Tonight, instead of going to bed early, I sit and think about this book that I am supposedly writing. It's a book about collections, and so I spend time, sometimes, looking over my vast collections of random writings that never came to any surface.
Tonight I read a few pieces that I wrote last year, and this was one from approximately one year ago today. Tonight I recognize it as poetry, and want to share it exactly the way it was written. It kind of makes me cry. I like these lines, sort of borrowed from Henri Nouwen. I like this idea: being broken to be.
So here's what I found as I was remembering:
Where are the birds, darting in and out of their straw nests?
Where are the cumulous clouds? the golden sunrays?
The clinking and clanging of wind chimes?
Fountain grass waving and dancing in the breeze?
I know I have this all.
I know I have so much more than I realize most of the time.
I need time to realize.
I sometimes still think of the day of my first interview at High Tech High – I think of being more than on-time, with a white mocha coffee in hand, and a blue pen to write this down,
You can’t miss out on what was intended.
And I am afraid I’m missing something.
I’m afraid I’m doing this all wrong.
The acts, the man, the choice.
The love I offer, maybe I should be single?
A better daughter, sister, teacher, woman,
before I embark in something new,
before I interfere with his orbit,
and impose mine.
Maybe I’m doing everything wrong,
the lies get larger,
maybe it was supposed to be with David, Karl, Lucas,
the lies won’t stop.
Maybe I’m damaged goods,
and my brokenness cannot be put back.
And I think of the canyon, and Lilah and how we entered the canopied trees with holiness, and the wild flowers red and yellow and orange glowed like jewels in the afternoon light, and we scoured the floors, then, and named this place a refuge where broken things went to be found,
and we collected pieces of ceramic like they were the thing we meant to find, and we laid out our findings and looked into them for the thing maybe they’d been broken to be.
And maybe I’ve been broken to be, too.
I am a glass, a jar, a bowl,
broken to be made greater.
To be bound with hemp string,
to be tied with copper wire,
painted with shimmery red glaze,
to be placed in the sunshine and the breeze,
and to make a joyful noise.
I don’t know a better way to see it.
That our brokenness is essential to our blessing.
This knowledge makes it feel softer to be broken,
but not less painful, really, if you rub the edges wrong.
I’ve got some things to work out,
but if you’re willing,
maybe we can work it out together.
Or at least, alongside.
