Right around the time it became clear to Greg and me that we would need to head out of our current situation in Kansas, we found ourselves driving out to the beautiful hill country of Texas for an invitation-only Artists' Retreat.
I know, that's what we were thinking. Really? We don't know where we are going in life after this, and we don't even know exactly why we get to go to this retreat, but retreat sounds like something we are seriously needing to do... so we did.
I share this detail, not because I have the time right now to expound upon the huge impact that event had upon our lives or the restorative power of the conversations we engaged in with some of the most talented and creative people we've met (keynote was a film maker from Scotland who lives in a castle, etc) or, looking back, what a truly amazing and God-thing that timing was -
Mostly I want to share why poetry became important to me again.
I had the privilege of attending a session with one of the featured writers, a published poet and poetry professor and singer/songwriter named Nathan Brown. He talked about how writing poetry became more than something he "ought to do" and in fact turned into therapy for him; something he couldn't be without as a means of daily expression if he were to maintain his sanity.
That stuck with me. Over the next few weeks, I found a similar effect in my life - along with running to really loud music.
I am NO poet, but I pretend like I could be sometimes. I share the following as an honest look at where I was, grappling with fear, anger, hope, grief.
10-8-08
The wind sings a song,
A mournful dirge
It seems to me
As it sweeps my gardens about.
But on a careful, lingering listen
I realize the birds are singing too,
Clear and crisp, but almost drowned
By the dirge.
The insects louder join, proclaiming
"The wind is blowing not only
To buffet and chase away
But to help send us where we are going."
10-11-08
Gratitude is the only option
When you are given a gift.
A well-timed gift, the thoughtful kind
Screams for a response in the midst of pain.
It sticks out - so bright it hurts your eyes.
And, on impulse, you close them,
But that doesn't block out the screaming,
Which begins to sound like something different.
A melody instead,
Enrapturing, prompting misty eyes
Back open-
Looking for Someone to thank.
10-12-08
There are seagulls stuck in Kansas.
I overhear their shrill cries through open windows.
Smirking at their stupidity,
I wonder why?
Could our little town's pond have drawn them?
Are they so confused?
So easily mistaken?
What of instinct or Providence?
I hear another single cry that pierces me.
I realize each gull has flown by
And cried - utterly alone.
10-31-08
Pain is a strange thing-
Sneaking up on me
In tears or anger or fear,
Often when I least expect it,
Controlling me and revealing
That bitterness
Is not quite as far off
As I had hoped.
We drove away from Kansas with our moving van on November 11, 2008.
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