Tag: Simplicity

Finding Joy In Your Own Backyard

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 4 Comments

Fave Chicken Pic

If you have been reading here for any length of time you know my fixation with the word and, as well as the logogram the ampersand. I believe there is always more. And the more I consider why I love and, the more the nuances of the word bubble up. And meet me in the understanding of why. And is a connector. And I am connected to my world via people. (This week alone, I have had rich encounters with friends and writers. Writers and friends.) And via this space I call home.

I can stay and go. Travel and remain. Fly and remain grounded. Be still and know. That what is right here is rich and full of promise. That the soil is dark and full of gifts, right below my pink toes and my bare feet.

I love the idea, both figuratively and literally, of finding joy close to home. Of curating a life from which we don’t need to take a vacation. Of being increasingly at peace in the little space within our arm’s reach. Settling in and extracting peace in the place we call home. I cannot count my spaces. Not here and now. There have been many. My passion for renovating and decorating and for change has carried me, along with my husband and children, on a journey of transforming spaces into homes. The rewards have been grand. The homes have provided us with an anchor for living and loving.

My closest confidante knows my old wrestlings. And my new ones. She knows my achilles heel. And my wounds, my scars and my heart cries. God knows them well too. The older version of me longed to travel. And I got up and went. But now, my life is stationary. But not stagnant.

It if rife with discovery. Teeming with beauty and delight.  But it is a journey of staying within a wonderful radius. One tightly drawn close to home.

I have been many places in my life. I travel in place to recall. I reach back in my diaries, my remembering places, my trunk of letters and memories and into the faded photographs which tell stories of Paris and New York. I revisit. Reach back. And go to the place again. Of the countryside of France where I was a nanny for a small sliver of time. To Athens and Alaska. To St. Andrews and Florence. To Lake Cuomo and Tuscany.

There is reward in the revisiting. Memory feeds my dimming desire to go to a place which is not here.

But when I see the Magnolia blossom the size of my head, on the tree beside my home and across the street and by the Deerhead Tree, I have unearthed treasures in the nearby. When I step through my neighborhood, padding around, I see marvelous wonder in the warm eggs from my neighbor’s hens. A trip to my garden, early in the morning, as my rooster crows, is my own living breathing “Alice in Wonderland”.

And it is all I need. To live out this circuitous journey of discovering joy in my own backyard. I am far from here. I am in a land of unwrapping the spaces under me. Below me, beside me and around me. Be Still and Know.

There is so much more here and there than I first believed.

To The Lady In The Big SUV In A Big Hurry In The Starbucks Parking Lot

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 4 Comments

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To The Lady In The BIg SUV  In A BIg Hurry  In The Starbucks Parking Lot

I know you. And I forgive you. I was in your blindspot. That’s a stretch, but so is grace. (You almost ran into me. Head on.) I almost ran into you. It works both ways. You never slowed down. Let me guess. It was a child-forgot-his-lunch, your child-forgot-his-library-book, you-are-out-of-diapers kind of day. Or it was an I’m-late-for-tennis, I’m-out-of-Tide, I’m-about-to-miss-the-one-hour-dry-cleaning-deadline type of day.

I know you. That’s a stretch. I see me in you is more precise. (And if this is to be at all poetic, let’s be precise.) But I would like to get to know you. Invite you in for tea and a chat on my porch. If you sit, you may never get back up again. An object in motion stays in motion. And you cannot stop or you will collapse. I know your tail-wagging-the-dog pace. I see you speeding through the parking lot in your all -about- your- needs way. It feels like the world is winning and you are losing. Survival of the fittest and dog-eat-dog feel read. It takes one to know one is not just a cruel childish chant.

I know you. If you sit with me I will confess, raise my hand and tell you the whole truth and nothing but the truth. But you won’t. You don’t have time. You rise and shine and race until the break of night. Turn out the light. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

And you don’t remember the glory in your day. The art. It is there. You are missing the good stuff. The best stuff. The important stuff. Pay attention child. The poetry, for goodness sakes. It is everywhere.

The shades of green in the moss. Did you count them? The way the garden has grown at a rate much faster than it did in April. May is full of hope and vegetables. The way your chickens seem to know their names and you. And you believe they have a soul, almost like a feathered dog-soul. Did you see the rain drop race on the window. Did you bet on the drop on the left. Yes, he won.

I know you. I am tempted to come back to Starbucks and look for you. Find you, in love. Invite you for tea. But you won’t be in your big white Mercedes SUV. You’ve traded it up and in. (And I know you. You wouldn’t come anyway.)

I know you. You may have been in a hurry to Bible study, which you lead. No judgement here. No sideways looks. No put-downs. No corrective finger-wagging shaming. No unkind thoughts.

In love. Slow down. In love, you will miss so much. In love. I have walked where you are walking.

My porch is waiting for you, when you are reading to come sit. There are no roses to stop and smell or cliches to toss your way. Grace. Pure grace. I pray you find your way. But knowing grace?

It will find you. Even in the parking lot of Starbucks. Perhaps, especially there.

And that Grande Skinny Latte with two Splenda? There are even better things waiting for you.

I promise.

Love.

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.

The Witness

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ Leave a comment

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The Witness

It was deemed that I was worthy
I took a vague vow of bearing
That my senses would capture
Catalogue the beauty
Override the pain
War analogies make me weary
(Messy mirror of the bloody real thing)
And yet, I am suited up, armed and ready
Battling as correspondent in the middle
Of this war
Rallying, as a witness
Recorder of the beauty
Crying out
I swear to tell the truth
There is beauty in the pain
Hope with me
We were called to tell these stories
Joy will not die, shattered
Scattered on the cynic’s broken

Battlefield

The witnesses remind us
Hand raisers, promising to tell nothing
But the truth
Hallowed is the ground where beauty lives
Buried are the memories
Mercy holds an olive branch
White flags fly from pole and post
My eyes have seen the glory