A friend at my local coffee shop notices that I like getting my wife iced mochas each day, and asked: what would bring you joy? A joy project? I see that you like giving her joy daily…

My wife get’s joy from me getting her daily iced mochas from our local coffee shop. Her form of joy is an iced cafe mocha daily, nice.. and it does bring me joy to bring her joy; but i pondered his question, as he made her drink today, since he seemed to sincerely want to know my own ideal joy bringing activity, and, so after a quick thought, I said:

Mine, would be to ride on a 50’s motorcycle (preferably an “Indian” vintage, or royal enfield) across europe, during spring or fall, starting in Calais, en route to Jerusalem, with lots of cameras attached, praying and stopping along “the way” to do documentaries of each person and creature i met, and making photo story books and short films of all I encounter.

With maybe also some water colored paint guns on the sides of my bike, to spray each nation and city i passed through with their true colors, leaving a pattern of life across the old continent to see by…blessing cities and lands into their true images and colors, or at least forecasting them through art!

Then, framing the stories and film and photos well in the global cities i stopped in, especially ones with a gift of graphics and printing remarkable books; and sending them as art gifts of encouragement and honor, back to each person and place I met.

Probably also, producing and editing them at night, over a campfire while eating fish i caught that day…then ending up in Jerusalem, reading poetry at night on that city’s specifically glowing, rooftops…in that white stoned moonlit domed world, which is my inner home…

Ok, her’s is much more affordable. Less logistics involved. And blesses daily. I think I’ll keep getting my wife cafe mochas from our local coffee shop. But kind of this fellow to ask what sort of thing would bring me the most joy! And, a nice thing about creative folks, he took me seriously, and started thinking of people I could collaborate with to make it happen-strap on cameras and paint guns…but, as he said, your wife’s joy is more affordable. Good practical artist, that fellow; keeping me ok and thankful, with my daily joys.

Also, made me glad that I can bring my wife joy in small, flavorful, daily ways. Everyone has their own style of joys….mine, however, may take a lifetime to choreograph, execute, and to live out.

From a poem i wrote in a dream:

He and I dancing down the aisle:
With Him in my arms, and me, in His, the party already is,
or
has begun
and never ends;
Now, i’m just dancing down the wedding line, as a clown does with and for a King.
This aisle is endless,
with crowds of sufferers on all sides. He and I
both absolutely still in one another, with and in, that specific pain and glory,
and knowing our own stories clearly.
Like groomed disco balls sweating, in shimmer, or in a type of mist of some sort, reflecting ourselves outwards, in the sheerness of the shimmer of suffering…still, dancing with one another! I can’t stop dancing with Him, regardless…
In this dance down the aisle that never ends…
what other party would i possibly want to be in!

Once, a great Stone was rolled away
and out came a man of bones and glory
I trust to walk out from that opened grave some day
to live inside that story. Down here, i’m chipping away,
skipping stones, like a kid, on an endless river running from a Throne somewhere. Looking towards the estuary.
But here we are all still made of bone
chipping away stone into clarity; being edited by hope,
our faces will finally come clear like a billboard
at night, by an endless unseen highway; yet,
in the meantime,
the partial dawn of glory illuminates
what is being rolled away, our endless wrinkles of being, our interruptedness.
Where in quietness, we can’t quite say yes yet!
Here, we try
to rise up and walk out with Him, partially lit up by a trail of steps, and yet
rocky and lame as we are, with one eye, on heaven’s manifestation and incarnation, yet
with our feet still made of earth
we slowly stumble upwards…
in the already dawn, which lands on stones in morning light
as they and we all are!

From a book I’m reading of collected Yiddish poems by Abraham Heschel, called “The Ineffable Name of God”, written in Yiddish, when he was young in Berlin. I love to consider what people were pondering when young, it usually yields into the fruits of their later years—the trees which eventually grow, and shade others!

Such passion drips between his youthful spiritually hungry lines. Nice to hear him when he was younger, and wrestling with and for the blessing, aware of both the mystical and the practical needs on earth…but always slightly tearing the veil between heaven and earth! Trying to translate between the two, as am I today!

Or, as the writer on the back of the book puts it: “Like Herbert, Donne, like Blake, he is God-haunted; his lyrics are steeped in the mystic’s longing to tear away the curtain that conceals the divine radiance and (sometimes) God’s tears.” (Best review ever!) These guys are always my favorite types of people!

Trying to read these in Hebrew, but the english is good also. Anyways, I like these excerpts, fun learning from those processing and becoming their journeys through art:

“Trees from all of the forests!
You all know me well
from alonesesses together,
from a love,
from a secret love.”

And this one:
“My songs are organs set in human ears.
Bless me, my spirit
with tenderness instead of might!”

“And may my way through rooms be
like finger-touches on piano keys.
Tenderness, you ineffable name of God,
be my image of God!”

And lastly,
“To keep my imaginings overflowing
with your never-ending image.”

And from a poem entitled,
“God Follows me everywhere!
God follows me like a shiver everywhere.
My desire is for rest; the demand within me is: Rise up,
See how prophetic visions are scattered in the streets.”

Blessed are the poets for trying, for poetry is, in the end, as a medium or genre, about intimate essential relationship, and dialogue with and into one another. Poetry as a genre symbolizes intimacy! That’s what poetry itself symbolizes—the inner life, in close proximity with whatever it honors, knows and loves the most. Poetry extracts and expresses the essence of the matter, and our own essential nature gets formed as we encounter “the absolute of the other”. Poetry is overflow from depth encounter. And is transformative to the level the poet has been transformed by the conversation.

Makes sense, that this teacher would start his journey in poetry and end in poetic theological action, social justice, ecumenism with especially christians, and teaching. For the priestly in prayful poetic encounter, precedes the fuller incarnation and is foundational.” To the degree we meet God, we are able to express Him on earth!” Action stands on prayer and love, as one anonymous monk put it!

Enjoying Heschel’s young poetry anyways! And fun and humbling trying to translate yiddish wisdom. I forgot how many implied vowels there are! It forces you to read between the lines, so to speak!

Working on some poems today! Came across this confession from a journal when i lived on the road (which was a long while)…to quote Dylan, “I was so much older then, i’m younger than that now.” But certainly, i was thinking about spiritual artistic matters…nice to cull through old journals and small notes…I must’ve been reading Heschel and Buber, and St John, even then…those mystics, willing to tear the veil, be torn themselves, or recognize that’s it’s already torn, that heaven is already touching earth through us! Anyways, nice find…

My home, now a car, like my heart, or even just my body (skin bone stone), and certainly my tiny words-nuanced trickles, leaning into, or like Evan Roberts, bent enough; my cars or ministries, the carriages
of my ridiculous careers…
What are they, but a temporary kinetic shelter for the Most High
to act out His grand and dramatic Drama
(what are we but Sukkoth?!-a tent in Great Wind!)
on my broken stage.

Publish yourself Lord
produce your play through me
make me your own song in motion,
until others can see You in me, I in Thee.
Until i decrease into receptivity like a camera
and You take your best shot through us!

Make me dead, yielded awake and useful in That Way!

Culling through and cleaning out my wallet today…so many accumulated blessings…a collage song really…or a tiny music box!

In my wallet, so many special little notes from friends all over the world: friends numbers and addresses, recommending parks in Krakow, places to eat in berlin, art communities to stay at in Paris (which i did!), best art openings in and small galleries in Antwerp..and so many tiny lists of favorite books and bands, i collected in conversations as I traveled.

One little note and photo from the kind man (he has tender eyes) who sold me his 83 A Barth in Paris (the car, still one of my favorites in addition to my 63 SAAB and 68 Volvo, this rare A-barth, ended up in Sheffield, England along with my heart-long story), his number and picture of his family. So many little collected poems over the years of travel and adventure. I found words written in Hebrew, Arabic, Spanish, and many other languages. As I always learn to ask, how do you say this in your language, and then write it down on tiny receipts and note cards in case i need to know it someday. I love languages. Each has their own specialty words, which hold worlds.

My wallet is rich, though i am not.

In addition, I always carry at least four small bills in different nation’s currencies, to remind me to pray, but also in case i ended up there suddenly.
I’ve been doing this for 20 years. I even have old Deutschmark, currency from Czech Republic, Poland, Jordan and many other lands; and still have currency from all over the world, and lots of pre-euro ones. If those nations ever go back to their pre-euro currencies, i’m set.

A friend’s best thoughts or quotes from wherever I’m led, always makes me scribble notes. Favorite books of poetry or quotes! There pet sayings, and best laid plans. I’ve been recording since I was a kid. One friend said, i always had a camera and notebook with me. I think that’s true. Still do. I’m fascinated to record life’s poetry. Some notes from when i lived in Jerusalem, with poems written so small, i can no longer read them. And some rooftop poems from those white stone domed rooftops, which still resonate in my heart.

My little wallet, which was designed by Alexander McQueen, i bought on the day he died, as a symbol of artists who left too soon, (like my friend Noah when i was a kid whose namesake i kept as the name of my ministry “Noah’s other boat”); McQueen, was born on my birthday, and really was a performance artist as well as a brilliant fashion designer!

Anyway, this wallet is like a little mobile collage to me. Thankful for it’s small treasures today, as i clean it out a bit, observing in thanks. Perhaps i should make an actual collage of my findings thus far. It would make a great and strangely textured song. It’s like my little wind up music box i also always carry with me in travels. You just never know when you’ll need it! For there are grown children everywhere, who still respond to the collaged music of life! And those who still gather trinkets which accumulate, over time, towards truth.

My home like my heart, or even just my body, and certainly my tiny words,
and my ridiculous careers,
what are they, but a temporary shelter for the Most High
to act out His grand and dramatic Drama
on my broken stage.

My home like my heart, or even just my body, and certainly my tiny words,
what are they, but a temporary shelter for the Most High
to act out His grand and dramatic Drama
on my broken stage.

I’ve been thinking lots about the art of listening well, and what fruits it yields in us and others. Starting to see listening as a spiritual practice…wrote this on a napkin after listening deeply to a dear brother yesterday:
Listening into Love…
Listen until you sense the presence of Love for and in the other;
just then, beauty blooms, in us both
and we start telling our true stories.

Listen until you sense the presence of Love
just then, beauty blooms, every time.