When Art Imitates Art Imitating Life

When Art Imitates Art Imitating Life

 

Will you hide is sometimes code for will you be writing today
Creativity fueled by art, cinematic in this case
She can’t shake the storyline
Don’t be fooled the she is thinly veiled

And the film breathed new life into her own
Art
Somehow the story of salvaging it
Saving it
Calling it valuable
Stirred her soul

Somehow the cinematic fueled the
Poetic
The visual, the literary

And the chicken and the egg argument
Raises its ugly head
Well it’s not ugly
Just a little cliche

And with all the pain providing a Crimson backdrop
To the day
Art does wash
Poetry does restore
Words do renew

His code for hiding
Is her code for making sense of it all

Even if it is just last night’s movie about
Europe, old men and a war

And it all comes round again
Europe, men and war

She thought
Hiding sounded like a form of
Surviving
Buried deep inside her words
Making sense of senseless acts
Carving beauty from the ash

She decides to answer yes
I will be hiding out today
Pen in hand, armed and ready for
A chance to write a line of
Healing
In a world of pain
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Continue reading “When Art Imitates Art Imitating Life”

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Quietude

wpid-20140611_095308-1-1.jpgQuietude

And I imagine underneath
What seems to be a placid sea,
Life churns the silted sands of time
Years and years
In the making
Marking
Grains of brokenness
Teeming now with signs of life
Cycles of  the salty chains
Concentric circles
Connecting
Old and new, life
In the quiet, creatures spin
Watery webs of
Sea life, below a murky grey tinged
Surface, ceiling to their room
Dwelling there in the
Quiet

And I too
Live
Underneath a paradox of quiet
Swirling, churning, cycles of this
New growth
Birthing
Beginnings
Witness to ends and endings
Too
Too
Many to recount
In this space
This
Quiet

Preparing
I design my own
Land-locked home

And words leak out in advance
Of a watery avalanche
Story-telling prepares
To wash ashore

It will come
Perhaps
On the next high tide
Or the high tide after that
Perhaps

But waiting in the quietude
Life teems with
Pregnant thoughts

The words won’t wait forever

Quiet holds its breath
But for a season
Tides wait for no one

Won’t you come ride the swells
With me
Fueled by
Weeks of
Quietude
The dam prepares to burst

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Joining Jennifer Dukes Lee for #tellhisstory

 

 

 

A Letter To A Friend – The Art of Noticing “Real” Friends

Today is Day 22

Dear You,

I want to proclaim you, rejoice you, celebrate you and delight in you. Have you seen this series, here, this 31 Days, The Art of Noticing? Well my dear today is Day 22 and today is your birthday. Here ,this tribute is for you, to you, your heart, your soul but above all, your amazing ability to draw on the gifts and life around you. To ingest them, invest  them by serving and loving. Here is your bursday present. You know how much I adore the you I have grown to know and love.

harriett stoney and elizabeth happy

You know we could discuss the title. For hours. What is a real friend anyway. And we could debate the meaning of true and real. Afterall what is a unreal friend. You know maybe you are an unreal friend.

Do you remember last year on October 22, your birthday, I wrote a little letter to you, here, it was called Encouragement, A Letter To A Friend.  A few people read that letter, 2,028 to be exact from around the interweb. And you and I would scratch our heads and wonder how they found this place and the letter I wrote to you. And we’d probably agree how happy we are a few more people discovered when your birthday is. That is good. Or maybe we’d celebrate the fact they they get to hear my testimony to what you are and who you are to this world, and especially me.

That was a year ago. People forget. And we hate it when people repeat themselves. It is so boring. So gauche. And so not charming. So I won’t say it exactly like I did last year. They can go back and read that post. H, do you know the reason this blog is here. Because you are an encourager. And you serve up straight talk without a side of sugar coating. You are a giver, not a taker, an inexhaustible source of encouraging words and actions. You told me I had to write. Your words were stronger than that. Gentle and bold. Sure and certain.

So it is only appropriate for this to be the place to weave words, string them along and along, like the strand of pearls you so faithfully wear. And that you would have a day. Day 22. Do you like that.
You would goad me and tease me and remind me to always point to Him. So I will, He has saved our backsides and frontsides and insides so many times. And loved us. Always loved us with mercy and grace. And you, his hands and feet, have saved me from despair and sadness. Confusion and the “I’m about to have a nervous breakdown but it is just so damn inconvenient right now” times.

So is that a real friend? One who loves through the dark and delights in the times of light and laughter. Bridges the bleak times and weak times, the  times of want, crossing over to the times of plenty.

There are no shortages of those. By his grace. And we like those better don’t we. The times on the porch, at the farm, in the creek, at Secret Beach, where we can have olive shell contests and laugh and dream and scheme and relish the in between. We prefer the days of poetry and praise, of watching our children grow, fall in love, accomplish a task, overcome a set back, bring home a friend who gives life and knows Truth. Become a woman or a man, of God.

We’d prefer to float in our boats with our men. To leave behind the worry of work and the pressures of life. To see them exhale and breathe in salt air. To open a beer and slip in a lime and wiggle our toes and let go of time. To see the very last streak of orange and pink. To  stay off shore until we have to come in. To turn up the music and dance crazy silly in our hearts.

And we  go without days, though painful and dry, without talking or saying a word. But running on fumes of love that is stored. Deep in the places where friendship is placed. Though trials have come, some that are too awful to name, we know in our knowers that if we face them again, we can and we will. Because we are real friends.

And you know I would say it again, like I did before. If you go first, save me a seat. And warm a Charleston Green rocker with a wonderful view of the sea. Because we know our God well and we know our God deep. And there is no way  in this world that His heaven won’t have a wonderful view of the porpoise and shrimp boats on Jeremy Creek.

I love you. You bless me every single day of my life. I can’t remember before I knew you but I know there were years. You make life exciting and beautiful, glamorous and fantabulous.

Happy birthday, H. If you go first I will never forgive you. But then you would insist that I do. So okay I will. But I’d rather you not leave me a day on this earth, to live and to breathe and to celebrate living.

Take care of yourself.
Happy Day of Your Birth

I love you, I do. Happy Day 22.

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(Today is Day 22. Thank you as always for being here, for following along on this journey. If you wish to leave a birthday wish to my precious friend H, I will pass it on to her. She is my confidant, my accountability partner, my sister in Christ, and my closest friend. We raise children and husbands together and walk out our faith together with love and friendship and lots and lots of words between us.)

Harriett and I and the cross

Lost In A Sea Of Other

Today is Day 11 

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Lost In A Sea Of Other

You should not care to hear the heart of one who lost
Their way in a sea of other
Ways and words and genres
This is not about war or poverty or political crises
But a crisis of confidence

Does everyone who breathes not know this
It’s surely not a minor cord in a major symphonic performance
Of an artist’s life

So if you would choose to bow out now
Not read the lines of poetic gazing into the petri dish
Of the writer’s soul

I for one would not blame you
For those of you who are left
Passion should burn
And if it leaves
Or if it fades
Oh the grieving should then begin

And so I am lost in a sea of other
Wise enough am I, I shall find my way out

But simply
Poetry or whatever you named your passion
That day you uncovered it

Wants a little piece of me
And I
Willing to not go in with just my
Toes in the shallow end

Will swim out to sea
And rescue the me
Who is lost in a sea of
Other

Genres

You may substitute poetry
At any point with the things
You have lay down
Dormant
Resting in the soil of your soul of longing
You know it
As well as I

That which lights you up and makes you shine
Like the night sky’s first star

Ever present
Ever pointing
Ever calling, leaving you restless by night and creating by day

Always pointing
Toward the Giver of the passion

I would have asked for anything but this
But I notice He gave me a love

For poetry.

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This is Day 11 of a 31 day Series on The Art of Noticing. All previous posts may be read here.