Well, friends, I haven't sat down to write here in a long time. I think I used to derive a lot of pleasure trying to come up with pretty-sounding gems from my heart that might be encouraging to others on this blog. Recently those efforts have gone into my Creative Writing class.
The first thing I wrote in that class was very selfish. It was the first thing I shared, anyway. It was supposed to be about nature, and it ended up being about me instead. But when I think about nature, I'm too self-absorbed to think about trees. I see nature sometimes as a living, breathing illustration of how we're meant to operate. I end up thinking about people more than I end up just enjoying nature for its own sake.
I don't entirely regret this. I live in the land of metaphors. Illustration, in word or art or song, has always been something I chase after. If I can use trees to point to what is heavenly, it will have been worth it.
The second thing I wrote was my workshop piece. A lot of cheerful people liked it and a lot of true artists didn't. But I don't regret it, even though I see why they hate it. A younger version of myself would react the same way to it.
But you know... The thing about pieces that are sweet and utterly devoid of disturbing elements is that they have a small audience that is satisfied with the cute story, and a larger audience that wants to venture into the dark parts of the soul. Sometimes it's because that's where they live.
I am unashamedly a citizen of the bright kingdom of heaven and therefore I tell about what I see, and I see joy, and treasure, and life. Pardon the lack of story arc - I'm serving you a cookie, not a meal, this time.
The third thing I wrote was a poem. It was the story of a leper and his descent into isolation and eventual salvation. The repulsive leper-man is met by a hero who pours precious oils over him. Of course it is a metaphor for the Gospel. Something of no value, of negative value (unclean things make other things unclean) is given value in an act of pure kindness. The poem was a bit dark in places as was necessary and it was a hit with more of the true artists than my nonfiction. I hope all the artists think about that last stanza - hope is hard to find and I intended to serve it to them in a form they could digest.
The fourth piece, a fiction poem, was the most selfish of all. It was the story of a little girl and her older friend. It is probably the worst piece. I started writing it about homecoming and the joys of coming come and going to where you're meant to be (another Gospel-centric piece) but it turned into a fleshing out of an old strange phenomenon I have frequently experienced as a young girl. It's hard for me to say that because now I can't separate myself from it and play the fiction card. It's not me, I wish I could say.
I'm going to write more for my final portfolio. I'll have to make them artsier so that I get a good grade, but you know, I want to write well, and certainly I've found beautiful things along the way this semester. Simply marvelous.
