I saw the path ahead converge with others that I know.
Each traveled from a separate way into a broader flow.
For just a while we interwove our steps into a dance,
The time well-spent as everyone enjoyed the happy chance.
Some jogged, some ran, some stopped to rest, or linked their arms to talk;
And though the roads diverged as each continued on the walk,
I felt refreshed by journey’s dance in Holy Spirit might,
Rememb’ring He directs me and guides others in His light.
8/12/07
Category: Writings
Somehow… I still wake up and get out of bed in the morning.
Somehow… I still care that people love me enough to tell me.
Somehow… I still steer through the daily drudgeries
Though so many crazy distractions drag at me.
Somehow… I keep finding the treasure of family moments.
Somehow… I keep remembering how integral my faith is.
Somehow… I keep on going when I want to
Stop walking, sit down and let the world pass me by.
Somehow… Someway… I refuse to give up
What I believe I am supposed to be doing and being…
And only God knows how I CAN face the next day,
But with His help, I am going to!
I heard my heart echoing emotions long forgotten
As I listened to songs so precious so long ago.
They are sweet to my soul, reminding me of
Things hidden in the treasure chest of memory—
Like the tangible abiding love of Jesus
It seems I was born with, but at the least
Knew when I was four begging the baptismal
Death and resurrection of commitment to Christ.
Lyrics ingrained in my heart, though thought forgot,
Came to my lips readily and some ocean-sized feeling,
Unnamable, intangible, roared in me…
Something akin to joyful sorrow
Like knowing you can never go home again,
But home is always with you anyway.
Passion stirred up a maelstrom!
I thought with wonder, I knew this! I remember that!
How could I forget… about God’s love and faithfulness.
The childlike expectation of end-time imminence
Rushed through my being again, and
I remember what it felt like to really care
That the world around me needs Him desperately,
That I should reach out every chance I get to share
How amazing His grace is,
How infinitely incredible it is to be redeemed,
Freed from the burden of guilt and
Free to find joy in living through His Holy Spirit
Even when life is hard—
All the things I thought I knew and shared already.
First love is different the second time around,
But it still transforms somehow.
Nostalgia cannot change the past,
But my present is being changed
Thanks to all those who chose to share
The memories of God’s revolutionary work of love
In those days of hungry passion for Him,
When people didn’t just say they wanted to make a difference…
They MADE a difference!
And all those changed lives sat, listened, stood, and cheered last night,
In hopes that we can all awaken to the realness beyond reality
And go out and alter the world around us NOW.
Society is saturated beyond a capacity to absorb
Another drop of Jesus—
Heard the message preached at them over and over
Until inoculation was complete.
Culture repels the efforts of a half-hearted church…
A church convinced of its own worthiness
Painted white panels against a background
Colored by the unrighteousness of the common populace
While blind to the deadness inside the beautiful buildings on
Perfectly manicured properties with trite sayings on signs.
Churches swipe chunks of neighborhood for
Bigger, better displays of perfection
While the hungry community curses the cliques,
Wonders why all the resources don’t
Feed them… emotionally… physically…
Or clothe their naked misery…
Or pay their hopelessly unpaid creditors…
As they wait for eviction on top
Of rejection by the oh-so-holier-than-thou
Who whisper, “Come be like us,”
While they turn up their smug noses and
Throw their guilty stones.
Such behavior makes the realist’s blood boil,
But the humble man isn’t in or out—
Doesn’t fit inside the immaculate,
Makes the unclean uncomfortable in a wistful sort of way.
He is reluctant to reject either “holy” or “profane,”
Finds truth in both realms, friends in both cultures…
Like Jesus who ate with
Simon the Pharisee and Zaccheus the tax-collector,
Who listened equally to
Nicodemus the council ruler and Bartimæus the blind beggar.
Structures, after all, are only artificial human constructs—
Some effort by humanity to box in the incomprehensible.
It’s true of buildings, communities, governments… even “cultures.”
Society may be over-absorbed, Church may be over-arrogant,
But humble men walk among us still…
Like the risen Christ passing through walls
To speak truth to doubting Thomas,
Like Christ speaking mercy to Peter through the “impossible”
As He filled his nets with fish again.
Humble men speak honestly without prejudice and
Society, inoculated against pompous judgments, listens
While the church marches blindly on…
Mostly…
A few wake up even inside the white-washed walls,
Try to take bricks out of barriers,
Learn humility so they, too, can walk through walls to those who need
Someone to relate to rather than someone pointing a finger.
Humble men change society gently from within instead of
Chiseling away from the outside.
I did get one response. My friend suggested people don’t want to comment on the quality of my poetry. While I can appreciate that, I would be interested in hearing if what I write strikes a chord with you.
Does it make you feel something? Good? Bad? Happy? Angry? Are the things I go through relevant to anyone else’s experience out there? (Am I the only one struggling to find balance???) Does what I write touch your heart? Are you inspired to take some quiet moments and hang out with Creator? Or maybe for once in your life to let down the wall and be honest with yourself and Him about how you feel (even if it’s mad!)?
I’m not trying to prove that I can write better than the next fellow. I am simply trying to put my heart out there in hopes that it touches someone else’s heart. I keep hoping that somehow, some way, I can make a difference in someone’s life by being transparent enough to let His light and love shine through all my junk.
So, nuff said I guess. I’ll go on and trust that God’s in charge of all this stuff… like I really did know that all along, but I had this terribly childish urge to rant and rave and throw a tantrum about my crud. Hope y’all will forgive me. I’ll put some more poetry out here next time I have a bit of inspiration.
One of the most valuable things you can give to an artist is feedback. When a child brings you his drawing, he doesn’t want you to simply accept the gift and continue on as if nothing happened. He expects you to praise him and shower him with accolades, not because the drawing was the most splendid work of art ever produced, but because it was a product of his effort. While the mature adult would like to claim independence of such “childish” desires, it is as true at 50 as it is at five that everyone wants their effort to be appreciated.
Artists, being the moody and capriciously emotional population that they are, seem even more vulnerable in this area of feedback. Silence on the part of the audience is interpreted as rejection, and the emotional response of the artist is wounded withdrawal and a reluctance to put more art out there. The idea that we should all be used to rejection as a normal part of life is ridiculous when it comes to art. A true piece of art is an extension of the artist’s self in some manner that is obvious sometimes and obscure at other times, yet just as accurate a statement at either end of the spectrum. The artist perceives rejection of the art as rejection of him- or herself and is deeply hurt by this interpretation.
A persistent artist will withdraw only long enough to use the experience as creative fuel for the next production for the next audience, and this can continue for years and years. Sometimes the silent responses become the expected rejection which reinforces the belief on the part of the artist that his or her art is simply not worth being put forth to the public; nevertheless, the creativity that is innate cannot be squelched either. So the cycle of production, display, rejection, withdrawal, and renewed effort continues to grind the sense of rejection into the soul till it becomes an unconscious, underlying part of the artful melancholy deep in the heart of the creative person… and hope deferred makes the heart sick.
There is some solution and fulfillment in the audience of One that we are all to be offering ourselves and our artistic efforts to, but the need for human acceptance, expressed in some sort of feedback, doesn’t really go away. A child knows the difference between acceptance by the parents and acceptance by the peers. Our Father’s acceptance only fills in part of the need-hole. We all still long for our peers to acknowledge us and our efforts–and to even go so far as to praise our efforts.
So, here I am, as deeply artist in my writing as others are on stage or canvas. The input and feedback has been silent online. I hear people tell me how much they love my poetry, and my heart weeps in frustration because after so many years of hearing this, it seems somewhat pointless without action to back it up. The web has become my main venue and my life is fraught with so many demands (work, school, family, church) that it is almost my only venue. I came to the completely disheartening realization that since my book was published six years ago, I have sold less than 20 copies of it. My husband tried to reassure me that it was simply a matter of marketing… Perhaps, if I had a way to invest in myself, I might sell more… maybe. I should probably work on making it easier (???). I don’t know. I’m not a marketer, I’m a dreamer.
If anyone out there is reading this, then I could REALLY use some feedback. Give me comments, suggestions, ideas, concrete support somehow. Buy my book if you don’t mind spending a few bucks to bolster a very wounded ego (Latin for “self” by the way). I can appreciate compliments, truly. It does make me frequently wonder, however, why I continue to write. Publish another book? Why? The first one hasn’t really gone anywhere. Get over my self-pity? Well, mostly I just keep trucking and ignore the whole issue, but periodically it raises it’s ugly head and accuses me of worthless verbiage that doesn’t really affect anyone or else… why the continued silence?
To be honest with you, I wish that I could just forget the whole idea of being a writer, an artist, a creative being of faith… Not because I have nothing to say, but because it appears that no one is listening. If anyone is listening, talk back. I could sure use the feedback. Put your money where your mouth is if you really think my poetry has any value, but mostly… give me feedback. I desperately need it.
Signed, your overwhelmingly human poet, Cara
Whispers of mystery touch my soul when I gaze out the window
Waiting for some small sense of something unspeakable
To revitalize me, refresh my mind, restore my wonder, and…
It seems all the world stops on an instant while echoes of ideas
Like wisps of smoke from a snuffed out flame
Tickle the edge of my dreamsense.
Then the clock hands move, dragging me
Forward against my will, away from awe and into reality.
The whispers silence themselves again as I mourn
Loss of imagination and creative freedom.
My thoughts are crowded again with obligations of adulthood.
Regular responsibilities and added must-do’s weigh on me.
But I miss the flights of fancy and the free mental air
That sparked so many rambles of reflections or randomness.
Epiphanies of delight occasionally dance through my brain
Like a butterfly flitting across a busy city street to reach
The neighbor’s window box full of colorful flowers.
I look up from my busyness for a second in startled joy,
Afraid to grasp the glory and squash it out.
I watch wistfully as the chance to create flutters out of reach again.
Sometimes, if I’m smart, I make a minute for whimsical inspiration.
The whispers of mystery touch my soul and this time I listen.
Here’s a link to a PDF of this poem that you can download if you are interested: whimsical-inspiration.pdf
It all seems so much these days.
Work, school, home, husband, children, ex-…
Feels like the world won’t leave me alone for a minute,
Though I’m sure that must be pure exaggeration.
A quiet minute where no one expects anything
Would be truly heavenly!
Better yet, a quiet hour, or a quiet half day
Would be even more heavenly—
A whole day too much to ask I am sure.
The responsibility of it all sometimes overwhelms me.
One small crisis happens here, some other fiasco there,
Events pile up, and before I realize it,
I can’t take a breath without effort,
I can’t do an action without forcing myself,
Because I feel completely frozen—
Physically, emotionally, mentally stuck in the moment.
It would be so much easier to not move,
To stare blindly at reality and let it all pass me by.
Sometimes someone asks me what’s wrong and
I don’t want to speak.
I’d rather let silence enfold me forever, but…
I care too much for those who care for me at all.
Despite the demands, I know they love me.
So, I push through the walls of oppression,
Break out of the silence, and make myself move.
The first word, the first step, is always the hardest,
But trying at all means something.
As I move through the sludge,
Effort gets easier until I can think again,
Walk again, talk again… breathe again!
So, although it seems so much, and
Like the world won’t leave me alone…
Well, not leaving me alone is a good thing in the end,
Because left to myself, I’d freeze up forever
Into a hard, cold, bit of humanity.
Although my tastes have gravitated more towards the visual,
Something within me still likes the lines of type
That shape the pictures you cannot see.
Imagination is far more beautiful than definite image.
So I struggle to pen the unseen flight of fancy
As my mind modifies the world around me
Into palatable, manageable frames called words
Shaded in with letters of the alphabet.
Like a painter’s palette, I play with my vocabulary—
Word-forms, order, grammar, and structure.
I make my own logic out of irrational garble
Till I can stand back and look at the finished canvas,
Adding a comma here, an ellipsis there, or
A dash to gap the flow into something
More deliberate and less haphazard.
Word pictures are harder to render, but well-worth the effort.
I’ve won the Vanderbilt University Medical Center House Organ (an in-house magazine) Annual Writing Contest in the poetry division. As an employee of Vanderbilt, I have entered every year since I started working here, but there are nearly 20,000 employees and I don’t know how many send in entries.
Last year, Wayne Wood, the director of News & Public Affairs gave me a very courteous phone call to inform me that although the committee chose a different poem, he personally thought that mine was a winner. It was published as the first poem on the honorable mentions page. This year, he called me to congratulate me on winning. They sent a professional photographer over this week and I will be featured in the July House Organ. It is a free publication, but only available around the Vanderbilt campus. If you have occasion to be at the Medical Center for any reason in July, pick one up and peruse it. There were also prose fiction and non-fiction categories, so the whole issue will be a good read.
I’ll try to pick up some extra copies, but I don’t know how many I’ll actually be able to get. I have the winning poem posted here already, but it’s a bit far back on the list. Here’s a quick link to access it if you’re curious. Grace and peace to all my friends and family!