If you are here every now and then, or have ever visited my space here, or perhaps read my page with a bio. Back when I had a page with a bio, and not an underconstruction about the writer or author page, well you’d know the ratio of poetry to prose. ( I have an aversion to bios and struggle to write them.)
For a longish while the ratio has been heavy on poetry.
But I find that I am moving into a period of prose.
Did you leave? Or did you return? I find that humor helps calm the beating heart. And helps to hold back the flood of tears. Because I come writing today with an overflowing heart. One filled with raw emotion. Maybe even writing about poetry makes me feel vulnerable and exposed. That is different, right, from writing poetry. Right?
Sundays always seem filled with poetry. Maybe it is there Monday through Saturday but the eyes can’t see. Or maybe the holiness of Sunday causes the soul to feel ever single poetic thing. Maybe Sunday created by Creator God to be an eyes wide open to beauty day.
I just know that yesterday there was an abundance in every turn and fold, step and dash. And I think hard these days of why poetry. For me. In my life. Why is there a passion in me to write it and find it. To unearth it and not miss it. To seek it out and name all that seems poetic in my days.
Because there are those days I truly wonder why. Wrestle hard. Question long. Think deep. And they are more frequent, raising their heads and shining light, looking for an answer.My wandering and weird journey to poetry continues in tandem with a questioning spirit. Why do I feel fire in my belly to write it and explore the poetry of everything. It would be rhetorical to ask, so for now I am living into the call to write and earnestly hope that my art blesses.
There was poetry for the uncovering everywhere in my yesterday. And while some I captured with my camera lens, some I simply cupped my hands and caught there in the moment, drinking from the vessel of the day. When I see how alive poetry causes me to be, I question less the draw to it. For if God unveiled poetry as a gift for my receiving, then I say thank you, truly and turn it back, release it out and beyond myself.
I can question and create in the same breath. He makes room for both. This is the Grace shown to the artist. And in the revealing of each small beautiful poetic offering in my days, I feel more like one who is undeserving. So much beauty and nuance. Lilting and singing. Swaying and flowing. Wooing and whispering. Calling to come see. To taste. And savor.
In life’s poetry.
Each verse of scripture read by our Vicar carried me off and out of church on the wings of words. Yesterday. Lost in the lines of the living Word.
Browns and creams, smoothed by years of refining salt and sand, held my gaze for minutes and more. And I simply was stuck in a beauty pause carried in from the sea. Gifts my husband brought home. Porcelain-like. Perfect. Deposits from wave on wave of glory. Now sitting in my home. A reminder of love and beauty.
At dusk, the dolphin danced on the calm waters of Jeremy Creek and I was there in the moment. Because I answered the whisper to go stand by the water at the just right time. Dipping up, breaking the water, his stage. And I on the banks alone. Breathing in poetry.
I rested my head on my husbands shoulder, smelling the salt the aroma of him whom I love. And lost my breath. He had captured with his own lens, the swan preening, like a marble sculpture, frozen in time. And the mink stuck in the crab trap. But oh the story of its release told in his soothing voice. And the Oyster Catcher. The oysters and the sea.
And as I tell, I tell myself. It is a gift.
This life. This poetry.
On Mondays I love to join my friend Laura Boggess. I am there today with other writers. Come visit?