Sunday, November 22, 2009

An unusual, oppressed, and incapable poet

Today, I saw poetry. I saw poetry in the loving earnestness contained within my mom's eyes as she explained to me why she home schools.

It's not the first time I've seen it... over the course of 18 years I have both witnessed and experienced it innumerable times. My mom is a devoted, wouldn't-have-it-any-other way stay at home mom, and from hemming her 5' nothing daughter's pants (guess who?)- to spending hours in the kitchen just so that we can have a meal together, it seems like there's nothing she can't handle.

Although I have been a recipient of this selfless and beautiful poetry for years, I have not always seen it. I saw her chop onions and place that next load in the dryer, and yes, I saw her in the mirror all those times as she struggled to curl my hair in a way that would please me. I saw her eyes light up as she saw me in the perfect prom dress, then widen as she saw the price tag... only to light up again as she said, "I don't care. You love it; we're buying it."

I have seen all these things with my physical eyes... yet gone blind when it came to the vision of my heart. But today, today I saw poetry.

We were in the kitchen... the poem that is my mother, and myself. She was explaining to me a conversation she'd had with another mom who simply "didn't get it." In a world where nannies, daycare, feminism, and the working woman run rampant, this mom just couldn't understand what my mom was doing staying at home. Not only that, but home school?

My mom is neither the confrontational nor the argumentative type, so she saved most of her rebuttals for me. Near tears and clutching her heart as she spoke because of how ardently she meant it, my mom began telling me why she home schools my little sister: "Yes, there are so many other things that I could be doing, and yes, I could be working on my photography a whole lot more, but I believe this is what is best for Rachel. It's hard on me with trying to cook and clean and watch my granddaughter, but I can't in good conscience let her go to public school and fall behind. If I have to get up an hour earlier to learn Latin just so I can teach her, I'll do it. It's hard on me, but it would be so much harder to see Rachel coming out of high school with a low self-esteem and feeling stupid. I won't let that happen."


Some might call that oppressive, based on one adjective... "hard." Are all things "hard" considered to be "oppressive"? If that's the case, I could start my own advocacy group against school and chores. School was hard, I didn't always like it... wow, kids, rise up! You are being oppressed! Chores are hard... never really have liked them. Children everywhere, join with me! Are we such slaves to our parents that in the 21st century we still have to do chores?


Not all things that are hard are oppressive. To some, my mom's case is oppressive. But to my mom? A different set of priorities.

Society has made my mom an anomaly. A person to be skeptical of, and look sideways at. An unusual, conservative, over-indulging, oppressed, and incapable idiot. Why would you spend the time to teach your kids when the government already provides that for you? And the kids get out of your hair for five whole days, getting their proper socialization? Why stay at home with them when there is a perfectly equipped daycare right around the corner?

My mom has become- as she puts it- "A dinosaur." She now has to defend herself in every-day conversation for doing what God created her to do, and being what God created her to be... a mother! Even among friends.

Television scorns her, politicians fight against her, and women roll their eyes at her.

But you know what? My mom has written poetry. Poetry that the world may be blind to... but poetry that is burned and sealed into the hearts of her children, and read by Father God Almighty. Poetry that is still being written as she bravely continues sacrificing for the next generation... for her granddaughter, Mackenzie. If you asked her, she probably wouldn't call it sacrificing, but: Love.


Now, there is not anything wrong with being a working woman or putting your child in daycare if the need arises, however- and this is important- neither is there anything wrong with what my mom does for a living. If she wanted to be a career woman, great! We'd be happy for her, cheer her on to victory, and proudly brag on her. But she has never expressed any such desire, and I can say this honestly: I still want to brag on her.

What is Poetry in Motion? It's you, moms... you putting your foot on the gas to pick up and drop off; you throwing that disaster of a diaper into the trash, and you hugging and consoling. Don't you ever let anyone tell you differently.


Pick up your pen, and write. Write unashamedly. Not because it's going to be easy, or because you'll always be recognized and lauded, but because the eyes of the Lord are on you. He sees every hidden tear, every forced, patient reply, and every kiss on the forehead.

Do it so that God may say smilingly, "Yes, now there is my love at work. She is my Poetry... my scriptures, and what they teach... in Motion."


Know that he is with you every step... not to judge you, but to cheer you on. He has equipped you for the race you will run, and wants to see you get to the finish line. Never stop doing what's right because you grow tired... let God take over from there.

To anyone who asks my mom the question: "What are you doing at home?", I got this one. She's being a mom and a grandmom, and no, you can't take her from us.

Friday, November 6, 2009

Explanation and purpose of Poetry in Motion

Poetry is a wonderful thing. It can be beautiful, expressive of the deepest sorrows and joys, and incredibly enlightening. Poetry in its most understood occupation (as writing), comes easily enough to me, a writer. I might not write it correctly or very well, but poetry to me is as silk sheets to a homeless man.

However, poetry in motion... poetry outside of a book, outside of the mind, outside of noble ideas and fine ideals, and inside actual, day-to-day life... now there is something I struggle with.

The way I see it, anyone who has ever lived has written themselves a book of poetry. No, their names are not insribed on a leather-bound book, but they have written poetry nonetheless.

Every day you live is another page in your book... every word you say another rhyme in your verse. It's your choice what you compose. What kind of poem do you write today? An angry, resentful, selfish one? Though this thought in itself may cause a guilty wince, worse still is the reflection of an entire book filled with such poems. And there are many books with many different authors written just so.

But there are also those other kind of poems... the uplifiting, encouraging, and teaching kind. Those kind that can leave you forever changed, and take you places you never thought you'd see yourself. That is the kind of poem I aspire to be.

Poetry in motion. Poetry is in the life of every individual; the pen is in every hand. You write poetry by the way you live your life. It is either beautiful and promising, or deathly and discouraging.

Poetry is one thing... poetry in motion- in action, in deeds, in living- now that, is quite another. I have already told you that poetry in the first instance comes easily enough to me; writing and imagining honorable thoughts and actions is much simpler than actually performing them myself. When it comes to composing my life, there is not always a rhyme or reason, let alone a beautiful poem to be found out of it.

If we could all see our lives thus far as a book of poetry, I dare say there would be some severely disappointed, others left in disgust, and still more hopeless. Though I have not had the opportunity to read about my life, I feel confident that I would be all of the above. That is, if not for the grace of my Savior.

This grace takes smattered ink and turns it once more into a new, clean white page. Takes blood, and brings redemption. Takes disaster, and makes it lovely. It's because of Him I know of true poetry at all. If not for this, my life would be as useless and confusing as Drew Carey in a Speedo. (Forgive me for the image.)

So there you have it: the purpose of this blog. (And no, it is not to find Drew Carey in a Speedo.) It is to find and document poetry as I see it, in a world that no longer realizes it exists. This poetry may be discovered in the face of someone I love, a sunset, or within the scriptures. But wherever it is, I'm determined to find it.

Many things that are hidden are hidden not because they are unable to be found... but because we are unwilling to look. I choose today to look.

Yes, with this blog, may I and any who read, find and become: Poetry in Motion.