Thursday, April 11, 2024
Arthurian Snippet
As Anselm had guessed, the courtyard was empty. What he had not anticipated was
the cutting target set up in the center of the yard. Close by was a table with a
variety of blades upon it, and unbelievably, Anselm recognized one of them. This
was the sword of Sir Gawain, King Arthur’s champion. Wondering, wide-eyed,
Anselm edged closer. Slowly, his hand stretched out, and he lightly touched his
fingertips to the cold steel of the pommel. Anselm thrilled, his heart hammering
in his chest. How many other people in the world could claim to have touched the
steel of a knight of the Round Table and lived? So excited was he that Anselm
did not hear the crunch of boots on gravel, and then a grip of iron clamped down
on his wrist. Caught fast, Anselm whipped his head around and up, his heart
leaping up into his throat. The face that looked down at him was as cold and
hard as the steel of the sword he had touched. Piercing green eyes bored down
into his in an angry frown. The man’s long blond hair was pulled back in a tail,
away from his face, giving Anselm a good look at him, and he froze, forgetting
to struggle before he had even started to try. Sir Gawain had caught him. “What
are you doing,” the champion asked, his tone somehow stern and sharp without
being loud. Whimpering, Anselm was about to burst into tears when another voice
from behind him called out. “Relax, Gawain. We were watching him.” Gawain and
Anselm both looked across the courtyard to see two more men walking forward,
away from the shadows of the buildings surrounding them. With a trickle of
nervous fear, Anselm recognized both of them as well. On the left, wearing a
tunic of bright sky blue, was the youngest member of the Round Table, Sir
Tristan, called the Knight of Flowers. On the right, wearing green, was Sir
Perceval, the Forest Knight. Both of them wore swords, but while Sir Perceval
also wore a small belt knife, a quiver on his back, and carried a longbow, Sir
Tristan wore a cloak and carried what looked to be a picnic basket. “If you were
watching him,” Gawain asked them, “why didn’t you try to stop him?” The two men
came close enough to talk casually, Perceval holding his belt with one hand
while the other hand held the bow up over his shoulder. “Curiosity! We wanted to
see what he was going to do!” “Funny,” Gawain growled, “I was just asking him
the same thing.” Anselm gulped as the older man looked back down at him.
Mustering the small amount of courage he had left, Anselm finally managed to
speak. “Your pardon, sir; I was just wondering how heavy it was.” “Hmph,” Gawain
grunted, finally releasing Anselm’s wrist. “And I suppose my cutting target was
no temptation for you at all.” He picked up his sword and sheathed it. Blushing,
Anselm dropped his eyes, still shaking his hand to get the blood to flow back
into his fingers. “Oh, come now, Gawain,” Tristan said. “Don’t be a mean old
man. You can’t be so old that you don’t remember being a brave young lad!”
Unexpectedly, Tristan set down the basket, kneeling so that he could look Anselm
in the eye. “What’s your name, boy?” The question was asked gently, and it
helped Anselm regain a measure of composure before he answered. “Anselm, sir.”
That drew Perceval’s attention. “Oh, you’re Aidan and Kiera’s boy!” Anselm
nodded, and the other two knights looked for an explanation. “His parents have a
farm on the other side of town.” “Well, Anselm,” Tristan replied, turning back
to the boy. “I see the look of an adventurer in your eye. Do you want to be a
knight?” “Oh yes, sir!” Anselm exclaimed. “More than anything!” “And why is
that? Is there a lady whose heart you would claim? Or a treasure you’ve heard
about?” Anselm’s smile brightened. “I want to slay dragons!” Tristan and
Perceval looked at each other in pleasant surprise. “A dragon slayer!” Tristan
exclaimed. “Well then! He who slays dragons has to be very good with a sword.
Have you had your lessons yet, Anselm?” Anselm’s smile faded. “No, sir; I’ve
only tried to practice what I can watch on my own.” His eyes flicked over to
Perceval. “I’m better with a bow.” Perceval raised an eyebrow. “Are you, now?
Well, I imagine my bow is a little strong for you to prove your claim.” Tristan
straightened, putting his hands on his hips as he grinned down at Anselm. “Is
your hand all right?” Anselm worked his fingers, feeling not the slightest
twinge of pain. He was just thrilled to actually be inside Camelot, having a
conversation with two of the Round Table, King Arthur’s closest friends. “All
right, sir. Not a tweak.” “Good!” Sir Tristan used his left hand to draw his
sword, offering the hilt to Anselm. “Let’s see what you’ve got, eh?” Anselm’s
eyes bugged as Gawain scowled. “Oy, I didn’t say he could have my target.” Ever
the diplomat, Tristan looked at him and said “Gawain, in a kingdom where every
resident is encouraged to learn how to fight, the guards are trained to fight,
the soldiers are second to none, the knights are the stuff of legend, and the
Round Table is ranked above all of these, you stand out as the best, head and
shoulders beyond the rest of us. I am entirely certain that no matter what
magnificent cut this young lad here can make, it will not be enough to
completely confound Arthur’s champion.” Subdued, Gawain scowled again. “Go on
with you, then.” Hesitantly, Anselm reached for the grip of Tristan’s sword.
When Tristan took his hands away and let the weight settle into his own hands,
Anselm trembled, and thought he was going to faint. The sword was made for a
single hand, but Anselm’s were small enough that he could fit both on the
handle. Slowly, he turned to the cutting target, waiting stoically on its stand.
Suddenly, Anselm was unsure what to do; a cross cut? Which way? Maybe an upwards
diagonal? Those were some of the hardest to make, but he’d been practicing them
the most, recently. Tristan bent low, putting his mouth close to Anselm’s ear.
“Why not stick with something simple this first time, eh? Downwards, right to
left?” Relieved, Anselm closed his eyes, let out a breath he did not know he’d
been holding, and gave a small nod. Of course. When he opened his eyes, he
squared his shoulders and tightened his hands on the sword. He walked a little
closer, just out of cutting range, his left foot forward. Tristan took a breath
to say something, but Perceval’s hand on his wrist stopped him. In one smooth,
fluid motion, Anselm raised the sword, stepped forward, and made the best cut
he’d ever made in his life, the blade passing through the target as if it wasn’t
even there the exact moment his foot hit the ground. “Ha!” Tristan clapped as
Anselm followed through the cut, using his momentum to circle the sword so that
he ended in a guard position, ready to defend himself. “Perfection!” Even
Gawain’s lips twitched, suggesting a small smile. “Not half bad.” Anselm’s knees
wobbled, and he quickly handed the sword back to Tristan before he dropped it.
As Tristan sheathed it, Perceval walked up and laid a hand on Anselm’s shoulder.
“Now then. You run home, and do these for me. First, no more sneaking about.”
Perceval used his chin and head to indicate the buildings around them. “Camelot
is usually open to people who ask. Second, don’t go bragging on yourself to
everyone.” Perceval leaned in close, lowering his voice a bit. “The mark of a
true hero is humility.” He winked, and Anselm grinned before Perceval finished.
“Last thing; whenever you have a bad day, or feel down on yourself, you remember
this day, when three knights of the Round Table, and one of them Arthur’s
Champion, agreed that you made a fine cut.” “Four,” thought Mordred as he
casually leaned against the wall, hidden by the shadows that surrounded the
courtyard. “He did well.” Anselm’s chest swelled and Perceval ruffled his hair
before sending him on his way. Tristan stood next to Perceval and watched the
boy leave. “There goes the next Galahad.” “Sure hope so,” Perceval replied,
turning back to the cutting stand. Gawain was just bending down to pick up the
cutting target that had fallen with Anselm’s cut. “It really was very good,”
Tristan said. “You’ve got to admit that.” “It was,” Gawain replied, looking at
the straight line the cut had made. “Will you still be able to practice?”
Perceval asked. Gawain said nothing, but removed the part of the cutting target
that remained on the stand, then replaced it with the piece that had fallen, now
upside down. He shrugged. “The boy was short, so the cut was low. This will
work.” “We’ll leave you to it, then,” Tristan said, retrieving his picnic
basket. He and Perceval turned to leave as Gawain drew his sword and addressed
the target.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
The Power of Legend
I am 27 years old.
I am a college graduate.
I still sit by campfires on starry nights with a sword in my hands, staring into the flames and thinking about the past.
I remember the stories I was told as a child, and I choose to believe in them. Many of these stories may have been based on real historical figures anyway, so there is no delusion involved. As for the others, I ask the flames "so what if they weren't real?"
George
Arthur Pendragon
Robin Hood
Beowulf
Roland
Whether real or not, these men have been revered as heroes for centuries. Some have been spoken of for over A Thousand Years. Why? What do they matter? Who were they? What did they do that was so important, or so noteworthy, that even now, at this very moment, somewhere there is a father telling his son these stories? His father told him these tales, and his father before him, all the way back to the time of his most ancient ancestors.
G.K. Chesterton said "Fairy tales don't tell children there are monsters; They know that already. Fairy tales tell children that monsters can be defeated." THAT is what these men were, or at least, that is what their stories say they were, whether their monster was a dragon, a fell beast, a tyrannous king, a territorial enemy, or a magical sorceror. These warriors stood up to a challenge and either defeated it for the good of others, or died trying, believing that what they were fighting for was worth dying for. In this way, they became HEROES, and passed into legend, attaining that which all heroes are granted:
True Immortality.
I sit by the campfire at night, gripping the hilt of my sword, paying silent homage to warriors of hundreds of generations past, wishing I could have known them, trained under them, or at least met them.
I also think of the modern heroes: men I look up to as some of the finest warriors on Earth. Perhaps it's simple patriotism, or perhaps it's elitist nationalism, but I don't care. Either way, I believe America is the single greatest country in the history of Earth. I believe America is Stronger, Freer and BETTER than any nation this world has ever seen, and it is for these reasons (among others) that I believe we produce the greatest warriors of our time:
Army Rangers
Force-Recon Marines
Navy SEALS
In the nations of our enemies, people whisper about these people as boogeymen to scare their children. Marines are called Devil Dogs, but they wear the title proudly. Eleanor Roosevelt said "The Marines I have seen around the world have the cleanest bodies, the filthiest minds, the highest morale and lowest morals of any group of animals I have ever seen. Thank God for the United States Marine Corps!"
But to return closer to the point, Winston Churchill said "We sleep soundly in our beds because rough men stand ready in the night to visit violence on those who would do us harm." I think of those rough men, and the hundreds of thousands of warriors like them that have come before them, and I tighten the grip on my sword. It is in me too, the lust to fight. To feel blood and adrenalin screaming through my body like an electric current, and feel the razor-sharp edge of my blade bite deep, shearing through the flesh and bone of my enemy in a righteous cause. I want to protect those whom I love, or at the very least, someone who cannot protect themselves, and find themselves an unjust victim of a senseless wrong. Chesterton also said "A warrior fights not because he hates what is in front of him, but because he loves what is behind him." This is why I train. This is why I am always armed. "I will not let you steal my life or that of another without a fight, and if you try, I will kill you or die trying."
I feel I am underestimated. This is understandable. I am small, and my attitude lends itself more to smiles than to growls, more to dancing than to fighting. Most of the time, I don't mind. The desire to make people happy and laugh is strong in me, too. I enjoy the thought of being someone's best friend, worthy of their trust and companionship. When I am asked for advice or my opinion I do my best to guide those who trust me enough to ask, and I am honored to be so trusted. A less significant side effect of being underestimated is a tactical advantage. I relish the thought of shocking my enemy as my skill surprises him, and I overcome him because I outsmarted him.
But sometimes...
It really, REALLY gets under my skin when people think I am not capable of doing certain things, or that they are superior to me when they know nothing about my past or training. It's even worse when people think these things even when they DO know. Those are the times I feel I am closest to lashing out in anger, or challenging them to prove their boasts. "I am capable of MUCH more than you think, and I can prove it!" In 2000, I was a National Champion. Since then, I have only expanded my knowledge of martial arts, and I feel I am the better prepared for it.
I have not trained in combat with the sword, but these days, the pistol IS the modern sword. In the Middle Ages, those that could carry a sword DID carry a sword whenever and wherever possible. They practiced with it and kept it sharp and clean, ready for battle at any moment, because they knew that their world was a dangerous one. Our world today is no less violent. Brigands and thieves still lurk in dark shadows, ready to pounce on the unsuspecting, if they draw too close. Murderers and rapists hunt the night with malice in their hearts and weapons in their hands. When my turn comes, I want to be able to say that I surprised them, outsmarted them and overcame them. If killing is necessary, so be it.
My hand tightens on the grip of my sword because I too, want to be a legend. Perhaps, one day A Thousand Years from now, fathers will tell their sons my story.
"Word fame is the coinage we trade, and it's up to you to fill your pocket." -Sir James the Holy.
I am a college graduate.
I still sit by campfires on starry nights with a sword in my hands, staring into the flames and thinking about the past.
I remember the stories I was told as a child, and I choose to believe in them. Many of these stories may have been based on real historical figures anyway, so there is no delusion involved. As for the others, I ask the flames "so what if they weren't real?"
George
Arthur Pendragon
Robin Hood
Beowulf
Roland
Whether real or not, these men have been revered as heroes for centuries. Some have been spoken of for over A Thousand Years. Why? What do they matter? Who were they? What did they do that was so important, or so noteworthy, that even now, at this very moment, somewhere there is a father telling his son these stories? His father told him these tales, and his father before him, all the way back to the time of his most ancient ancestors.
G.K. Chesterton said "Fairy tales don't tell children there are monsters; They know that already. Fairy tales tell children that monsters can be defeated." THAT is what these men were, or at least, that is what their stories say they were, whether their monster was a dragon, a fell beast, a tyrannous king, a territorial enemy, or a magical sorceror. These warriors stood up to a challenge and either defeated it for the good of others, or died trying, believing that what they were fighting for was worth dying for. In this way, they became HEROES, and passed into legend, attaining that which all heroes are granted:
True Immortality.
I sit by the campfire at night, gripping the hilt of my sword, paying silent homage to warriors of hundreds of generations past, wishing I could have known them, trained under them, or at least met them.
I also think of the modern heroes: men I look up to as some of the finest warriors on Earth. Perhaps it's simple patriotism, or perhaps it's elitist nationalism, but I don't care. Either way, I believe America is the single greatest country in the history of Earth. I believe America is Stronger, Freer and BETTER than any nation this world has ever seen, and it is for these reasons (among others) that I believe we produce the greatest warriors of our time:
Army Rangers
Force-Recon Marines
Navy SEALS
In the nations of our enemies, people whisper about these people as boogeymen to scare their children. Marines are called Devil Dogs, but they wear the title proudly. Eleanor Roosevelt said "The Marines I have seen around the world have the cleanest bodies, the filthiest minds, the highest morale and lowest morals of any group of animals I have ever seen. Thank God for the United States Marine Corps!"
But to return closer to the point, Winston Churchill said "We sleep soundly in our beds because rough men stand ready in the night to visit violence on those who would do us harm." I think of those rough men, and the hundreds of thousands of warriors like them that have come before them, and I tighten the grip on my sword. It is in me too, the lust to fight. To feel blood and adrenalin screaming through my body like an electric current, and feel the razor-sharp edge of my blade bite deep, shearing through the flesh and bone of my enemy in a righteous cause. I want to protect those whom I love, or at the very least, someone who cannot protect themselves, and find themselves an unjust victim of a senseless wrong. Chesterton also said "A warrior fights not because he hates what is in front of him, but because he loves what is behind him." This is why I train. This is why I am always armed. "I will not let you steal my life or that of another without a fight, and if you try, I will kill you or die trying."
I feel I am underestimated. This is understandable. I am small, and my attitude lends itself more to smiles than to growls, more to dancing than to fighting. Most of the time, I don't mind. The desire to make people happy and laugh is strong in me, too. I enjoy the thought of being someone's best friend, worthy of their trust and companionship. When I am asked for advice or my opinion I do my best to guide those who trust me enough to ask, and I am honored to be so trusted. A less significant side effect of being underestimated is a tactical advantage. I relish the thought of shocking my enemy as my skill surprises him, and I overcome him because I outsmarted him.
But sometimes...
It really, REALLY gets under my skin when people think I am not capable of doing certain things, or that they are superior to me when they know nothing about my past or training. It's even worse when people think these things even when they DO know. Those are the times I feel I am closest to lashing out in anger, or challenging them to prove their boasts. "I am capable of MUCH more than you think, and I can prove it!" In 2000, I was a National Champion. Since then, I have only expanded my knowledge of martial arts, and I feel I am the better prepared for it.
I have not trained in combat with the sword, but these days, the pistol IS the modern sword. In the Middle Ages, those that could carry a sword DID carry a sword whenever and wherever possible. They practiced with it and kept it sharp and clean, ready for battle at any moment, because they knew that their world was a dangerous one. Our world today is no less violent. Brigands and thieves still lurk in dark shadows, ready to pounce on the unsuspecting, if they draw too close. Murderers and rapists hunt the night with malice in their hearts and weapons in their hands. When my turn comes, I want to be able to say that I surprised them, outsmarted them and overcame them. If killing is necessary, so be it.
My hand tightens on the grip of my sword because I too, want to be a legend. Perhaps, one day A Thousand Years from now, fathers will tell their sons my story.
"Word fame is the coinage we trade, and it's up to you to fill your pocket." -Sir James the Holy.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Some Showers Take Longer Than Others
You know those weekends that just make you love life? Yeah. Those are great, ain't they?
You know those Mondays after the weekends that you love so much? Yeah... I hate those...
I am not, nor have I ever been, by any stretch of the imagination, a morning person. So you can imagine how hard MONDAY mornings hit me. Admittedly, it could be a lot worse. I mean, relatively speaking, my life has been well-nigh idyllic. My family loves me dearly, I have an AMAZING girlfriend, my friends rock the world, I have a great home, and I have an incredible imagination which has fueled most of the passions, skills and talents in my life.
One of the things I love most about my house is the shower. I know, kinda mundane, most homes have them, so what? I don't care that the majority of the world, much less America, has also experienced the glorious-ness that is my morning ritual, without which I can barely function. It's a lovely way to wake up when the day is cold and the bed is warm, providing enough movement to get the body awake without administering a system-wide SHOCK.
My morning shower is often a time for my own quiet reflection. I think about lots of things. God, life, love, music, friends and school top the list. Many times, since I am not a morning person, I am depressed. The shower provides a lovely little escape pod that I can enjoy while I muster up whatever courage and fortitude it will take to face the day. Sometimes it involves taking whatever worries I've held onto from yesterday and letting them wash away in blissful liquid warmth. Other times, my shower becomes a place of repentance, thinking about things I should not have done or thought, and how to go about making up for whatever ground I may have lost in my own conscience, and how to avoid making the same mistakes over again. Occasionally, the shower is a source of enormous vitality, springing me to life with the first touch of water. These are regrettably the rarest types of showers, but I suppose that makes them all the more valuable.
Depending on what kind of day I had previously, or whatever craziness happens to be running through my mind, it may take a longer time for me to get up the motivation to shut off the faucet and step out into the world. This morning's shower took a long time. Mondays are always the worst. "Weekend's over, school today. Oh yeah, remember that book review due on Friday you haven't started yet? Yeah, might wanna get on that. Laundry might be a good idea, too. You don't want to run out of underwear again. Oh, and DON'T put off cleaning your room. That's gonna take a century to get through without all the other stuff you'll have to juggle. But she's worth it, ain't she? Yeah, of course she is, that and a heck of a lot more. How much more? Worth- WHOA now, don't go there yet. Preparation, man, preparation! And besides, there's still a lot of things to iron out between you. You know, those annoying little differences that aren't really important, but they keep needling at you and won't go away...
"You're gonna be late for class..."
Sigh................
You know those Mondays after the weekends that you love so much? Yeah... I hate those...
I am not, nor have I ever been, by any stretch of the imagination, a morning person. So you can imagine how hard MONDAY mornings hit me. Admittedly, it could be a lot worse. I mean, relatively speaking, my life has been well-nigh idyllic. My family loves me dearly, I have an AMAZING girlfriend, my friends rock the world, I have a great home, and I have an incredible imagination which has fueled most of the passions, skills and talents in my life.
One of the things I love most about my house is the shower. I know, kinda mundane, most homes have them, so what? I don't care that the majority of the world, much less America, has also experienced the glorious-ness that is my morning ritual, without which I can barely function. It's a lovely way to wake up when the day is cold and the bed is warm, providing enough movement to get the body awake without administering a system-wide SHOCK.
My morning shower is often a time for my own quiet reflection. I think about lots of things. God, life, love, music, friends and school top the list. Many times, since I am not a morning person, I am depressed. The shower provides a lovely little escape pod that I can enjoy while I muster up whatever courage and fortitude it will take to face the day. Sometimes it involves taking whatever worries I've held onto from yesterday and letting them wash away in blissful liquid warmth. Other times, my shower becomes a place of repentance, thinking about things I should not have done or thought, and how to go about making up for whatever ground I may have lost in my own conscience, and how to avoid making the same mistakes over again. Occasionally, the shower is a source of enormous vitality, springing me to life with the first touch of water. These are regrettably the rarest types of showers, but I suppose that makes them all the more valuable.
Depending on what kind of day I had previously, or whatever craziness happens to be running through my mind, it may take a longer time for me to get up the motivation to shut off the faucet and step out into the world. This morning's shower took a long time. Mondays are always the worst. "Weekend's over, school today. Oh yeah, remember that book review due on Friday you haven't started yet? Yeah, might wanna get on that. Laundry might be a good idea, too. You don't want to run out of underwear again. Oh, and DON'T put off cleaning your room. That's gonna take a century to get through without all the other stuff you'll have to juggle. But she's worth it, ain't she? Yeah, of course she is, that and a heck of a lot more. How much more? Worth- WHOA now, don't go there yet. Preparation, man, preparation! And besides, there's still a lot of things to iron out between you. You know, those annoying little differences that aren't really important, but they keep needling at you and won't go away...
"You're gonna be late for class..."
Sigh................
Saturday, August 1, 2009
My Night With God!
Last Sunday night, I was down in the dumps, and was talking to a friend of mine. Mostly about relationships and my lack of one, and how I longed for one, and my friend kept going on about me trusting God, and feeling secure in Him... because I don't. There was a lot more said, and most of it was very convicting. Towards the end of it, I simply felt like crying... but that was a good thing. So I told my friend I wanted to cry about this, and they said alright, but they prayed for me first.
At first, all I did was cry... I'm not entirely sure why. I think I just wanted to feel loved, so I begged for it. I just sobbed my heart out like I rarely have before, and let the tears flow.
BUT I WAS ANSWERED! I have NEVER felt such a feeling before! I have been a Christian most of my life, but I have rarely, if ever, felt such a presence! I was held, and I was comforted by what I felt was nothing less than the Creator! I'm also fairly certain there was at least one angel there, but I was in a state of shocked awe at the time, so I can barely account for any of my feelings or thought processes going on. I simply cried and cried and kept on crying, sitting on the floor, curled up into a ball, incoherently talking to God. Mostly, I was simply thanking Him for what I was experiencing, and didn't want to stop. Eventually, though, things got messy, so I stood to go to the bathroom, but it was dark, and I got scared. So I told God my fear as I went into the bathroom and turned on the light and the sink, and I loved the feel of clear, cold water in my hands and on my face. Briefly, it flashed into my head that water was a powerful symbol, depicting the purity of the soul after its sins are washed away.
And it was there, I began to fight. I began verbally rebuking whoever, whatever I was afraid of, invoking the name of Christ over and over again, and then I knew its name! It was Despair, and I ordered him to leave me, in the name of Christ, leave me and my family and never come back. It took a while, but I kept fighting, and eventually I won.
I don't know how I knew that he had gone, but I am certain that he left, and I stood up and looked at myself in the mirror, wondering if my eyes were ever really that blue, or only after I cried. It sounds so vain to say it now, but I will say that my heart was pounding, but not in fear, and I was able to hold my back straighter than I have in a very long time.
I had WON! This feeling, this triumph, was something I have always dreamed of, but never imagined would feel so powerful! This absolute feeling of unadulterated victory made me positively dizzy, and it took me quite a while to come down off the high, during which I called my friend back and told them everything, and then went inside to wake my mother and tell her, too.
So now I know! Having been a martial artist for so long, I understand what it feels like to win. I remember and revel in the feel of goosebumps and chills on my skin, when the adrenalin is rushing like a river, and my heart is pounding, the beat of my blood loud in my ears. But this is all physical. What I experienced tonight was entirely spiritual and emotional, and as I have said before, it was so much HIGHER than anything I could have ever dreamed!
I now have a night that I can look back at and say "I have fought, and I have won. THIS is freedom. THIS is the power and victory that God grants us through the sacrifice of his Son!" I now consider myself a warrior in a way I never thought of before, and it is my fervent prayer that everyone in my life someday experiences this feeling, too! I swear to you, it will blow your mind!
At first, all I did was cry... I'm not entirely sure why. I think I just wanted to feel loved, so I begged for it. I just sobbed my heart out like I rarely have before, and let the tears flow.
BUT I WAS ANSWERED! I have NEVER felt such a feeling before! I have been a Christian most of my life, but I have rarely, if ever, felt such a presence! I was held, and I was comforted by what I felt was nothing less than the Creator! I'm also fairly certain there was at least one angel there, but I was in a state of shocked awe at the time, so I can barely account for any of my feelings or thought processes going on. I simply cried and cried and kept on crying, sitting on the floor, curled up into a ball, incoherently talking to God. Mostly, I was simply thanking Him for what I was experiencing, and didn't want to stop. Eventually, though, things got messy, so I stood to go to the bathroom, but it was dark, and I got scared. So I told God my fear as I went into the bathroom and turned on the light and the sink, and I loved the feel of clear, cold water in my hands and on my face. Briefly, it flashed into my head that water was a powerful symbol, depicting the purity of the soul after its sins are washed away.
And it was there, I began to fight. I began verbally rebuking whoever, whatever I was afraid of, invoking the name of Christ over and over again, and then I knew its name! It was Despair, and I ordered him to leave me, in the name of Christ, leave me and my family and never come back. It took a while, but I kept fighting, and eventually I won.
I don't know how I knew that he had gone, but I am certain that he left, and I stood up and looked at myself in the mirror, wondering if my eyes were ever really that blue, or only after I cried. It sounds so vain to say it now, but I will say that my heart was pounding, but not in fear, and I was able to hold my back straighter than I have in a very long time.
I had WON! This feeling, this triumph, was something I have always dreamed of, but never imagined would feel so powerful! This absolute feeling of unadulterated victory made me positively dizzy, and it took me quite a while to come down off the high, during which I called my friend back and told them everything, and then went inside to wake my mother and tell her, too.
So now I know! Having been a martial artist for so long, I understand what it feels like to win. I remember and revel in the feel of goosebumps and chills on my skin, when the adrenalin is rushing like a river, and my heart is pounding, the beat of my blood loud in my ears. But this is all physical. What I experienced tonight was entirely spiritual and emotional, and as I have said before, it was so much HIGHER than anything I could have ever dreamed!
I now have a night that I can look back at and say "I have fought, and I have won. THIS is freedom. THIS is the power and victory that God grants us through the sacrifice of his Son!" I now consider myself a warrior in a way I never thought of before, and it is my fervent prayer that everyone in my life someday experiences this feeling, too! I swear to you, it will blow your mind!
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Oh, Don't I Wish
This is just a rant that feels good to write. I'm feeling nostalgic. I realized the date this morning, and remembered why I realized it.
A year ago today, I flew home from my last trip to Colorado. One year ago was the last time I saw the woman I loved; the last time I kissed her, held her, held her hand, held her head, stroked her hair, brushed her face.
She moved on almost immediately. I was stunned at how fast she fell in love again, but I don't begrudge her that. Having talked with the guy, I know he's nice enough, and I like him, which doesn't surprise me.
I've made some progress. I don't miss her anymore, per se. We've talked a few times since then, and I like to think we're still friends. She's not trying to grind anything in my face, and I'm not trying to be bitter or jealous. What I really miss, what I truly do long for, is being in love.
I'm too much of a romantic for my own good. I begin to think that being a romantic has brought me nothing but heartache. I begin to think my hopes for life are impossibly high, and that I should just give in and come back down to Earth; stop all this crazy daydreaming. I'm not going to become some swashbuckling hero. I'll probably never get to use the skills I know for anything useful. No rescuing fair damsels in distress with martial arts or European weapons. It just doesn't happen. Hollywood is fiction, and it's interesting because reality is boring.
It's all so durn metaphorical! My dragon is school, my sword is knowledge, and supposedly, there's some maiden somewhere out there that's waiting for me to come meet her, or is looking for me, too... yeah, right. Whatever.
And what really stinks about this whole thing is that as much as I complain about the way things are, I KNOW that all this complaining isn't going to do any good at all... but it does feel good to write.
Thanks for reading. Feel free to comment, if you like.
A year ago today, I flew home from my last trip to Colorado. One year ago was the last time I saw the woman I loved; the last time I kissed her, held her, held her hand, held her head, stroked her hair, brushed her face.
She moved on almost immediately. I was stunned at how fast she fell in love again, but I don't begrudge her that. Having talked with the guy, I know he's nice enough, and I like him, which doesn't surprise me.
I've made some progress. I don't miss her anymore, per se. We've talked a few times since then, and I like to think we're still friends. She's not trying to grind anything in my face, and I'm not trying to be bitter or jealous. What I really miss, what I truly do long for, is being in love.
I'm too much of a romantic for my own good. I begin to think that being a romantic has brought me nothing but heartache. I begin to think my hopes for life are impossibly high, and that I should just give in and come back down to Earth; stop all this crazy daydreaming. I'm not going to become some swashbuckling hero. I'll probably never get to use the skills I know for anything useful. No rescuing fair damsels in distress with martial arts or European weapons. It just doesn't happen. Hollywood is fiction, and it's interesting because reality is boring.
It's all so durn metaphorical! My dragon is school, my sword is knowledge, and supposedly, there's some maiden somewhere out there that's waiting for me to come meet her, or is looking for me, too... yeah, right. Whatever.
And what really stinks about this whole thing is that as much as I complain about the way things are, I KNOW that all this complaining isn't going to do any good at all... but it does feel good to write.
Thanks for reading. Feel free to comment, if you like.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Thoughts on a life
It’s one-thirty in the morning, and I have rarely been affected by the Friday evening before an event as I have this one. Crown List shall be held tomorrow inside the fort, and most of the pavilions of the contestants have already been set up.
I had thought that since I will most likely never fight in Crown List, I would step onto the field alone, and see if I could touch the power inherent in the field. There, under the stars, surrounded by pennons and emblems, I was able to sense an incredible aura. It spoke to me, of the courage and strength of warriors who were trained for battle, and longed for honor as they longed for nothing else with every beat of their hearts. I breathed deep the feeling of majesty, and reveled in it. Turning, I found I was not alone.
It was James. He also had come to contemplate the coming contest, and we talked briefly of it, about the sense of honor and duty that should be inherent in every armed encounter. Crown List is somewhat special, but it was his goal to meet each and every opponent with the same respect and reverence as he did on this field, and thus turn every fight into more than just an exchange of blows, but also a show of respect, and challenge. I will never forget what he told me. “Word fame is the coinage we trade, and it’s up to you to fill your pocket.”
He left shortly thereafter, but I lingered, climbing to the top of the fort so that I could enjoy the view of the coppery moon, very low in the horizon, which was eventually obscured by clouds. I thought deeply about this game we play, this dream we serve, this life we choose to lead. Most of us, myself included, are looking for something. What?
Escape from dull routine, the rut that becomes daily life; the rigors and toils of thankless jobs; a world without an understanding of our deepest desires (or even a want to understand them)… or more?
The opportunities for learning are literally limitless! The number of crafts alone are mind boggling, with nearly every material that can be thought of being made into almost anything that can be imagined:
Brewing various drinks like mead, ale or wine
Leatherwork into things like bottles, armor, bags and pouches, belts, boots and shoes, quivers and armguards, and even seats for stools!
Woodworking and carpentry for all types of furniture, such as beds, tables and chairs, cups and plates, tool and weapon handles, or musical instruments
Blacksmithing, or forging metals into weapons, armor, utensils, other tools, buckles and jewelry
Weaving things like flax into linen, to be used to make clothes, or knitting wool into things like scarves, sock, gloves, hats or bags, or making rope from hemp
And there are so many others, like working with glass, or beads, and many, many other crafts… but what about those of us who don’t so much make as do?
The various forms of combat with weapons such as the sword, spear or glaive, and what I refer to as the Timeless Arts, learning to throw knives, axes and spears, and the sport of archery
In music, one can learn to play, sing or dance to period tunes
Or, if one desires to learn more about what life was like way back when, there is an infinite and inexhaustible amount or resources for whatever research one feels like, from certain people in specific areas in a particular time frame (what was life like for the typical Cheshire peasant in 1130? What did he do for work? For fun? What did he wear? Believe?) to rough overviews on the long term effects of key events, or the circumstances leading up to them (What events led up to the Christian army trapping itself into the disaster of Hattin? How did the Magna Carta shape the world after 1215? Where did John Wycliffe get his inspiration, and who did he inspire, and what did they do, and who did they inspire, etc. ad infinitum!).
So the question remains… Why serve this dream? Why play this game? Why live this way?
For me, there is a search, yes; for learning, yes, for escape, in a way, but more for adventure! In the SCA, chivalry thrives, and one’s life is what they make of it, no matter what your background. Train for combat, learn a trade, know the camaraderie that comes from an honest-to-goodness feast, and experience romance in a dance where the only times you touch your partner are when you hold hands or link arms.
And in adventure can be found great things: skill, honor, loyalty, friendship and even love. But perhaps most of all, one finds themselves.
What am I capable of? What things will I learn, or learn to do, or make? How much honor can I win? How far will my name spread, and what will I do to make it known?
“Word fame is the coinage we trade, and it’s up to you to fill your pocket.”
No man knows the future. All he can do is live it.
I had thought that since I will most likely never fight in Crown List, I would step onto the field alone, and see if I could touch the power inherent in the field. There, under the stars, surrounded by pennons and emblems, I was able to sense an incredible aura. It spoke to me, of the courage and strength of warriors who were trained for battle, and longed for honor as they longed for nothing else with every beat of their hearts. I breathed deep the feeling of majesty, and reveled in it. Turning, I found I was not alone.
It was James. He also had come to contemplate the coming contest, and we talked briefly of it, about the sense of honor and duty that should be inherent in every armed encounter. Crown List is somewhat special, but it was his goal to meet each and every opponent with the same respect and reverence as he did on this field, and thus turn every fight into more than just an exchange of blows, but also a show of respect, and challenge. I will never forget what he told me. “Word fame is the coinage we trade, and it’s up to you to fill your pocket.”
He left shortly thereafter, but I lingered, climbing to the top of the fort so that I could enjoy the view of the coppery moon, very low in the horizon, which was eventually obscured by clouds. I thought deeply about this game we play, this dream we serve, this life we choose to lead. Most of us, myself included, are looking for something. What?
Escape from dull routine, the rut that becomes daily life; the rigors and toils of thankless jobs; a world without an understanding of our deepest desires (or even a want to understand them)… or more?
The opportunities for learning are literally limitless! The number of crafts alone are mind boggling, with nearly every material that can be thought of being made into almost anything that can be imagined:
Brewing various drinks like mead, ale or wine
Leatherwork into things like bottles, armor, bags and pouches, belts, boots and shoes, quivers and armguards, and even seats for stools!
Woodworking and carpentry for all types of furniture, such as beds, tables and chairs, cups and plates, tool and weapon handles, or musical instruments
Blacksmithing, or forging metals into weapons, armor, utensils, other tools, buckles and jewelry
Weaving things like flax into linen, to be used to make clothes, or knitting wool into things like scarves, sock, gloves, hats or bags, or making rope from hemp
And there are so many others, like working with glass, or beads, and many, many other crafts… but what about those of us who don’t so much make as do?
The various forms of combat with weapons such as the sword, spear or glaive, and what I refer to as the Timeless Arts, learning to throw knives, axes and spears, and the sport of archery
In music, one can learn to play, sing or dance to period tunes
Or, if one desires to learn more about what life was like way back when, there is an infinite and inexhaustible amount or resources for whatever research one feels like, from certain people in specific areas in a particular time frame (what was life like for the typical Cheshire peasant in 1130? What did he do for work? For fun? What did he wear? Believe?) to rough overviews on the long term effects of key events, or the circumstances leading up to them (What events led up to the Christian army trapping itself into the disaster of Hattin? How did the Magna Carta shape the world after 1215? Where did John Wycliffe get his inspiration, and who did he inspire, and what did they do, and who did they inspire, etc. ad infinitum!).
So the question remains… Why serve this dream? Why play this game? Why live this way?
For me, there is a search, yes; for learning, yes, for escape, in a way, but more for adventure! In the SCA, chivalry thrives, and one’s life is what they make of it, no matter what your background. Train for combat, learn a trade, know the camaraderie that comes from an honest-to-goodness feast, and experience romance in a dance where the only times you touch your partner are when you hold hands or link arms.
And in adventure can be found great things: skill, honor, loyalty, friendship and even love. But perhaps most of all, one finds themselves.
What am I capable of? What things will I learn, or learn to do, or make? How much honor can I win? How far will my name spread, and what will I do to make it known?
“Word fame is the coinage we trade, and it’s up to you to fill your pocket.”
No man knows the future. All he can do is live it.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
A day's journal
I found that picture earlier today, and I thought it appropriate, considering I went back to a Herb Parson's shoot for the first time this year, and could hardly have asked for more! The day was bright, the sun was out, I was shooting my longbow with my father, and best of all, the forest has returned! I don't think I shot particularly well, but at least I was shooting, and I know what to work on the next time I practice.
For most of the rest of the day, I was with dear friends of mine, and at first, we talked stories. We brainstormed ideas for everything ranging from character development, works in progress, future ideas and plot twists. It was much fun, and I look forward to participating more regularly, now.
When I finally left, I came home and started spending time with family, something we as a family have not done for a while, considering Dad's in Ohio working on his plane most of the time and my brother's at college near Nashville; but they're both at home for now, and it's a great experience.
God bless, they're so durn FUNNY! It's one of the things I'm jealous of, concerning my brother. He has this incredible wit and an insanely innate sense of timing. Sparring him is a nightmare. Im reasonably sure I'm faster than him, but he sits back and defends himself, waiting for me to present him with an opening that I'm certain he knows is coming before I do. It's infuriating!
But I love him anyway, and dad too. He's where my brother and I got so many habits and mannerisms I love to watch. One only wonders what they're going to be like in the future! Here's to hoping my children inherit all the good things too.
For most of the rest of the day, I was with dear friends of mine, and at first, we talked stories. We brainstormed ideas for everything ranging from character development, works in progress, future ideas and plot twists. It was much fun, and I look forward to participating more regularly, now.
When I finally left, I came home and started spending time with family, something we as a family have not done for a while, considering Dad's in Ohio working on his plane most of the time and my brother's at college near Nashville; but they're both at home for now, and it's a great experience.
God bless, they're so durn FUNNY! It's one of the things I'm jealous of, concerning my brother. He has this incredible wit and an insanely innate sense of timing. Sparring him is a nightmare. Im reasonably sure I'm faster than him, but he sits back and defends himself, waiting for me to present him with an opening that I'm certain he knows is coming before I do. It's infuriating!
But I love him anyway, and dad too. He's where my brother and I got so many habits and mannerisms I love to watch. One only wonders what they're going to be like in the future! Here's to hoping my children inherit all the good things too.
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