The Stuck Places

Today my life feels like a place where dreams and expectations have collided with the reality of what is, and I feel stuck and sad, unsure of how to move on from this place. Maybe the invitation is to sit here for a while and be with the stuck without asking her to leave. “Poetry,” she whispers in a rasp. Her voice sounds like she gargles with pebbles.

Poetry is what I do when I don’t know how to say or convey in complete sentences, in complete sense, those things I grapple with. My challenge is with a protracted attempt at selling my house and moving. It has been going on for a year and a half now. The dream is clear. The process of getting there proves elusive. And on top of that, I feel somewhat guilty for my angst. So many serious problems in the world and mine seems small by comparison. But even against the current backdrop of chaos, personal worlds keep on spinning.

we are all

wounded and thirsty

‘til someone reminds us

there is another well

not the one

filled with stale tears

the one

inviting us to drink

from the cup

of unbroken soul

Soul and solitude. A great need to be alone. I burrow in. Life expands and contracts around me like one large breathing in and out. But I am caught in between the breaths, where memories and feelings linger in a misty haze of un-resolve; where dreams seem made of dust. There’s no rest in this uncomfortable place, yet I’m aware of something calling me, challenging me to adjust my vision and embrace the shadow of unfinished business, even though nothing is ever really finished. To be alive is to be engaged in on-going process. This life has never been smooth, but textured—each rough edge and sharp point, an offering that points the way.

imaginings of greatness

unable to see the “great” already here

is it my own greatness that i fear?

when I retreat

into the dregs of sufferings

and coffee grounds

within the muck

there my light is found.

lament and longing

are meant to be a vision

we cannot escape the scar of incision

that’s the greatness

the cut of thrive

beyond survive

the kiss of god to just be alive.

Making poems is like gathering the broken pieces to one’s heart and trying to weave them into making some sort of sense and meaning that will bloom into purpose. It’s a giving over of oneself; a permission to let the feelings lead, without judgment, critique or fixing.

words rush through

the morning

journal entry, tightly packed

letters falling on top of one another,

as snippets of light

left over from the full moon,

string together pearls of longing.

an empty place

brushes by what might fill it,

runs through my fingers

a baptism of sand,

the ache for something greater

to bring peace to the day.

waiting. wanting.

tasks and promises,

drain the bathtub of expectations

that are never to be.

A writer is always writing, I believe. Pulling stories from forest floors and gentle winds; pushed forward by the epic poem of our own life and our desire to share the connection of heart and things with others who start their mornings with a pen and a blank page. Even if the page is left blank, a writer is always writing.

years ago

the moon was full and bright

memories there

of arrogant youth

when i was lean and strong.

back then,

i thought

i could drink the moon.

The advice I give to myself on days that feel twisted into a thicket that blocks the view of the path: Gather stories and poems and let them inform you about who you are and who you wish to become. Make grace, make humor, make love, make sorrow, make joy and make healing with words. Most of all, let yourself be the force for authenticity, for that “you” which you were always intended to be.

Every creative walks through the door to the underworld, where the goddess has left a chalice of madness, the nectar of creation, sitting upon the altar. Sip it slowly. Take your time. A little madness informs the poet’s soul and she knows it. And finally, weep. Weeping is the sacred action held by the women of the world.

Weeping is for the sting of the wound or the loss. It pays homage to the beauty of what is gone, the exquisite piercing of pain, and the promise of transformation. Tears open the cocoon of protection letting in the entirety of love’s face.

The risk of sharing the awkward dance of becoming human – will I be judged? Judge myself? Pull back and edit that which seems weak or indulgent? Or . . . let it rip? One of the reasons I write is that sharing stories makes me feel less alone. Discontent is soothed by the connection of knowing that others have been right where I am, sitting in what feels like a tangled mess, carefully pulling at strings, as to unknot them. We come to know each other as well as ourselves through creating.

And now, one more cup of tea, sitting outside on the porch and I’ll go do a day of errands and obligations; walk with the dog; water the pots; make dinner; and most likely decide that “this too shall pass.”

Sending love and goodwill to all my fellow creatives. Thank you for being here.

~Stephanie