crepusculance

I seem to be most Aware when God's Creation seems most active.
It is the mid of day or the nigh of night that I become cloaked with some creeping form of distraction and/or self-absorption.
My scariest dreams are those that do not involve God, but instead pit my natural complement of forces against any Nemesis. I am doomed.
Perhaps my day becomes clouded with caffeination, a process not unlike the childhood experience of simultaneously striking several keys from an manual typewriter, causing a tinny coagulation of typeface at the ribbon.
Perhaps my crepuscular freedom is simply being loosened of expectation, to be able to focus on something, or worse, comprehend during the initial reading of some form of written word. (Seriously; how many times do I have to read a phrase to understand what the #&$%! I'm reading. My poor biology students...)
I think is has something to do with peace in the natural order of things-- I see birds gleaning berries in the morning dew, not concerned with what they might have to do come this summer; squirrels playing in trees openly, uncompressed by the fear of predation.
If God cares for the birds, how much more would he care for me, right?
Except I know me; you don't.
I can see how God cherishes you, and will take care of you and tend you and love on you, because you are not like me. I know me, and God knows me.
That is why I am comfortable in the servants' quarters, not so much the Big House. The prodigal has come home, but never entered the banquet room.
Pitiful.
So perhaps the beginning of the morning or the beginning of the evening is a window of hope for things to change?
Perhaps I won't say something stupid or hurtful today?
Perhaps I won't be mean-spirited today?
Think brutal thoughts today?
Barricade myself in with fear-induced mental constructs and strategies today?
Nope... screwed that one up already.

Maybe this evening?
Father forgive me, for I have sinned.

Cornel West and the Yellow-Breasted Chat

I miss most of it.
Sitting in a room, or at a computer, or in traffic, I miss most of what life offers.
Even now, a half-full cup of coffee grows cold on my back porch as I sit here in this darkened room, listening to car alarms, and trying to gather my thoughts, thankful that my 1040 is in on time but mindful that I'm a day behind on my OYB.
I remember seeing the bird a year ago, but never taking the time to research it's handle.
Yellow-breasted chat. This year my annual mulberry visitor has been visually and vocally verified. And now I wonder... how many years has he been visiting my backyard when the mulberry tree shares its fruits to my avian friends? How many of its generations have partaken of this arboreal banquet, and I'm just now getting a clue?
Eddie Carson is a valued friend and colleague at HCHS.
Eddie is not normal.
Praise God.
Eddie is constantly challenging me to expand my awareness of my world.
And my dingy little construct of "normal" bears some expanding.
Carson yesterday shared with me a text, Race Matters, by Cornel West, and I am just starting to peruse his pensively penned piece, increasingly aware that I have no idea how many parts of my surrounding environs live each day.
What would it be like to wait on a corner downtown for a taxi, watching said conveyance pass me bye repeatedly, for an hour, yet stopping for those who have less melanin?
How would that mark me?
Would I allow it?
Would it make me stronger or wear me down?
How have I been the taxi driver?
Am I even aware?
Do I even know if I change my behaviors upon cognition of plumage, or do I operate on some unconscious or subconscious plan?
God, help me be a better man.

Little birdies

Some would consider me a bit of an outdoorsman. My favorite weapon is the bow and arrow. I've slain wild beasts with my bare hands and a knife. I cannot only kill 'em, I can clean 'em and cook 'em. I'm no stranger to hard work, especially if I'm helping someone else and it involves construction. And I like birdies.
Since I was a small child, I have been fascinated with wild creatures, from ants to dragonflies to whatever keeps digging in my trash. When I started studies at A&M, I learned there was a taxonomy for non-game birds beyond "some kinda cheechee bird".
Though I have SO much to learn about God's creation, I find birding a rewarding recreation. Perhaps it is because they are vocal, and I am attention deficit.
Perhaps it is because I know the common locals, so I feel some form of competence.
Or perhaps I'm just an over-grown kid who still gets lit up by some new bird call or some new species eating mulberries in my backyard.
So next hunting season, don't be surprised if my arrows never leave the quiver, and my field guide shows wear and tear.
That's how I roll.