It's all about walls tonight folks. Building walls. Tearing down walls. I'm not a stone mason, so I can't speak from experience, but I know that neither one is easy. It takes strength to build a wall. It takes a reason. It takes precision. You don't build a wall without a precise reason . You build it to keep people out, to keep people in. You build it to protect yourself. You build it to hide. It takes even more strength to tear down a wall, to make it crumble beneath your feet. Yes, you can take a wrecking ball to it, and destroy more than you set out to. Or you can take it down with your hands. Brick by brick. stone by stone. A chisel to scrape away the mortar. Or you can just lay siege, cutting off the food. poisoning the water supply. Making them open the gates so you can go inside and pillage the city. So what does my wall consist of? (You didn't really think that wasn't a metaphor did you? Come now, you know me better.)
It's hurt and anger. Mistrust and anguish. It's fear and disbelief. It's being comfortable in pain. It's been built up over the years. It started with a broken hearted little girl, and the finishing touches are by a broken hearted woman. Every brick a memory. Every layer a forgotten dream. Every new height a hope surrendered.
So where does tearing down come into things? (later. I promise) First you have to have a reason to tear down. And you, kind sir. Are my reason. All we know is how we feel, or how we think you feel. At one time I thought we shared a brain, and now all I see are our differences. Religion. Politics. All the things you don't dare mention in polite conversation. Even our goals are different. All things I've always held in such high regard. However, in the quiet stillness of my room, all I can see are our similarities. The fear of the known and the unknown overcomes our rationality. Afraid of getting close, of moving beyond trite conversation, of revealing who we are.
Afraid... of being real.
I tell myself that I recognize this for what it is. And yet, my mind screams ""Hypocrite!" Recently I spoke with a friend of mine. She is the inspiration for this particular part of the blog. As I have mulled over that conversation I have come to a conclusion.
She, he, and I are one and the same.
Both in our fears, and our differences. I don't agree with her on religion, or politics. Like her, I fear the time when change comes, even though my soul longs for change. However, we do agree on our goals. We both want our eyes wide open. We want comfortable entanglements. We want to discover Where The Wild Things Are. We want to run in reckless abandon without fear of being hurt. We want a fairytale in our reality. We want to see the beautiful simplicity's in life. We long to see the beauty in reality, the beauty that our writers hearts create. We want to love, to be loved. We want to be inexpressibly real. And we want all of this our way. What is it that holds us back from discovering this world of pure, unadulterated beauty? It could be a number of things. But the more I think.. the more I realize.. it is the complexnicity of thought. Yes complexnicity.
When we talked she revealed that she was going to call him, and put her heart on the line. I silently commended her and admired her for her bravery. She was going to do something I could never do. Within minutes the conversation turned and she encouraged (or demanded?) for me to call you too. I immediately began arguing. After all, our situations were completely different. There's no way, I would call his bluff. I'm much to old fashioned, and plus I need to run. It's been much to long since I have had a good workout. I never did agree with her. I tried to relax my body, and quiet my mind with some yoga. It worked, for a time. I was up most of the night arguing with myself. "It would be pointless" said I. But me said "whatever will I say?" The more I think. The less I know. The less I know. The more I think. And now in this blog, I so much want to be just as trite and full of empty promises as you. I want to quote songs and poets. I want to use someone else's words and apply them to me. to you. to us. But those psalmists and poets aren't you. They aren't me. They aren't us. Every love is different. No poem could come close to describing how I feel about you, and neither could you find a song to aptly describe exactly what you feel for me. I need to talk to you I see that now. This situation is all our own. I'm starting to realize...
this is real..
I will call you, someday, somehow. I will gather the courage. I owe you that much. All this time I thought I would call your bluff, and here you are unknowingly calling mine.
To further my ramblings (and proof of my insanity) last week I went and saw Where The Wilds Things Are. I can't begin to touch upon how much it meant to me. It seems to mean something new to everyone. To some it was a tale of love, to others humor. But the most apt description I have heard is beautifully simplistic. It allowed me to imagine a world beyond the world it revealed, to keep dreaming, and to imagine where my wild thing is. And it applied those very principles to reality. And that is what made it a masterpiece. I saw myself in Max and I recognized life lessons I am slowly learning. No matter where I run to, even if that place fits my wildest childhood dreams I still have to come home. to my reality. to my life. When I get to that crazy world I still dream of being somewhere else. And that somewhere else is home; safe, dry, and eating some soup. When I take off that wolf costume and crown I can see the worthlessness of trying to be anyone but who I am. I'm only a little girl wanting to be understood and loved for that understanding. But somewhere along the way, I got scared. I got hurt. And I ran. I ran to this alternate universe, where I could hide in a shabby little costume. And yet, even though the world has changed, I have not. I still expect people to see beyond the costume and love me. And so I must come home. But these days I've run so far, and in so many different directions, I have lost my way. I don't know where home is anymore.
I've tried to follow others in their quest for home I come to find out, their home is not mine. They can't lead me to my home. I must find my own way.
The message of love is simply breathtaking, so much so that I can't begin to comprehend it. It appealed to my hopeless romantic heart in such a mighty way. It was a message of true romanticism in its purest form.
Loving something, or someone so much that you can take joy in the simplest of things, and have the freedom to imagine and explore the most complex of worlds.
At church on Sunday, I overheard someone talking about walls falling. The Berlin Wall. The Great Wall of China. The Walls of Jericho. How many times did the Israelite's step past their fear and face the overwhelming odds? I can think of countless tales. Elijah and the false-prophets of Baal. David and the Philistines. Gideon and his three hundred men. And yet, it wasn't easy for them. They didn't rush into battle fearlessly. No, they were fearful. I've always felt a special correlation between those tales and me. Fearful of getting hurt and choosing to run in the other direction. But what did the Israelites do that I so often forget?
They listened for the small still voice of God.
The Battle of Jericho is an interesting tale. I'm sure they all thought God had gone off his rocker when he told them to march around the city. Marching around the city wasn't a tactic of war. It showed their strengths... and their weakness's. But they listened to God. And when the trumpet blew. The walls came tumbling down.
The symbolism in this story is astounding. Oddly enough I see myself both in the people of Jericho and the army marching outside the city walls. I like my walls. I like where I am. I like being protected from intruders. And yet at the same time I'm out there marching in circles. For all the world to see my few strengths, and my abundant weakness's.
I'm waiting on that small still voice. I'm afraid to march and show my weakness's. And ultimately I'm waiting for the sound of that trumpet to echo in my heart. And for my walls to come tumbling down.
October 18, 2009
Writers Block is a funny thing you know. For a person who has writing in their soul, writers block suffocates you. It is as a monster which rises up inside of you. It overcomes the creativeness which has been a permanent part of your soul. He growls at you that there are other things more important in life than your impotent creativity. At other times it puts on a mask of deceit. He tells you in a soft whisper that at one time he was your creativity, but people's opinions, people's words, and the worst your own self-consciousness killed it. That those three things teamed up and slowly wore away at all that he was. Ironically, creating irreparable damage. At times you don't want to believe that horrible little monster. The desire to write. to create. to pour your heart into the only thing of beauty that you know, almost overrides the words of that monster inside your soul. It's almost enough to break free of your personal Auschwitz. A strong metaphor, yes. But when you can't do the one thing that makes you who you are. When you reach your wits end, when you want to give up and just forget who you once were... but then a glimmer of hope brightens your soul for the smallest fraction of a moment. And then, as quickly as it came its gone and you are once again starving for something foreign, but remembered. The one thing that could sustain your soul. At that point you realize no matter what you once imagined... you really are imprisoned in the dankest part of Auschwitz. You may go weeks, months or even years in denial of all that you are eking out a living without. When you least expect it... in a quiet moment your hand will start to ache, your heart seems to burst with the unsaid words and your mind starts to wonder could this be it? Could this be V-Day? Could the monster finally be conquered? Is your soul truly free? And then.. slowly.. your pen reaches out, reaching as if to touch an untamed beast for the first time. And your pen touches the page. Your ears hear the quiet brush of your hand against the page. Many moments pass... silent but for the violent beating of your heart and the steady scratch of words upon parchment. Your hand begins to cramp from the strain of the unknown exertion. But its only vaguely noticed as your heart sings with the greatest release it has ever known. For this moment in time, the monster has been defeated. You will glory in the victory and quickly get back to your heart, written simply upon a page. As your pen starts to slow, doubt starts to send forth a small tentacle and you almost give in; wondering will all find it illiterate? Is it even worthy of the title "writing"? But no another seemingly brilliant metaphor bursts into your mind, and off you go, writing faster than before. Not able to control your pen anymore than you could control the passing of time. You may lose your train of thought, you may lose all feeling in your hand. But the joy of doing what you were created to do is a force you cannot ignore. And then.. suddenly... you are done, you slowly let your pen fall. You lean back breathless from the battle your heart just finished. And suddenly you know; maybe for the first time in your life, what you are truly capable of.