“Poems are easier for me to write.” My friend and I laughed at my statement. For some, this may seem absurd or hint at a frivolity in my work. However, in a constantly moving world, I find myself slowing down to contemplate much more often than I do indulging in an urge to define or speak on it. In fact, I can honestly say such an urge rarely exists for me. When I finally express my thoughts, it’s rarely linear or verbose. (*Exceptions for when I am trying to relay a story to a friend and feel compelled to include every single detail as I recall events.)
I have been that way since I was a child. Large blank spaces demanding creative output tend to bring me more dread than inspiration. In the absence of structure, I can only see the unfulfilled expectations and judgment of my work. Vision and joy of expression are obscured. Thus, it feels like pressure, not freedom. Just give me lines so that I can color outside of them!
Why am I sharing this? It is my way of explaining this unexpected hiatus and also hailing its end. Changes in life repeatedly brought me back to this blank space, demanding imagination and integrity as I made decisions on how to pick up the pieces of what I had been building and decide how to move on. In the end, both my mind and my body insisted on an unexpected pause to rest and recover. In those times, I have learned to heed and lean into that demand. I value the opportunity to put energy and effort behind a passion, but I have also learned that over-extension, even in the midst of excitement, can lead to burnout and bitterness. Rest is a place I now visit often. I have learned to revel in its compassion and gentle kindness. It is both my refuge and ally.
Untitled (8/16/23)
The land was occupied Taken, withheld, obscured Still, her mother’s memories And grandmother’s bones beckoned her Back to the land of her ancestors
Forward to the womb that knew her Gave line to her frame Then etched out her Eden To bid her eat of its fruit
Here it was intended she Walk in the shade of her forefathers Holding the hand of the God who Wrote and appeared in their stories
Moved by a deep knowing She began to dig again The wells that had been closed Covered, forgotten
Exposing them again To a once familiar hope Sweat, blood, tears Dust reuniting with dust
This is where her children would play Never knowing thirst Or hunger Her bosom would be their context
They would know the warmth of the Sun And the coolness of fig her trees They would know the freedom of vision And the safety of home
Re-memberance Redemption Rest Restored legacy
So beautiful.
Stunningly beautiful! Welcome back