain surge through his broken knee, again and the skin burn beneath newly forming scabs on his back. He stood and prayed aloud.

"Odin, my guard and guide. For 50 seasons I have live here. For 36 of these years I have fought the Beast into submission, sending its weakened body and depleted spirit back into the caves to sleep and heal through the winter. I wield sword and shield in Your name and provide safety for my home, my family, my village. Each year I fail to destroy the Beast and like the certainty of each spring it returns. I am tired and wounded and this time I fear tired beyond the recent battle and am wounded of not only body, but spirit. How long, Odin, how long can I continue?"

The warrior gave into his pain and stumbled again sitting, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword and brow upon his forearm. He could hear the music and singing beginning already, drifting across the darkening meadow in celebration of his apparent victory. He knew better. He knew that the beast would live and in a few months they would renew their battle, and he doubted his ability to endure. He felt not only the pain of his new injuries, injuries that would heal, but the weakness in his limbs from healed and scared damages of battles past.

Tonight the village would sing. Tankers of ale would be hoisted in his honor. The voices of maidens would sing and young men would weave another chapter in the tale of his valor. Their Hero was invincible. The winter would be safe.

But next season would come and the fight, his fight would continue.

A breeze lifted his thinning hair and he raised his head.

"Odin," He spoke almost a whisper, "Tonight we will celebrate. I will not worry about the aging of my bones, or the weakening of my strength. Tonight I will give you thanks for our victory, another year of safety. But, tomorrow I will not lift tankers of ale or songs. I will forget the victories of the past, and I will prepare for the battles to come. I will lift wet-stone and blade, shield and arm and back to the work of a warriors training. I will not quit. Odin, you have my word and my life."

As the last word drifted away on the breeze, a tired man stood and began walking to the village.


Note: This story came to me this weekend as I finished hours of yard work. The fall cooling of the air is here, and I was aware that the hard work of yet another summer is almost at end. The respite of the fall and winter will soon be here - only to give way, soon enough to another year... I know there are a limited number of years left in my life when I can manage the hard and relentless work of maintaining our home, and I wondered...

Too Full

The quill rests full
Dripping onyx truths
Upon parchment
Unable to spill
Small enough droplets
To inscribe
You

The Beach Remembers

The beach remembers

Lover's tastes and trash

And it can't forget


Too many breezes blow

In strong currents

And sand tossing tourists


Piles of humanity

Discarded playthings

And burnt butts


Cans crushed under foot

Seasoned among sea oats

And barley stained


His hands upon her

Rumpled sands swaying

And tides wetting


Every passion gets remembered

By the beach beneath us

And our trash

Dangerous Passions?

A number of weeks back, several friends sent me the same link to a wonderful video of Elizabeth Gilbert speaking on the angst of artistic genius. I'm not purporting to be a genius, but I have had my share of artistic challenges.


My first true passion was acting. I felt more alive when acting, soaking up the spot light and wrestling with the nuances of character development than I did living my real life. I achieved some modest success while making acting my hobby throughout my life including some professional time with a North Carolina Shakespeare Company, and several cable-run commercials. During college I discovered creative writing and I've had a few article published (during my time as a pastor). Sermon writing, at its best, is a highly creative venue and I relished in both the creation and presentation of sermons for 15 years.


In each of my creative adventures, I discovered the same reality – satisfaction of the urge to create and the compulsion to be a part of something new and dramatic is fleeting.


Often, upon reflection on my own creative internal disturbance, I am left with the following apparent and unsavory thought - The creative spirit, as embodied in so many artists, is its own bane. The artist can devote his/herself to the task fully and in doing so risk a rapid burn or can deny the very passion of the soul and lead a life of frustrated mediocrity. My trouble with this thought is that I don’t want it to be true. Is it possible for an artist to pursue his passion and not self destruct? Is there something in the nature of art that demands the humanity of the artist and leaves her broken?


There is more to say here, but I would rather leave it for your comments. So, dear reader, is your artistic passion dangerous?

Ride The Storm Out

Have you ever had to write?

I have.

There are times when the creative urge within us demands to be released and those of us that contain even the smallest creative tendency are imposed upon – it is a tempest. For these are the moments when the convergence of internal climates mock the posing power of even the most extreme external weather - for in these moments, the storm of passion assails us and we can but ride the storm out.

Sometimes the storm washes up marvelous beauty upon the sands for others to find as they walk by. Sometimes.

A Pending Epitaph - Paint Me Not

Paint Me Not


Paint me not in shades of brilliant blue and red

Coloring over my misguided lines of glossy black

And smeared greys


Don’t layer me over with sentiment and morality

Forgetting my deformity of thought

And bare deeds


Have the fortitude to lay it out

As I was and am naked and old, withered

And decaying now


My life will be dust soon enough and should not be concealed while it can be revealed.



Note: Inspiration comes when it is ready. I was viewing a photo and a post over at MelodyWatson.com and somehow, my thoughts and feelings lead to the poem above...

Listening Badly

You don’t mean badly of it

Your constant chatter

About your thoughts, life moments

Ongoing strident tones

Filling every silence to brimming


I don’t mean badly of it

Listening half heartily

To worn tires chatting

Over tired pavement

Rhythms rising from empty drums