This is a poem I wrote where I just write and write and don't think about the words that are forming and don't think about sentence structure and everything deep within me just kind of exposes itself on paper without my forcing it out and trying to put it in poetic and perfect form and instead it is a rambling expression of all the thoughts in my heart, kind of like this sentence.
Hope
Hello hello you crazy World
I've yet to believe
you're completely bad
I've still some hope
for your battered soul
Goodbye goodbye Sadness, you fiend
How dare you slither
and skulk your way
into our world
Be gone Be gone
and never you return
We need you no more
We tolerate you none
Shoo shoo, perish in flames
Our crazy world
can stand on its own
hope-filled feet now
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Monday, March 16, 2009
With All the Rough Edges
For most of us, we idealize our lives as a sheet of stainless steel. Smooth, shiny, predictable. We want our life to be smooth, and every day is an attempt to acheive this steel life we dream of. We cringe at dents; we scowl at smudges; we steer clear of sharp edges.
In reality, life is a boulder. Bumps and ridges, rough here, smooth there. Color here, more colors there. Unexpected, unpredictable.
Our lives are not only boulders, they are mountain ranges. If you look at one little 3" x 3" section of a boulder, all you can see are the bumps and ridges. But if you look up, you can see miles and miles of mountains. You can see how the red of the rocks complements the green of the trees; you can see the sun playing peek-a-boo behind the clouds at the mountain's peak. You can smell life in the grass, the trees, the wildlife.
If you try to make a boulder look like steel, you can grind it and sand it and color it and process it in so many ways, and you do nothing but ruin the majesty of the boulder's natural and intended state.
I want my life to be a mountain range. People drive for miles to experience the wonders of the mountains. People can get lost in the mountains. The mountains are comforting; the mountains are dangerous; they are spiritual, wanted, admired. People dream of the mountains. People travel across the world to behold the mountains; who would make great sacrifices and travel the world for a piece of steel?
I would rather be a boulder than a sheet of stainless steel. I'd rather free fall from the mountain top and crack and chip along the way than be systematically placed in order. When studied for years, a boulder cannot be memorized or predicted. There are crevices in a boulder that may never be noticed or touched unless someone is unwaveringly determined to knowing about them. I'd rather be a boulder with all the indentations and all the rough edges, with all the splotches of color and all the dirt and debris.
And aren't the mountains so much more glorious and beautiful and alive than a piece of stainless steel?
In reality, life is a boulder. Bumps and ridges, rough here, smooth there. Color here, more colors there. Unexpected, unpredictable.
Our lives are not only boulders, they are mountain ranges. If you look at one little 3" x 3" section of a boulder, all you can see are the bumps and ridges. But if you look up, you can see miles and miles of mountains. You can see how the red of the rocks complements the green of the trees; you can see the sun playing peek-a-boo behind the clouds at the mountain's peak. You can smell life in the grass, the trees, the wildlife.
If you try to make a boulder look like steel, you can grind it and sand it and color it and process it in so many ways, and you do nothing but ruin the majesty of the boulder's natural and intended state.
I want my life to be a mountain range. People drive for miles to experience the wonders of the mountains. People can get lost in the mountains. The mountains are comforting; the mountains are dangerous; they are spiritual, wanted, admired. People dream of the mountains. People travel across the world to behold the mountains; who would make great sacrifices and travel the world for a piece of steel?
I would rather be a boulder than a sheet of stainless steel. I'd rather free fall from the mountain top and crack and chip along the way than be systematically placed in order. When studied for years, a boulder cannot be memorized or predicted. There are crevices in a boulder that may never be noticed or touched unless someone is unwaveringly determined to knowing about them. I'd rather be a boulder with all the indentations and all the rough edges, with all the splotches of color and all the dirt and debris.
And aren't the mountains so much more glorious and beautiful and alive than a piece of stainless steel?
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