To See Anew & a window into my journey with writing

It's been a very long time since I have posted anything on this blog, but it's not because I haven't been writing. In December 2018, I gathered all the poems I could find that I had written between 2010 and 2018 and compiled them in a first little chapbook for some friends and family members, which I entitled "To See Anew."

It was my first foray into sharing some of my writing since graduating from college over a decade earlier, and it felt a bit like letting a fragile baby bird leave the nest. But I was encouraged by the gentleness with which my friends and family treated my "fledglings," and spurred on by their feedback to continue writing.

On January 9, 2019, feverish and in that peculiar liminal space between awake and asleep, I penned a few lines that, as I read now a year later, resonate with me once again:

There’s a greenhouse at the bottom of my garden

      where half-baked dreams go to live

            until it’s time to sprout (to bud, to become

            what they were meant to be)

They coexist in happy understanding that

      each belongs –

            no matter how undeveloped

It’s a messy but joyous place where

      each dream is safe to sit at a

      welcoming table in the peaceful

            gray haze

Over the past year, I've seen some of those "half-baked dreams" begin to take shape, while others remain in the hazy greenhouse. 

When they've blossomed in the form of a poem or bit of prose, I have jotted them down, not sure if I'd ever do something with them, but simply seeking to welcome them at the often-messy table of creativity.

As I continue on my quest "to see anew," I am learning to embrace the mess and unfinished nature of what I create, to take joy in the weight of an acorn in my palm, in the whisper of wind through pines stretching skyward overhead, in the taste of words rolling across my tongue...

A singer-songwriter friend of mine has an album called We are all rough drafts (Elise Massa). I love that! And it is true both of me and of my writing.

As a new year and a new decade begin, I feel moved to share some of my "fledglings" with a slightly larger audience than before by posting them on here in the coming weeks and months. May they spur you on to give shape or voice to some of your own "half-baked dreams" and create in your own unique ways.

As Christa Wells sings in "Shine,"

"Yes, we could lay our talents in the earth

We could pile on our doubt like dirt

Or we can shine - 

He shines his light through a prism

We give back what we're given

To color this world...

Be the friend you never had

Be the one to take a stand

Say it your way, say it your way, say it your own way...

Shine, we shine His light refracted"

As we all shine in 2020, I pray that the world will be richer, more loving, and more beautiful for it.

Beside the pool

As I sat one morning pondering Jesus' question to the invalid in their encounter in John 5:1-9, the following lines came to me:

The stranger’s question haunts my heart with hope:

            Do you want to be healed?

The flickering embers of “what if” had long since grown cold.

38 immobile years taught me “I have no one.”

Resigned to see nothing but impossibility:

            “While I am going another steps down before me.”

I’ve chosen the path of self-protection –

            isolation in the midst of a needy multitude.

But DO I want to be healed?

My lips tell him it can’t be done before my heart can truly decide.

And then in an instant he gives me wholeness –

            Grace I never knew

“Get up, take up your bed, and walk.”

This stranger knows my deepest desires better than I.

January 7, 2017

And here's a much older poem that I recently rediscovered, written for my mom on Oct. 4, 2010:

"Clear Fingernail Polish"

It’s nearly gone now.

The invisible link that strangely binds us across the miles

You’ve probably forgotten the gift

But I remember – as I see my hands each day,

I’m reminded of your care

The quick strokes of love that left my fingers

            shining as I flew off for adventures

                        - in trust

                                    - in freedom and dependence

            on the One your hands and mine lift to praise.

Though I know I will when it’s time,

I don’t want to cut them.

Perhaps an inner longing has kept the solvent away –

            sitting untouched on the bottom shelf,

                        unable to sever our ties

Which I know – with thanksgiving –

            run far deeper than the remnants of

            clear fingernail polish gracing my fingers

with the tender kiss of yours.

Crescendo Eyes

When I slow down enough to see, I find that others' "seeing" moves me. At least that is what I found when I spent two weeks in Tokaj, Hungary this summer, surrounded by remarkable musicians from nearly 40 countries for the Crescendo Summer Institute.

The eyes of some of the people I met inspired the following lines that I'm calling "poetic eye sketches" - brief impressions that provide tiny glimpses into who these people are as seen through who I am - as eyes meet eyes. I am changed by them and ever so grateful.

Just a few of the eyes that inspired these poetic "sketches"...

One

A steady welcome without pretense

     and humble certainty,

stirred together with freckled joy,

pulses from her eyes.

Two

Waves of peace emanate from the fresh crystalline twinkle,

arching over cheekbones like tendrils toward the object of delight.

Three

In an instant her eyes are alive and dancing,

responding to the warm hello that says,

     “I see you and think you’re worth knowing.”

Four

A tinge of mystery mingles with the thanksgiving she extends as our eyes meet.

Precious stories of other meetings,

     and the guarded treasures of her soul,

     I may never know,

but her brown irises whisper safety.

  

Five

There’s coffee in her eyes –

the sweet aroma and familiar warmth of a morning greeting

     welcoming me into the day.

Six

Tired eyes looking down didn’t know

they missed the blessing I sought to deliver

     not only with my voice.

Seven

Steady gaze of collaborative energy

     to try something new and succeed – together.

Eight

Blank proximity changed to a gift,

     eyes wrapping into mine

          in a quick ribbon curl

               of ubuntu.

Nine

The tops of his cheekbones wink,

     joining his kindly eyes in a gesture of hospitality.

Perhaps the God of whom he speaks loves with eyes like his?

Ten

Scintillating jewels dancing with fiery elation speak

     nearly as much as her arms sing

Eleven

Perceived pride or icy indifference melt away in a side-by-side encounter.

     Darkness reveals we are alike.

Those eyes contained laughter all along for those willing to look.

Twelve

Her eyes caught me in a warm embrace in the candle-glow.

A shared history – and words of life I had forgotten – its impetus.

Thirteen

Gentle vulnerability dons a cloak of radiance as eyes turn heavenward,

     deep trust giving strength to their fragility.

Fourteen

Eyes meet with a choice.

Partial permission to enter –

Testing trust anew.

Fifteen

The laughter in her deep brown eyes invites all those she meets to join the party,

     saying, “You are beautiful and wanted here.”

Sixteen

Eyes that share my fascination with eyes –

Digging below the surface with calm patience.

Fierce and playful, brimming with creative power,

Inviting you to adventures.

A new one and an old one

It has been a long time since I felt any inspiration to write. But spending two weeks surrounded by remarkable musicians/artists at Crescendo Summer Institute and slowing down the pace enough to notice and wonder sparked some new creativity in me. So here's a new poem and an old one, too.

August 7, 2015

They cut the wheat when I wasn’t looking.

Seasons change, as do I,

Dancing with alternating tentative and certain steps toward hopeful green –

Though much must die before it comes.

The golden barrenness is beautiful, too –

A waiting, exposed, having given all to nourish others.

He told us the desert is total openness to the sky, whose liturgy is one of waiting.

And so, like shorn wheat, we wait for the rains of renewal. 

* "He" refers to András Visky, speaking during the International Service at Crescendo Summer Institute, July 26, 2015

July 15, 2011 – Perelle Bay, Guernsey 5:15-6pm – Watching the tide come in

Advancing waves invite retreat

from my rocky perch

Later to command it

Knowing it is they not I

who have come before

and will persist

Creeping slowly onward

but a whisper and a glimmer

signal their coming

Among rocks immovable

the stealthy troops advance

Surrounding and submerging the

slumbering stone sentinels

A gush of excitement to fill a new

valley adds to the low din

Then moving stillness again

Waiting for reinforcements for

the next climb

A breeze of warning before their arrival

tells me I haven't heeded

Soon they will leave me no choice

In smug confidence onward marching

gathering new courage with each 

well-placed step

rejoicing in their imagined lordship

insatiable in their transfixing greed

I shall yield to their transient rule

knowing

- as does my rocky seat - 

that dawn shall peel back their icy cover,

morning sun reverse their victory

Poem for a Sunday afternoon

Green

Yesterday, drooping, you gave up hope,

Your silent screams becoming again a language I could read.

Interpreting my behavior as indifference,

            you buried your dreams, contenting yourself with survival

                        -- I don’t blame you.

Accustomed to our cyclical dance,

I apologetically did my part and,

when my back was turned,

you reassumed your habitually proud posture.

For some time I had known that this

lush green masquerade

was belying your true condition –

Stifled by walls of opposition, you could grow no further.

But in my selfish hurry, I chose the comfortable blindness of

Someday (Later).

Though I know not why, Someday came today,

            Replacing my denial with a wild love

                        that left you exposed –

            Roots pressed, redoubled back in wishful self-deceit

 -- or perhaps resilient hope

-- if you kept reaching, maybe, just maybe…

You were right to hold fast to that hidden glimmer

For now, safe in new soil, you’re free to dream again.
The color of hope becomes you.

 

 

I've never been much of a house plant person, but this plant I got about a year ago as a birthday present is teaching me more about life and love than I expected, especially today as I finally transplanted it. Observing the roots as I did so got me asking all sorts of questions like, "In what ways do I choose to keep growing roots in spaces that are too small instead of moving (metaphorically) to new soil (the greatly desired but also feared space of growth)?"  À méditer...