Joseph Kreydt

Tag: meditation

  • The Pain of a Beloved’s Pain

    A handwritten page from a notebook containing a reflective text about dignity, self-worth, and the implications of treating others as divine.
    When someone sees you as a god — a woman degrades herself because she sees you as the one who gives her value — the loving response always involves some sort of crucifixion. For the undignified woman, your own desires and any potential response which does not aim to restore her dignity must be killed, no matter how painfully, in such a way that her own dignity can be restored without shame.

    The pain Christ feels is not because our sins hurt him. It’s because it hurts to see a beloved one degrade or afflict their self. In the crucifixion, he takes our degradation and affliction upon himself. That is the preferable pain when someone you love is hurting.

  • The Lightness of Quiet

    I’ll open the window.
    You, in your warm way,
    Welcome in the nighttime hush.

    The heavy words
    We’ve carried all week
    We’ll offer, quiet, to the breeze.

    To a hearer, between us
    Won’t be much,
    But to a seer will be everything.

    In this witnessed solitude
    Our spirits have a ballroom.
    In the silence between us
    They slow dance.

  • The Pain Is Your Living

    A handwritten poem written in a notebook, expressing themes of individuality, resilience, and the importance of staying true to oneself.
    The world wants you
    To be a tool for its use.
    Refuse.
    Hold your brokenness high.
    Your bleeding wounds, lift up.
    The pain, don’t trade it for anything.
    It is your living.
    Do not fit in,
    Especially when it costs you money,
    Especially, especially, especially
    When it costs you you.
    Give up every happiness
    To stay wild.
    Give up everything
    To love the one who sets you free.

  • Is It Pride?

    A handwritten poem on a dotted notebook page, exploring themes of identity, existence, and belonging, with questions about pride, love, and home.

    it it pride?
    seizes my heart
    clings, desperate
    to be held
    to be known
    to be understood

    where is the wine
    that falls from the skies
    to rain dance
    to baptize

    is letting go
    something you do
    or something
    you don’t do?

    is it death
    or is it life?

    something in me
    longs like a child
    who lost his mother

    where is home?

  • Crowding Out Thorny Worries

    A close-up of handwritten notes in a notebook, reflecting on personal growth and introspection, with phrases about nurturing and managing inner thoughts.
    Inside of me,
    A place where wild things roam,
    A flock I must shepherd,
    A garden I must tend

    Through storms and attacks,
    Famine, entropy, growth...growth
    — Is it not all growth?

    Growth to be hedged and pruned,
    Encouraged here, enticed there,
    To be nurtured into something beautiful.

    And what of these thorny worries?
    I've let them grow, expecting fruit,
    But they've only become a mess.

    I try pruning,
    But they only grow back stronger.
    Instead, I'll try to crowd them out.

    I'll scatter, all among them,
    Little seeds of prayer, and of faith
    That I'll receive the grace
    To handle whatever comes, when it comes.

  • Death Without Death

    Handwritten text on a page discussing selflessness and love for others, featuring a question about dying to oneself and a reference to a biblical quote.

    How do we die to ourselves without suicide?

    We live for another. We give up every part of us that says “I.” We forget ourselves with another who forgets their self. We close the eyes that watch out for the self, and open the eyes that watch out for the other. We do everything for the good of that other, and do nothing for the good of the self except in that it is for the good of the other. In doing this, we strip ourselves of the self God gave us as an act of giving, in love, to God.

    “Do you love me? Feed my sheep.”

    To die without death is to defeat death, to take away its power.

  • Matter is a Phase of Consciousness

    A handwritten note discussing philosophical ideas about consciousness and existence, featuring a metaphor of everything created as a flowing river.

    Since the moment it entered my mind, perhaps a year ago now, I’ve been unable or unwilling to let go of the notion that “matter is a phase of consciousness.”

    I imagine it like this. Everything created is a flowing river. Sometimes, something uncreated splashes into the river and creates ripples. Those ripples are our material lives. They are us from dust. And when they even back out, we are still there in the flowing river.

    Is this notion only delightful? Or is it true?

  • Goodbye Hello

    Goodbyes hurt.

    I must admit there is beauty in that. The hurt tells me I have a heart, and that I loved. It tells me to connect and stay. These are nice things to say to someone. Still, I’d rather not say goodbye.

    But there are so many goodbyes in this world that we have lost our sense of place. We no longer place flowers on the graves of our kin. Where are they, anyway? They’re not here. They’re in the place we left. Instead, we tithe and sacrifice and build digital monuments to the god of travel. We fly for him. We say goodbye for him. But not all of us. Some of us stay home. Some of us tend the gardens. Some of us keep watch. I prefer place. I like to stay.

    And if you’re the same, I say, hello.

  • Laughter is a Bridge

    When I was eleven years old, I rode a boat to Catalina Island with my family.

    At that age, my number one priority in life was to laugh, so, naturally, I brought a whoopee cushion with me.

    A couple foreign men were seated near us, saying something in another language. They were inches away, but they might as well have been in another country.

    That was, until they saw me tricking my grandma into sitting on the whoopee cushion. Then they started laughing. We all made eye contact and connected almost like old friends.

    We bonded over simulated farts, and I learned that laughter is a universal tongue. It’s a bridge that connects souls even when the high walls of language divide them.

  • My Contribution to Journalism

    There’s a lot of journalism about the dark things. That’s important because we can’t be whole until we integrate what is in our shadows and we can’t integrate what is in our shadows until they are illuminated.

    But I have something else to report. This can be my contribution to journalism.

    There are beautiful walkways cloaked in fresh air. And as the sun sets, the clouds have turned pink and purple and orange at the same time. And there’s a sycamore tree that has seen more sameness than I ever will. And two fawns are having a bedtime snack in a field. And the air is cool, but not enough for a sweater. And the moon is half, and the color of half and half.

    Broadcasting from just north of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, I’m Joseph Kreydt. To all the dark places and to all the light, good night.