A Way to Me

I don’t create poetry, I create myself, for me my poems are a way to me.

~Edith Södergran

 

I love this quote. It speaks volumes about why I write poetry. A way into myself. A pathway. Like Hansel and Gretel in the fairy tale following a trail of breadcrumb words as the path through the forest unconscious.

A fellow poet once told me that getting words down on paper for creative purposes is like taking dictation, and that one can simply write what one hears. In order to listen intensely, one must be silent. Close your eyes for a moment and you will realize sounds are clearer, easier to follow for a longer time. I am a very visual person so closing my eyes sharpens my other senses. The wind whispers in the spruce tree. Traffic on the highway is distant, and fades into the background. Snow melts and water gurgles down the drainpipe.

It is a real gift to focus solely on sound. Poems present themselves through the hearing sense as a short burst of insight or an interruption in energy and this highlights the correlation with an abstract, like a thought, a feeling, or an intuitive urge.

I tend to write in short phrases, part sentences, short spurts and couplets. In fact, I prefer that in prose too. Call them what you will, writing comes to me that way. Another reason to love poetry. To take dictation, one must listen to the voices within –  voices of the ego, voices of reason, but especially words of the heart and the voice of Soul.

A writing instructor once commented that one must give a nod to writing conventions in poetry. I rebelled at the thought. In poetry, twisting the language, disregarding proper capitalization, or messing with punctuation is all part of the fun. In the flow of a river, there is an eloquent movement forward, and so it is with poetry regardless of the wandering nature of the words.

Following is a poem from Shadow Girls in the Spotlight one of my poetry books. I’ve inserted it here to illustrate this “way to me” concept. In the book, it is accompanied by a Reflection, a Soul Message and a Question for Reflection, just the way it appears here..

 

orphan annie

snowflakes cling to her eyebrows
leaf skeletons to her ragged shoes

the inner orphan annie
cries outside the frosty window

she wanders in the winter twilight
peeks in at lighted kitchens

abandoned waif with tattered heart
she has no hearth fire of her own

she bickers with her disowned selves
trying on faces in the glass

unsettled ragamuffin, survivor of unmet needs
she digs for scraps of self-acceptance
in the rubble heap of loneliness

she’s begging for a bellyful
of warmth and kindness
and loving home for all.

Annie’s Role: The Lost One

Reflection: When I was a child outside at night, I felt curious about other people’s lives when I looked into their lighted windows. Like a voyeur peeking into their lives, I was fascinated by the comfort and warmth they seemed to have. In the years after I left home, these lighted windows reminded of the childhood home from which I was separated.

I used to feel lost, as if others had security, love, and safety and I did not. After writing this poem, I began to see Annie as my Inner Orphan, a Shadow Self who needed a safe place inside me. She wanted a home for all the personality parts I had left out in the cold.

Heart Wisdom: You have a loving home in your heart for all your lost parts. All are welcome in your home.

Your Turn:  Is your heart home safe? If not, what can you do to make it so?

Poetry is indeed “a way to me” and an exploration into my Shadow, and the masks that my Ego created to protect my Heart.

 

This blog is a reprint of an article published on my website on March 25, 2015 and has been edited from the earlier version.

Meet Judge Judy

 

On Tuesday, I drove to a retreat centre not far from my home city. I’d been planning sanctuary time for myself to simply stare out the window and listen to the quiet. I arrived just after 10 o’clock in the morning feeling rushed from preparing food for my family to eat in my absence and meals to bring with me. I’d spent the evening before packing clothes and books.

After arrival, it was walk time. I kicked through the autumn leaves collecting on the sidewalk, and remembered how much my Inner Child loves the fall. The cool wind invigorated me. Back inside, I found my little room at the end of a long hallway. I closed the door, unpacked, and settled into an armchair with my unopened journal in my lap. I sat for the long time in a blue rocker watching two gulls sailing on the wind above the trees outside the window.

In recent weeks, I’d been pushing myself to get my new website up, running, and with the help of a fabulous web designer, work out all the wrinkles. Now I wanted to compose something positive to send out into the world in my new blog. I wanted the piece to be simple and direct, something to affirm goodness and love. I wanted something to inspire my new readers.

When I opened my journal, a folded paper fluttered to the floor. After packing up my writing bag, I’d tucked it between the pages and forgotten about it. I had written, “Why do I get so caught up in judging my own writing?”

The whole point of the blog is to talk about writing to grow, the site theme. As I sat in the silence I wondered about the link between my self-judgment and my learning. Maybe a dialogue with judgment could help me. I’d used this writing technique before to connect with different parts of my personality. Not surprisingly, a conversation with one of my Shadow Girls began almost instantly.

These characters come to me with names to match their identities. I wrote a book about them, imagining their roles and purpose in my life. In our talks, I’ve learned some interesting things about myself. Their voices speak truths, when I read between the lines, and they hold opportunities for me to stretch and grow.

Today in the silence of my nun’s cell, I could hear one of  Inner Selves, Judge Judy, tapping on the window. She looks like one of the magpies I saw on my walk, dressed officially in her black and white robes and powdered wig. She whispers, “Tell the truth and nothing but the truth!” “The truth will set you free.”

On the page, Judge Judy asked me, “What have you got to say in your defense? What are your arguments and excuses?” She’s waiting for the right moment to leap to the Prosecution side and ask pointed questions. I have to admit, I’m a bit scared of her tactics. “You’re not a real writer. Your writing has no depth. You’re too serious. No doubt about it, your subjects are just too personal. You’re really going to write about that!? Are you really going to put that out there for the world to see? What’s going to happen when you hang out your dirty laundry?” And then the kicker, “Your writing is just too dark!”

I try using logic. What’s so awful about admitting I’m a judger? I’m not an ax murderer or a bank robber. Everybody makes judgments about one thing or another. Society does it. Politicians do it.

And she says, “You do it! In spades! You’re a self-judger of the worst kind.” That feels awful, like a punch in the stomach. “Stop it!” I write.

Judge Judy bangs her gavel down. “Quiet in the courtroom!”

Now I’m feeling ashamed, inadequate as a person and as a writer. And I feel a headache coming on. I’m feel like I want to run away and hide.

I turn my attention from my insufficiencies and decide to look deeper for some saving grace. Maybe I can find a shred of compassion for my unskilled reaction to her accusations. After all, this is a blog, not a court room.

Then I address myself, “You want to write a blog to connect to people? Right? You sure you want to share what you’ve learned from writing?

“Well, yeah. I guess so.” I’m not so sure anymore.

Judge Judy sums it all up, “You want to write about blame and judgment in a blog? Then you need a more loving response. You know, ask the mercy of the court.”

“Yes,” I say meekly, “In my heart, I’m a good person! I do have a light side, a kind side. And I want to be free from judgment.” And she says, “Then don’t run away. Turn toward the fear of exposing your vulnerabilities. Surrender.”

Judy likes to have the last word, and she says, rather kindly, “Find a little courage to overcome your fear. You’ve done it before. Be grateful for the creativity you use to expose your own masks and frailties. Others need reprieve too, especially when they feel alone in their own self-judgment.”

I look up from my journal and catch a glimpse of a seagull soaring on the wind outside. I turn back to the Judge on the page, “That’s a truth of mine, you know. To be with others when they feel alone.” But she’s gone and its okay. I’ve invited my truth into the room; that’s enough for me.

I close my eyes. Listen to the silence. I feel better now. Freer to listen to my heart and more open to what touches me.