Sunday, August 11, 2013

August 11th

I usually never explain my poems- I guess because I keep thinking it's too pompous, considering they aren't that good. It was really difficult for me to merely post them, when I first started, let alone talk about them.

However, now I think they are good, in their own way, and whoever is reading this blog might be interested in how I write them and why they're written the way they are. I know many of you are creative- writers and artists- so I bet you can relate to a lot of this.

Yesterday evening, I just felt creative. It's almost a longing. When I have this feeling, if I can, I put everything else that I'm doing aside, so I can focus on it.

I put my headphones on- Keith was watching TV in the same room- and opened a blank page in my journal.

Then I just sit there. I guess you could say that I remain present in the longing- the longing to write, which is almost always tied up with my longing and love for God- which is my usual subject these days.

I begin to write down phrases and words and eventually, one phrase will ring true and other phrases will be flung off that one and the poem will begin to write itself.

Then I have to go back and cut a lot of stuff out. That's the key, right there. Well- other than being quiet enough to begin in the first place.

I use metaphor a lot- in fact, I don't think I ever simply describe the thing I writing about. I always hide it under metaphor. I wonder if I baldly wrote out the thing I wanted to, I might end up writing the poem that I wanted. The poem that I want to write remains out of reach.

In any case, in the last poem, I begin describing visual memories of my inner life- but in fragments too small for the reader to see the whole picture. Then I use movement to describe the impact on me.

If you've ever laid back in the grass and thought about how the earth was swinging through space at incredible speeds and that the weight of it was holding you firmly in place, it's sort of that feeling.

As I wrote, I remembered when I was younger- my longing for God, for beauty beyond reach, so I used a metaphor of a winter fields and the cloud shadows passing over, the light breaking out over the horizon, but too far away for any real warmth. But the fields are set for a late harvest- a promise of something to come.

I use the metaphor of marks to describe my longing- it's telling me that I came from Divine Love and I am returning to Divine Love. It's the desire itself that first tells me I'm His.

Then I talk about distractions along the way home, as it were- that's pretty obvious, and how some paths in life can leave us caged and always hungry, following empty performances not natural to who we are and that insult our soul- but for a while we think maybe this is the only way to be fed or fulfilled, or to receive attention or meaning.

I get stuck in a holding pattern- the parking lot for several years, homeless and waiting, feeling discarded, until I figure out that I don't need the highway to find my way back home- that is, I don't need to follow the same route everyone else is- its actually a sort of barrier in and of itself.

So I go over those large walls meant to block out the sound of the highway- like denial of one's need for connection to what the city represents- false fulfillment, the surrendering of one's true self, the giving up of freedom for a role in the show.

I go through the lanes of bumper to bumper traffic- stalled, never getting anywhere, and through the internal defenses set up because of past hurt- but having those defenses prevents us from accepting love and being cherished and seen in those deep places, so I leave the bunker behind.

And past the power plant, which is the need to control the flow of love, of life- like a grid that we control, instead of being surrendered to the river of Divine Love- the greater Flow that always sustains and holds us.

So I am making my way through these obstacles looking upward, up beyond these temporal things, and this takes me all the way back home.

This looking back and remembering my journey home gives me even more clarity about what home means to me, so I let go of a lot of unnecessary things- like an inward spring cleaning. Because all I really need is Him.

That's what the poem means to me, or what I was thinking about, as I was writing it.

In the meantime, Baby remains on the verge of arrival, which leaves Keith and I very much on call, day and night. I can go nowhere without the phone.

Also, we seem to be staring down a collision course of epic proportions- instead of dealing with new house and then Baby, it seems more and more likely that these major events will be occurring nearly simultaneously.

"Shit is gonna get rough," as my husband put it so colorfully, yesterday morning, as we were taking stock.

Consider if Baby were to be born this evening, for example. On Tuesday or Wednesday, adoption paperwork could be signed, leading to a nearly two week period of waiting on interstate approval- which could take a while, as we are still waiting on Kentucky- something our adoption officials assure us will not prevent our adopting Baby, but would, in the worst case scenario, delay the process.

Guess what else happens in two weeks? Moving, that is what. The twenty second of this month is the last day we can live here. That, my friends, is next week.

If only we could begin moving into our completely finished new house now! But no. We cannot, because it takes up to ten days to close a loan, even with everything approved. Guess when those ten days are up? The nineteenth, that's when.

How can we move out of this house and into the next if we are out of state with a newborn while waiting for our adoption to clear?

Indeed, we cannot. Because every single thing appears to be happening at the same time.

So, worst case scenario- Baby is born early. Keith and I drive down for the birth and paperwork. After those two days, he returns to Georgia to move with the help of friends, leaving Baby and me alone in a hotel room/hospital for the next ten days while the adoption paperwork clears.

When it does or when he is done moving, he will either drive back down to get us, or arrange for me to rent a car and drive all the way back home. On my own. With Baby.

That's worst case scenario. Best case is that Baby remains where she is, growing stronger day by day, the loan closes some time this week, we move in like the wind and have the house set up before Baby's born.

That would be awesome. That would be great.

However, Baby's birthmother does not think this likely. She feels that Baby is ready to arrive at any moment, and she would know.

In the meantime, we are just waiting around, packing boxes and doing yard work, but mostly just waiting.

There is so much to consider that I don't have room to consider the possibility of the adoption failing. The more I get to know our birthparents, the less I fear this, though it always remains a possibility.

Early last week, I wandered around Baby's R Us, window shopping and day dreaming about setting up the perfect nursery and having every little accessory and all that. At the time, I thought that might be possible.

"This might be the only baby I ever have," I thought to myself. "I want every little thing perfect."

Lately, I've had to throw that idea right out the window. Life is not perfect. I will not have a lovely, completed, matching nursery when Baby comes home. Instead, I might have mountains of unpacked boxes and bare walls and frozen dinners and bottle paraphernalia and packing tape all over the counters.

But that's okay; that's life. Who cares about the nursery anyway? What does it matter? I'll have Baby in my arms or in the carrier or in the Moby wrap, if I can figure the darn thing out and I'll have my husband and a new house, and when my mom comes, which she will, I'll get some sleep, too! What riches! What more could a person ask?

I'll have everything that matters and everything else can come together later if it has to, including the nursery.