Category: Poems {Going Quietly Sane}

There are Stories to be Told

Each human person is unique and original, and nobody has lived what we have lived. Furthermore, what we have lived, we have lived not just for ourselves but for others as well. Writing can be a very creative and invigorating way to make our lives available to ourselves and to others.  We have to trust that our stories deserve to be told. We may discover that the better we tell our stories the better we will want to live them.

from Henri J.M. Nouwen’s Bread for the Journey.
To be honest, I know that you may not care that is National Mental Health Awareness week.  But I do.  And I wanted to tell you why.

For most of my life, I did not know what it meant to be depressed.  I’ve always been shy, reserved, and moody – some even went so far as to call me melancholy.

In 2002, I had been home with my three young kids (a one year old, a three, and a four-year old)  for about a year when everything I had known all came crashing down.  There are a number of things that converged to make this happen — some too personal to mention here — others, are so obvious; postpartum issues, leaving “work” after a thirteen year career with no healthy closure, and I was not handling being a stay-at-home mom very well.  I wasn’t sure that I liked it.

It came on gradually.  And not knowing what to look for, I got deeply depressed before I knew what was happening to me.  For about five weeks, I went from an unhappy stay-at-home mom to completely nonfunctional.  I was sleeping on the couch during the day with TV on for my three kids.  They wandered around, played, watched TV and I was aware of them but barely.  I know that was irresponsible but all I can say is that it came on slowly, over time, and before I knew it I was seriously ill.  I thank God for protecting them.  I couldn’t  do anything: grocery shop (too many decisions and choices), I couldn’t sleep (at night), I couldn’t cook though no one starved.  After over a month of this, I finally told Tom something was wrong with me and I was scared.  A key for my slowing recovery was that Tom was supportive.

Depression isn’t anything one seeks and unless you fight it tooth and nail it overtakes your life.  It overcomes your heart, mind, and soul.

It is critical that the family surrounding the depressed person are encouraging and supportive and never judge.  I got a therapist who helped immensely.  You see usually someone become depressed when they are stuffing feelings or memory or when they are not dealing with things in a healthy way.  I began to work on my issues with my parents and childhood.  The details aren’t that interesting and only muddy the waters, plus I’ve written many poems about those years.  Working on my stuff was critical.  Being willing to work on your stuff is the only way you can begin the journey to recovery.

I did get to a point when I thought I was losing my mind.  I felt severe anger and violence that was very unlike me.  I finally called my therapist requesting medication when I had a thought of hurting one of my children.  No, I never touched anyone in anger but I had the thoughts and they scared me sufficiently.  My therapist was old school and wanted me to work not take pills.  I tried it for a while but got to a point when I knew I needed more.

My memories are foggy at this point.  But over the years, as I have worked things through (five or six different psychiatrists and psychologists not because I’m difficult mind you!  really.  I have a HMO and the Residents are always moving on you!  It actually stinks, when you have intimacy and trust issues to have your therapist change every few years but that’s life.  And I finally landed on a non-student who has done some brilliant work with me.  Sometimes I see him quite often, and then at others I go for months without.  I have episodes of reoccurring depression and then I get in with him quickly and he clears the fog in my brain.  He’s a salt of the earth kind of doctor and he is practical and clear.    Access to this has been another key to my return to normalcy.

Lastly at a certain point I found writing to be healing and cethartic.  I began to write poems and found all this crap inside that I couldn’t express in any other way.  Many times I know I shocked people with how I said things or what I said, but for me this has been a key to healing.

Right now, I am depressed.  How do I know?  Monday on the way home from a field trip I started to feel anxious, and glum, and kind of frantic.  The grocery story was overwhelming, when I went to get things for dinner.  Gardening, which I usually find pleasing just made me frustrated.  Nothing seemed to help.  No nicotine any more.  Man I miss it sometimes.  And then the feeling lingered, was there when I woke the next day.  I was listless and unproductive.  I couldn’t focus on anything.  My eating became irregular.  I craved sugar.  Yes, in some ways it could be that time of the month but this feeling is still here, a pit in my stomach, … it lingers.  It makes my chest feel heavy.  It’s not serious – yet.  But you bet I’m gonna keep an eye on it because if it doesn’t go I’ll have to start fighting.  This week I’ve been very unproductive except for yard work.  That can’t continue.

Since my episode of major depression I have had nine or ten minor episodes and as many serious setbacks that required intervening by the doctor.  Over the course of eight years I have learned a lot.  I have become more empathetic to others: when someone asks me how I’m doing I never lie.  “Good, and you,” will never come out of my mouth.  I have learned to tell the truth.  Good and bad.  I see people now, I can usually see if someone is depressed.  No, I don’t say anything usually but sometimes I reach out a bit more intentionally.

You never know what is going on with people.  I walked around for more than five weeks a zombie, and not even my husband knew what was going on.  A depressed person isolates (which is another thing I watch for when I feel like I do right now.).  A depressed person has a terrible self-esteem believing all sorts of lies about themselves and others.  They can’t sleep well (which is very important to recovery.)  They should not drink alcohol as it is a depressant and will only increase the poor mood.  I believe my alcoholism contributed to the depth of my depression over the last eight years.   Now that I’m sober it is much easier to get out of a slump.

To sum it up, fairly incoherently I might add, a depressed person needs:

  • to eat healthy even if they are “not hungry.”
  • to get some form of exercise every day even if it is a walk around the block.
  • to not sleep during the day.
  • to sleep at night even if that means taking something (with a doctor’s supervision) and not for more than a few weeks.
  • to see a Psychiatrist  for possible medications and a Psychologist for therapy.  You must be in therapy to work on the reasons for your depression.  They will not go away.  And you cannot heal without dealing with your shit.  You do not have to take an antidepressant and I don’t recommend doing that unless strongly encouraged by a doctor.  They are difficult to come off for some people.
  • should not drink alcohol.
  • needs to be with people even if it means someone who loves them makes it happen.  They cannot be allowed to isolate.  This was truthfully a key to my healing.  Getting together and telling friends and knowing they cared.
  • requires the support, care, trust and love from family.
  • And at a certain point, a depressed person needs to fight.  So a kick in the pants might be required.  You really do have to fight it, once you are strong enough to do so.  If you can eat, walk, talk, then you can fight.

I’ve walked this journey and would be willing to meet with anyone who just wants to talk.  Or to listen, if that seems too hard.  Whatever your experience, whether it is loving someone who is depressed or being that person yourself, you have a story.  From my experience, the healing comes in the telling.

Be well,

Melody

Yikes, even as I write this I hesitate to push PUBLISH because it’s just scratching the surface.  But it is a beginning and well, I can’t be a perfectionist here.  These are a very sketchy thoughts.  I hope they help even just one someone.  There is so much more to be said!  I have read so many books! And done so much thinking on this that this hardly reflects or represents it. I haven’t touched on faith & depression at all.   But it is all I have tonight.  Here are a few links.

My poetry.

National Assoc. of Mental Illness.

Mayo Clinic Depression self-test.

608-238-3210 home * 608-516-4269 mobile * melhhanson@yahoo.com

He Flew Away :: A fairytale.

This is an old, old story.

There once was a girl who fell in love,

in a moment; in a flash of conversation over the phone.

She fell down, down, down

into his deep, deep voice.

He was full of funny anecdotes. He was charming and open

and he kept calling

that girl.  She fell hard

for the man and his airplanes,

his funny stories and his strange lonely life.  And sometimes

when he wasn’t afraid,  he told her why  he was so very sad

and he held on to her so, so tight.

Why didn’t she know, oh why couldn’t she tell, then,

that the man would never let her in?

That she would be alone, in the end

strangled by his fear and her memories.

There once was a man that met a girl over the phone.

She made him smile and feel warm inside.  He was happy for a while.

And she waited patiently as he travelled the world.

Years of going away and coming back.  This girl, he knew

she was something else but he just couldn’t be sure.

Was it his daddy’s millions that she loved or was it him?

One day the man fell into a million pieces and called the girl.

Come, he cried, everything hurts and the walls are collapsing around me.

He wanted her.

And the girl, she came flying.  Her love made her try, try, try to glue him back together.  She gave it everything.

With her arms wrapped around, sitting there on a playground, a rush of love flooded

Through her.  She knew, for her, he was everything.

So she sat with the man and emotions swirled around, they talked and cried together.

And that girl, she just might have been

what his frightened heart needed, over time.  But  the man

closed up and went away more often.

Over time, he stopped calling.  Stopped needing

the girl.  Stopped wanting.

And though she saved her heart for him, he finally flew away and didn’t return.  And so, she

stood there frozen in time waiting, ever waiting.

But he never came.   There was nothing she could do.

This girl was something but he just couldn’t be sure.

Was it his daddy’s millions that she loved or him?

Not that time, but a hundred times

Again and again, he called her, she came to him, she held him, they laughed together,

And she cried all the way home.

Away the man flew perhaps for the last time.

Off she drove tears streaming.

How could she not have known, as he flew away over and over again —

That he would never let her in.

And one day, many years later, he would find a lady to trust.

And the girl became a woman and still there was nothing she could do.

For ages the girl wondered .

What might have happened if he had given up his daddy’s millions

and stayed in her arms?

Well this tale happened

a long time ago.

Meanwhile the woman who had been

that girl stopped waiting.

After years and years of longing and wondering,

she finally walked the other direction.

She shut her broken heart away

Full knowing.  She just might have been what he needed.  And still,

there was nothing to be done.

Today the woman remembers, still unable to know what might have been.

But she has stopped wondering.

In the real world, she found real love.  Not a dreamy or fairy tale .

And her story

Is only now being written of a girl, who became a woman and learned

She could love and be loved in return.  And that is worth knowing, worth remembering

worth writing down because she didn’t stay broken forever.

She learned to love again.

I don’t know. (a poem)

I don’t know, oh, there is so much I don’t know.

I don’t know if I will ever feel good, really good.

But I know I’m whistling while I work, unbidden and that’s some small joy.

I don’t know the lyrics to most songs,

but I know I love to sing.

I want the music on all the time.  No matter whether it’s ska, indie, classical, rap, reggae, world or even opera.

It’s what makes me feel safe, the sounds.

And books they make me feel alright.

I know I like order, but I”m messy.  I’ve never learned routines.

I don’t know if I’d change if I knew how.  But I know I like order.

I don’t know if the money will last the month.  Or what we’re having for dinner.

But I know we are here together.

I know, you’ll come home tonight and every night.  And I know you will always have me.

I don’t know if my sister will talk to me or if I’ll ever meet my nephew.

I don’t know what family means any more.  No patriarch, no matriarch.

I don’t know what will happen to us all, what I am supposed to do about it.  I just don’t know that at all.

I don’t know my parent’s history, only the results on our lives.

I don’t know why my dad was so angry,

but I know I stopped it at the door of my home.

I know I have that control and yet I know I’m not the One in control.

I don’t know if what I believe is true, the Truth.

But I know it gets me through.

I don’t know who I’d be without that belief and so I choose to believe.

I don’t know why I had children, but I know that I wouldn’t have found myself without them.

I know I am becoming the mother they need and I am so grateful that I am entrusted with their minds and hearts.

I don’t know what I can give them, but if it were just one thing

I would give each one

confidence.

I wake up most every day scared.

I want them to face the world bravely.  That I know.

Most days I don’t know what I don’ t

Know.  But today, I am sure that these things are true.

I love and I am loved.

I am a mother and that is the  most serious thing I will ever do.

I am profoundly aware of how my parents made me who I am.

I am undaunted.

In the end I don’t have to know as long as I keep whistling and choosing to believe.

When my heart hurts, I wait. (a poem)

I could be doing many things right now, my mother taught me that. 

I should always comes to mind first. I could, gives breathing room. She had a lifetime of shoulds. She lived for every one. And lost herself.  And so, she sits now with her regrets. 

I could be cleaning, calling a friend, or washing up.  I could be playing the piano, or laughing with ‘Mel & Floyd’ on the radio. Even singing.  Or I could be digging outside. But here I sit, with sleepy Jaz by my side. I linger with my heavy thoughts  and the radio that is playing Chaka Khan. Now she is wild and so funky.  So unlike me. 

As the kitten stretches in the sunshine.  I sit and wait for the words.  For I have poem inside and when that happens, I have learned I can wait. It is not time wasted.  Rather, a moment of anticipation. So I go to the screen; the sacred chamber that collects my words and blows them softly  way from me. I sit, pondering hard things.

I could be a better lover. 

I am earnest and devout, but I lack fire. 

I could be a better mom.  I sometimes cave.  If you’re a parent, you know what I mean.

I could definitely be a better friend. 

And should,yes should, take better care of each precious one. 

You and I spoke late into the night of our love, desire and longings.  Of heartache. Of your loyalty.  Of my addictions.  And of God.  And, of other secret things. And in the moments, when my heart hurt so much as if I was being crushed from the inside out I could only hold on to our love. And know that for all the shoulds that sit there between us; unrequited. Honest disappointments.  Pure pain. Still.  It’s you and me.  And I know, even though our journey together is imperfect I am glad to walk this life’s path with you. 

There, it came.  The swirling thoughts are out. Not always what I want to say. Not always something I would choose to admit.  But always when and what is needed.  I suppose the thing I most love about you, is the that though we are imperfect I can wake after such a hard conversation with hope.

April 15, 2010
Marriage.  It’s an amazing thing and yet so difficult.  I don’t talk about my marriage much but I know that just like all the other things that I write about (childhood psychological abuse, addiction & recovery, motherhood, creativity, insecurities, spirituality & faith, disbelief) everyone has relationships and many people have hard marriages.  Mine isn’t difficult, funny enough.  Mine is amazing.  But we have our things and from time to time they raise their head up and demand attention.  I don’t think we should be afraid to talk about it.  Like everything it is delicate and precious.

in this, and the next life (a poem)

the church

Unholy.

Like unrequited first love,

my heart discovers your incantations and magic

last night.  It seems this story has been written

a thousand times.  A girl

watches, listens, dreams.

She is silent, unmoved at the start and almost determined

not to feel.  And then she is profoundly shaken, breathless.

Listening as if never having heard music

before. You cast a spell.   A choir of guitars,

exquisite.  Cutting

deep.  Your sweaty hope.  Dreams vividly etched in the lines

in your face.  You may see

ancient sorrows but she sees only

sweetness and she falls

for you, for your voodoo songs.  You are

the weary traveller casting spells on the unwary girl.

You are

ahead of me

on the path to this, and the next life.   You

have my heart

now, beating erratically in your songs.  Carry it well.

April 15, 2010, Melody Harrison Hanson

I went because they are one of Tom’s  all time favorite bands, which is saying a lot for him.  He listens to a lot of music.   Last night we heard The Church at the Majestic in Madison, Wisconsin.  Bravo.  It was up there in terms of best live concert experiences I have had. It isn’t often that one discovers a band, hearing them for the first time live.  It was kind of earth shattering.  A bit like falling in love: I wasn’t looking for it, didn’t expect it, but can’t help but embrace it.

My Secrets (a poem)

When I was a small girl I loved heart-shaped ice cream bars, story books read aloud,

and running barefoot all summer long.  I remember back scratches and hugs after bad dreams.

I believed the world was good.  I knew nothing

of sorrow or regret; that someday I would need to forgive.

As I grew I began to see my father was never satisfied and he was afflicted by a secret rage.

Mother grew sad and afraid, there was no-one to tell; no-one who could help.  My world began

to crumble; secrets became bigger than life.

I discovered I could disappear, hiding from him I’d read a book all day long.

And later, hide

in work, shopping or a glass of wine.

Just like Mom, it was safer to be invisible, silent, placid.

I used whatever I could find to make the crushing sadness stop.


After years and years of hiding, love found me.  I began to write, to create, to grow things

and finally to heal.  Then I found my voice.

By telling this story I would flourish and reach, timidly at first for forgiveness.

At nearly forty I accepted that I was the one Jesus loved.  I never believed

that could be true.  You can’t be cruel to a person and share that truth.

My secret life of sorrow and lament;  the constant melancholy has become something else.

Though I still cannot understand why my father was angry, why life was so hard.

Today, in the early morning quiet, I know who I am now matters most.

I remember, which hurts.  I forgive, which heals.

When your grief overwhelms and possibilities are gone, what you choose then matters.

Somehow love found me, but I chose to receive it.

Bad things will happen, I can’t stop them.

In choosing Jesus and hope, I have a world of possibilities ahead.

In choosing to forgive, I live.

by Melody Harrison Hanson.   https://logicandimagination.wordpress.com

Related articles by Zemanta
Reblog this post [with Zemanta]

Longing for Mercy (a poem)

It’s interesting to be so brazen as

to think that you understand forgiveness.

You may grant it to others.  You may think you know

something, in the granting of it.

And then,  it is only then

after that when you fail miserably.

It is almost beyond your own ability to comprehend.

You, as only   you   can, call from within your mind and heart the unguarded, profoundly wrong words.

The anger is historic, visceral, blood-thirsty and full of hate.

It comes writhing out of you, out of your mouth and in that moment

even as you don’t honestly care who you hurt, you know what has been said

cannot be undone.  You said it.  It is done.

Never mind that she was your equal. Equally vicious and also her father’s child.  Cruel and unkind.

Still, the pain you provoked cannot be undone and for a moment it is clear

you’re finished.

Thoughts  crowd in : “I never said…” “I didn’t mean…” The feeling of worthlessness threaten to overwhelm.

You are spent. You must face the truth.

Do you seek forgiveness? Or do you wait and wait it out?

No   time    stretches    longer

than the lingering, the waiting for grace, gentle and undeserved. Fear looms

as your heart pounds in your chest. Days are spent hoping.  It is no trifling thing, this longing for mercy.

And so you submit to the marking of time and wait,

wanting to believe

in forgiveness. It is undeserved but will be welcome.

April 2, 2010
Melody Harrison Hanson
Related articles by Zemanta
Reblog this post [with Zemanta]

A World of Possibilities (my poem edited from “When Life Was a Bad Dream”)

When I was a little girl I loved heart shaped ice cream bars, storybooks,

and running barefoot all summer long.

I remember back scratches and hugs after bad dreams.

When I was a little girl, swinging, playing happily I had no thought for the future.

I believed my parents loved me and each other; they would never hurt anyone.

I believed the world was good and safe; I couldn’t conceive of sorrow or regret.

I didn’t know that some day I would need to forgive.

I began to understand that some Daddy’s rage and are never satisfied;

that Mommy’s can be sad and afraid, and that children are a problem.

I learned that the world was scary.

I began to wonder if this would be the fight that ended everything,

their secrets exploding the world I knew.

If this time she would sink down so far she might not come back; like Alice in Wonderland

shrinking to a place I couldn’t find.

When I was older I discovered I could find that place myself.  Sometimes I would hide

in bed with a book all daylong.  And later, much later, when I got so used to hiding

from my pain, I would hide in alcohol, or work, or shopping.

I would disappear into a crowd of friends and a glass of wine.

Whatever I could find to make the sadness stop.

It was safe to be invisible, silent, and placid.  I began to hide, just like Mom.

After years and years of hiding, I was finally coaxed out into daylight by love.

I began to write, to create beauty, to grow things.

This was how I would learn to forgive.

I began to consider that I was the one Jesus loved;

the Jesus I never knew.  You see, when someone cruel tells you about Jesus,

you can’t believe that God would really love you.

And if Jesus did, why did he allow years of lost days and nights?

Sorrow.  Melancholy.  Lament.

That mystery, I have considered for years.  And years.

Why was my father so angry?  Why was my life so difficult?

Here’s the thing. It happened.

What I have learned is that who I have become is important.

And so I sit in the early morning darkness,

In the quiet of this beautiful new life, remembering.

It happened, the past.  It hurts to remember.

When life is most terrifying, when your grief overwhelms,

when your possibilities are gone, what you choose matters.

Somehow, I found love.  Or love found me.  Either way it’s good!

And bad things will happen.  I can’t stop them.

We make a world of possibilities for our children and ourselves.

In choosing hope,

choosing the life that Jesus offers,

choosing to forgive,

I will live.

Related articles by Zemanta
Reblog this post [with Zemanta]

When Life was a Bad Dream (a poem)

When Life was a Bad Dream

When I was a little girl, swinging, playing happily I had no thought for the future.
Children live in the now.   And believe.
I believed my parents loved me and each other; they would never hurt anyone.
I believed the world was good and safe, even as I couldn’t conceive of sorrow or regret.
I didn’t know that someday

I would need to understand my parents and forgive.

When I was a little girl I loved heart shaped ice cream bars and storybooks,
and running barefoot all summer long.  I remember back scratches, and hugs after bad dreams,
and I remember a sense of wonder about life.
I began to understand, though,

that Daddy’s get very angry,
that Mommy’s can be sad and afraid,
and that children are a problem.

I learned that the world was scary,
even as I couldn’t conceive of bad things happening to me.
Then I began to wonder

in my confusion.  Wondering
if this would be the fight that ended everything.  If this time she would sink
down so far she might not come back.  Like Alice in Wonderland
shrinking to a place I couldn’t find.
And then, I wanted to go with her to that sad, safe place of no return.

When I was older I discovered I could find that place myself.  Sometimes I would hide
in bed with a book all daylong.  And later, much later, when I got so used to hiding
from my pain, I would hide in alcohol, or work, or shopping.
Whatever I could find to make the sadness stop.  I was being crushed by it.
I had no hope and never realized life offered possibilities.
I would disappear into a crowd of friends and a glass of wine.
It was safe to be invisible, silent, and placid.
I began to hide, just like Mom.

After years and years of hiding,
I was finally coaxed out into daylight by my husband’s love.
The sun felt warm, the world was a place of promise.  And in time, I found
I could hear the birds, taste and smell again, and popping into my head
were opinions, feelings, and judgments.  Sometimes they would erupt out of me
shocking me and those around.

I began write.  To create

beauty, to grow things.
At first I didn’t want to admit this story.  But I had hidden for so long, denied

what truly occurred.
I knew, telling this tale was a part of forgiving.

It was then, I began to consider that I was the one Jesus loved;
the Jesus I never knew.  You see, when someone cruel tells you about Jesus,

you can’t believe that God would really love you.

And if Jesus did, why did he allow

forty years of lost days and nights?

Sorrow.  Melancholy.  Lament.

That mystery I have considered for years.  And years.  I asked

why was my father so angry?  Why was my life so      very      difficult?

And will life ever be easier?  Here’s the thing.

If it didn’t happen that      way.  To      me.  I wouldn’t be Me.
What I have learned is that who I have become is important.
And so I sit in the early morning darkness,
In the quiet of this beautiful new life,  remembering.
It happened, the past.  It hurts,
to remember.  And to say out loud

that fear was my life story.  I was Fear.

I close my eyes to look back more clearly.  What I see
is a fusion of good and bad, there was laughter and there were tears.

The jumble of heartache, worry

even terror became an argument for hate.  But sitting here I know
when life is most terrifying, when your grief overwhelms,
when your possibilities are gone

what you choose matters.

Somehow, I found love.  Or love found me.  Either way it’s good!
We scratch each others’ itches.  We smell and taste life as fully as we can.

And allow our little ones
to run freely, some might say wildly.  But we are exuberantly facing life,
believing, and mostly living      in      now.
Bad things will happen.  I can’t stop them.
We make a world of possibilities for our children and ourselves.
And it is in the choosing Hope,
Choosing the Life that Jesus offers, it is in the doing

differently

that I know I will forgive.   And I will live.

being right isn’t everything (a poem)

Growing up, I thought being right

meant getting my way.  It never occurred to me to be otherwise.

My father always won, so it took a long time to learn my father might not win.

When I finally let go of my ideas and the argument was over,

there would be peace and quiet — at least for a little while.

My father

was one of those people for whom to be right was his last breath,

his complete and final concept of himself.  It gave his life meaning.

I wonder what was done to him?

What terrible memory dogged and rattled him?   What was he afraid would happen if he stopped

for just a minute? Something was chasing him all my life and years and years before

commitments, kids and a wife entered in.

When they told him he was dying I thought

finally!   He might stop running.   And all the trips to help

with doctors and medicines, the chemo and radiation that stole his energy

and memories,

that stole my name, still

cancer gave me the gift of sitting, finally time to simply be

with him.  But rather than rest, accepting

he had mere months to live

he still thought he could win.  What was he thinking?  In those last days

the cancer broke him.

Finally, something got the best of all his striving, his knowing.  Being right.

Whatever it was that chased and tortured him — I will never know.

I thought being right would feel better than this.

Perhaps that is why he died still believing

he would live.

Related articles by Zemanta
Reblog this post [with Zemanta]

Forgive like you have been forgiven – 70×7

Description unavailable
Image by M e l o d y via Flickr

“It is not easy to forgive,…but bitterness is corrosive. Like a container filled with salt, it will destroy everything because the Lord cannot forgive us if we cannot forgive others. Life is wonderful if we let God heal us.”

I am thinking and mulling about forgiveness and a poem I have been asked to write.  I have never written a poem this way, so I’ve been anxious about it.  Part of the problem is that God has kicked my butt on the topic of forgiveness and I’m learning a mile a minute.

Some of the prose I wrote earlier on my blog were only the beginning.  Who knew!  It’s a difficult but good experience and I look forward (that doesn’t seem to be the right word) to seeing the outcomes in the form of a poem. (I do not envy preachers, as whatever topic you are preaching on the Lord would be convicting you about in your own life.)  I have been given several opportunities lately to ponder and carry out (or not – we always have the choice) the act of mercy.  The act of forgiving.

Sometimes we fail.  Sometimes the things we struggle with from our past seem bigger than that seemingly puny thing – the act of forgiving.  I think it’s a strange thing and it is not a human act.  I can intellectually decide that I want to forgive my father because it would be good for me and I believe in it out of religious conviction.  But it is only in that miraculous moment that it becomes something.  I choose, God works and God’s timing is unknowable.  We obey, we open our heart, we clear our mind, we “say” to God ‘take this x, y, and z because I’m sick and tired of it’ and in some incredible, unknowable, magical, miracle it is done.

The power of this miracle in my life — in my faith, relationships and personal health has changed me as a person.  How forgiveness has changed you?

This is not my typical way of writing a poem.  My poems erupt out of the experiences of my life.  This thoughtfulness and care is good and difficult.

70×7. Unimaginable in some situations.

I will continue to write and see what comes.  I am hoping a poem, but we’ll see.

Here’s a link to something else I’ve written about forgiveness recently which you may have read.

The quotation above is from an incredible article I read on the Faith & Leadership website at Duke University. A description and an excerpt is below.

After her daughter was kidnapped by the Lord’s Resistance Army in Uganda, Angelina Atyam realized that her mission was not just to secure the child’s release, but to forgive her captors and work for peace and reconciliation.

by Sherry Williamson

Sevens surface as a motif throughout the transformation of “Mama Angelina” from a soft-spoken nurse-midwife and mother of six to an international activist seeking the release of all Uganda’s abducted children.

Atyam’s daughter was among an estimated 35,000 youth, some as young as 6, that the Ugandan government believes were abducted by the LRA during nearly 20 years of fighting. From 1987 until a ceasefire was signed in 2006, the LRA used children as human shields in battles with government troops. Boys were forced to become soldiers; girls were enslaved as “wives” to rebel leaders.

The path Atyam pursued to negotiate the children’s release — and to further peace and reconciliation within her country — was inconceivable for many other parents, but she was resolute. Guided by the Lord’s prayer, she and other parents of abducted children began to pray for forgiveness of the rebel soldiers.

Related articles by Zemanta
Reblog this post [with Zemanta]

[Lenton Series] Winter Slowly Recedes (A poem)

WINTER SLOWLY RECEDES

by Melody Harrison Hanson, March 8, 2010

As winter slowly recedes

And sunshine makes certain promises,

I find myself wistful which is improbable, to be sure.

I am grateful for a long cold hibernation.

For the unlikely beauty of the frosty, brisk days.

The blue, icy nights that were endured.

I reflect on what didn’t come.

The monster, the unwelcome and frequent enemy.

I did- not- sink.  I did- not- fall- down.  I did- not, oh no!

Yes, I have returned to spring

enduring, resolute and full.

Able.

Even so, I am

More and more dependent on the One that came.

Who lost everything.

Who went to the dark, cold and frightening places

For me.

Reblog this post [with Zemanta]