Writing – Opportunity Unleashed

Wooing Words — a Poetic Reflection

It didn’t come to me like a dove or a bow-kissed sky.

It came to me like a chain,

And a ball,

And a chunk of long, hard time.

At Christmas, it was laughter,

Sprung out of silence

Like birdsong in a winter field.

But Mondays…

It was the quotidian traffic of words and syllables and letters that desperately needed an officer

To shout, and blow his whistle, and

Move them along.

…

I’m learning to shout like the officer.

I see his uniform, and the shiny buttons on his coat,

The orderly way the words obey his commands.

I want to be like that, but

Characters are capricious creatures, and philosophies even more fickle.

Still, I’m finding there’s a knack of it.

There’s a time for harsh words and whistles that shriek above the street,

But there’s a friendship, too.

It’s a hospitality,

Like old Mrs. Reyburne, who takes me in and fills my hands with tea and biscuits.

I’ve got to offer tea to even the least of these letters.

I’ve got to fill them up with sweets and let them overflow and spill out into meaning,

Word Puddles

of reflected shapes and refracted light

That coalesce

To form the rainbow that wasn’t there before,

And brings the olive branch at last into view.

It didn’t come to me like a dove or a bow-kissed sky,

Until I asked it to come in and stay a while.

Searching for Inspiration? Stop it!

A grassy field with mountains in background. Photo by Lachlan Ross on Pexels.com.

I waste a lot of my life searching for inspiration, or maybe using the excuse that that’s what I’m doing, when really what I’m doing is scrolling mindlessly through facebook, getting trapped in the youtube wormhole, or sorting through old files on my computer. I’ve always been a good procrastinator. Probably it comes naturally at some level, but the pro-procrastinator quickly realizes that she has to come up with excellent reasons for her procrastination. One of mine is that I just haven’t “felt that spark” to start writing yet, so I need to wait a little longer until it comes. More often than I would like, the process continues until the spark of desperation, rather than inspiration, arrives, and I realize I have a quickly approaching deadline and have to get to it.

While this strategy is effective in situations where there is a firm external deadline, it is utterly useless in situations, like my own independent projects, where the only deadline is set, and can easily be adjusted, by me. This leads me to believe that my “search for inspiration” method leaves a lot to be desired, and is probably seriously stunting my productivity, especially because I’m not sure I’ve ever actually been struck by inspiration while on these absent wanderings through the virtual environment.

People have different opinions about the way creativity works. I’ve heard some say that “forcing” creativity is not even possible, but I don’t see how that jibes with the centuries of commissioned music and art that we consider among the most magnificent human works in history. As far as I can tell, if you don’t dig the well, you’ll never get the water. I’m not saying digging wells is necessarily the most fun… it’s a sweaty task, and you could be exposing yourself to some poisonous gases on the way, but it’s worth it when you finally have a source of fresh, clean water at your disposal. Keep in mind, too, that the more you dig wells, the better you will be at doing it. It will always be work, but you will grow in strength, technique, and efficiency as you go.

I feel like if I applied my “search for inspiration” method to digging a well, it would be like wandering around a field waiting for a shovel to fall out of the sky and start hacking at the ground of its own volition while I busy myself examining daisies and cloud formations. A toddler could tell me that ain’t gonna get me water, but for some reason I’m convinced it’ll one day bring me art.

Alls I’m saying is doing the same thing over and over again expecting different results is the definition of insanity… and I’m tired of being creatively insane.

Staying Still for Colin

It’s my little brother’s birthday today. I cannot believe how old and tall he is! Isn’t it a funny moment when your cute little brother suddenly becomes your very hansom, tall brother? Seriously, he’s like a foot taller than me now… maybe more.

Anyway, these are my reflections on memories from 20 years ago when my baby brother was born. I miss and love you lots, Colin! Happy birthday!

I’m wearing my favorite dress… well, one of them. It’s the button up, with the pockets and the wide collar that looks like a slice of watermelon. I am glad I’m dressed up, because I’m a big sister now. I’m going to see my little brother. Being a big sister is an important job, and I want to look the part… especially because I want Mom to let me hold him. Only big, responsible girls get to hold baby brothers.

Grandmother says that we’re almost there. I see huge buildings and a parking lot filled with cars. There’s an apple on the seat next to me… the one my big brother refused to eat. He doesn’t like apples. I wonder if my little brother will like apples… he probably won’t be able to eat them until he’s three like me though.

We walk down a long hallway. It’s white tile and bright lights, and there are windows to our right. I see babies through the windows, in little boxes. Is he in there? I peer through the windows as we pass. There’s a dark-skinned baby… Is that him? I see a baby that looks a lot more like me, blonde and white-skinned, but then we’re turning into a room, and there’s my brother.

He’s curled in my Mom’s arms, wrapped in blankets. All I can see is his little pink face. Mom smiles at us. My big brother and I run to her bedside. Mom takes my hand and lets me touch his head, urging me to “be gentle.’

I am… I can’t imagine being anything else. My fingers brush over feathery baby fuzz, and I can’t believe he’s real. He’s just like my baby doll, Elizabeth, only warm, and breathing, and a boy.

I’m jumping up and down and asking if I can hold him. I can’t help it. I’ve been waiting for this moment forever! Mom says if I sit on the bed next to her and stay very still, I can hold him. I clamber on the bed and sit very still on top of the blankets. He’s in my arms, warm and heavy and full of sleep.

I’m a big sister, and I can’t stop smiling.

When Weighty Cares Beset Your Soul — A Prayer for 2018

This is just a small bit of verse that came to me as I prayed that the Lord would use this year as he pleases. Undoubtedly amateur in terms of poetry, but I’d thought I’d share anyway, since the sentiment is sincere, if nothing else.

When weighty cares beset your soul

Rejoice, oh heart, the Lord extol,

For in his hands each trial finds rest,

To ease the anxious, grief-burned breast.

And when the swords of men draw near,

Remember then his side, the spear.

He took for you the shame for sin,

And granted you new life in him.

And if one day the tempest rage,

Should cast you out into the waves,

Look up to see your sleeping Lord,

And know his peace means you restored.

For never did he like Jonah stray,

Or from his father turn away,

The righteous life we could not live,

He by grace through faith will give.

“Your faith,” he’ll say, “has made you well.”

So we need never taste of hell,

For though we only death deserved,

Jesus came to heal our hurt.

Oh let me never forget thy grace,

That cleanses me from every trace,

Of sin and every evil thing,

Which kept me from my God and king.

Oh that. thy Word and thine alone

Might be for me foundation stone

And when the mighty waters come

I shall say, “Thy will be done.”

Thankful for Imperfect Art

Art is an earthly representation of the creative power of God, dim and weak in comparison, but undoubtedly so. We are made in his image, and being made in his image we display, like him, the ability to create and to breath life into our creations. As an artist, I often find that my creations die too early, or, at least, do not reach full maturity because I forsake them, citing their imperfections as my excuse.

And then it struck me. What if God had done that with his imperfect art?

All things were good when he made them—perfectly good—but they did not stay that way. God gave his creatures a will, a will which could choose to follow him or turn from him. In turning from him, we turned from perfection, and thus into imperfection.

Still, God did not do as I would have done. He did not forsake his art. Rather, he pursued it, even became a part of it when he saw fit to take the form of a babe, born amongst peasants, suffer the lowly, hungry life of a working man, and was denied and crucified by the very imperfect creations he had come to pursue and perfect.

How many songs have I left unsung? How many stories and poems and articles have I left undeveloped and unfinished due to my petty frustration over their iniquities? Undoubtedly hundreds, but I am thankful that God shows me a different way. Even now I am tempted to leave this bit of writing undone. I am tempted to quit the document and never look back at it, too unsatisfied with this sentence, or that word, or the whole concept in general… but I, too, am an imperfect creation, and my creator did not abandon me to non-existence due to my defects. As an artist, I have a responsibility to my art to develop it, to give it at least a chance at life, even considering its deficiencies.

Thus, as an expression of my thanks in this regard, I hope to be a more responsible creator in the coming year. In my quest to become more like Jesus, I hope that I will pursue my art, like he did, and gift it existence even when I feel it doesn’t deserve it. Here begins my fight against perfectionism, which has long been the, often victorious, enemy of my work. It will be a long-fought battle, of that I am certain, but if it was worth it to God, it is worth it to me.