Category: Inspiration

Awake At The Wheel: Eyes Open For Beauty, Wonder and Miracle

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 2 Comments

I have always been intrigued by the beauty of the middle places. The after birth and before the end. The in-between and still in process. And plays a role in this scavenger hunting and archiving. There is always more in the hidden places. Nuances are found in the unveiling, uncovering, and unwrapping.

We are all in the middle of making and doing. We are birthing projects, dreaming dreams, and living out the calling. We are seeing anew, forgetting the past, building bridges to broken places, moving on and healing wounds.

I fell into a place of slow wonder. And I am staying there. The South shows me well its old tradition of living and moving slow. She is the matriarch of my love affair with my new-found wide-awake-ness. I cannot travel back to a time of inattentive living.

I shall not fail to record, remember and ingest. I will not not live aware. I accept the invitation to open every gift of wonder. Every drop of beauty. I am headed into the days of the waning. When the memory fades. But I have come from a faded story. So I am ready to fight to see and record it all.

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I confessed to my daughter that I did not remember. Forgetting may be in my DNA. So for today I am recording well and I am searching like a woman in a desperate desert search for a cool we drink of ordinary life. The mirage of beauty is gone. Holographic beauty is reaching out and grabbing me by my senses.

I found a letter in a trunk. The one I keep of old and yellowed letters. Post marks from ’58 and forward through the years and through the times, forgotten. I can go diving into my past there. And I do. I am a stranger in my own understanding. In my remembering, the doing is dim. I am the stranger meeting a woman who is stranger too.

And I told my daughter that I do not remember if I went to the Eiffel Tower at three o’clock as the letter asked me to. A simple rendez-vous for a young woman. I do not remember. Yes, I was living in Paris at the time. And the letter, I explained was written in the days before cell phones and social media. He, an acquaintance traveling abroad, asked if we could meet. The letter leaves me wondering.

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I do not want to miss the recording of the living. The bignesses. Who misses towers in Paris and a rendez-vous in the heart of France. I want to record the intricate, miniscule parts of my life. The beauty, the miracle, the wonder of the small and ordinary will not escape the sieve of my collecting heart.

Determined to live awake at the wheel. I am paying attention. And life is grandiose in its slow and ordinary wonderment.

Join me. We will discover small things.
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Joining Laura Boggess

Part Two – A Confessional: I Write Imperfect Poetry and Prose

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 2 Comments

Fave Chicken Pic (This is part two of a two-part post. Part One may be read here. You may consider reading it first. Thank you for being here for my imperfect poetry and prose. Grateful to have you here.) And so I write. Today is Monday and I want to write as honestly as I strived to on Sunday. This is not about false humility or humbled low-bowing for the sake of, well, humble low-bowing in and of itself. Let’s admit it: Writers humbling themselves can be a spectator sport on the interwebs. And often it is difficult to discern  the writer’s spirit. The authenticity. (Now that’s an over-used word.)

I know in my deep places that my craft, my art, my writing, well, they need time to ripen and mature. I need to read more poetry, write more poetry and listen to the wisdom of beautifully gifted writers. I need to pay better attention. Read more excellent fiction. Sit in the wake of the backdraft of the giants.

And yet, I am still Elizabeth. There is no changing that. I am still the woman who burns with passion for seeing the world in a beautiful, grace-laced way. I am the writer who hears God wooing me into a world of words, with His own. I am a long-processor and so I need to write. Everything that I see, hear and experience needs to run back through the sieve of the pen. But it doesn’t. One cannot sustain quite that level of writing. Or I can’t. But I understand an event a bit better after I write. Most writers do. This is not unique to my writing life.

It is important for me to continue to remind myself and others that I was not always bound to the pen or bent on paying close attention. I have missed a million small moments. Beauty has gone unnoticed. Miracles of creation, tucked into the intricate places have been seen by the attentive ones. But not by me.

I am awake now. I am paying attention. Going digging. Searching for mystery, miracle and wonder. Sharing it with others. And savoring a thousand intricately nuanced moments. Looking for the hidden. And writing toward a more perfectly crafted poem. Bending in to learn to show you in more eloquently written prose.

And so I write.

Expectantly. Honestly. Awake.

I am writing my poetry. My prose.

For us.

Extravagance

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 1 Comment

provider-mcclellanville

Extravagance

These are the days of extravagance
Want and wanting, desire and desiring
Dim in a rearview mirror, malfunctioning
Objects of desire may appear smaller than they once were
Plenty erupts into abundance
Do not misread the meaning
(Grab and consult Webster if you must, Google it)

For I have looked the giver in her eyes
And touched her coal black skin, said no
And thank you a million times
Refused the gift to a fault
Desire to give out of what she had, burned between our hands
And history rewrote itself

The force with which she gave was mighty
And I was weakened by her might
Turnips and sweet potatoes, an olive branch
Apples for the pie ( she told me to bake)
My no’s were extravagant
Her yeses like steel

Church on the sidewalk
History in the remaking
A sliver of time which doesn’t make sense
Extravagant generosity of a stranger
Left me forever changed

She wore frailty as a badge of her living
My life of never-needing, never-wanting
Rose up like a geyser of guilt
Oh how rich the gift of a giver who has little

Blessed are the poor
Extravagance is a turnip the size of her heart

I walk with a limp, burdened by a heavy load
Shame of a hoarder
Heavy-ladened by the richness of
The gift
Restless
In search of the needy
Schooled on the side of the road by the one who
Knew
She the Samaritan
I, the ditch dweller

Apples woven, again
Into a story of love

S.O.S. – A Not Very Poetic Call For Help

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 7 Comments

Some sentences are just so…plain. And ordinary. And without poetry. This one is one of those.

Ya’ll, I need a little bit of reader input. Boring. Right? But there is a poem following the request. If you have one minute or a few minutes, I would be honored if you would give me a sentence of two. You can leave it in the comment box. Or you can email me at wynnegraceappears@gmail.com.

My heart is pounding and my insides are restless about this “book thing”. I may never write one. Or I actually may sit down and write one. And if i do or when I do, I really would love the push from readers or the “don’t do it” from readers.

(Spoiler alert. There are a lot of books out there. Do we really need another one?)

But I would be silly or crazy or mad not to ask you all for your feedback. Before the book dies on the vine or on the shelf. Or fall flat. Or never gets written. Or all of the above.

Poetry or prose? Poetry from me mixed with space for you to journal and draw and scribble and ponder? Essays?

So speak your mind. And thank you. No really, THANK YOU.

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Boots

The Lady at The Check Out Line and Other Wise Souls in Sheep’s Clothing

The shepherds of the world, the meek and the mild
Disguised in plainclothes
Scanning the jars of Trader Joe’s Marinara sauce, while sleepy smiling
Asking all the right questions
Thanking you for bagging
(Paper or plastic, used to be the world’s oldest, space filler of quietude)
Hidden behind the clerky smile
And the name tag
And the all business
And the internal musings “is it five o’clock yet”
Is the fountain of wisdom
Waiting to erupt
They welcome our confidences in their non-threatening ways
The check-out line becomes the shrink’s couch
And we confide
“At least you found it”
She says to me
I know you know the words, I lay down before the altar of just formed trust
PHD in human frailty

They will inherit the Earth.