I don't really remember a time when I was not writing, just as I don't remember not being able to read. I've been playing with fiction, poetry, essays, and personal philosophical vignettes forever. I remember showing a 75 page uncompleted fantasy story to a junior high teacher for critique. I think I was eleven. It was the first time I had someone say something actually critical of my work, which I found mildly hurtful, but also reasonable. Her comments made sense. But I also ascribe to the open-up-a-vein school of writing. I feel everything that I write deeply, and it comes from a place close to my heart. That's okay. Anyone that meets me gets the real me, warts, pain and all, if they are interested. Mostly I'm a happy person that loves people, but I've had a life.
This first piece is a poem I wrote for a talent display for my church with the theme of Faith Can Move Mountains. When I was approached to share my work, the organizers probably thought about all the textile crafts they saw me work on at various church functions. (That showed up as well.) The first 'images' of the poem came to mind during the conversation. What follows was read out during the performance part of the program. Before that, only my husband read my poetry. A few people asked for copies, and now you have one.
They say that faith
Can move mountains.
And when your faith
Feels like the energy of a storm,
all powerful winds
And the illumination of lightening,
Firm in the knowledge of
Who You Are,
Ready to take on
Any challenge
You believe it.
Then you realize the size
of the mountain
and look down at your hand and see
you are given
a teaspoon
and told
“There it is – Your Mountain.
“You can do this.”
Sighing,
you remove the
Scraggly weeds and thorns and
Small surface pebbles
With tender fingers,
Stopping occasionally to tend
The small cuts, splinters, and scrapes,
Eventually clearing a spot to
Work with the spoon.
It doesn’t take long to learn
That it is easier
to dig
On your knees.
Exhaustion sets in.
There doesn’t seem to be
A point –
Your small hole against
The entire mountain.
But you trust
There’s A Reason.
So you keep digging
Even though
Grains of sand,
Loose dirt,
And random leaves
Fall into your hole
Taking time and effort
To remove
Before you can
Continue.
Sometimes you lose the spoon.
Dropped in a moment of weakness,
Thrown in frustration
Or anger
Or despair
And no amount of searching
Can find it.
You scrabble in the soil – sometimes until your
Fingernails are torn and bleeding,
Because all you know is
The Mountain Must Be Moved
Though you have forgotten why
If you ever even knew.
Wiping sweaty hair from your forehead
You lean back on your heels
And the sight of the remaining mountain
Compared to your feeble effort
Brings tears to your eyes.
A warm, rough hand on your shoulder
Causes you look up to
Find yourself surrounded by people,
Smiling,
Their dirty, torn jeans
Worn at the knees.
Faces smeared with dust, sweat
And the tracks of
Long dried tears,
But clear-eyed and cheerful.
With a handshake
A quick hug
And a kind word
They hand you a new spoon.
“You’ve got this,” they say
As they turn back to their own tasks.
Encouraged, you take a deep breath
And keep digging.
Because you trust there’s
A Reason.
At times, the work seems
Easy.
The dirt is loose
And it feels like you have
A spade
Instead of the spoon.
“I can do this,” you think.
“The Mountain isn’t as
Big as my fear
Made it out to be.”
So you happily work
With a song in your heart
And a hand to help others.
Suddenly, you come across
A patch of granite that
Breaks the spade.
Winds whip dust and
Hair in your eyes.
You struggle to find the spoon again
Though you don’t see
How much help it can be.
As you look at
The small object in your hand,
A voice on the wind says,
“It has two ends, you know.”
You see the familiar tool
In a whole new light.
And you discover that
Somehow
The song in your heart
Stayed.
So you scrape and dig
Around the rock
Until you find the edges
Using the spoon to lever it out of
The mountain,
Letting it roll
Out of sight.
“That was a lot of work,” you think,
“But look how much bigger
The hole is –
How much of the mountain
Has been moved.
“You can do this,” agrees the voice.
You find the voice comforting
So you learn to
listen.
He tells you
True stories
Of those who came before –
Of their faith
Sweat
Hope
And tears.
And of the mountains they moved.
Slowly,
As your hands grow calloused,
Your back grows strong,
And the song in your heart
Increases,
You learn
Faith does move mountains.
Just not in the way you thought.
