I desire free will, freedom. An absence of responsibility. Without commitments. Able to do as I please.

I also desire structure, routine. A plan. Agendas. Consistency. A disciplined lifestyle.

A life where I wake up early because I want to be ready for every opportunity that comes my way.

My ideal life would be one full of structure and routine, but both of which I’ve chosen through my free will.

I would live in a cabin. I’d be a writer. I’d be up at 6am every day. I’d let my dog out in the backyard (a mountainous sight) and sip a nice cup of freshly brewed black coffee, with some grinds. I’d be standing there in an old pair of worn out Levis, my beloved slippers, and some slightly oversized wool sweater which doesn’t get washed often as it should. like my jeans. I’d go back inside, scramble 4 eggs for myself and 2 for my wife. We’d each have 2 pieces of wheat toast and we’d sit and talk for a while. The dog would be inside again, but now we’d go back outside for a hike. I’d get geared up and would go for a mile or two not on any path but straight into the heart of the woods, exploring, learning, feeling small. Eventually we’d get home, I’d shed my snow covered layers, light a fire in the wood stove, sit in my chair with my macbook and write a story. Every day. Then my wife and I would sit and read fictional novels from millenniums past. This would be a life of discipline and of daily routine. But all of which we’ve chosen.

I fight discipline because the order in my life has been imposed by several needs for survival which I don’t know how else to satisfy, yet. I fight this routine because it’s not one I’ve chosen. Does this make it okay? Does it really matter whether I’ve chosen the discipline or not?

Is discipline about what’s causing the order/routine/structure OR is discipline about development, about growth, about the human need for being kept accountable to something?

This human condition… How far have we strayed from design? What was the design? What remains from that design?

How do we get  back?

Jesus. Simply follow Jesus.

See where I am in 10 years. Look at my life and decide if following Jesus helped.

I’m watching it pour down the sky. I have a delicious cup of coffee in my hand. I have the blinds pulled back. I have 4 scrambled eggs happily being digested. A tangerine is waiting for my move. I’m watching the wind blow some flakes up while others fall down.

I really truly wish I lived somewhere where this happened more than just 3 months out of the year. It’s so beautiful.

Creation is intoxicating.

I do it because as a husband I have to provide for my wife. but is that really my job? 

I want to make a drastic change in my life. 

I want to be waiting for my wife when she comes home from work and I want to have bags packed.

I want to have snacks ready for us. I want to get in our little car and drive west. I’ll have already made arrangements to sell her car and most of our belongings. We’ll take our dog and we’ll drive west until we can’t go any further. We’ll either run out of money or hit ocean. 

I want to wake up in my drivers seat and pull a pen out of my crazy head of hair. I want to describe the sun everyday when it rises. i want to write adjectives on my wifes soft skin as she lies sleeping in the sunlight describing her beauty. i want to hold my dogs head close to mine and pet her slowly.

i want to read books all day and adventure into every acre woods and every open field. i want to see the world from every angle possible. i want to start over. i want rebirth.

i want to change the way i view this life. i want to understand the true intention of ownership.

i want to live freely and abundantly. 

I don’t fear commitment- i desire life. 

when

when

when

nweh

wneh

hwen

nwhe

enwh

ehwn

nhew

newh

On my couch, on the Purple Egyptian Cotton sheet, I can watch body language, I can listen to breathing patterns, I can watch eyes dilate, I can hear a voice box quiver, I can see water rising behind the dam. I can be a spectator. 

On my couch, on layers of shed dog hairs and leftover pieces of raw hide from days ago, I have the choice to be a participant. I have the choice to say something, to do something, to be someone. I have the choice to take action, or… to be a spectator. 

I’m no classical heroin who rescues the slain from the dragons lair or some king who rides out first with his army behind him. No I’m the strategist who allows his enemy to strike first and while preparing for strike two is destroyed by a well-excuted strike one. 

There was no action taken on that couch. 

But that pain lit me on fire. 

Pain wakes my soul from the absent and ignorant slumber it’s been indulging in for far too long. 

There’s nothing like pain to tell you something has got to give. 

There’s no position like mine to have this responsibility and this opportunity. 

There’s only one thing… now that my eyes have been opened, what should they be seeing? 

It might be because I can’t explain pain.

It might be because I can’t deny pain.

It might be because pain is unmistakable.

It might be because I can’t hide form pain.

It might be one of a thousand things, but pain is a spark. 

Pain was my beginning. Pain will be my end. 

Pain always smacks me hard enough to wake up. 

Pain is another way to say, “Stop monkeying around”.

Pain is a way to say, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”

But it’s breakable.

It just needs some heat. Some friction to give it feet.

Light a candle under it and watch it run.

Blow out the candle/ it trips and falls.

Light the candle, it’ll grow new legs to run with. Again and again until it’s gone.