Another Poem

Here’s another poem from the pen of moi, tentatively called “Love” :

Time,
the breaker of men.
Fate,
the shackle to the wall.
Death,
the prison of the soul.
Time,
by whose hands we are bound
to Fate,
which pulls us ever deeper
ever closer
to Death,
that flame that would consume
before full birth has taken place.

Enter Love.
Love,
the healer of men.
Love,
the breaker of bondage.
Love,
the freedom of the soul.
Love,
by whose hands we are drawn
to Love,
which pulls us ever deeper,
ever closer
to Love,
that flame which would consume and refine
to bring forth fully birthed
that which was created
by Love.

A Moment of Understanding

So a while back I ranted about how I hated being forced to write in the styles of other people, but I think I understand it now. The way I understand it may not quite be the way others do, but here goes: Why do I never complain that I have to do mathematics a certain way? Why do I never complain that I’m having to copy the “styles” of Euler or Newton? Because it’s accepted fact that that’s just the way you do it. You can’t very well learn to do math by any other means. In a way, the same is true of writing. How else will you discover how to write if you don’t first emulate the writings of others? Oh, but in writing there is supposed to be a freedom to write what is on one’s heart and mind. Just because I am taking Interstate 218 in the same direction as 50 other people, does that mean that our destination is the same? No. I have my business in one town, they have theirs in 50 others. What I’m trying to say is that, even though I may be traveling the same path as another writer, it doesn’t mean that I’m not free to have my own destination, my own end in mind. Instead of viewing the template of another’s writing as a tight confining box, I should view it as a large fenced meadow. I am free to explore and play and have my fun within that meadow. After all, is not “my style” just those bits and pieces I’ve borrowed from others? I think the way to get around it would be to incorporate “my style” into the style that I’m being asked to write in. That way, it’s completely mine yet I’m still fulfilling the assignment. So there’s my “eureka!” moment for the day.

Emergence

Emergence
Tic, tic, tic, tap.
Tic, tic, tic, tap, crunch.
Blink. Blink.
Hello?
Anybody out there?
Is it safe?
Is it safe to come out,
to quit this place of safety,
of comfort,
to step outside
and into the light?
Is it safe to come out,
to unfurl my wings
and wait a moment
until the sun hardens them?
Is it safe, my brother,
to join you ‘mongst the flowers?
Is it safe, my sister,
to sip this sweet nectar?
Come, come! they call me.
Come?
Yes, yes, come!
Tic, tic, tic, tap.
Tic, tic, tic, tap, crunch.
Blink. Blink.
I come.

Huh. That’s the first bit of poetry I’ve written in a long while. Let me know what you think of it.

“There is nothing in a caterpillar that tells you it’s going to be a butterfly.”
- Richard Buckminster Fuller

“I embrace emerging experience.
I participate in discovery.
I am a butterfly.
I am not a butterfly collector.
I want the experience of the butterfly.”
- William Stafford

So what’s up with the butterflies? Love, growth, discovery, joy, emergence. And I have a wonderfully perceptive and encouraging boyfriend. Sometimes (actually, many times) he asks tough soul-searching sorts of questions in an effort to get to know me better. The real me, not the me I hide behind. His latest was actually the easiest to answer: What makes you feel loved? Basically, what is it in others’ words and actions that makes me feel like they love me? And here was my answer: It’s being accepted for who I am. It’s knowing that I can say what’s on my mind without being judged or laughed at. It’s being able to laugh with someone. It’s messing up and still they accept me. It’s having someone care how I feel and not laughing at my fears. Well, my response opened, not a door, but a huge gateway (think Black Gate sized). We’ve been discussing it via e-mail, and one of the things he said really struck me : If I may make an analogy: the butterfly doesn’t want to come out of its cocoon. You’ve been in the world as a caterpillar, and you felt somewhat at peace with that. But you’re destined for bigger things, and you’re more beautiful and complex than anyone would judge by looking at you. The vibrant color would dazzle the eyes of many, and you’re terrified of showing it, because its different, and you want to be accepted, regardless of your feelings towards popularity on the whole. I admit, that made me cry. I struggle with who I am. I struggle with what God’s doing in my life, because I can’t see what’s going on. I’m self-depreciating. So to see me described through those terms was a revelation in and of itself. It was like catching the briefest glimpse of myself through his eyes, and it blew me away. That someone, outside of God and my family, loves me that much to be able to see me that way…. amazing. What’s more, I know it is only a tiny reflection, a tiny glimpse, of God’s love for me. I know truly that God is able to “do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine” (Eph. 3:20). Like get this butterfly out of her cocoon.

A Day to Serve

Four members of the Two Rivers Marketing Group, Des Moines, IA, and their pilot were identified as the victims of a night plane crash in LaPorte County, IN, on Nov. 13 [2006, ed. note].Killed in the crash were:

* Tom Dunphy, 41, of Clive, IA, president of Two Rivers and one of the company’s founders and owners six years ago. He is survived by a wife and three sons.

* Leslie O’Bannon, 27, was an account executive who had been with the agency for four years. She lived in Des Moines with her husband and daughter.

* Eric Jacobs, 31, was the information technology leader with Two Rivers and had worked there four years. He lived in Ankeny, IA, and is survived by a wife and four sons.

* Josh Trainor, 23, was an information technology specialist and had been with the company for two years. He lived in Des Moines and is survived by his fiance.

Taken from

My cousin works for Two Rivers Marketing. While we are not particularly close, we happened to be riding in the same vehicle on the way to my Grandparent’s 50th wedding anniversary on September 22, 2006. In the dialogue between his parents and himself, he talked a lot about his coworkers, about his boss. So when my aunt e-mailed me about the crash, it hit harder than it might have otherwise. I had never met anyone from his company, yet I felt like I knew them the tiniest bit, and to lose them was something of a shock.

Central College has a goal to build community and become a more united body. For the second year running, we have organized a massive service day as part of an effort to reach our goal. Over 70 projects were offered, and when I saw Leslie and John O’Bannon’s house on the list, I didn’t hesitate to sign up. Not only would I be serving, but I would be serving someone with whom I had the faintest of connections, making it all the more worthwhile.

So today we loaded up two vans and two personal vehicles and made the hour trek into West Des Moines. I hadn’t the faintest idea of what the day would entail, just that I was committed to working from 9 this morning until 4 this afternoon. Now, back in my dorm, I am exhausted. Mr. O’Bannon has completely gutted the house and cut down many of the trees in the back yard (I would be most interested to see what it looks like when he’s finished). I helped break apart a cement wall for a bit before being recruited to rake up some wood chips from a flower bed. Most of the rest of the day was spent raking up sticks and leaves and tossing tree bits into the chipper. And cleaning bricks (read: removing the mortar). Oi. What a task. He had removed the bricks and foundation from a corner of the house so as to raise the foundation and there were now a large pile of bricks in need of cleaning. The nail puller end of a hammer soon became my best friend as I endeavored to chip away at the mortar. It wasn’t too bad, aside from all the dust that managed to get in my eyes and up my nose. And the fact that I spent so long at it that my hands cramped up. Overall, it was a rather pleasant day. I got burnt and my forearms and hands are in pain, but it’s all in the name of service. I’d do it again tomorrow if I had the chance.

Pure and undefiled religion in the sight of our God and Father is this: to visit orphans and widows in their distress. – James 1:27

They should be rich in good works and generous to those in need, always being ready to share with others. – 1 Timothy 6:18

Once again, Winter rears its ugly head…

Dear God,

I would like to have a word with your Weather Management Department. As of the twenty-first of March, Winter was over, Spring was officially here. April Fool’s Day was ten days ago. Therefore, I am having difficulty understanding : WHY IS IT SNOWING? Why, when I poked my head outside and blinked my bleary eyes, why were my retinas seared by the light of the sun reflected off of the snow? Two weeks ago we were blissfully enjoying 70/80 degree weather. What happened to it? It is APRIL. My poor little calves should be gracefully peeping out the bottom of some chic capris by now, not drowning in a snowbank. I’ll chalk it up to your sense of humor. I know you have one. Really, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised by the weather. It is Iowa, after all. But would you mind taking it easy on us? I would really appreciate it.

Thank you,
Emily

__________________________________________________________________________

As a note to my readers:

Look at this:

Ok, ok, so it’s not actually in monstrous banks. Yet. But still. It’s cold and wet and SNOWING! *sigh*
And as a further note, I am not so spiritually degenerate as to suppose that God actually has a Weather Management Department….. does He? :)