Steady

It's been six years since I did a New Year's resolution. It was my first new year as a married woman, and together my husband and I vowed to brush our teeth more often. It was the silliest of promises. I had been considering it lightly until I found electric toothbrushes on clearance a few days before January 1st, and then I was sure. It was a sign. 

I had never really been enthusiastic about resolutions before that, and haven't been since. Until now.

A few days ago on Instagram I revealed my resolutions. Essentially, I want to respect the artistic gifts God has given me by honing my craft and expanding my creative universe. I'm going to buy higher quality supplies and I'm going to attempt to "sell my wares" at an art/craft show. 

I didn't hesitate. But I did overanalyze it after it was posted. Had I been too easy on myself? Shouldn't a resolution be something that takes hard work and can change your life? And then, of course, I realized that to one person it might be easy to simply buy more expensive supplies or sell products, but to me it's part of a larger challenge.

So I decided to join another bandwagon--I chose a word for my year.

It's almost ludicrous that I haven't done this in prior years. I love words so much and yet I've never taken the time to choose one to cling to for an entire 365-day-period. Perhaps it's because I love a lot of words and so choosing just one is a challenge all by itself.

But I did it. And I chose the word "steady."

It's not fancy. I could have chosen something bold and worthy of a social media following like "illuminate" or "cultivation" or "unveiled." But I don't want to be, do, or have... any of those words.

I want to be steady.

There were mountains of synonyms which also deserved some attention before I made a final decision. But when it came down to the wire, I already knew I was faithful and loyal and responsible. And I don't want to be unchanging, or immovable, or simply dependable. And I thought about choosing "steadfast" instead of "steady," but the truth is that steadfastness is something that mainly benefits other people. It doesn't necessarily benefit me or change me. 

Being steady is something I've wanted but haven't had the words for, until now. A little over two years ago I began the journey of being medicated for my anxiety and depression, and up until that point the thought of being steady wasn't even on the horizon for me. A close friend once told me, "I like the way you carry yourself. You're so steady." And it didn't feel true at the time, but it haunted me...

I might appear steady. I might "carry myself" steadily. I give the illusion that I am certain about where I'm going or what I'm doing. Other people saw me as steady and that was good for them, but it wasn't very good for me because it wasn't real for me.

I don't want to just carry myself steadily. I don't want it to just be visible to others. 

I want to feel it on the inside too!

Attaching myself to this word, this feeling, hasn't taken very much time. I'm a woman of words, and once I like a word I don't soon forget it. I chose Merriam-Webster's first definition: 

"Direct or sure in movement."

This gives me a little bit of freedom. I don't have to be immovable or unchanging. I get to continue in the parts of myself that I love, and that other people love--the fact that I adapt to new situations quickly and don't struggle too much with transitions. It also gives me a new sense of purpose, that if I do move, if I am changing, it must be intentional. I'm going to try to cast off my tendency to be reactionary or impulsive, which comes from a place of anxiety or fear. I'm going to move with certainty. With direction. I'm going to be sure.

And so there you have it. My goals for the year. My word for the year.

I can't promise to write here more often, but I'm positive I'll be back to National Poetry Month in April. Some things never change. ;)

Happy New Year, ya'll. 

NPM Day 19 {Pretty With a Pistol}

I wrote this back in 2009, concerning a certain terrible breakup. I posted it as a "note" on Facebook. My poetry professor, and English adviser at the time, casually commented, "Is this written by you? It's great. The aridity has its own values and assets and we profit from the Moroccan Street experience, don't we?"

I didn't ask him to read it, but it wasn't the first/last time he commented on my poetry. It was the exact kind of validation I needed. I thought I wanted validation about my failed relationship. I wanted people to tell [unnamed terrible boyfriend] that he'd made a mistake, and we should get back together.

Ya'll know me a little, by now. I get invested in people rather quickly. Even 8 years ago, that was true.

I was just barely beginning to allow myself to be angry about the situation when I wrote this poem. I'd spent almost an entire month simply wishing I could still be with [unnamed terrible boyfriend.] I managed to fly home to Washington for spring break just a few weeks prior to this piece being written, and at my mother's Bible study I asked everyone to pray that I could "get him back." (I was young and INVESTED, okay? I want all of my relationships to work out, no matter what. I don't give up easily. I'm gonna end these parenthesis before this blog is like 50% excuses for loving the wrong person.) And after all the talks with my friends, even amidst a thousand other encouraging voices, I recall my friend Marianne (may she rest in peace) shaking her head and explaining how silly that was. She said he had treated me poorly, that he didn't deserve me, and that if he didn't understand how artistic and incredible I was he wasn't worth my time. But her most important sentiment: "I'm angry at him for you, even if you aren't!"

So when I look back on it, I am kindly reminded that my heart was being heard above the nonsense of my sadness. In a time where I felt confused, disappointed, and rejected there were trusted people outside the situation who knew what I needed to hear, even if I didn't want it at the time. I needed to feel angry about how I had been treated, not about the fact that we'd broken up. (I am, obviously, glad we broke up. I married Joey, after all.)

So here you go. The Moroccan Street experience.

Pretty With a Pistol
April 1, 2009

Today is one of those blue-sky, wide-open types.
Just a reminder of how much I love the desert,
the sandy wind all abrasive against my skin.
I miss the spice in the air and rattle snakes
warning us to never go into the long grass.
Days and nights blended under that sun.

We don't have to go stay at that city, though.
I could never make anyone enjoy that heat
as much as I did. Your heart is much too closed.

But maybe we could go somewhere else for a while.
Let's go to Moroccan Street, just you and me.
Brick houses will shade us where there are no trees,
and everyone will greet you with a foreign smile.
We'll dress up and sweat in the dusty afternoon.

I've always wanted to wear a fancy gown
and drag you into the incense-flavored sunset,
to dance and fade into a cool midnight.
You never gave me the chance, though.

When I look back up into the blue canvas of sky,
and look back down at the gray slab of cement,
I am reminded that I'm not going to the desert again.
But if I could go and we danced in the sunset,
I'd dance you into the middle of the burning dirt road

and I would shoot you straight through the heart.

Thirty Thanks, Day 22: The Art in Me

When I was little I used to sit down with a stack of paper or maybe a few coloring books and this big tin of crayons. Yes, a tin of crayons. My favorite color alternated by the hour, depending upon which crayon was sharpest. I would begin to draw and the pictures would just pour out of me--they practically gushed--like a frenzy of uncontrollable, heavenly colors. I would draw picture after picture until they probably piled around me and at the end of the day my mother would have to secretly throw most of them out because she couldn't possibly keep every single one.

This was my element. And it still is. When I am allowed the space and resources for creativity I am almost literally unstoppable. I am never more focused, more exhilarated, or more at peace than when I am making art. It doesn't have to be crayons and paper (like the photo to the left, August '14). It can be a square of polymer clay, or a canvas and some acrylics, a notebook and pen, a piano and some solitude, or even an apple pie.



Below is a project I'm prepping for kindergarten on Monday. Right now they are just tiny canvases with puffy painted words, but soon they will be fabulous Christmas ornaments. There's paint and sequins involved. Really.

And here's a sneak peak of this year's Christmas cards. The process has just begun.

The point is, art has always--and I mean always--been part of my identity. It wasn't until a few years ago that I began to realize how spiritual art is for me, how it grounds me and connects me. There's an old Jars of Clay song called "Art in Me," in which the speaker begs someone to "see the art in me." I've resonated with that on many levels, and it's that phrase which helps my understanding of my own art. I am so thankful for my own creativity--for the art in me. 

I'm thankful for what art gives me--peace when I am restless, resolution when I am aimless, clarity when I am overwhelmed, distraction when I'm anxious, joy when I'm in sorrow, and tenderness when I'm in rage. I'm thankful for how it allows me to connect with others, either by sharing my art with them or partaking in another's art. I'm thankful for the colors and sounds and textures I can be surrounded by. I'm thankful that my parents encouraged my artistic nature when I was young, even when I resisted. (I still resist taking art classes--I don't like being told what to do.) But most of all I'm thankful for the spiritual element of the art in me, the way it engages me with God in ways that cannot be explained or otherwise experienced. By creating, I connect with my Creator.

Thanks, art. You're incredible.