My chest constricts
in a tell-tale sign that I am processing
emotion
and it’s difficult to label
which emotion it is
because I find myself immersed
in a world that exudes
both joy and loss
I see the uplifting stories
where humanity draws together
in support of the greater good
only to be followed by
the onslaught of
negative, overwhelming news
that comes at me nonstop
with no clear certainties
I am rooting for humanity
and all the good we can accomplish
yet I feel such frustration
at those who sow discord and fear
passing judgment
with no willingness to listen to others
We talk about the new normal
but nothing will be normal again
and maybe that’s okay
The lessons we have learned
about resiliency and compassion
sorrow and grit
responsibility and weariness
are anything but usual or expected
and perhaps they were lessons
we didn’t want to learn
But we have a choice now
to give into anxiety and hopelessness
or to focus on the good
to listen and develop
to cherish what we once took for granted
to look forward to what is to come
with hope and expectation
knowing we have something greater ahead
Poetry
mindful poetry
Poetry, like the mind, is fluid
It bends and weaves, sneaking its way through a thought
and meandering to the next
But sometimes it lingers and dwells on one thought,
one intriguing or complex or frustrating or hopeful or reluctant idea
that it just cannot let go
because letting go would mean moving on and forgetting it
and this thought is too important or painful or desperate or beautiful to let go
But there, just like that, it is done
it moved on to the next thing
the next thought
the next sentence
the next plan
the next adventure
What would happen if the poetry stopped
if the words lost their meaning
and the thoughts became jibberish
Is my mind poetry
is poetry my mind — captured with words
Poetry, like the mind, is fluid and real.
Thoughts while reading a book
All it takes is a single moment. A thought, a word, a musical note — something draws you in. It feels almost magnetic because, somehow, it understands you. It seems to be expressing the very emotions and thoughts you yourself have experienced and felt. It pulls at this deep cavern within the pit of your stomach, your heart, your soul, your mind. It radiates in soft tingling pulses, spreading like a warm rush throughout your being.
Here, in this moment, someone has reached through time — ignoring its restraints and rebelling against its limitations upon the world — in an attempt to be understood and to understand. Someone else has traversed to the same feeling, thought or emotion, and emerged from it bearing a proof of this experience — a proof similar, yet distinct, from the one you carry.
In an almost exclusive call to those fellow travelers, this individual creates a conduit between their soul and your soul. Others might hear the call, but only those that have felt this same feeling, lived a comparable experience or existed with similar hope can truly respond to the call.
The call with which this individual reaches out takes many forms and morphs among the variants of beings and experiences. But the call echoes through words penned in a book, through music transcribed and performed, through movements designed to evoke a remembrance.
What can you do but respond? So you, too, create a bridge that extends from your soul and reaches out. Perhaps soon, perhaps in years to come, another being will feel the draw of that moment and construct a response of their own — a conduit that belongs to them and reflects their own being, yet was influenced by yours.
But yours was influenced by the being before you, and theirs by the being before them. This conduit of influence and experience has passed through time and has connected beings throughout history. On and on it goes until, at last, it reaches the original Source of inspiration.
And there — unseen, yet real and resilient — exists a network of individual beings linked together in a single moment that defies time.
Call me a logophile (or maybe just “a lover of words”)
Well, here’s a random musing for ya.
The premise of this one emerged when I realized how cool it was that the following sentence actually works as a sentence:
I think that that that that that that describes should be deleted.
Go ahead, put it in Word. No squiggly green lines.
Naturally, I had to outdo myself with my nerdy, wordy weirdness. So I started thinking of words that I can type using just one hand (because I love it when that happens). I mean, come on.
Awed. Bump. Crest. Dread. Eager. Fester. Grade. Hilly. Ilk. Joy. Kill. Limp. Monopoly. Numb. Opinion. Pomp. Rare. Secret. Test. Up. Veer. Weave. You. Zest.
(Yes, I gave up on “q” and “x”.)
So, maybe that doesn’t quite excite you. But what about when you take those same words that once held individual meaning and create something entirely new with them?
It holds a monopoly on abandoned dreams,
for mountains of its ilk have long caused travelers —
once eager and daring —
to stumble, crash and limp along
and exchange joy and purpose for numb torpor.There the mountain looms with pomp and pride,
causing thoughts of dread to fester,
turning secret opinion to supposed fact:
the journey up will kill you.Yet up you trudge, veer and weave —
up its steep, taunting and daunting grade —
you dig deep with rare resolve to master its test.Now, here you stand upon its hilly crest,
Awed, empowered, with renewed zest.It was just another bump along the way.
Maybe it’s just me, but I find the ability to do that fascinating. So, call me a logophile… except I should probably just stick with a lover of words.
Leaf, Leaves, Leaving, Left
honestly, it feels like a leaf blower is scattering my emotions into a tumultuous riot in my stomach heart mind —
there goes a scalding red leaf searing others that get too close
and there — a mottled brown one quietly sighs as it spirals down with gravity’s pull
there whirls a crisp green leaf drunk on the bright light that it stole from the sun
but there — a gang of burnt orange leaves approach the green in an overwhelming swirl
and they clash and collide in a vibrant violent twirl
eventually, they all rest dormant
sedentary, waiting for the next brisk wisp of wind
that will whisk them away and send them into a dizzying tizzy
Eyes on You
“We do not know what to do,
but our eyes are on You.”
— II Chronicles 20:12
My mind is cluttered
with thoughts I can
barely piece together
and comprehend —
confusion, disbelief,
disappointment, pride —
These wisps of feelings
shift and circle,
creating an abstract image
that forces me to
constantly adjust my
focus until my lens blurs.
I do not know what to do,
but my eyes are on You, Lord.
My eyes are on You,
but instead of looking
for answers about me,
let me truly see —
Let me see You, Lord —
not just look with
glancing eye, only to
shift my gaze away with
each new shimmering
distraction.
Let me see You, Lord —
in the fullness of Your
grace and majesty, in
Your faithfulness that
grants to me such
blessed assurance.
Let me see You, Lord —
a glimpse of who You are
and the love that
compelled You to make
a way so these blind
eyes could see You.
My eyes are on You, Lord,
so let me see.
embedded in the moments of growth
As an adult, it is easy
to reflect on your life
and pinpoint various
moments of growth —
but as a child, those times
of growth are often
challenging and arduous
for embedded in the
moments of growth
are moments of pain —
growing pains that ache
and throb — subtle thieves
that attempt to diminish
your achievements
for embedded in the
moments of growth
are moments of forbearance —
a patience that must be
learned — as others grow
at a faster pace, while you
wait and wait and wait
for embedded in the
moments of growth
are moments at rock bottom —
when you’re buried under
stress and expectations —
the heavy soil impeding
your journey to the sun
but it is from those moments —
the pain, the long-suffering,
the rock bottom —
that measurements gain meaning —
for once you reach a certain height,
it is then that you can look back
upon that low point and say,
“That point right there —
that’s where I’ve come from.”
Today is a good day to be alive
Why?
Because this is another day
to do something you love
or to try something new.
This is another day for you
to randomly talk with a stranger
about tea and crepes and birthdays
(it’s not as unlikely as you’d think).
This is another day for you
to encounter a new friend
or to spend time with a cherished one.
This is another day for you
to listen to your all-time favorite song
or to discover a new one
that. just. gets. you.
This is another day for you
to lend a helping hand to someone
or to thank those who have lent one to you.
This is another day for you
to enjoy the vibrant green leaves
that have replaced the bleak brown branches
(even when you’re stuck sitting in traffic).
This is another day for you
to pick up a new book to read
or to finally finish writing your own.
This is another day for you
to color with crayons and markers
or to laugh at the child-like drawing you created
(of course that’s how you intended it to look).
This is another day for you
to turn your life around
or to keep staying strong on the path you’re on.
It’s a good day to be alive
because you’ve been gifted one more breath
and one more
and one more
to live this day.
So, what will you do with it?
Wrestling with rest
Prologue
When you are concussed,
they say you should rest.
Sleep, yes —
but not just that.
Rest your brain,
so it can recover
from the impact
of collision
inside your skull.
Rest:
No watching TV
No computers
No bright lights
So, basically, no screens
No physical activity
No critical thinking
No reading
I stare intently,
but the computer screen
I shouldn’t be peering at
still shows the same words.
Well, what on earth am I
supposed to do then?
I know, I know.
Rest.
Chapter
After another day of work that entails staring at a bright computer screen all day, writing, reading, and thinking critically, I sit down and finish the last couple chapters of my book.
Now, I will rest.
I open my laptop and bring up a blank, bright white Word document on the screen. I try to think of what I want to write, what I have to say, but nothing comes to me.
I sit in silence, eyes closed. And then, a thought emerges: Peace, be still.
Background noises come to my mind’s forefront. I hear the rain splatter on the roof. The vehicles in the intersection hum, squeal, and clank. They are not the only travelers on the road. Water droplets have taken individual journeys and now collect together in puddles, filling the potholes and crevices in the road. They rest together for a moment, until they are disturbed and displaced by a set of rubber tires — another vehicle in a hurry to get somewhere other than there.
Epilogue
Distraction
Commotion
Chaos
Turmoil —
Our worlds are filled
to the brim with it all,
making it difficult
to extract yourself,
to withdraw,
to slow down,
to rest,
to simply be still.
How writer’s block and an old poem resulted in thoughts on trust
I’ll be honest here: I was having a brain fart. Or a writer’s block. Or something.
So, I put on my music and considered writing a poem instead. But when opening Word, I glimpsed a poem I wrote on December 20, 2016. I opened “The musical river” and read it. Reading that spawned another idea, which led me to my blog and prompted me to write the following words: “I’m still not quite sure how I want to get a point across. So for now, I have another exercise.”
Well, let me just take it from there, because my writer’s block went away.
If you would, go to iTunes or Spotify or YouTube and pick your favorite song to listen to. And I mean, a song that really, really gets you — every single time you listen to it. (If you’re at a loss for a song, here’s one from The Piano Guys.)
Now, lose yourself… in the music, the moment…
***
The musical river
One musical note
doesn’t seem like much —
as a single drop of water
doesn’t amount to much.
Perhaps this note is a B flat
or a C sharp —
and perhaps this drop of water
falls from the faucet
or drops from the sky.
On its own,
that one musical note
seems lonely and without context —
and the drop of water
seems small and insignificant.
But when that one tone
is followed by other individual tones —
and when that drop of water
is joined by more beads of water —
together they define a new creation.
The musical notes
support each other,
lead each other,
pushing forward with a sense
of purpose and perseverance —
as the drops of water
join together to become
a single entity
that flows with elegant determination,
until, at last,
the end of a new masterpiece.
***
I’ve been thinking a lot about trust recently. In fact, I’ve been thinking about trust for the past couple of months. And when I thought of trust, my thoughts turned to trust falls. I’m sure you all know what a trust fall is, but just in case:
Trust is scary. That moment you choose to let yourself fall is a moment when you place complete control into the hands of someone else. You trust that person to ignore surrounding distractions and catch you, support you.
So, these thoughts were lingering in my mind, when I turned on my music and read this poem again. That’s when the following thoughts passed through my mind: Each musical note does a trust fall into the next one. Without the next note to catch the one before it, the music ceases to be.
The musical notes in your favorite song rely on each other to create the final outcome. Without that trust, their existence and ultimate purpose would be undetermined and meaningless.
I’ll let you ruminate on that thought for a bit.
Jennifer English 