these trips to the bottom
where the dwellers
have
no one to call
bottom dwellers
they live in cellars
they eat the soil
and crunch it between
earthworm teeth
and they're lively as
salamanders
blind though they be
they squiggle and tumble
over each other
to get to you
to give you one
greasy kiss
if not careful they'll
bore their way inside
like spagetti through
sucking lips
and live there chuckling
in your belly
while you take them
back to the surface
but the trick is
they've tied themselves
to their dirty friends
so you either
bring them all
or take one more trip
back
to the bottom

There is a reason for my recent silence on the blogosphere. The last month has been truly introspective. Whether it was because my mother needed someone to dog-sit for her (which means I spend nights away from Eralda as the dogs wake Jack up with their barking), or because I've been deathly ill and had to stay in bed (I got strep-throat and a stone in each kidney at the same time), I've spent plenty of time alone.

Time alone for Bryan has traditionally been a scary thing. Being an only child growing up, I was forced to seek companionship inside my own head. I had the most vivid menagerie of imaginary friends! There was Paul, my sidekick who was (almost) as good of a ninja as I was, there was Victoria (my wife) who constantly needed my protection, Tip-O-Hare (who manifested himself in reality as a large stuffed bunny), and the list goes on. Somewhere along the line I became jaded with these friends, and began ignoring their appearances on the sidelines of my imagination. I wonder if part of the reason I hate being alone is because I'm afraid of their ghosts.

Ever since my falling-out with imaginary friends, alone time has consisted of distracting myself with whatever quick and easy waste of time available: surfing the net, eating, surfing the net some more, TV, movies... it doesn't matter really, as long as it doesn't involve being alive.

I don't know if it's maturity or what, but I find myself less able to let idle moments be spent dying silently of doing stupid things. I've been able to force myself to invest more of this time in reading good books, writing, coding, or playing the guitar. The payoff has been great. I feel much more... creative.

What is conspicuously missing for a missionary bound for foreign lands in little over a year, however, is any mention of spiritual pursuits. Sure, I read the Bible -- I have to, as I'm teaching classes at Church. Sure, I sneak prayers in the crevices between activities, but where are the intentional seekings of the presence of God? Absent. Why?

The Why, I am coming to find, is a very personal Why. It is a Why that is deeply rooted in who I am, who I'm afraid I am, and who I'm afraid to become. The Why, most simply, is fear in the face of God. People can be managed and shown what they want to see. God, however, is the awl that drills inexorably to my core.

So forgive my absence for awhile. I'm undergoing a (sometimes painful) Root Canal of the soul. I will be faithful to my friends, however, so stay tuned.

In the meantime, if you still haven't caught up with Web 2.0 and you're still manually visiting each blog you read, do yourself a favor and save the five precious minutes it takes you each time you check.