poetry and words – Page 6 – The Oaxacaborn Blog

Sometimes it’s hard to remember how much I need words, until the words of someone who knows how to paint and bend and pull letters into life reminds me. And it’s then, inside the pages of a master wordsmith, that I remember —

Remember that I’ve forgotten what it is to pick up a pen with no purpose other than to let the words untangle themselves. I’ve forgotten what it is to write with no other purpose than to set words free from the confines of my own mind. It used to only take the first scratch of pen against the paper fibers, and the words would begin to flow. As my fingers moved in fluid curves across the page, the words would run up and down the lines, and I would watch as they wrapped around the corners, into the margins, pressed up against the edges, free.

Once upon a time, I wrote as if no one would read it, wrote as if there were no such things as blogs and stats and page views. I wrote without second-guessing my words, wrote without considering my audience (there was none!), wrote without fear. And the words brought joy.

“Oh now the roots are reminiscing
Recurring dreams of minor chords
Metred time
Muted chimes find the beat

And in the pulse there lies conviction
A steady push and pull routine
The cymbals swell
High notes flail into reach.” -Maria Taylor, Song Beneath the Song

Maybe it’s time. Maybe it’s time to let the words free again.

“[Writing] is… a kind of leaving of notes for another to find, and a willingness to have them fall into the wrong hands.” –Matthew Hollis

I’m willing.

These are my notes.

The Thread of Hope

March 3, 2012March 22, 2014 Gina @ Oaxacaborn

Aveline is finally asleep. The house is quiet for the first time in hours, silent except for the raspy motor on the overhead fan and the clink of the spoon against my cobalt cereal bowl.

My eyelids are heavy. I stare, unsure what to do with this pure, quiet, uninterrupted time. The need for sleep tugs at me, but it no longer captures me with the same intensity it once did. In the past year, I’ve adopted a new definition of what it means to be well-rested.

There is a profound peace in this stillness, tonight. I exhale, the sound of my own voice blending with the fan. I watch the blades spin, lifting and twisting the Florida air. I think of how one year ago, I and a five-week-old Aveline flew through the Florida air to join Josiah, who’d been here for a couple weeks already due to an answered prayer — a full-time job.

I think of the fear and hope of the past two years. I think how hope has been woven into our lives, how hope is the shining thread, the strongest cord, the lifeline of who we are — not because of hope itself, but because of God in who we hope.

I think of the myriad of ways our God poured down manna to us, sometimes as a raven in the wilderness and sometimes as a coin in the mouth of a fish. I think of how He always, always, filled our cups and let them overflow.

And I stand here now in the overflow, here in the land of our sojourn, filled with thankfulness and gratitude and wonder because today — today! — we are finally debt-free. I close my eyes and breath deeply. The glory is God’s.

I lower my spoon, resting the silver-scrolled edge against the bowl. I stand up, and walk toward the bedroom. The night pulled its dusky cover over the earth long ago, and sleep calls.

Before the sun burns off the early morning haze, Aveline will awaken, bright eyed. The sound of silence will be overcome by the sound of life, the sound of love, the clink of the coffee scoop. And the aroma of coffee will swirl and mix with the Florida air, Josiah will kiss me on the forehead, and the thread of hope will shine brighter than ever.

Christmas, Poetry & Words

CHRISTMAS :: It is as if Infancy were the Whole of Incarnation (Lucy Shaw)

December 24, 2011March 22, 2014 Gina @ Oaxacaborn

I first read this poem years ago. Lucy Shaw’s powerful words have stayed with me, a reminder to look up from the cradle and worship the risen King, who we are celebrating today.

Merry Christmas, friends! He was born so we could live.

“One time of the year
the new-born child
is everywhere,
planted in madonnas’ arms
hay mows, stables
in palaces or farms,
or quaintly, under snowed gables,
gothic angular or baroque plump,
naked or elaborately swathed,
encircled by Della Robia wreaths,
garnished with whimsical
partridges and pears,
drummers and drums,
lit by oversize stars,
partnered with lambs,
peace doves, sugar plums,
bells, plastic camels in sets of three
as if these were what we need
for eternity.

But Jesus the Man is not to be seen.
We are too wary, these days,
of beards and sandalled feet.

Yet if we celebrate, let it be
that he
has invaded our lives with purpose,
striding over our picturesque traditions,
our shallow sentiment,
overturning our cash registers,
wielding his peace like a sword,
rescuing us into reality
demanding much more
than the milk and the softness
and the mothers warmth
of the baby in the storefront creche,
(only the Man would ask
all, of each of us)
reaching out
always, urgently, with strong
effective love
(only the Man would give
his life and live
again for love of us).

Oh come, let us adore him-
Christ–the Lord.”
–Lucy Shaw

Christmas, Poetry & Words

WRITING & WORDS :: Let My Eyes Always be Open to Your Beauty

December 17, 2011March 22, 2014 Gina @ Oaxacaborn

There is something in this night that makes it quiet, even though the freeway is just outside my window. Between the time the sun bows down and the sun stands up again, the cars still shuffle past, slowing to pass between the concrete pillars marked with blinking toll lights. The drivers must slow down before they speed up again, driving away from one place and toward another, probably in a hurry, probably unaware that the hum of their car engine is a steady backdrop to my dreams.

Aveline holding yarn looking at tree

I could never have made these dreams come true, not on my own. But you know, don’t you, that the Giver of All Good Things takes these threads, one by one, and gently untangles them. He weaves each shining thread into my life-filled hours, weaving in and out, always with purpose, always with design, always toward a beautiful end, until I’m walking on a tapestry I didn’t even realize was there.

Oh, Father God, Creator, let my eyes always be open to Your beauty.

Poetry & Words

between the way the sunlight fell to earth

November 27, 2011 Gina @ Oaxacaborn

between the way the sunlight fell to earth,
this afternoon, and
between the way it rose yesterday morning,
i can feel how it was to collect drops of sun
for years
the way i did
before they finally settled
into my heart, like a quiet pool of sun and shadows
of rain and things we forgot.

tonight, like the glassine pool,
the house is quiet, settled. there are no swinging
doors, no shutters to creak in the wind
— no wind, in fact
and nothing of mystery, shrouded
but there is
peace

in every corner, settled,
elevating the dust bunnies to some higher, almost celestial plane.
i am surprised how the easily the words untwist and unwind, once i
scratch
the inaugural word out of the pen.

i would have expected something
more akin to the way a rusted pump handle
is sealed to itself, stubborn underneath
the chipping paint of a spring thaw
after a dozen years of unuse.

but here, tonight, in the november stillness the letters seem to
jump into place,
seem to alit the wick, as it were,
and flow like melted wax
and burn

almost,
nearly,
like the flame in the glass bowl

across the room.

Travel/Moving

Guest Post on Voye’m: On Thriving While Living/Traveling Elsewhere

November 22, 2011November 22, 2011 Gina @ Oaxacaborn

This morning, my dear friend Shanley is en route to Uganda. Actually, she’s been en route since Sunday night. The last update I got from her — in the wee smalls of Tuesday morning — she was breakfasting in a Belgian airport.

While she was working her way around the globe, I was busy writing up a guest post for her. You can hop on over to Voye’m to read my piece On Thriving While Living/Traveling Elsewhere .