7 Years

I was just reminded that I have had this blog for seven years.   Seven years of rants.  Seven years of poetry.  Seven years of channeling my depression online.  And I used to be good at it.  I remember when I was in college, sometimes I would get so creative I would post twice a week.  There were times when I’d try not to post every day.  Now I can barely post once a month.

And I’ve been thinking.  On and off for a while, I’ve been thinking.  What if I just closed it down?  Is seven years long enough?  For a long time this blog was my identity.  I put my heart and soul into.  Which is why my lack of creativity depresses me so much, I think.  But maybe it’s time to rip the bandaid off?  Is anyone even paying attention anymore?  Because I for sure have nothing to say anymore.

Last April I moved into a townhouse.  I thought moving here might give me the creative head space I need, but instead I feel like I might have even less creative space.  I’ve forgotten how to act on my ideas, because I still have those.  I have hundreds of photos on a memory card in a camera that I bought because I thought I was going to get back into photography.  Instead, they sit there unedited, when I used to love editing and sharing photos.

I spend a lot of time wondering who I even am anymore.  I start school next month, and I’m excited for it, but what happened to being a writer?  What happened to being a poet?  What happened to having big dreams?  Did I get lost somewhere along the way?  I want to try.  So badly, I want to try.  But giving it all up seems to much easier.

My decisions are pending.  But this could be coming close to a goodbye.

I’m Out of Ideas

I’m tired.  I’m running out of energy, and I know that this is only a temporary thing, but sloth mode is not really my favorite.

I’m really excited about things happening in the future, and really I’m more than content with things happening in my present, but it’s like I have nothing to talk about.  It’s  like I have nothing to write about.  Though I am writing a lot.  I’m just not writing the things that I used to be so excited about.  I’m not stagnant, but I’m something?

I’ve pulled away again.  But I’ve pulled into who I want to.  It’s just really hard to express these things without being heard.  I cannot be heard.  Not yet.  Not now.

So I’m out of ideas.  My life is so good, but also, I feel so rough.  It feels so hard to celebrate.  It feels so hard to go on living a normal life, as if nothing is missing.  Everything might be missing.  Or maybe not.

I wish there was a way for me to share who I am.  I wish there was a way to be genuinely known.  I think I want to learn more than vulnerability.  I think I want to learn how not to have walls.  Yes, protection is important.  But intimacy can be so secure in safety.  I want to find that safety.  I want to know what safe really is.

When Getting Out of Bed is Hard

I never learned how to reach out.  So everything seems inappropriate and everything becomes uncomfortable and needing anything seems like an obsession.  I make mistakes.  I’ve made them a thousand times, and it’s different every time, but as I become older it’s almost as if things are more and more detrimental.  It’s so much easier to turn to the things that will eventually push you over the edge than it is to run to the one thing that might make this all okay again.

I’ve been analyzing again.  But this time I have something to analyze.  Grief has stages.  Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance.  I don’t know what stage I’m in.  I know that I don’t want to talk about it.  Not with most people.  Not most of the time.  If you get to be that person, or one of those people, then I’m sorry.  But for everyone else.  I’m sick of it.  I’m sick of people saying that what I do or what I say is okay.  It’s bullshit.  This is all bullshit.
I’m not even sorry.  I’m not even sorry that I push everyone away and then feel abandoned.  Because I’ve done it my whole freaking life.  It’s what I’m best at.

I don’t even care right now.  I don’t want to care.  I want to do whatever I want.  I want to be reckless.  I used to be reckless.  But there will always be something tethering me to the earth, keeping me from being fully free like that.

I’m not an alcoholic.  I don’t really have an addictive nature.  But I wish I was.  I wish there was a reason that getting out of bed didn’t seem worth it.  A reason that was more than a state of mind.

I’m really messed up.  But only right now.  I’m really not okay, even when I am okay.  And no, I don’t want to talk about it.

“Save Me”

“Save me”
Crying out
“Save me”
Clawing at the edges
“Save me”
Can’t pull yourself up

“I can’t do this on my own
Not anymore”
You yell this in his face
As he gently beckons
Just let go

Afraid of heights
Pulling yourself to the top of the pit
Will not look back at what you’re climbing from
Begging
“Save me”
Just let go

Beneath you
Right beneath you
Are arms poised and ready
Waiting for you to just let go
So they can catch you

“Save me”
Crying out
As you pull away from salvation
Not realizing you are saved
If you’d just let go

No longer waiting
No longer striving in fear
“Save me”
Words that are only memories to your lips
Just let go
You are safe

Lost, But Not

Lost, but not
In a sea of commotion
Home is right around the corner
Just out of sight
Close your eyes
And you’ll find it

Excited at prospect
Impatient for time
Essence overtaking
Hands opening
Dropping all expectations

Artist spilling over
Out of the corner of your eye
Angels watching
What will she do next?
Touching the seams
Where heaven and earth collide
Feel it break

Interrupted in thought
Caught up
In whatever this is
Lost,
But not

Blogging Everyday in July|A Poem for a Pastor

I moved to Florence and inadvertently claimed the Ark as my church.  The Ark is a lighthouse to this area.  Lighthouses tend to follow me (or lead me?) wherever I go.  The college I went to uses a lighthouse as its symbol.  The church I went to in Mammoth was called Lighthouse and is a lighthouse to the nations.  And now I’m here, part of yet another lighthouse.  A place where the lost can be found.  A place where maybe I’ll be found.
A couple weeks ago my pastor(?) and some of my friends came to my place of work for a coffee and a hang.  I sat with them on my break and Phillip Clemons, the father of the Ark, the pastor, found out I was a writer and was blogging everyday in July and said I should write a poem about him.  The thing is, when I’m part of a church, I’m usually far too involved, either because my school requires me to or… no, that’s pretty much it; church has been a requirement of school for me for a long time.  So of course I had relationship with the pastors.  But here, for the first time in a long time, I have had the option to blend in.  So I haven’t really gotten to know my pastor.  So much, that it’s strange to call him that.  Am I one of his sheep?  (Because the word pastor comes from the Latin word for shepherd.)  But I have chosen the Ark.  Because I love the community I have found there.  Thus Phillip Clemons is my pastor.
Anyway, he said I should write a poem about him.  So I did.  But since I don’t actually know him, this was a challenge.  Because I’m not perfect.  I’ll stop stalling now.

Phillip Clemons
Wise like an owl
Fierce like an eagle
Taking flight
Taking flight
Taking flight

Over and over again
Soaring
Leading fearlessly
Because there is nothing to fear

The roar of a lion
Fire is called down
Lives change
Hearts heal
All because of obedience

Blessing
Abundant blessing
Blessing begets blessing begets blessing
Simply blessed

A voice worth hearing
A call worth responding
A vision gifted
Clear as day

Father
Protector
Helper to the helpless
Finder of the lost

Wise like an owl
Fierce like an eagle
Took flight
Born to soar