Sometimes the way the sunlight hits the floor reminds me of India.
I don't know why, but it does.
2/7/13
2/5/13
rough draft
I Have Music in my Blood
I swear.
Every paper cut reveals a soft string
of woodwind staccatos
and cello crescendos,
the diminuendos of the timpani.
An orchestra of delicacy.
The rhythms your blood carries
mapped out in veins.
Pulsing allegro life
welling up to puddles on your fingertips
pianissimo acoustics
echoes of the strong beat inside.
If we slit the soft walls,
the chambers of your blood
loosed to the world of wind and light,
your cells would let low brass speak,
the oboes and violas,
bassoons and piccolos
play their rhythms quiet-strong.
A concerto of blood.
2/4/13
fire in my bones
I am taking a poetry workshop class. We write poems and then everyone critiques them. We also read published poetry and analyze the craft.
I've found that I cannot write (in good conscious) poems about things that do not deeply affect me. I cannot write about the orange on the table unless it has first affected me in some way. I cannot write about the pretty day just for the sake of prettiness. So I put little pieces of my soul into my poems, and I prepare to have them misunderstood in workshop. I've had poems workshopped before this class and it is always painful. But I can't- I refuse to write any other way.
Today I had a poem workshopped. It hurts me less that they do not understand my poem, but more that this fire in my bones to tell these stories isn't understood. I want them to want to know about M, I want them to look at my writing from their souls, not their American minds. I want them to step outside their own understanding and let my words tell a story. It hurts that I do not know how to do that. That my professor thought the poem was about lesbians. No. The scandalous had nothing to do with her body, but just that she was dancing at all. My life is scandalous because I wear my hair loose and long and ballroom dance with men. Me. It doesn't have to have the American view of scandalous to mean anything.
I wanted them to critique it, yes. I want it to be a good poem. I appreciate their suggestions for taking out the words that do not mean anything, for moving around the stanzas, for adding more, for deleting some of the lines. I appreciate their argument over the word Afghanistan.
What hurts is that they do not understand. That I am unable to make them understand. That they do not really care to understand, and that it is my job to pull them in, and I can't really do that.
Before the workshop started I sat in my seat and tried to steady myself. I was excited to let the refugee stories breathe again, let this huge thing that has changed my life take a bit of the spotlight of the day. I wanted it to be read as something important, maybe as something that was part of me. But people don't care.
It hurts me that I am a bad story teller. That I can't manage to get Miss M's story out there in a way that they will understand and appreciate her. It's not about me. It's about her, and all of the stories like hers. I want them told in America. I don't know how to do that.
I've found that I cannot write (in good conscious) poems about things that do not deeply affect me. I cannot write about the orange on the table unless it has first affected me in some way. I cannot write about the pretty day just for the sake of prettiness. So I put little pieces of my soul into my poems, and I prepare to have them misunderstood in workshop. I've had poems workshopped before this class and it is always painful. But I can't- I refuse to write any other way.
Today I had a poem workshopped. It hurts me less that they do not understand my poem, but more that this fire in my bones to tell these stories isn't understood. I want them to want to know about M, I want them to look at my writing from their souls, not their American minds. I want them to step outside their own understanding and let my words tell a story. It hurts that I do not know how to do that. That my professor thought the poem was about lesbians. No. The scandalous had nothing to do with her body, but just that she was dancing at all. My life is scandalous because I wear my hair loose and long and ballroom dance with men. Me. It doesn't have to have the American view of scandalous to mean anything.
I wanted them to critique it, yes. I want it to be a good poem. I appreciate their suggestions for taking out the words that do not mean anything, for moving around the stanzas, for adding more, for deleting some of the lines. I appreciate their argument over the word Afghanistan.
What hurts is that they do not understand. That I am unable to make them understand. That they do not really care to understand, and that it is my job to pull them in, and I can't really do that.
Before the workshop started I sat in my seat and tried to steady myself. I was excited to let the refugee stories breathe again, let this huge thing that has changed my life take a bit of the spotlight of the day. I wanted it to be read as something important, maybe as something that was part of me. But people don't care.
It hurts me that I am a bad story teller. That I can't manage to get Miss M's story out there in a way that they will understand and appreciate her. It's not about me. It's about her, and all of the stories like hers. I want them told in America. I don't know how to do that.
| |||
1/30/13
mimi ni mzima
in Kiswahili: I am full/whole.
Today I was served the most yummy dinner. The most yummy because I was served, because it was simple, because I was served. And snuggled with a most adorable dog.
It was refreshing to be able to answer, "yes!" when asked, "do you want to play this with me?"
refreshing to hand little plastic gems to a little girl, her sharp little fingernails sticking into my palms as she grabbed them.
Treated to pinkberry with a new friend, real friends now because we talked about shaving our legs- or lack of ;)
Sat in the union yesterday morning and wrote about my heart as a mango. J gave me mango juice in the morning that tasted like summer in Mexico. My mango heart exposed.
Talked to a professor in the library, decided to meet with classmates even without having class.
In that class he asks me for input when no one else will talk because I talk so much. Hmm.
Monday night my soul busted through.
oh there is so much in my head.
I dreamed Obama was going to come for tea and I was worried because I didn't have any food. I was going to serve him goldfish :)
got a picture in the mail from my niece :) It is now hanging on the wall in the living room.
And, most importantly, falling more deeply in love with the creator of the universe every day :)
also, Greg Laswell and Matthew Perryman Jones.
so much.
mimi ni mzima.
Today I was served the most yummy dinner. The most yummy because I was served, because it was simple, because I was served. And snuggled with a most adorable dog.
It was refreshing to be able to answer, "yes!" when asked, "do you want to play this with me?"
refreshing to hand little plastic gems to a little girl, her sharp little fingernails sticking into my palms as she grabbed them.
Treated to pinkberry with a new friend, real friends now because we talked about shaving our legs- or lack of ;)
Sat in the union yesterday morning and wrote about my heart as a mango. J gave me mango juice in the morning that tasted like summer in Mexico. My mango heart exposed.
Talked to a professor in the library, decided to meet with classmates even without having class.
In that class he asks me for input when no one else will talk because I talk so much. Hmm.
Monday night my soul busted through.
oh there is so much in my head.
I dreamed Obama was going to come for tea and I was worried because I didn't have any food. I was going to serve him goldfish :)
got a picture in the mail from my niece :) It is now hanging on the wall in the living room.
And, most importantly, falling more deeply in love with the creator of the universe every day :)
also, Greg Laswell and Matthew Perryman Jones.
so much.
mimi ni mzima.
1/24/13
I'm in love.
I'm in love... with the vast, endless Being.
Today I've been thinking about that love, my love. It's overwhelming- in a beautiful way. I never want to be in control of this.
Yesterday I was sitting with my beautiful sisterfriend Amber, and she said something nonchalantly and lovely, something about how God is not of any culture. He doesn't conform to any social norms or customs, how he goes through them and around them and gets to the hearts of people with Love we can't escape.
HE IS HIS OWN CULTURE.
And I want to be of HIS culture,
which means that I NO LONGER HAVE TO CONFORM TO AMERICAN CULTURE! NOT EVEN A LITTLE BIT! (Which will be hard, because I am a people pleaser and if people are weirded out by me or don't respond well that is going to be uncomfortable and hard. But I would rather be uncomfortable in God's glorious culture of Love than comfortable in this one.)
It is the people who put the emphasis on following the cultural norms.
Yes, Jesus was socialized in a specific culture, but he definitely went beyond his culture too.
Also, I have thirteen dollars in my wallet right now and I feel so wealthy. I want to simplify, it feels so good. I've been wearing the same clothes as many days in a row as I can. Again with the culture thing.
I'm in love.
Today I've been thinking about that love, my love. It's overwhelming- in a beautiful way. I never want to be in control of this.
Yesterday I was sitting with my beautiful sisterfriend Amber, and she said something nonchalantly and lovely, something about how God is not of any culture. He doesn't conform to any social norms or customs, how he goes through them and around them and gets to the hearts of people with Love we can't escape.
HE IS HIS OWN CULTURE.
And I want to be of HIS culture,
which means that I NO LONGER HAVE TO CONFORM TO AMERICAN CULTURE! NOT EVEN A LITTLE BIT! (Which will be hard, because I am a people pleaser and if people are weirded out by me or don't respond well that is going to be uncomfortable and hard. But I would rather be uncomfortable in God's glorious culture of Love than comfortable in this one.)
It is the people who put the emphasis on following the cultural norms.
Yes, Jesus was socialized in a specific culture, but he definitely went beyond his culture too.
Also, I have thirteen dollars in my wallet right now and I feel so wealthy. I want to simplify, it feels so good. I've been wearing the same clothes as many days in a row as I can. Again with the culture thing.
I'm in love.
1/21/13
gloriousities
Yesterday it was simultaneously snowing and sunny while J and I were walking to church!
omelets for lunch!
skyping with T, who is super far away
J and I put an enthusiastic! quote on the wall
bible study with tea :)
day off today~ going to make loving things with A!
drinking black tea with just a smidgen of sugar
1/19/13
slow
Writing comes slow these days, but I've got to write.
Last night I dreamed about Hungary again. The refugee camp was much different~ much nicer, more like a small city. I remember pulling out the envelope (that is currently sitting on my desk in Cincinnati) that still has about thirty dollars worth of forints in it, and buying some ice cream. I was staying in a small room with six other girls, some of whom I know in this town. I was relieved to be back. It was different, but it was good.
I'm taking a poetry workshop class, and of course I am writing about refugees. I half hate, half love sharing poetry. It's a piece of my soul, sorta, at least a reflection of it. But I want it to be better, too, because I want to share it and I want people to be educated and feel.
Human trafficking used to make my blood boil. It was that kind of passion. The kind of anger to do things with.
The situation of refugees in the world gives a different kind of passion. It makes me so sad. Intense sadness. I read the news on Tuesday (the 15th) morning, and I cried. a lot. I'm okay with that.
This got me good.
But again, I'm having a hard time loving Americans, especially my peers. A really hard time. If we go beyond the small talk it's okay. But on topics of weather and teasing and sarcasm and complaining... what's the point?
yeah, I want to blog today, recently, but the words are drying up again. That's okay :)
Last night I dreamed about Hungary again. The refugee camp was much different~ much nicer, more like a small city. I remember pulling out the envelope (that is currently sitting on my desk in Cincinnati) that still has about thirty dollars worth of forints in it, and buying some ice cream. I was staying in a small room with six other girls, some of whom I know in this town. I was relieved to be back. It was different, but it was good.
I'm taking a poetry workshop class, and of course I am writing about refugees. I half hate, half love sharing poetry. It's a piece of my soul, sorta, at least a reflection of it. But I want it to be better, too, because I want to share it and I want people to be educated and feel.
Human trafficking used to make my blood boil. It was that kind of passion. The kind of anger to do things with.
The situation of refugees in the world gives a different kind of passion. It makes me so sad. Intense sadness. I read the news on Tuesday (the 15th) morning, and I cried. a lot. I'm okay with that.
This got me good.
But again, I'm having a hard time loving Americans, especially my peers. A really hard time. If we go beyond the small talk it's okay. But on topics of weather and teasing and sarcasm and complaining... what's the point?
yeah, I want to blog today, recently, but the words are drying up again. That's okay :)
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