Words From My College Apartment

I was going through an old Gmail account and found some old pieces from a Poetry 101 class at JMU.  I've written previously about the peace that I've found in putting creativity down on paper, so I thought I would share some of that with you...


Self-Portrait as a Painting

If I was a painting,
Frozen on glossy eggshell white,
Dulled and muted by gallery light,
How much would you pay for me?

Eyes of green olives,
And skin, thirsty sand,
The bending strokes of my body blended with imperfection.
Hang me above your mahogany bed.

In the silence of a soaking rain,
Dress turned transparent, my hair, a jungle-gym slide,
Arms outstretched and reaching.
I’ll tell you about how I used to dance.

And in the still
Of your companionless room,
A twinkling piano will play
And you’ll wish I was
More than just a picture you bought.


Lost Boy

A Sestina

This blue eyed boy waddles forward
Down the beach, as concerned parents watch.
His lonesome footprints so tiny carve stairs 

In the sand. He’s gone adrift
Like the jellyfish, lying dead, a pink balloon
Deflated. He pokes at it curiously with his finger.

Sandy and wet, he slowly brings the slimed finger
To his nose, inhales, and continues forward
Along the shore, long with towels like a hot air balloon.
Not concerned that he’s alone, he looks up to watch
An airplane. It’s droning roar floating as drift-

Wood on a wave. He makes his way down tide-made stairs.

Spying on Pop-pop

He’s reading in his vanilla ice cream chair.
(That’s what I call it, I’m seven.)
His tortoise-shell glasses perched on the tip of his nose,
While Doublemint bubbles expand and crack.
He hums along to Kenny Loggins,
His voice swallowing the melody
That sweeps the house like a warm southern wind.
Dinner’s almost ready.
The butter shushes angrily as Nana slices it into the saucepan.
Startled, he looks up from his book; I’m caught.
“KateyBaby!” He welcomes me onto his knee,
and quickly I must leave
my fortress of dolls and bears
To climb up to him.
He asks for a concert from his world famous flutist or
Maybe just a song from choir, only a verse.

I don’t play anymore, my flute
Collects dust like his picture on the table.
But I can still sing.

Tell me what to sing,

and I'll sing it. 

I miss seeing and thinking about the world this way.  I'm going to start dedicating more time to being still and sharing the words that come from that silence.  Other writers out there, what prompts you to pull out a pen and notepad, or a napkin, or glowing screen? 

A Remedy for Spirit Concussions

It's been a tough couple of weeks.  You know the kind where you just want to throw your hands up and yell into the infinite abyss, "Enough! Enough, already!"  I feel bruised and shaken and I keep wanting to write about it, but then it turns into this Dementor-like pity party, and that's not what I want this space to be.

So instead, I'm going to fill it with things that I'm thankful for. Gratitude seems to be the perfect medicine for spirit concussions.  And I'm not talking about slapping a band-aid on what we are feeling and skipping way with a daisy in hand. No. I'm talking about owning what we're feeling, digging deep, reeling in the truth if it's a little foggy, and moving on with a thankful heart and a plan for progress.  There is a time a sit in the dark, and then there is time to look up and feel the sun on your face.

Today, I'm thankful for:

• Friends, who not only listen, but want to come into my space and sit with me.
• Friends who let me snug with their sweet babies while we wait for our own. 
• Time spent reading poetry with my Nana on her screened in porch.
• The opportunity to watch my cousins grow and develop into some genuinely cool people who are going to make this world a better place. 
• Long and intentional hugs from David when I walk in the door. 
• The safety and sanctity that comes with being married to an honorable, encouraging, and compassionate man. 
• This phase of my life, where I am finally discovering just who I am and the sound of my own voice. 
• The people who have helped me and empowered me to get to this place. 
• The summer oasis of my parent's backyard.
• The feeling of the first sip of ice-cold sangria. 
• This kid...

What are you thankful for today? 

He is the Same

When I find myself in the midst of uncertainty, confusion, fear, it always helps me to write. To get this swirling, spiraling, snowballing mess out of my mind and onto a page. Something I can hold and see, words that are the same every time I read them. There is comfort in returning to something that will always be the same, when so much of life is constantly in flux. I don't know what will end up on this page, but I know I need to see these words in front of me.

This weekend, my heart and my spirit were wrecked.  When I close my eyes, I see the sweet, pure smiling faces of those kids, the passion and love the teachers had for them. I see the terror and shock of their parents, friends and siblings.  I want to be in their homes and hold these families and rock in the dampness of our tears together. I can't turn off the news because I want to feel their sorrow and heartache, so they know they aren't alone.  I don't want to turn the other way. I don't want to pretend it didn't happen, because it did. 

I came across this post the other day, and it was such a great reminder of God's unchanging love for his children. There is such peace in knowing that God is still good, God is still great, even in the midst of such evil and brokenness. Just like words on a page, He is the same.

(Warning: the following is a look into my constant wrestling match with God's being...)  But there is part of me that is still confused.  If God is sovereign and in control...why didn't He step in on Friday? In His "perfect timing," why didn't He intervene and save the 20 children and 6 women who had so much left to give this world?  Even if He did give us free will, and even if we do choose to turn away from Him at times, why didn't He protect the innocent that morning?

I guess I could ask the same thing about His own Son... he could have intervened and saved Jesus from the cross, a punishment for a crime he didn't commit...but then where would we be? The stone would still be blocking His tomb.  There would be no victory over death. We would have no hope of Heaven. But writing that doesn't take away the sorrow of knowing that these families are grieving so heavily, though.  It makes me wish that God's nature wasn't so mysterious.  That His ways and timing made more sense.  That the innocent didn't pay for the sin of the wicked...

I don't think we're supposed to understand.  There is no making sense of this.  What we are supposed to do is be God's hands, and ears,and mouth and shoulders.  We're supposed to invite Him into this pain and feel it with us, because He does, and He will. 

I'll leave you with one of my favorite Christmas songs, "I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day."  I love the last verse...

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep

"God is not dead, nor does He sleep

The wrong shall fail, the right prevail

With peace on earth, goodwill to men."

Write it Down.

(Get your mind out of the gutter...)

After listening to a simply wonderful NPR segment today on my way into the city, I heard the most liberating and restorative poem: 

I didn’t trust it.
But I drank it anyway
The wine of my own poetry.
 

It gave me the daring,
To take hold of the darkness
and cut it into pieces.
—Lalla, A Sufi Poet

What an image! Gripping your suffering and pain with white knuckles and cutting it up with sharp shears, like a love letter from someone you thought you could trust. 

I used to write poetry. One of my favorite times in college was the small family that grew out of a basic level poetry class.   We took risks, and some shared deep dark parts that were hidden by snow white dresses.  I miss it, desperately.  

From my own experience, writing can be such an integral part of healing and recovery.  It allows for the sorting out of all those pesky and painful thoughts that buzz around in your head like bees.  It puts them in plain sight and helps you to become reacquainted with yourself again.  

You don't have to be a poet. Just put the pen or your favorite Ticonderoga to some paper and let it fly.  My Nana used to tell me to spend 10 minutes a day writing. It didn't matter what.  When I would visit her, she would come up with a prompt and we would set the clock and start scribbling down whatever came to mind.  Sometimes I would surprise myself when the little bell rang and read over the words that had spilled out on the page.  I remember feeling lighter, like dropping a heavy suitcase to the floor after a long day of traveling. 

I'm going to start writing again. You should too.  Just see what happens.

Need some help?  Check out a daily writing prompt website like Writer's Digest!