The walk to the store on Broad St.
Never more than a few feet
Gather the folk on the corner
With the small red lights, to pierce the dark

You were never a part of it
Sitting on the steps beneath the roses
Safe from the faces of brightness
Pulling with the void of shattered heart

We killed you with kindness, and laid it all out
Never seeing love respond to face
Chances taken, but against the odds
And I stood by to take the blame

Take the walk to the house on Broad St.
From the store to the corner
Its never more that a few feet
Shells of the lights, and their formers

Ambition is a misnomer. Instead of “ambition” I substitute, “that wavering drive that accompanies want.” It is very difficult to sustain. The prerequisite for ambition is “willingness,” so this is where I start. I ask myself: “What am I willing to do?” (of course weighed against what I am not willing to do). And for what? Of course one infers a goal from a willingness.

That goal must be one worth significant attention. One requiring more attention than simply the impulse to muse; rather one worthy of commitment. And, at the verge of commitment, one that a man feels worthwhile. The goal itself has no inherent drive. It is non-compelling. The will tips the scale. The will identifies the worth of the goal and impels the man – always in minute excitements, but perhaps with a running start.

We begin with want: identifying the goal. The will decides its worth. Ambition: now ambition is nothing.

Ambition wavers because the “achievement” is of little value – at least to me. I do not see power, wealth, or fame as worthwhile goals – perhaps leverages to further aims, but not ends in themselves. I mentioned earlier that ambition is difficult to sustain: this is because the goal superior to ambition is at times nebulous. One must look beyond the aims of ambition to find the true goal worthy of exciting the will.

“Brutus says he [Caesar] was ambitious” (Shakespeare, Julius Caesar III.2).

Caesar had Rome for an infinitesimal lot of time. Did he envision more than owning the world? If not then his aims were consummated. If so, his death was a tragedy: having surmounted the incredible he was most likely on the verge of achieving his true goal; cast off into oblivion, his efforts in vain. However, he was ambitious: therefore no tragedy, nihil.

Ambition has failed me. But, for the first time I own a goal beyond ambition. I do not seek ambition as a noun and ambition as an attribute is – God willing – not one of mine. Instead I call upon will to recognize my worthy goal:

Love.

A diamond’s fire light beckoned our gaze
& we sat and dreamt while awake w/gods and men.

A dream or two,
a feast or three,
I just want one or none,
or all or some.
Who said-like you-
“these things will come in time?”
I need them to be or not at all,
and I’ll wait for love of health and sanity.
I’ll wait, Ruby, I’ll wait.

-Josh Peterson

I jut my chin out in that desperate, oh-so-obvious attempt to keep the tears drowning my vision from spilling over and making me the object of sympathy. It is unsuccessful for the barest instant, and once the first tear spills, it brings with it a whole stream of others that I ignore as I go on. They dry up as soon as they are released, and I proudly avoid eye contact with those who (I know) will be sympathetic and thus melt my exterior down to match the puddle of emotions on my insides.

“Katherine…I can’t please everybody, she can’t please everybody…and you can’t please everybody. And that’s okay.”
-Hatcher

But I still feel so…inadequate. It is a very empty, empty feeling, and this is how my prayer for humility is to be answered, so it would seem. Oh, I am not the stoic rock that you think I am.

(they also mourn who do not wear black)

Inside I am weak and terribly sensitive to the barest touch, gentle or rough. They both make an indelible impression on my soul, for better or for worse. If only you knew what lasting effect you were having on an eternal thing. And let me never forget the impression I am making on yours. This will keep me from rising out of humility again if I only remember it.

The load, or weight, or burden of my neighbour’s glory should be laid on my back, a load so heavy that only humility can carry it, and tbe backs of the proud will be broken. It is a serious thing to live in a society of possible gods and goddesses, to remember that the dullest and most uninteresting person you can talk to may one day be a creature which, if you say it now, you would be strongly tempted to worship, or else a horror and a corruption such as you now meet, if at all, only in a nightmare. All day long we are, in some degree, helping each other to one or other of these destinations It is in the light of these overwhelming possibilities, it is with the awe and the circumspection proper to them, that we should conduct all our dealings with one another, all friendships, all loves, all play, all politics. There are no ordinary people. You have never talked to a mere mortal.
-C.S. (“Jack”) Lewis, The Weight of Glory

This is my reminder – I had forgotten this passage, somehow, in all the lexicon of information swirling in my still-so-thirsty head, and in aimless re-reading I stumbled upon it again. To remember the effects that your actions have on my soul, will help me to take care that my actions do not strike or damage the inner beings of those around me. And oh, how discouraging to realize my inadequacy and the failure of even the best intentions. But…

So we do not lose heart. Though our outer nature is wasting away, our inner nature is being renewed day by day. For this slight momentary affliction is preparing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison, as we look not to the things that are seen but to the things that are unseen. For the things that are seen are transient, but the things that are unseen are eternal.
(2 Corinthians 4:16-18 )

And let us never forget the most powerful influence for that positive quickening of our spirits.

And we all, with unveiled face, beholding the glory of the Lord, are being transformed into the same image from one degree of glory to another. For this comes from the Lord who is the Spirit.
(2 Corinthians 3:18 )

-Katherine Poythress

Falling slowly, revealing only
The perception of perfect purity
Renewing the life concealed inside
That is living a seasonal dream.

-Jessamyn Wheeland

Every time I see a sunset, I think of that story, because the sky always looks like a hyper-real painting to me…sometimes it looks too good to be true that anyone painted it. It looks like a painting that I am so far removed from, and yet, I am part of that painting…

When you fly in an airplane, when you sky-dive, or do any other thing that resembles Icarus and Daedalus’ imitation of the birds, you touch the clouds and you ascend above them only to be revealed mountains and cities made of those very same clouds. That perception of separation ceases to be troublesome because any gap that once was there no longer matters., and once again we realize we are still part of that painting; a painting that contains wolves dressed like sheep, robbers impersonating cops, poets who persistently woo unfaithful whores, and subjects who crucify their own king. The crux of this painting centers around a wedding feast where a son finally receives his beautiful and long-awaited bride, and what was once tattered, used, and torn is made new. This was all in that sunset, the one that was too hard to paint unless you had that certain brush. Maybe. Hopefully.

Amen.

-Josh Peterson

Heart my break and
Put it together back again
—I said—
For I want to know what it’s like to be loved. Truly. Loved. 

To know, like Job, that you are God:
slow to anger, quick in mercy
ready (able) to take my world and upside turn it
into something beautiful and worthy of report.

And I ran?

the wrenching pains of your embrace struck night and day—
holding, neverlettinggo and telling me that
I. a.m. y.o.u.r.s.
forever and into the infinity that
is you. 

words are blades or blankets,
crocheted scarves or fine-toothed combs,
picking apart the fragile threadbare fabric
of a soul that barely whispers it is so    w  e a      k  .   .  . .       .
Either or.  And sometimes both.

(David had a cave.  I have a cave, too.
The Good Lord always said ’e don’t have no fa’vrit’s.)  

But eventually:
The calm the breathless calm
of waking once again in daylight and finding
    ] life [
    again. anew. 
is more than this pathetic mind could ever
grasp—and yet I have found a place in which to breathe again
and freely.

you assemble me.  

Cato, Manfred, lax Belacqua: those who
     died by violence (such as Pia); all repent
     upon their death and thus reside below
The stairs to Peter’s Gate. The steps themselves
     are counted three: Confess, Repent, Amend—
Each one a rung to Paradise, the Pilgrim
     must tread all; and at the gate a holy guard
     imprints the P’s upon the peccant brow.
Begging mercy, asking passage, Dante
     enters through the gate as the angel tells him
     “Wash from your face the wounds when you’re within.”

Ascending the next terrace the Poet
     (with his guide Virgil, he who gave his pupil
     hope and held a glowing lamp unto his feet)
Encounters proud and weary Christians bearing
     stones upon their shoulders, compelling them
     to bow, for they in life refused. And then
The Envious, eyes sewn shut, are weeping,
     praying that grace may melt the film of sin away
     and purify their hearts of love amiss.
Last of those who loved their neighbor wrongly
     are the Wrathful, shrouded in smoke that they
     might win their freedom from the knot of anger.
Having now been cleansed of two of seven P’s,
     the Poet climbs to middle Purgatory
     and learns of those who loved deficiently.

Within the ring of Sloth are those who saw
     but did not move; instead they lingered in
     the ease of wanting rather than pursuing
The Love that gratifies. To purge themselves
     of their shortcoming, the Slothful run unceasing—
     for zeal in well-doing makes grace green again.
The Pilgrim slips into a sleep so deep
     he won’t be roused and dreams into existence
     a Siren, grotesque at first, then lovely.
Self-inflicted sin seducing sinner,
     the Siren made beautiful by Dante’s own
     imagination… Three times calling, Virgil
Wakes him, saying, “Arise and walk!” and they
     go forth to find the passageway ahead
     and scale the highest slopes of the mountain.

Here the souls of Avaricious men lie prostrate,
     cleaving to the dust and uttering words
     nigh inscrutable to those who hear them.
Since they did not restrain themselves when living,
     they now lie shackled to the ground, completing
     penance for their earthly iniquity.
Keeping to the right along the mountain’s
     outer rim, the Pilgrim comes upon the
     Gluttonous. Each face worn thin with hunger,
The souls suffer what they would not bear in life;
     and though their true disio was for Him
     who grants one’s deepest yearnings, they failed to
Glory in his providence and thus fell short.
     And as an angel blesses those who thirst,
     Dante discovers only two remaining
P’s and so continues up the mountain.
     Reaching at last the terrace of the Lustful,
     the final step before the top, Dante
Finds himself the witness of the souls consumed
     in flames to match the concupiscent burning
     felt in life. Immobilized by fear, he
Can’t go on, nor will he, till Virgil utters
     “Beatrice.” After sleeping as a goat
     watched by his keeper, Dante awakes, and
The Pilgrim and his guide surmount the peak
     to behold with heightened sight the Earthly
     Paradise. Within that selva divina
Lie two rivers: First the Lethe, to remove
     the memory of sin and then Eunoe
     to replace the P’s with virtue and restore
The soul to peace. Looking across the streams,
     Dante witnesses the Pageant of the
     Sacrament, a wondrous queue of holy souls
Captivated by the majesty of Christ.

Behold, Beatrice! The love lost so
     many years ago stands finally before
     the Pilgrim. Mute with awe, he turns to speak
To Virgil, but, alas—his guide is vanished.
     “Do not weep,” bids Beatrice, “but look at me.”
     Recounting Dante’s life to him, the Lady
Asks him why he did not before repent; but
     left with no sufficient answer, he stands
     ashamed. But with Christ there is forgiveness
And a perfect newness, and Dante drinks of
     both the Lethe and Eunoe. Purified
     at last, deadened powers revived, the Poet
Emerges from the holy waters and
     climbs a little higher towards the stars and
     Paradise.

Bridling my pen now, for the verge of page
     draws near, I contemplate the beauty held
     between the leaves of this creation. The words,
I find, are far more than a gentle nudge
     to goodness—they illustrate the need to
     know and, even more, to act and not to
Tarry. To climb the steps before the gate
     becomes our gran disio, that we might
     find forgiveness in the arms of Love Himself.

-Lauren Hildreth