Category: Poetry

The Waiting & The Rising

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 2 Comments

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The Waiting & The Rising

I woke to the rising. In the evening we laid down the embryonic balls of yeast. Flat, filled with expectancy. Colorless, void of much. Hoping the transformation would yield goodness. Trusting the changes would give us, the hungry, sustenance even abundance. In the morning.

In the new mercy morning, the air told faint tales, held shy signs and gave hope. There would be a rising.  Fullness would come. Yeasty promise had started its morphing into promise. Hope was rising.

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We went to bed last night with a heaviness. Some one dear to us is struggling. From miles away we wrestle with all the emotions. This longing for the best for this wanderer is an ache that pierces. It rises up within us. And yet it is not for me. I lay it down again and again. Knowing the promise that He is there. I offer the pain into His hands, again. He is the potter. And what lovely work He has done. He has shown me. I must recall.

We are co-wrestlers in the battle for a life well-lived. A life of yielding into His deepest longings for us, His children. A life of bending a knee and bending an ear. Of surrendering and yielding. Listening and seeking. Yearning. Quieting our spirits to hear his will.

Goodness and mercy are here and coming. Heaving up in the rising.

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I offered a gift. My soul knew. I had been there before. Heard the faint cry. I will send it soon. But the collecting and gathering, the sending of little hints and clues as to what it will be will bring me joy. I will anticipate the giving as she anticipates the receiving. We will delight together. My friend and I will gather as two around the table of fellowship. Just as the prayer gathers around the hurting and wounded. Just as the Christ-follower hovers over, in gentle tenderness, with love in love, for the ones with  spirit that is broken.

I will give. She is open to receive. A transaction of love will take place.

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Oh that we would await the rising up. Hold fast in the waiting. Hold steady, though fragile, in the times of doubt.
I know the gifts He has given in the seasons of waiting. I remember his goodness. I recall it. And I look for clues that there is more goodness to gather up.

The Yarrow he designed is tall and waving. The Queen Ann’s Lace is transforming my yard into a garden for royalty. The hummingbird came to my window last night at dusk in search. My garden is exploding with promise. A packet of seeds is in the past. The fruit on the squash is tender and young. Strawberries are green, but they will be crimson and sweet. Soon. They promise me and hold me in my waiting.

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This morning the flat monochromatic mounds rose up. And turned a light brown. Layer upon layer of goodness held a steamy comfort in every bite. Croissants. Every bite a remembering. Of times and things I have loved.

Joining Sandra

Secondhand Joy: The Parable of the Garden

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 2 Comments

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Second Hand Joy

I am a lover of old, repurposed, recycled and worn. Drawn to objects which have age and patina. The chips and breaks are badges of honor. Tarnish tells me love was there. Run love through the sieve of time. Until it stands the test of time and time again. Watch the beauty multiply. Compounding adds to the interest. Cracks are doorways for the rays to pass through. Of hope and light. Sealed by perfection, honed to perfection, perfect cannot bear the weight of beauty in the broken.

Faded sepia outlasts the lives of the living. Remaining to tell of love and life. Proud of her browns and white and nearly monochromatic memory.
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She met me at the fence line. Wearing a story in her silhouette, curved like an ampersand, bent logogram, a symbol of her life. Joy comes like the morning fog. Lays down and covers the pregnant day. She had excavated joy from my joy. Joy in spades. Joy in triplicates. For mine was there. Then hers arrived. And mine was doubled by her proclamation. At the fence. The currency of love. Exchanged.

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My joy is not my own. The mystery of the winter seeds we planted is unfolding. And I bear witness to the miracle of love. Lonely and a bit alone, she watches as our garden grows. And she can write the story of my chickens and how they spend their day. Acting out their antics on the stage for her amusement and viewing from her front row seat.

I was blind. But now I see.

Amazing grace. How does your garden grow.

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.

A Confessional: Why I Write Imperfect Poetry ( & Prose) – Part One

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 3 Comments

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Sunday feels like a good day to write a confessional blog post. And when you tell another writer you are going to write said piece, you have some built in accountability. AKA, there is no turning back. I told Esther on Voxer that I was working on this in my head. That I was trying to get it out on paper or on a screen. Anywhere but inside of me.

I am sitting in a wicker chair. One that holds me like cupped hands. The mountains present themselves before me, like a movie screen painted and prepared for an audience. Artificially beautiful. But realer than real. And I am down the road from the church I attended this morning, as a guest. I can still smell the holy and hear the hallowed hymns. The stone and wood and worship linger in the air. My soul feels a lingering in the confessional we spoke. I prayed for the church today. It feels like a particularly important time to come clean.

I am not a great poet. I am not a great writer. I don’t know where I am in the bell curve of learning and honing my craft. But honestly, I am just a mediocre writer at best. But I have the fire in my belly and a passion under the folds of my wrinkling skin to write. Hiding out is an option. Always.

Giving up is always an option. I have an old computer which I could heave over the side of the mountain and life would go on. (Poetry is all about specificity. I would tell you just how old this Mac is but I truly do not recall….it is THAT old.) See the ellipsis back there. That is a taboo in the guidebooks of some writers.

Let’s face it. You can go other places for richer writing. Poetry, certainly, which shows more and tells less. Words that reach deeper with less adverbs. Lines which travel deeper into the beautiful. Verses which sing sweeter and lift you higher into the holy.

But my craft and my art are simply dressed in their everyday ordinary. I am honing and grooming them. Hoping for leaps of growth. Trusting that I will not remain in my writing where I reside this day.

But honestly. I am flawed as a writer. Imperfect. But I am flawed as a parent. Imperfect in my mothering. And certainly I fall short as a daughter to a mother suffering from dementia. My house could be cleaner. My food burned less often. My time spent more wisely. My morning devotions  could be longer.

But grace attends me when I write and when I breathe and live. And tells me to continue. No, encourages me to press on. Perfecting my imperfections.

My mother has dementia. Often her speech borders on faint mumbling. But I listen. I would not stop. She has something to say. And she is alive and living and wants to enter in. To tell what she sees. How this life feels and  how it smells. She wants and needs to process her living.

And so do I.
And so I write imperfect poetry. And prose
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Please join me tomorrow for Part Two.