Tag: my poetry

At 43, I am …


Originally uploaded by M e l o d y

I am feeling my age!  And I am middle aged people. But I happy to be 43, no matter how I feel physically, which is squishy, and tired, and showing signs of blase-body (Yes, I made that up)!!! I’ve been waking up very early in the morning and can’t get back to sleep. I don’t enjoy sleep with the verve of my youth where I actually RELISHED sleep and would have said it was one of my favorite activities. Sleep is now an activity I do in order to replenish myself. That feels odd.  And OLD.

I read this and just

loved how it made me feel:

‘Gather, girl, the roses.’

Not a bad approach to life.  A year ago I began to be re-acquainted with an old friend.  We sat down to talk about my thoughts about being 42 and he told me I was hard on myself.  He’s passed on, this year.  I want to remember Pete and the figure of truth telling that he was for me as well as recognize that none of us know how many days we have on this earth so whatever it is that you long for, do it now, seize the moment!

I’m not getting any younger! I’m going to have some fun! I want to date Tom! And do things just because they seem fun! Not watch my kids act like kids, but join in!!

While 42:

  • I remained sober!
  • I quit smoking!!
  • I quit sleeping medication!!!
  • I wrote a lot of poetry and more, which is all found on this blog.
  • I took thousands of photographs.
  • I forgave.
  • I sought forgiveness.
  • I learned the concept of service as a form of recovery.
  • And started going to AA meetings.
  • My children turned 21, 11, 10 and eight and Tom 48.

My father has been dead almost six years but I have yet to “bury” him.

  • I’d like to bury my dad this year.
  • And take my kids to England & Scotland.
  • I plan to seek peace, in my relationships, through my service to others, any way I can.
  • And keep short accounts with people.
  • Reach out to others not expect them to reach for me.
  • I’d like to photograph more carefully.  And learn from others.
  • And exhibit a project.
  • Set up my studio.
  • Eat more like a vegetarian and study natural health remedies.
  • Work out daily, for my mental health.

Lastly, I’m thinking of taking some seminary courses with the possibility of some degree. Tom asked me the other night what are the major or minor things that I did not do because I was strangled by my relationship with my dad.

I didn’t study when, what, and where I wanted and I’m going to work on that this year.

This is going to get some tweaking over the next few days, but those are my musings on turning 43.

Here’s what I wrote about turning 42.

Storing September

DSC_1867 copyMy Mother gave me a book of poetry by Elizabeth B. Rooney and I was reminded of it today, with fall on its way.

Storing September
by Elizabeth B. Rooney
You ask me what I did today.
I could pretend and say,
“I don’t remember.”
But, no, I’ll tell you what I did today —
I stored September.
Sat in the sun and let the sun sink in,
Let all the warmth of it caress my skin.
When winter comes, my skin will still remember
The day I stored September.
And then my eyes —
I filled them with the deepest, bluest skies
And all the traceries of wasps and butterflies.
When winter comes, my eyes will still remember
The day they stored September.
And there was cricket song to fill my ears!
And the taste of grapes
And the deep purple of them!
And asters, like small clumps of sky…
You know how much I love them.
That’s what I did today
And I know why.
Just simply for the love of it,
I stored September.

this epic grief

this Epic Grief

September 13, 2009


Minutes tick.  Limbs twitch.  Covers are tangled & awry.  I think I am almost under, when I realize that I have been awake for hours.

It is too late.  Sleep eludes me.

In the darkness I lay back again.  And again.  And  again.

My mind full of  shadows; ripples of awareness & memory.  Weariness.  Need. Needing anything besides my irrational, wild, anxious thoughts. Have I always felt so lonely?  Have I always had this epic grief?

It seems as if I was born lonely, afraid, ashamed. distrusting.  My heart in pieces.   One of my strongest childhood memories.

But hold on.  Pain must have a beginning.

Was it there before I was?  There in the hearts of my mother and father?

Was it as real to them? The waking dream.  The dreamless sleep.  A quiet pulse, ever present.

Did they pass this madness on to me, through blood and tears of a generational grief?

I am sleepless and crazy with sadness that in times past I would have gladly drowned with alcohol, or any other intoxicant.

But dry, I am left with this epic grief.

Days and years. Years and days of working at sobriety.

Because dry, without the work, I am simply left amongst my dreams.

Left

with this epic grief.


Writing poetry helps me feel something to its extreme.  To go as far as the madness allows and still remain sane.  And then — somehow — come back to a place of semi-sanity.  It helps me to write.  And I hope that it helps someone else as well.  I think that is why I share though some would say “A cry for help.” Ha, ha.  That is so.

Random Sadness (a poem)


God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks to us in our conscience, but shouts in our pains: It is His megaphone to rouse a deaf world.     C.S. Lewis

Random sadness cannot be shaken

or filled up with things that may have worked before

food or drink,

distractions of children,

hard work,

general busyness,

exercise,

or even photography.

Random sadness, following me

like a weight on my neck and shoulders.

Sleep, my usual solace only brings bad dreams.

I cannot run from this

random sadness

which will be my constant companion today.

Melody Hanson
1 Nov 08

We are all falling.

So much beauty [in the world].
And so much pain.
Often it is easier to see the atrophy of humankind, on our planet and in our lives.

Today I am blessed by someone passing along this poem by Rainer Maria Rilke.

Autumn

The leaves are falling, falling as if from far up,
as if orchards were dying high in space.
Each leaf falls as if it were motioning “no.”

And tonight the heavy earth is falling
away from all other stars in the loneliness.

We’re all falling. This hand here is falling.
And look at the other one. It’s in them all.

And yet there is Someone, whose hands
infinitely calm, holding up all this falling.

I have never read that before today. It is perfect in its description of the almost inevitable atrophy or collapse of life and I can’t help but think our efforts to fight it are so vain. And the beautiful way that he talks about our Creator. I liked it a lot.

Thank you to my friend.

Thank you to the Someone who is holding it all together.

The Journey In Between

In my journey between belief and disbelief, I have found Truth to be something I choose not to argue about, but to be what I have experienced in the mystery of the flesh-and-blood of the incarnation.  My encounter with Truth is the Story — my responses, reflected in word and image, are but a ripple in the ocean of that mystery.

After a recent exhibit at an artist showcase at my church, I found that I was ultimately ambivalent about it.  One image I preferred, titled Sinkhole, seen below, truthfully expressed the dark lull of depression which is a reoccurring struggle for me, but the rest of my images were drivel.  After searching within, and asking for guidance, I found inside myself a desire which I came to understand as this:

I want my photography and poetry to reflect the improbable and shattering experiences I have had encountering Jesus — encounters between my grubby and muddled life and Truth.  These moments aren’t at all pretty; my struggles with a life-threatening depression (the sinkhole), the death of an abusive yet charming parent, a loathsome self-esteem, the tensions between my passions & my search for ultimate purpose, and the shame & fear in acknowledging my alcoholism, are all relevant to my faith journey.

I am living with the tension of wanting to create beautiful, excellent art and to reflect the sweat and toil of my faith.  To honestly reflect the sweet serenity of unconditional love & laughter, as well as suffering, pain and broken heart I have from things chosen and unchosen in my life.  The satisfaction I have experienced in my slow, bittersweet surrender to believing God is who he says he is and can do what he says he can do!  The heart’s quickening by the spirit of God which is earth shattering and good.

I’m fully aware that my writing and photography will never have the Answers to the Questions people have — but if it can be a simple witness to my experiences and a nudge toward Truth, I will be satisfied.  Knowing Jesus promised that those who seek will find.  We can trust him.  He meant what he said.

I want my Art to be a connection that cannot  help but push one toward God. I need to make this kind of art, need it desperately.  And I hope in the act of creating, whether through a lens or written word., some restitution will be found.

Is it too much to ask that Art heals, directs, and in the end is a tiny inkling of God’s Truth?  There is a certain anxiety or fear involved with the attempt.  Not wanting to be marginalized by the world for making “Christian art,” I feel reluctant and yet strangely compelled! What other option do I have?  If my art is relevant to the entirety of my experience, from the dazzling to the profane moments, then it just may be relevant to the people around me.

This is my wish.

MHH

Some of my thinking was inspired by: http://www.relevantmagazine.com, http://www.insidecatholic.com, as well as by the writings of C.S.Lewis. Teaching at Blackhawk Church, http://www.blackhawkchurch.org, has been a catalyst in this profound change in my life over the last seven years.

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my poem: no dignity

There’s no dignity in panic.

It stops your heart from consuming any sensation, real or otherwise.

Your brain hums, but it’s got no tune. It is an off-key drone.

You can’t breathe, your lungs forgetting their purpose,like a pillow over your face, it suffocates.

Your feet are leaden; won’t walk, won’t work.

In fact, decency and decorum would help a lot right about now.

This moment, you wish was a memory.

But in fact, you have no magid wishes; not one, two or three.

Your brain, heart, lungs, legs are corrupted, having forgotten their purpose.

This is the simplest and worst of betrayals.

You are offensive even to yourself.  Sickened by your fear.

There’s no dignity in panic, nor any humanity or decency;

only a crippling,fractured, dismembered day,

hour-by-hour

endured.

No self-respect;Until somehow

Wisdom anchors to your soul.

And you let it go. Not to forget,

but for now to breathe, think, move until the next

most unwelcome panic.

4/15/2009

Written by Melody Harrison Hanson

I need a filling (a poem)


…Originally uploaded by M e l o d y

It’s difficult to face

some days.

Yesterday was like that

simply

because I was face-to-face

with my [faithless and revolting] need

for Substance.

And I vowed,

again, as I do many days

to offer my need to God, the ultimate Other,

asking for a filling.

I need a filling dear Lord, I need a filling.

written 4/13/2009

by Melody Harrison Hanson

Meeting Patrick.


humbledOriginally uploaded by M e l o d y

It’s been a while since I’ve posted.

This is worth re-posting (from April, 08 on my flickr account.)

Humbled. It isn’t often that I meet someone who I instinctively want to protect; to grab hold of and hold on tight. And take them home with me to keep them safe. Take them home to my warm house full of laughter and hugs, and a home cooked dinner at 6:00, with books, music and photographs, a warm cozy bed with a fluffy pillow and most importantly love.

I met that person today and he knows who he is. It seems overly dramatic to say I’ll never be the same, but I think that is true.

Perspective. My life with its ups and downs, even my struggles to heal my mental health, my life is good. I have shall we say ‘issues’ and I find it difficult to find balance, but my life has been a cake walk compared to so many people’s. And I am grateful.

I am loved unconditionally. I am accepted for who I am as a woman, a wife, a mother, a feminist, a person of faith, a white person, and a heterosexual. Oh sure, I didn’t exactly feel unconditionally loved by my parents, but I think in retrospect I was accepted, encouraged, and affirmed. I was safe (mostly.) Those things that are huge to a child. At a minimum, what every child deserves. But they deserve better than just food and shelter, they really do.

People need to be accepted. I am aware today how as you live and work around people you never know their challenges. They may not have the next meal, they may not have a place to live. They may not have anyone in their life that loves them unabashedly.

I keep thinking about how blind we can be. We need to care for those around us. Do we truly accept friends and family just as they are and not expect them to change for us or for any person or institution. I certainly don’t do this perfectly, but at least I am aware of my own propensity to want my kids to ‘be smart’ to ‘do better’ or ‘behave according to standards’ or ‘be x, y, or z.’ I’m aware of it and because of what I’ve been through, and because of people like the person I met today, I will continue to fight against that thing inside me that says ‘fit in,’ ‘don’t make choices that will alienate you from Society.’ Okay, I’m dancing around the issue of our children’s sexuality something we have no control over. Oh, I know there are debates about whether sexuality is nature or nurture, a choice or biological. I’m not having that conversation simply saying love each other damn it!.

Unconditionally loving others. It is a profoundly difficult way to live but so important.

Enough preaching.

A poem I wrote a while back about growing up NOT feeling loved.

It returned, again
The dream that continues to visit me
Night after night
Year after year,
Unbidden. Uninvited
Not unexpected, but unwelcome.
A dream that says
You are unwanted.
Question yourself.
Question love.
Doubt everything you know to be true.
Nothing is real.
A solitary thought that says
Night after night
In various, complicated dreams
You are Unlovely, unlovable.
The fragile peace that comes by day
Is broken during the dark hours of sleep.

My Poetry: The Quandary of Motherhood

As with all my poetry, this is written to be read ALOUD, slowly.

Motherhood is not simply a connection

from womb to life.  It is that, and

a bond created by choice.

In the choosing, it is the care of another that ties you in a life giving way.

It cannot be fully understood, only carried out.


Many a day I am incomplete.

I question how I could be the one

doing the loving, the providing, the choosing of another.

Ah, then I realize, again and again,

motherhood isn’t perfection

nor accomplishment.

But it is in the choosing, daily.

Choosing to be the advocate, the provider, the buffer

between the world and this one child that I love.


As I sit on the floor with her.

As she sobs the sorrow of a thousand broken hearts.

As I think “who can I hurt” for causing this anguish?

As I consider the quiet relief that I want to confer,

likewise the pain I want to inflict on someone else;

As I think, I know the answer.

I am duty-bound to my child that I love

and to all children

to love.  Destined to listen, to bring solace.

To uphold all in my path.  And it is not glorious or praise-worthy.

It simply is a choice

of Motherhood.


Although it is not even possible to anticipate and prevent all pain

from this child, my child, any child;

I am beholden to all children,

to endure this quandary of motherhood.

Written by MHH, January 26, 2009

My Poetry: Solitude


solitude

Originally uploaded by M e l o d y

Solitude

Sometimes I sit in my car,

and just can’t move.

I glance at my neighbors’ home,

neighbors whom I love

and I just can’t move.

I can’t imagine ever moving again.

My car is warm.

And the world outside scares me.

I am frozen in my solitude.

My Poetry: Disquietude

disquietude

Sweeping across the pixels in my brain,
the dark fog of the terminally anxious.
Blood vessels, muscles, nerves each hold the weighty sand
of history and destiny.

I can’t breathe.

Confounded by its return.
I shake;
My heart somehow knowing
nothing.

By and by.
Peace, I call out for it!
Come euphoria!
A dreamland, I have yet to find.

1/7/09 Melody H. Hanson