As December's days dwindle and the new year looms in the not so distant future, I have had time to consider 2012 and its many ups and downs (hey, that's funny when you consider that vertigo can take you from standing up straight to being flat on the floor...begging the room to stop spinning so violently). Vertigo is an attack on one's sense of balance. It can be caused by any number of things (including those which cannot be found with an MRI or an evil test that blows air into your ears to see how you react...but I digress). What I have found is that I spend an inordinate amount of time investing in other people's success and dreams and happiness. I have sacrificed time, money, and surely a few other things to make sure that others are able to pursue their dreams. Meanwhile, I am barely doing the minimum daily requirement to sustain my own artistic calling. I say that I am limited by my job and my motherhood duties but that's not accurate. I hide behind those things and rationalize that other people are a better and easier investment...when I know that is not necessarily true, just convenient. Thus, my output is not aligned with my intake and this leads to the imbalance that is vertigo's powerful stranglehold on my creativity.
So, with a self-diagnosis of vertigo as the result of an imbalance of time invested in other people compared to time invested in my own talents, I'm headed off into the new year with a continued and sharper focus on my writing. I have treated it like a hobby that comes after all of the more important things. Writing will now return to its rightful place among the most important things. For every reminder in my calendar that deals with other people's gifts, there will be one for my own gifts as well. Instead of simply reading other people's good writing, I will add my own to the mix and see what happens. I will accept the warm invitations into the venues where artists dwell, work, share, and live. I will become a part of the active artistic community instead of sitting on the voyeuristic sidelines. (Lord help me, I think I just realized that I stopped breathing two sentences ago!)
The prognosis is good. I will restore the balance in all of my life's accounts. Leaks and drains will be patched and plugged. Rips and tears will be stitched and mended. Old wineskins will be mounted on the wall in memoriam and the new wineskins will be carried close to my heart where they may be filled with new revelations waiting to be poured out. When the Spirit says, "Move!" I will move. When the Muse says, "Write that down!" I shall write that down. When the Sirens say, "do it later...listen to our song and drown it all out..." I'll put wax in my ears and sit down with a pen (or an iPad) and write until they get laryngitis from trying to break my concentration with their seductive song of "it's easier (and safer) to just enjoy other people's work".
The way I see it, the worst thing that can happen is that I'll litter cyberspace and the blogosphere with fits and starts that ramble on without ever say much of anything. The best thing that can happen is that...I might actually be good at this thing and someone's life will be touched, inspired, or changed. (And I may even have more time and money to pour into the others who are risking it all for the sake of their gifts and passions!)
If you are among the gifted (and I am certain that you are) I invite you to join me in the restoration of our balance and the pursuit of dreams and real happiness. (Or in the words of James Brown, "Get up offa that thang...and dance (or write, or employ whatever your gift is) until you feel bettah!"
Thursday, December 27, 2012
Tuesday, December 25, 2012
My Kind of Christmas
My kind of Christmas
If you are looking for a blog about chestnuts roasting and snowmen, reindeer, a Yule log and gifts under the tree...please close this page immediately. My intent is to simply share a few thoughts on "MY kind of Christmas" and not to throw shade on any that is not like mine. (Hey, you're still reading? Okay, cool...)
Yesterday, I was listening to songs and speeches from "The Roots of Resistance." This is a collection of works that tell the oft-silenced story of revolution in this country and others during the turbulent and messy 1960's and 1970's. I chose this soundtrack for my morning because for me, Christmas is all about revolution. I do love the sentimental journey of spending time with loved ones in front of a fireplace and sharing a big meal with family and baking cookies and all of those other Christmas traditions. Yesterday, however, I was struck by the idea that Christmas, as a religious experience, is about revolution and change.
It hit me that it was nothing short of revolutionary for a limitless God who was already Emmanuel in so many ways to put on the limits of flesh and be one of us. Is it not revolutionary to think that a God who could have just created a body from dirt and breathed into Himself and come as a full grown Savior chose the dangerous ground of a womb and a birth canal? The idea of cells splitting in the newly ripened womb of a teenaged girl who didn't have the plus sign on a stick but had an angel come to her and tell her that she would bear this child, who would be called holy! Teenagers are notorious for being contrary! How revolutionary that God would choose this one to bear the Incarnate Word instead of one who was older and more schooled in the mysteries of the holy!
Forgive me for sounding like Jones the Baptist, but how can you not hear the drums of revolution when you sing the line "Mild He lays His glory by, Born that we no more may die" in the second verse of Hark the Herald Angels Sing?? This One sets aside the glory that is rightly His as the Son of God and comes through a treacherous and previously untested birth canal for my sake. I was born into sin. He was born to save me from it while I was in the midst of it! That makes me want to run to the bathroom mirror and with a disheveled ponytail and my pink robe and piece of toast in my hand (I ain't ready for locusts just yet) scream at my own reflection, "REPENT!!! The kingdom of Heaven is at hand!" Do you not get just how revolutionary that is??
Note to self:
Repent from a cozy life that privileges you to turn a blind eye to injustice. Repent from your Easy Jesus attitude that classifies sins by size and color.
Repent from your stubborn and stiff-necked thought that it's someone else's job to shepherd the people...and it must be done in a sanctuary.
Repent from your self-imposed limits that keep you from doing what you were put here to do. (I'm singing O Come O Come Emmanuel and not thinking about what to do when He shows up! Have a plan for goodness sake!)
Okay, I have returned from my moment in the mirror. Repentance is a revolutionary act! It is a decision to do something completely different! That's what Christmas means to me my love (Stevie Wonder voice). I want Christmas to be the start of something new and powerful and useful for the world and not just myself! I want Christmas to be the start of something revolutionary in my life. I want to be an agent of change in this world. I don't want to give the world a gift that comes with a receipt so they can exchange it for one that they like or one that (they think) is a better fit! I don't want to abort the baby by being less than I was created to be! I don't want to waste the gift that was given in the form of a helpless baby who grew in stature and wisdom to become the One who would not only die but return with ALL power in his nail scarred hands. I almost inserted a parenthetical apology for this beginning to sound like a sermon...Ha! That's my first act of repentance. I will not apologize for telling the Old Old story of Jesus and His Glory...(feel free to start singing if you know the words)!
So, with revolution on my mind and the blood of change agents in my veins, let me lead us in a few lines of what may be considered a song of revolution for those who have waited for the baby to arrive:
Yea, Lord, we greet thee, Born this happy morning;
Jesus, to thee be glory given!
Word of the Father, Now in flesh appearing!
Oh, come let us adore Him, Oh, come, let us adore Him,
Oh, come let us adore Him, Christ The Lord!
Shalom!!
If you are looking for a blog about chestnuts roasting and snowmen, reindeer, a Yule log and gifts under the tree...please close this page immediately. My intent is to simply share a few thoughts on "MY kind of Christmas" and not to throw shade on any that is not like mine. (Hey, you're still reading? Okay, cool...)
Yesterday, I was listening to songs and speeches from "The Roots of Resistance." This is a collection of works that tell the oft-silenced story of revolution in this country and others during the turbulent and messy 1960's and 1970's. I chose this soundtrack for my morning because for me, Christmas is all about revolution. I do love the sentimental journey of spending time with loved ones in front of a fireplace and sharing a big meal with family and baking cookies and all of those other Christmas traditions. Yesterday, however, I was struck by the idea that Christmas, as a religious experience, is about revolution and change.
It hit me that it was nothing short of revolutionary for a limitless God who was already Emmanuel in so many ways to put on the limits of flesh and be one of us. Is it not revolutionary to think that a God who could have just created a body from dirt and breathed into Himself and come as a full grown Savior chose the dangerous ground of a womb and a birth canal? The idea of cells splitting in the newly ripened womb of a teenaged girl who didn't have the plus sign on a stick but had an angel come to her and tell her that she would bear this child, who would be called holy! Teenagers are notorious for being contrary! How revolutionary that God would choose this one to bear the Incarnate Word instead of one who was older and more schooled in the mysteries of the holy!
Forgive me for sounding like Jones the Baptist, but how can you not hear the drums of revolution when you sing the line "Mild He lays His glory by, Born that we no more may die" in the second verse of Hark the Herald Angels Sing?? This One sets aside the glory that is rightly His as the Son of God and comes through a treacherous and previously untested birth canal for my sake. I was born into sin. He was born to save me from it while I was in the midst of it! That makes me want to run to the bathroom mirror and with a disheveled ponytail and my pink robe and piece of toast in my hand (I ain't ready for locusts just yet) scream at my own reflection, "REPENT!!! The kingdom of Heaven is at hand!" Do you not get just how revolutionary that is??
Note to self:
Repent from a cozy life that privileges you to turn a blind eye to injustice. Repent from your Easy Jesus attitude that classifies sins by size and color.
Repent from your stubborn and stiff-necked thought that it's someone else's job to shepherd the people...and it must be done in a sanctuary.
Repent from your self-imposed limits that keep you from doing what you were put here to do. (I'm singing O Come O Come Emmanuel and not thinking about what to do when He shows up! Have a plan for goodness sake!)
Okay, I have returned from my moment in the mirror. Repentance is a revolutionary act! It is a decision to do something completely different! That's what Christmas means to me my love (Stevie Wonder voice). I want Christmas to be the start of something new and powerful and useful for the world and not just myself! I want Christmas to be the start of something revolutionary in my life. I want to be an agent of change in this world. I don't want to give the world a gift that comes with a receipt so they can exchange it for one that they like or one that (they think) is a better fit! I don't want to abort the baby by being less than I was created to be! I don't want to waste the gift that was given in the form of a helpless baby who grew in stature and wisdom to become the One who would not only die but return with ALL power in his nail scarred hands. I almost inserted a parenthetical apology for this beginning to sound like a sermon...Ha! That's my first act of repentance. I will not apologize for telling the Old Old story of Jesus and His Glory...(feel free to start singing if you know the words)!
So, with revolution on my mind and the blood of change agents in my veins, let me lead us in a few lines of what may be considered a song of revolution for those who have waited for the baby to arrive:
Yea, Lord, we greet thee, Born this happy morning;
Jesus, to thee be glory given!
Word of the Father, Now in flesh appearing!
Oh, come let us adore Him, Oh, come, let us adore Him,
Oh, come let us adore Him, Christ The Lord!
Shalom!!
Friday, December 21, 2012
Staring at the screen
I sat staring at the screen
I sat staring at the screen for a while. I wanted to write something brilliant and eloquent. But I just sat staring at the screen for a while. That's not like me. I usually have plenty to write about but today, I just sat staring at the screen. It feels so strange to be speechless. I think I am still in shock from the news that you are gone. Then I go into wordsmith mode and remind myself that gone is a grief-bearing euphemism. My seminary trained mind is trying to make sense of this but my human heart wants to put you in heaven with wings and a white robe and clouds...my sense of humor wants to imagine you taking the white robe off so you don't get bbq sauce, cigar ashes, and Crown Royal on it...it is Heaven, after all! I got the text in the middle of a class and I checked it immediately because it came from my sister and it wasn't during our regularly scheduled "hello" texting time frame. I was shocked...and my eyes welled up...and I was frozen in time and space for a moment. I was brought back by the words, "Miss Jones, are you okay?" I could only nod "no" and hope that my frown would squeeze those tears back into my tear ducts for just a little while longer. I did what you would expect me to do. I collected myself enough to tell a joke and redirect the energy for the moment. I had to shut my mind down to avoid the questions and irrational conclusions. I reached out to your oldest girl...who calls me Momma and sends me holiday text messages and I felt trapped in a helplessness that felt like a bubbling, gurgling tar pit that pulled me down and held me still up to my neck so that I couldn't even will my muscles to move. You know I think I'm pretty big and bad sometimes, but I couldn't stop the thoughts..."Didn't you just email me yesterday about my last blog entry?" "Didn't we just text and laugh about our MRI experiences on Monday?" "How..." And I had to stop myself again because (I'm a control freak and I don't do well with things that are bigger than me and...) this was not going to help me understand what had happened. I'm still expecting you to show up at my door with a Christmas tree...because you KNOW I'm not buying one and who says no to a 250 pound National Guardsman in uniform talking about, "Hey, I brought a Charlie Brown tree for you and Maya to decorate...and I went to the dollar store and bought some decorations because I know you don't have any. And I brought some Crown (for myself because you are so bourgie that you drink stuff I can't spell) so that I can laugh at you because I know your inner control freak won't allow the tree to just sit here." Then, of course, I'll order wings and roll my eyes because you are NOT THE BOSS OF ME!!! But you have been a friend to me when I needed one most. That's just who you are. You're the ultimate go-to guy and I know that innumerable hearts are broken today. I'm still working out my grief and figuring out how to be the go-to person for the girls...especially that big one who has a mama but calls me momma too. You've done a great job of leaving a legacy of love and laughter (hysterical, side splitting, tears rolling down faces laughter!) and I'm still sitting here staring at the screen...wondering if I should hold down the delete button and erase all of this...and then I realize that if I learned anything from you, it is to always be true to myself and what could be more true than writing...even if I'm writing about how I'm staring at the screen. I'm still working it all out in my mind but this is where I am...still shocked...still managing my grief...still staring at the screen...I'll see you, Spike!
I sat staring at the screen for a while. I wanted to write something brilliant and eloquent. But I just sat staring at the screen for a while. That's not like me. I usually have plenty to write about but today, I just sat staring at the screen. It feels so strange to be speechless. I think I am still in shock from the news that you are gone. Then I go into wordsmith mode and remind myself that gone is a grief-bearing euphemism. My seminary trained mind is trying to make sense of this but my human heart wants to put you in heaven with wings and a white robe and clouds...my sense of humor wants to imagine you taking the white robe off so you don't get bbq sauce, cigar ashes, and Crown Royal on it...it is Heaven, after all! I got the text in the middle of a class and I checked it immediately because it came from my sister and it wasn't during our regularly scheduled "hello" texting time frame. I was shocked...and my eyes welled up...and I was frozen in time and space for a moment. I was brought back by the words, "Miss Jones, are you okay?" I could only nod "no" and hope that my frown would squeeze those tears back into my tear ducts for just a little while longer. I did what you would expect me to do. I collected myself enough to tell a joke and redirect the energy for the moment. I had to shut my mind down to avoid the questions and irrational conclusions. I reached out to your oldest girl...who calls me Momma and sends me holiday text messages and I felt trapped in a helplessness that felt like a bubbling, gurgling tar pit that pulled me down and held me still up to my neck so that I couldn't even will my muscles to move. You know I think I'm pretty big and bad sometimes, but I couldn't stop the thoughts..."Didn't you just email me yesterday about my last blog entry?" "Didn't we just text and laugh about our MRI experiences on Monday?" "How..." And I had to stop myself again because (I'm a control freak and I don't do well with things that are bigger than me and...) this was not going to help me understand what had happened. I'm still expecting you to show up at my door with a Christmas tree...because you KNOW I'm not buying one and who says no to a 250 pound National Guardsman in uniform talking about, "Hey, I brought a Charlie Brown tree for you and Maya to decorate...and I went to the dollar store and bought some decorations because I know you don't have any. And I brought some Crown (for myself because you are so bourgie that you drink stuff I can't spell) so that I can laugh at you because I know your inner control freak won't allow the tree to just sit here." Then, of course, I'll order wings and roll my eyes because you are NOT THE BOSS OF ME!!! But you have been a friend to me when I needed one most. That's just who you are. You're the ultimate go-to guy and I know that innumerable hearts are broken today. I'm still working out my grief and figuring out how to be the go-to person for the girls...especially that big one who has a mama but calls me momma too. You've done a great job of leaving a legacy of love and laughter (hysterical, side splitting, tears rolling down faces laughter!) and I'm still sitting here staring at the screen...wondering if I should hold down the delete button and erase all of this...and then I realize that if I learned anything from you, it is to always be true to myself and what could be more true than writing...even if I'm writing about how I'm staring at the screen. I'm still working it all out in my mind but this is where I am...still shocked...still managing my grief...still staring at the screen...I'll see you, Spike!
Thursday, December 20, 2012
thoughts on rhythms
This morning, my thoughts are on the dissonance between my life's patterns and Nature's rhythms. I wake before the sun comes up and work until after it has gone down. Rarely do I take in any sunlight unless I go out for lunch and then, I am focused on choosing food, going out to get it and then choking it down before my next class. No wonder the doctor said that I have a vitamin D deficiency. The leftovers from lunch become dinner on the train ride home which everyone wants to fill with the activity of their choosing. You know, things like phone conversations (I ride in the quiet car for a reason), grading papers, working on the next day's lesson, checking in with my teenager, texting, catching up on Scandal, Grey's Anatomy and Nashville. For the record, after a day of back to back classes, sometimes, I just want to be still for a moment and remember that God is bigger than all of my daily activities and Shonda Rhimes' best writing. God has still set a time for everything and it doesn't always coincide with the overcrowded calendar app on my iPad. God's rhythms are beautiful and perfect. The dissonance I perceive has come from building a life that sometimes causes me to sing a song in the key of Living Just Enough For the City instead of singing my song in the Key of Life. For now, this is my rushed, breathless song sung in a raspy, overworked voice. But I believe that the day is coming when I will sing unto The Lord a new song! That song will be in God's perfect meter and I will sing in the fullness of a voice reserved for God's song.
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
A Good Wife?
A good wife?
A married man told me that I would make a good wife. He should probably discuss that theory with my ex-husband. The comment...compliment...came as a result of an act of thoughtfulness on my part. I frequently take on the role of the Mother figure (my inner feminist/womanist is pacing and screaming obscenities at the thought of the stereotype but let's move on anyway). This means that when people are running around stressing themselves out and not eating properly and pushing themselves beyond what is natural and healthy for the human body, I am watching. I watch and wait for the chance to offer some relief. Remember the "Candy Lady" at church? Yeah, kind of like that but healthier. I always bring extra food in my lunch bag because inevitably, I will end up reaching in the bag to share and it is so much easier to just bring extra than to share the carefully measured portion I packed for myself. (I believe that's what is meant by putting on your own oxygen mask first...) If I bring one apple, I bring two because someone will need a snack. If I pack one turkey and swiss on a whole wheat croissant...I might as well pack two because someone will either passive aggressively salivate on my desk until I offer or they will simply ask..."Jones! Got any more like that?"
Now, if I am the Mother figure, then you can best believe that my colleagues are my children. Some prefer to 'go hungry' because they don't like green apples. They want a red one. They don't like Swiss cheese, they prefer cheddar. They don't want anything that they have to heat up. (Then, my inner Black mother kicks in..."Oh, you ain't REALLY hungry then!") In any case, if I am going out to grab a coffee or mid day ghetto soda (Welch's grape, Fanta or Sunkist orange, black cherry or cola champagne (or any of the other flavors whose names are written in Spanish on the label of that tall glass bottle!), I will typically ask the busiest people if they want something. This often delays my trip by as much as 15 minutes but for the sake of helping someone make it through the day, it's worth it to me. And for the record, I do not see this as motherly or wifely duties. I see this as an act of humanity that says, "I see you." I don't really think that people are concerned with what they eat as much as they are concerned with someone seeing that they are hungry but that may be a story for another blog.
So, back to this good wife thing...my co-worker mentioned that he was under the weather and all I did was bring him a teabag from my stash in my desk. Well, I offered it with a raised eyebrow and a careful reminder that he should just pause his day while the tea steeped in the cup and collect himself so that we wouldn't have to visit him in the hospital. He thanked me sincerely and looked at me for a minute and said, "Jones, you'd make a good wife. You know that?" I smiled the "if you only knew" smile and said, "Yeah, I would...but this ain't why!"
A married man told me that I would make a good wife. He should probably discuss that theory with my ex-husband. The comment...compliment...came as a result of an act of thoughtfulness on my part. I frequently take on the role of the Mother figure (my inner feminist/womanist is pacing and screaming obscenities at the thought of the stereotype but let's move on anyway). This means that when people are running around stressing themselves out and not eating properly and pushing themselves beyond what is natural and healthy for the human body, I am watching. I watch and wait for the chance to offer some relief. Remember the "Candy Lady" at church? Yeah, kind of like that but healthier. I always bring extra food in my lunch bag because inevitably, I will end up reaching in the bag to share and it is so much easier to just bring extra than to share the carefully measured portion I packed for myself. (I believe that's what is meant by putting on your own oxygen mask first...) If I bring one apple, I bring two because someone will need a snack. If I pack one turkey and swiss on a whole wheat croissant...I might as well pack two because someone will either passive aggressively salivate on my desk until I offer or they will simply ask..."Jones! Got any more like that?"
Now, if I am the Mother figure, then you can best believe that my colleagues are my children. Some prefer to 'go hungry' because they don't like green apples. They want a red one. They don't like Swiss cheese, they prefer cheddar. They don't want anything that they have to heat up. (Then, my inner Black mother kicks in..."Oh, you ain't REALLY hungry then!") In any case, if I am going out to grab a coffee or mid day ghetto soda (Welch's grape, Fanta or Sunkist orange, black cherry or cola champagne (or any of the other flavors whose names are written in Spanish on the label of that tall glass bottle!), I will typically ask the busiest people if they want something. This often delays my trip by as much as 15 minutes but for the sake of helping someone make it through the day, it's worth it to me. And for the record, I do not see this as motherly or wifely duties. I see this as an act of humanity that says, "I see you." I don't really think that people are concerned with what they eat as much as they are concerned with someone seeing that they are hungry but that may be a story for another blog.
So, back to this good wife thing...my co-worker mentioned that he was under the weather and all I did was bring him a teabag from my stash in my desk. Well, I offered it with a raised eyebrow and a careful reminder that he should just pause his day while the tea steeped in the cup and collect himself so that we wouldn't have to visit him in the hospital. He thanked me sincerely and looked at me for a minute and said, "Jones, you'd make a good wife. You know that?" I smiled the "if you only knew" smile and said, "Yeah, I would...but this ain't why!"
Monday, December 17, 2012
find me (draft)
find me
i tend to get lost
in my own thoughts
so
i need you
to find me
i tend to get lost
in life's fairy tale forest
so
i need you
to find me
i got lost and wandered
into abusive hands
so i need you
to find me
and heal me
i retreated into darkness
so
i need you
to find me
and light the way
i can be so much more
than lost
but
i need you to find me
and protect me
i am never far from home
but i tend to get lost
so
i need you
to find me
i think i was sent
to seek you
but i got lost
so
i need you
to find me
and bring me back home
so yes
i need you
to find me
i tend to get lost
in my own thoughts
so
i need you
to find me
i tend to get lost
in life's fairy tale forest
so
i need you
to find me
i got lost and wandered
into abusive hands
so i need you
to find me
and heal me
i retreated into darkness
so
i need you
to find me
and light the way
i can be so much more
than lost
but
i need you to find me
and protect me
i am never far from home
but i tend to get lost
so
i need you
to find me
i think i was sent
to seek you
but i got lost
so
i need you
to find me
and bring me back home
so yes
i need you
to find me
Friday, December 14, 2012
a special kind of crazy
that special artist kind of crazy
When I have been taking medication for vertigo, migraines, or other illnesses that plague my otherwise healthy body, I fear that writing will reveal what I call my writer's crazy. That little piece of me that is only best used in its raw unfiltered state. But the problem with that is that it resembles that lace edge of a lady's slip when it dips below the hem of her dress. The point of the slip is to keep the dress from clinging and to let it fit better, thus, making a better visual aesthetic for the viewer and passers by. Ideally, no one should know that there is a slip beneath the dress except perhaps a seamstress or tailor. So it is with writing. I want you to see the good fit. I want you to see the result of clear thinking and careful editing. I do not want you to see the crazy that underpins the writing that I have dared to share with you. I do not need for you to know that like my Sunday dress, my Monday writing also requires a slip to keep the writing from clinging unflatteringly to my real person. My skin. My bone. My flesh. I need that distance. You see, writing takes me to a place that most people, if they are wise, would fear to peer into let alone tread. It is a place of sweet darkness wrapped around a brilliant light almost like a bulb planted in rich soil.
I fear that under the veil of mind-numbing medication, I am less of an editor and more of the uninhibited artist. Artists are difficult people to endure. We are slaves to our passions and sometimes, that means we sleep erratically. We have so much inside of us that is not always prepared for sharing and so we bear the burden of carrying that creativity inside of ourselves like a woman who knows she is with child, yet does not show. We often work in solitude but when collaborations happen, there is always the danger of inappropriate interaction from the sheer joy of being understood, if only for a moment. Then the illness of creativity returns and threatens to destroy our very normal facade. You who sleep soundly at night without being lured by the siren call of an artist's burden will never know how much work goes into wearing the mask of normalcy so that you can accept us for who we are - and often judge us for what we create. You are quick to buy our cast away products because they are easily digested. It takes a keen ear or eye to appreciate our real work because you are not trained in the openness to receive it. (Put art and music back in schools please!) You are lulled into the peace of poor production and you think that what is mass produced is best.
But those of us who know that Coltrane is not heard, but loved and experienced understand.
Those who loved Prince's work before hearing the Purple Rain soundtrack will understand.
Those who taste Bearden's colors on a canvas will understand.
We who read the sacred texts (Bible, Koran, etc) and hear something that is not on the page and defies the act of parsing or sermonizing will understand.
We who awaken to new notes yet are not equipped to transcribe, sing, or play any will understand.
We who hear turns of phrases that move us deeply will understand.
We who watch artistically inclined children struggle to be normal and normed by those who have imbibed the kool-aid of pop culture's false normal will understand.
When I have been taking medication for vertigo, migraines, or other illnesses that plague my otherwise healthy body, I fear that writing will reveal what I call my writer's crazy. That little piece of me that is only best used in its raw unfiltered state. But the problem with that is that it resembles that lace edge of a lady's slip when it dips below the hem of her dress. The point of the slip is to keep the dress from clinging and to let it fit better, thus, making a better visual aesthetic for the viewer and passers by. Ideally, no one should know that there is a slip beneath the dress except perhaps a seamstress or tailor. So it is with writing. I want you to see the good fit. I want you to see the result of clear thinking and careful editing. I do not want you to see the crazy that underpins the writing that I have dared to share with you. I do not need for you to know that like my Sunday dress, my Monday writing also requires a slip to keep the writing from clinging unflatteringly to my real person. My skin. My bone. My flesh. I need that distance. You see, writing takes me to a place that most people, if they are wise, would fear to peer into let alone tread. It is a place of sweet darkness wrapped around a brilliant light almost like a bulb planted in rich soil.
I fear that under the veil of mind-numbing medication, I am less of an editor and more of the uninhibited artist. Artists are difficult people to endure. We are slaves to our passions and sometimes, that means we sleep erratically. We have so much inside of us that is not always prepared for sharing and so we bear the burden of carrying that creativity inside of ourselves like a woman who knows she is with child, yet does not show. We often work in solitude but when collaborations happen, there is always the danger of inappropriate interaction from the sheer joy of being understood, if only for a moment. Then the illness of creativity returns and threatens to destroy our very normal facade. You who sleep soundly at night without being lured by the siren call of an artist's burden will never know how much work goes into wearing the mask of normalcy so that you can accept us for who we are - and often judge us for what we create. You are quick to buy our cast away products because they are easily digested. It takes a keen ear or eye to appreciate our real work because you are not trained in the openness to receive it. (Put art and music back in schools please!) You are lulled into the peace of poor production and you think that what is mass produced is best.
But those of us who know that Coltrane is not heard, but loved and experienced understand.
Those who loved Prince's work before hearing the Purple Rain soundtrack will understand.
Those who taste Bearden's colors on a canvas will understand.
We who read the sacred texts (Bible, Koran, etc) and hear something that is not on the page and defies the act of parsing or sermonizing will understand.
We who awaken to new notes yet are not equipped to transcribe, sing, or play any will understand.
We who hear turns of phrases that move us deeply will understand.
We who watch artistically inclined children struggle to be normal and normed by those who have imbibed the kool-aid of pop culture's false normal will understand.
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