Aesthetics of Nostalgia

I reek of nostalgia.  I must because for the past few weeks I have been saturated with its fragrance.  It’s amazing to ponder.  I have marinated in the complexity, reminiscing memories, thoughts, and dreams where my life originated, the roots of my soul began to dig deep.  There has been an aura that exudes.  A sweet aroma promoting peace that overwhelms.

 

I finished a week of speaking at a camp near Lake Tahoe.  In between this and the next camp, I stayed a night in Vacaville, CA; a city about 25 minutes from my hometown.  And talking to the citizens, listening to names of localities that I had not heard in years, I stepped back in time.  I can still hear the screams of my neighborhood at play.  I visualize riding our bikes on dirt trails flapping dust to the wind.  I feel the murky waters of the creek used as a swimming hole, relishing that thought of an oasis we had once created exclusively for ourselves.  These, as well as others, are a milieu of endeavors that have been firmly planted, sowing that whimsical innocence that I know as my youth.

 

As I revisited my homestead, I discovered the obvious truth that it does not diminish the distinct recollections of people, places, and problems.  Rather, such truth comes back with an intensity that illustrates life in motion.  Combine all of my adventures, these experiences together, and they convey the aesthetics of my childhood – a backdrop that has consequently shaped personality and formed aspirations.  These are my roots dug deep into a soil resulting in the harvest of what I know as today.

 

I am grateful.  I reflect upon my life; what once was; what could have been; and expectant of what will be.  Unbeknownst to any effort on my own, I am starting to comprehend the remnants as to why things transpired in the manner in which they did.  Of course, I don’t understand it completely, but it necessitates awe at His providence.  It has come full circle.  I have certainly undergone seasons of drought, have withered in stamina, but I have also witnessed growth and a flourishing that has prompted freedom. 

 

Where do I go from here?  Is God moving me onward, say, perhaps using my current profession as a stepping stone into something greater?  Should I call it a day in full-time speaking, celebrating the run, its journey, and everything it entailed for the purpose it was intended?  I have been hanging on to considering this kind of transition for well over a year. 

 

I will keep on waiting.  I’m in no rush.  I believe that whatever this nudging may be it is coming to fruition.  One day I will look back on this specific point in time as a catalyst used to nourish and strengthen roots that already lie deep into the framework of God’s purposeful design.  I will continue to sit back.  I will enjoy the ride.  I smell the rain!

Smoky in the Boys’ Room: a Rebuttal

This is how the story unfolds…

I thought it was that persistence, nagging annoyance of the alarm blaring in my ear.  I am not sure why I came to that conclusion.  After all, my sleeping patterns are like clock work when any kind of alarm is involved.  I slept through an alarm once about ten years ago and almost missed a flight.  Ten years!  And since that occurrence, I have been tainted and banned forever from entering a deep, methodical slumber when I know I need to arise at some early, sinful hour.  So, why did I think of it as my alarm?  I’ll never know.

 

Because of this reason, I was shocked back into reality out of a profound episode of R.E.M.  And deciphering just where I was at that instant, my mind raced in piecing all the confusion together to form a meaningful clarity that put me at ease.  I was at Thousand Pines Christian Camp in Crestline, CA with Ryan Axtell, Mat and Lisa Weddle, and the Merrell clan.  I was stuffed into an oversized walk-in closet lying on the bed realizing that the constant shriek I was hearing was not an alarm at all, but a piercing scream booming from a smoke detector. 

 

Ryan never stepped into my “servant quarters” adjacent from his massive, luxurious suite equipped with a fire place, queen size bed, and revolving ceiling fan that oscillated fresh, cool air throughout his spacious surroundings.  Since the king never appeared, I ignored the emergent cry of this smoke detector thinking that it was a false alarm and hoped that in a matter of seconds – please – the thing would shut off or self-destruct. 

 

Yet, when my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I noticed shadows from silhouettes being projected onto a grayish smoke-like film that lingered over my head.  These clouds formed a blanket about me causing a claustrophobic sensation.  I batted them away with my hand only to see the smoky clouds waft their way back into place.  I started choking as my humble closet of accommodations reeked of mesquite.  I leaped out of my uncomfortable, rock substance of a bed and ran to see if his majesty was OK.  There was no sign of him.  His bed sheets were strewn about and the door leading into his suite was open.  I rushed out into the hallway trying to hear voices of familiarity, but when words, moans, or any combination of the two did not intermingle, I suddenly was overwhelmed with a sense of aloneness.

                                          

The smoke was getting thicker, dancing, whirling about the air.  The stairway that descended into the kitchen was transformed into another world.  I wondered if my friends were swallowed, drowning in the eerie murkiness that now claimed downstairs.  I thought they had been engulfed into this sea of oblivion, lost forever, since there was no trace of them – sound or sight. The visibility worsened with the progression of each step.

 

In absolute bravery, or maybe stupidity, I climbed down the stairs into the smoke infested kitchen.  I began hearing the voices of comfort.  There they stood all accounted for.  My friends were OK.  They had clustered together devising a theory as to why our “house” was engulfed, and infiltrated with smoke.  It was due to a chimney malefaction, and instead of the smoke rising, it made its dwelling among us, sticking to our skin, and taking up residence.  Ron Merrell was fatigued and sauntered back to his room.  Mat and Lisa Weddle disappeared into the smoke calling it a night.  Ryan Axtell looked bored and called it quits.  And I felt as though I was a child just released into a candy store with all expenses paid – even though I hate candy.  But my adrenaline and excitement dissipated when the others wandered away at the old news.  I missed the memo, the meeting, and wasn’t apart of the club.  I was ready and set to conquer the world.  They just wanted to go back to sleep.

 

But wait…  Now I am compelled to ponder this amazing story and the ramifications that ensue.  Why were all my friends gathered downstairs with the exception of me?  Do they think I am indispensable?  Granted, I have survived some fairly life threatening situations, such as jumping a rolling tire going 75mph down a major freeway – in the fast lane and driving a Ford Econoline Van.  I’ll give them that.  But what were they thinking?…  “Oh, he won’t burn.  Let him sleep.  He needs the energy for tomorrow’s chapel in case we are all gone”.  Can you imagine me also singing and leading worship?  I can’t either.  That would be another smoking story, but one not involving a fire or a house!  

 

It could have been my very last breath…

Clouded Skies…Ocean Waves

Take a look at this picture!  Which is it?  Is it a clouded sky at sunset, or is it ocean waves colliding against a shoreline?  I spoke at a men’s retreat recently and a gentleman who was there sent me some of his incredible photos. This is just one of them.  It captures beauty.  It embraces creativity.  Glory speaks. 

 

This particular picture screams out the word perspective – for me.  It is really how one looks at it.  It could be the clouded sky at sunset.  It could be oceans waves running up against the shore.  However you or I see it, it still looks beautiful.  Doesn’t it?  It causes me to ponder life.

 

I want answers.  I think we all do.  Yet, at times things unfortunately remain mysterious for you, for me.  We can not see the end result.  It drives us crazy.  So, perspective has it.  Which is it?  What do you make of it?  How are you contemplating life at hand? 

 

I strive to be an optimist, and I feel that I have done a descent job.  Still…  the moments remain when I miss the beauty in opportunity.  I let my heart be elsewhere, consumed, worried, and frazzled.  Oh yes, it can be exhilarating to gawk at the mysterious, gaze in it from afar.  There is that thrill of deciphering scenarios, and piecing everything together to emulate the perfect picture.  No question.  I don’t know about you, but that is absolutely exhausting.  I just need to enjoy the ride.

 

Maybe, the picture I have for my life isn’t the picture God wants me to see now, or ever.  He may want me to stare at life differently to see the beauty that I may have missed.  Life is beautiful anyway you look at it.  Dreams still ensue regardless.  Hopes come alive nonetheless.  I may not even know the end result of why, when, where.  Indeed!  However, I can discover beauty at every twist, turn, and curve along my way that I would not have realized otherwise.

 

Perspective simply screams.  So, which is it?  Clouded skies, or ocean waves?  What do I make of it?  Either way you look at this photo beauty is evident.  So too, it is with life.  I just have to stop to look long enough and bask in the glory that surrounds.

 

It makes me think of one of my favorite quotes.  “You can be bitter, or you can choose to be better”.  If I choose the latter, therein beauty resides.

Sanctuary

 

 

I retreated to the ocean,

 

allowing the desert terrain to fade.

 

I walked along the Pacific, this

 

sanctuary for which I have been made.

 

 

 

I savor the cool of that coastal breeze,

 

a salty flavor permeating in its breath.

 

I peruse the seascape in awe of glory,

 

ridding myself from relics tasting of death.

 

 

 

I hear the rushing waters, crashing waves,

 

that thunderous voice colliding upon the shore.

 

Here, I sit in the depths of solitude

 

listening as You speak about what is in store.

 

 

 

I feel grains of sand brushing against skin,

 

a touch that mysteriously enables one to be free.

 

Today, I turn 40, marveling at just how much

 

Your embrace adores the intimate parts of me.

 

 

 

I soak in scents of aloe and coconut,

 

summer’s aroma reminiscent to hot sun rays.

 

I relinquish my soul, pouring my heart

 

as a fragrance conducive to Your ways.

 

 

 

I look at this conglomerate of scenery,

 

surveying a sanctuary, igniting all senses to peace.

 

I participate in a transformation rendering

 

An aliveness that is observant to my utmost release.

 

 

 

~ Chris Simning

 

 

 

 

About Chris Simning

I have a passion to write.  However, the art of writing does not come naturally to me as some may think.  I have to hone in on it.  I chisel away at creating those word pictures that best captures the experience.  It may take some fifteen minutes to write something that in retrospect would take me two hours.  I am a perfectionist.  Still, I have much to improve upon.

My passion to write does not diminish.  It never has.  There have been numerous occasions, far too many to count, where I have imagined how I would piece together an experience onto page.  How would I describe it?  What words would I choose?  How would the five senses come alive?  How could I enable the reader to feel; touch; see; taste; and hear. 

I contemplate how best I can invite people to participate.  I want them to feel, think, and be moved.  Movies such as Rudy, Field of Dreams, and Man Without a Face inspire me to write.  I suppose it is much like a puzzle to me.  Every word has to fit accordingly or it does not belong.  This could be to my benefit or to a demise.  I laboriously pour all my energy into creating something of value, meaning.  In so doing, I want to resuscitate readers from boring jargon into a world of liberation.  I hope to paint pictures through terminolgy that motivates minds to something greater. 

My desire is that you will celebrate life through the entries.  They may strike a chord, alleviate some remnant of pain, or simply be used to usher in a sense of joy, peace, and freedom.  I reside in Gilbert, Arizona.  I am a full-time time speaker by design and a secretive writer by all hours of the day.