I'm sitting outside of Starbucks. The sun is beginning to set and the weather feels like it looks in those family movies where the opening scene is looking down a neighborhood street where there are tall tree's on both sides and all the colors are very warm and vibrant. I just finished watching an interview with Donald Miller (thank you Kim) and now I'm listening to Sigur Ros. I always end up feeling inspired after listening to or reading something by Donald Miller. Something just always resonates well with me... He has this ability to express the way he feels sometimes, and I often feel the exact same way, and it's always a reassuring feeling to know that another person understands that feeling. It's usually not even something intellectual or deep either (so I don't come across as being an arrogant sob).

I feel very peaceful and serene at the moment. Content with just sitting and watching life happen for a few minutes. I associate this peaceful feeling with God.

There are a couple books I would really like purchase here in a little bit. Here's a short list of them:

Jesus For President by Shane Claiborne and Chris Haw
Vintage Jesus by Mark Driscoll
The Reason for God by Tim Keller
Sailing Alone Around the Room by Billy Collins
The Drawing of Heinrich Kley by Heinrich Kley

Here are two poem's I really like, their by the man named Billy Collins from the list above:

Introduction to Poetry

I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide

or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,

or walk inside the poem’s room
and feel the walls for a light switch.

I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author’s name on the shore.

But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.

They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.

Dancing Toward Bethlehem

If there is only enough time in the final
minutes of the twentieth century for one last dance
I would like to be dancing it slowly with you,

say, in the ballroom of a seaside hotel.
My palm would press into the small of your back
as the past hundred years collapsed into a pile
of mirrors or buttons or frivolous shoes,

just as the floor of the ninteenth century gave way
and disappeared in a red cloud of brick dust.
There will be no time to order another drink
or worry about what was never said,

not with the orchestra sliding into the sea
and all our attention devoted to humming
whatever it was they were playing.