The Valley Song

A new beginning that's sticking to me. The difference now is I am not relying on myself. Pssh. I can't do anything worthwhile alone. I want to do something that lasts, but more than that, I really and truly desire to be so close to God that just the thought of Him brings whiffs of His presence.

That's all.

So here I go: Day 1, and I'm nowhere near where I was or where I want to be - but there is hope, and that hasn't been there for a while. I will fail. I will fall. But I will try, and try, and keep trying. Isn't that life, anyway?

I will sing of Your mercy

That leads me through valleys of sorrow

To rivers of joy

Though the pain is an ocean

Tossing us around, around, around

You have calmed greater waters

Higher mountains have come down

So Take My Hand.

I hate succumbing to this teenage angst. Blowing my headphones at full volume helps. Facebook doesn't, and neither does Tumblr anymore. Going outside might. Drawing things doesn't, really, not in the course of a day. Perhaps for a moment.

This past week has been one of much movement, every day spent doing something. Now, it's not exhaustion pulling at my mind, and it's not quite a headache. I want some fruit, and a sunny day in which I can wear a breezy dress and not worry about anything. I want reality to match how I look in my mind.

I wish I could put on blinders to the world and let it all fade away..forget everything but the music, Ingrid Michaelson's voice and the sweet visions of his approval, of a happy day spent creating and smiling. Walking around in nature, in a yellow dress. Sandals.

I read something the other day, on Tumblr, that said missing someone has nothing to do with how long you've been apart, and everything to do with the moments you think how much you'd like them to be there with you.

I've been sighing a lot, and there's been some kind of strange tint in my eyes. The commercial for the depression medication, of the wind-up girl having to wind herself up every few moments. I realized I was re-enacting it during choir practice earlier.

We're sounding better - more unified, stronger.

Oh Lord. There are so many thoughts, and that could be why my head is pounding. I can't wait until Fine Arts, for that first Thursday morning of utter peace and silence. I am going to wake up as early as I can - five, if possible - and go outside. Go to that ledge, hopefully, and just soak in the silence. That is what I am living for right now.

Oh, Lord. I know which direction I'm going but I just can't make myself move toward it.

The Result.

Then onto Districts. I had a week to write the new poem (as I said, I didn't like the sonnet that much). In that week I wrote a few random poems out of sheer frustrations, a few crappy drafts that aren't worth posting even on here, and finally, after much thought and re-working, came up with this. I even titled it (as crappy as that title is. lol).

"Ruminations on the Romantic"

Brought into this wide and wild garden,

Walled and secret, no one knocking,

I found and felt the openness of loneliness

And it was good; it meant righteousness

Because You, God, were found

Digging fingers deep into the ground.

Planting every bloom and flinging color,

Exploding perfectly each day in plots of clover:

Creations as magnificent as Your supernovan space.

I'm pure in heart; I know I've seen Your face.

Glorified and glowing, love itself alight,

You caught and carried me, a firefly at night,

Down to this grove. I see your curling hand

At work because of innocence. Land

And loam, all churned and plowed for spring,

Waiting for the sowing to begin.

A garden grown into a million rows,

Ready for those cleaving vows -

Oh Father, You know best. One blink

And futures fall. A dawn once pink

Lies black and blue at daybreak's drift;

I cringe and see the quickness of the shift,

And am afraid. The garden ages. Drought - rain -

Seasons change - but this remains:

Your love has kept me well, and ever will.

One of those random poems:

souls, clammy as cold,

one when love meets

in points unmatched

brought to teeth-and-

marked with God, suck

all this life through your

green straw and fling

all your will to the wind.

on this side of that

rainbow, I've found your

pot. you're old and gummy,

speech too runny to find

any sense. well, old Midas,

meet your granddaughter.

The Ups and Downs.

After that rough draft, I went down another track until an idea to do a sonnet hit me.

So, the second draft:

Compelled by love

is a river of gold,

alive and moving of its own accord

carrying us, pushing us to shores

we would never have gone by

by ourselves.

Imagine -

in arms that breathe and speak,

a million stars in one droplet,

drawn in by something we crave

something we spend all our lives looking for

only to give it away.

And the final Sectionals draft. I forgot to title it. I think I did a sonnet because writing free verse for Fine Arts is pretty much suicidal, in a literary sense.

Before me lies a fork within the road

Follow your heart became my childhood theme

Enforced by Big Bird, Blue's Clues, Frog and Toad.

Follow the money: family who seem

To care wish for me everything they lacked,

But I have seen no joy for all their years

Of wringing dollars from each day. They stacked

Their principles on poverty and tears.

I have a greater purpose than success

My eyes can see a higher road that leads

Into a kingdom girded by duress

And, promising no leisure, fills my needs.

All I've ever looked for I have found

Following God's love to higher ground.

Rough Drafts

I've defined myself as a writer for the majority of my life, but it is one of my biggest insecurities. For Fine Arts this year I drafted and redrafted, entering a poem that I was largely unhappy with for Sectionals, and another one for Districts that I worked on, more than I do for 95% of my poems. Here are some drafts.

This is the first and roughest one:

I've grown inside coccoons of theology.

My meat and my milk have often been

combined into one shake, energizing me.

My days smelled of parchment, of myrrh,

and of the dankness of caves and Galilean

seasides. Sometimes the scent of incense

curled around my closed eyes. I would

feel it drift into high heaven.

I drank from many communion cups.

When the flavors clashed with each other I

began to brew my own: formulating

mixed drinks of feeling and faith that

were heady and disorienting. I forgot

about the bread - the taste that always

stayed the same - while holding it in my hand.

I pounded my knees into the altar

ground, circles of worship rippling

out around them. I knew what I believed.

I was persuaded. I knew that I was

made for God and for God I would

remain.

But I turned focusing on God

into focusing on myself. I turned

the Scriptures into a galaxy, and I

was on fire in the middle of it.

God didn't cut me down.

I didn't burn out.

I fell in love.

I found that in trying to

be so spiritual, I became so human.

I fell out of love after two years,

realizing a million things.

I sucked in God's love, as much

as I could get, for years. Seventy

times seven, He said to forgive,

and that always frightened me because

I had used that up and more, trying

to deserve His love.

I have picked up my cross, and

I feel a new splinter every day

dig into my shoulders. But it's not

about me this time. This time

my cross isn't holiness. The most

human thing ever - to love others

as He has loved me.

Because it is about me, for Him.

Because it is about them, for Him.

Because it is about Him, for me.

Because it is about them, for me.

It's a different way of those

ripples of worship I sent out

with my knees, except this time

with my hands - helping. and with

my heart - loving. and with my

mouth - preaching. This is my cross.

Pick one,

In the circles of worship that rippled out from my knees when I hit

the altar, I staked everything I believed.