A Single Layer

"The purpose of poetry is to remind us how difficult it is to remain just one person, for our house is open, there are no keys in the doors, and invisible guests come in an out at will." - Czesław Miłosz I'm taking a creative writing class in poetry now, here in 2018, and I keep being reminded of Miłosz as we explore what it means to write poetry, and that strange question I've ignored for so many years now—whether or not I'm a poet—and more terrifying still—whether or not it's worth it.

Working at the Main Library has surprising advantages. Just now I stepped out of my office, walked five paces across the hall, scanned a badge, and walked under the civic center plaza to the elevator that stretches from beneath the earth up to the mayor’s office on the fourteenth floor. I didn’t have so far to go—just up one level to the utilities counter, where a sympathetic, amused woman named Sue shut down my gas payments. It took less than five minutes. I finished packing up my kitchen days ago. My cake pans were in boxes sometime early last week. But as I walked through the underground loading dock on my way back to the office, I was distinctly aware of the finality of what I’d just done. I would never, from that moment on, be able to bake for anyone out of that kitchen. Maybe it doesn’t seem like a very big deal, but I’ve gotten a lot of mileage out of a certain identity, namely being “the person who bakes a lot”. I made a tiered wedding cake for some friends (because...

I'm moving to Texas in less than two months. I've lived in Long Beach now for nine years. Already I have stacks of books covering my dining room table that I'll be reading for my PhD program in the fall. I've quietly begun the tedious work of sorting and cleaning everything in my little apartment. I'm scheduling all of my last days with friends, moving through my calendar in reverse order from when I expect to slip into my car and drive away. This is the longest I've lived in one place, so I've never really experienced a leaving quite like this before. I remember the day I left Wheaton, closing the bedroom door on my best friend, walking down to Chaeli's car so she could drive me to the airport. (The greatest grace of Texas is that she will be there. Some friends we never lose completely.) I remember leaving California for Scotland—walking away from my mother in the Palm Springs airport. We leave people who have changed us, and we leave places that ha...

It must have been a decade ago, or nearly, that I wrote this poem for a friend. It was coded verse in her voice to someone else, and today its strange metaphor was born in the most literal sense of labor and breath. So I'm posting it here today. Welcome to the world, Everett. We have waited for you long. "An Incarnation" Certain as stars am I that this embryo will grow as though filled with the patient spirit that met Mary so intimately  upon her humble Yes. Certain as stars, though stars die, setting hope on long life— all the millions of years  between their first burning and our sight— I will wait. It is not enough that he grow in me a child sleeping silent— He must grow in you also between the sheets of your heart like pages in a story book. This is the Law of Waiting and I hold to its words like a child to its mother—I would be a mother, but am barren and weeping at the temple doors, making vows to my patient ...

I just finished reading this for the second time last week, thanks to the forever book group of Grace. It was equally as lovely the second time around, and while reading it, I wrote down a dozen more quotes from the incomparable Ames, who is both too beautiful a man to be real and too beautiful a man not to be real. (I'm grateful and amazed to know a few like him.) "It has been my experience that guilt can burst through the smallest breach and cover the landscape, and abide in it in pools and danknesses, just as native as water." (p.82) I have found this to be remarkably true. I see it in myself, and in many others as well. "I believe there are visions that come to us only in memory, in retrospect." (p.91) This seems to be about the only way I experience visions, but because memory is a rickety thing, I tend not to trust them much. Which makes me a poor prophet. "I know, too, that my own experience of the church has been, in many senses, shelte...

I wrote the following about nine months ago, but it didn't feel right to post at the time. I still mean every word. In the film Wives and Daughters , and the book by Elizabeth Gaskell which inspired it, Squire Hamley lives through the deaths of both his wife and his eldest son. He's a proud man, whose pride is greater than either his education or his purse. But each of these deaths, coming as they do at the beginning and the end of the story, change him in significant ways. The first hardens him; the second softens him. We see in the squire (perfectly portrayed by Michael Gambon in what I consider to be one of the greatest performances on screen) a complete character transformation. He is changed, but we still recognize him. In fact, we see him all the more clearly. Grief does that to a person. It uncovers them. Today I went to a memorial service for a woman I never knew. Before the service started, her two year old son found his way up to the podium, pacifier in his mou...

Last night, after having spent the day with two of my favorite people—one a writer, the other a musician—I sat down at my computer with a glass of red wine and I wrote a terrible poem. It was so bad, I'm pretty sure I won't even bother trying to edit it into something readable. And you know, I was blissfully happy with it. It was the second day of 2015, but certainly not too late to make a fanciful plan for the next 364 days.  A plan to write at least one bad poem every day. I haven't written much poetry in a long while. I used to write poetry pretty frequently, but it's never been a discipline. It's just happened irrepressibly. So when the fountain turned off, the poetry ceased. When it comes to establishing creative patterns of behavior, as I mentioned before, I'm not very steady. Part of my inconsistency has to do with having a short attention span. But when it comes to poetry, it's mostly because I don't want to write it if it isn't life-cha...

Today marks the beginning of a new year, and with that, new resolutions to be or to do things differently. I used to have a bad habit of starting new blogs with new years, eventually finding myself spread so thin over a handful of platforms that all of them suffered. To begin this year well, I've spent the day cleaning. I cleared out my closet, waxed my kitchen counter, took two loads down to the recycle bin...and deleted each blog but this one. A last bastion, if you will.  Anyone who's been paying attention has noticed that I haven't posted in four months, and before that it had been spotty for quite a while. I've used my blogs in part to simply have an outward voice for the things that are going on in my life, but also to clarify thoughts, experiences, and hopes related to living a creative life in community. I'd like to continue with that, but I'm not really sure what it will look like. I hesitate to set out a grand plan for this blog and this year, ...

A lot of people are talking about whether or not it's possible to develop a literary canon in an age of self-publishing. When there are no gatekeepers, how do we know what to keep for future generations? Those who've had the gates slammed in their faces find the open doors of self-publishing a welcome relief and a source of hope for their material. To them, this question seems archaic. But when anything can be published, the resulting sea of material makes it almost impossible to find the readership that matters, whoever that is. And the plethora of written material that's now available for people to read is mind-boggling—and growing exponentially by the day. It's kind of like orbital debris. At the moment, it doesn't really affect anyone. But at the rate we're going, it will. Eventually. Future generations will look back on our irresponsibility and cast well-earned judgment. Not that keeping a blog or self-pubbing your memoirs is literary littering. Bu...

Over the past year, I've had the pleasure of knowing Chelsea Davis, an artist and musician as well as a friend. Just over a week ago, Chelsea launched a Kickstarter to fund an EP with songs written by her and our friend Ana Sanchez. As someone who thinks a lot about the creative life, and what it looks like to live out of our identity as image bearers of a Creator, I thought I'd take a moment to grill her (in writing) about what it's like to be Chelsea Davis. So, Chelsea Davis, what is it that you do? I try to understand my experiences of people, places, and things. Generally, this involves a lot of quiet time followed by a lot of talking out loud. Occasionally somewhere in the middle, I find words to name my experiences, and then I sing about them. When and how did you realize that music was your passion? I just watched an embarrassing home video of my 4 th birthday. Apparently someone brought a karaoke machine, and I refused to share the mic with any of...

Lately I've been feeling like any account of my current life would have to include the word "disastrous" in its title. It's a bit hyperbolic, but when you consider how easily a pile of little things can take on the weight of something much greater, disaster seems about right. Here's an abbreviated account of my recent troubles: There was that cake I made that kind of imploded. That was after having to make it twice because the first attempt turned out way too thin. Then I got cake grease all over my new shirt. And I broke my biggest mixing bowl. I broke that while making bread for an amazing dinner with a friend, after which, while walking her to her car, a bug flew into my mouth. Then there was the whiskey. A parting gift for a friend, I had to pick it up in Costa Mesa at an exorbitant price (apparently worth every penny, but I don't drink whiskey so what do I know). I accidentally left the whiskey too long in the warm car. It uncorked itself. All...

I'll tell you what gives me more joy than anything else I can think of: creative communities. I don't mean formal communities with logos and schedules, though those are nice enough. I mean when you find out that Benedict Cumberbatch is friends with Tom Hiddleston who's friends with Zachary Levi who's friends with Nathan Fillion who's friends with Joss Whedon. Just imagine that dinner party for a moment. Now you see what I mean. Yesterday afternoon I was in a room of people, most of them friends, some of them strangers, reading through "The Merchant of Venice". Each person read a different role. And the whole thing was brilliant. I found myself looking around me at the other readers with a particular appreciation, because I was in the midst of my own convergence. The creative community had happened. Not a single person in the room was "famous", but every one of them was graced with a good measure of talent—and a few of them with the kind of t...

I wrote this responsive prayer for our service yesterday as part of a 40 day series on the Lord's Prayer our church is going through. My mother asked me to post it here. I do what she says. Lord Jesus, teach us to pray: For yours is the kingdom and the power and the glory forever. This is your world. You hold the past, present, and future in your almighty hands. Because the veil was torn and the Spirit has come, we are always—even now—standing in the presence of our God. All of creation bends to you—and would we hesitate? The rocks sing your praise, and the waves rest at your feet. How often we forget! Lord Jesus, teach us to pray: And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from the evil one. All around us—and within us—we find excuses to ignore your persistent presence.   We settle for easy dissatisfaction in things that are not of you. We have stepped too far over that line that runs through each human heart. We’ve compromised to keep ourselves from sufferi...

Let me tell you a little bit about my life right now. It's quite lovely, actually—I have a perfect apartment, good friends, precious family, and I ate delicious sweet potato gnocchi today. But it's not particularly cheerful at the moment. It seems nearly everyone I care about is going through their own personal gauntlets, and I am left to pray. Which is a good place to be left in, but not easy. I have made this observation elsewhere, but I'll make it again here. Something happens when you crack open the door to grief. You become almost physically aware of the feelings that are due things. That which is delightful suddenly strikes you as the most beautiful thing in existence. That which is sad can set you to honest weeping. I find a certain sanctity in this. After all, Jesus wept. In the midst of all this, I've been personally "suffering" a lot of Stupid. My wallet was stolen a month ago, and for a pile of reasons, it's taken all that time to get acces...

Right as my hope comes crashing down, I pray I might be hopeful still from every angle. I pray hope overcomes dreams with better things, And the sight and the shiver, the taste and the sound Go out from me, and come back new. Clean my memories, build them with better wings, Root my feet to the earth and wake me up well, For I have dreamed many dreams, and not one of them true.

I've been called upon several times in last few weeks to defend my love for Advent. It seems people fall into two camps: those who relish the festivities (the warm fires, the Christmas music, the trees and lights), and those who are overwhelmed by the busyness—or worse, the memories of loss—that the season makes unavoidable. We're called to rejoice though we are sad, rest though we're busy, and step into the celebration of something very old with all the eagerness of children, for whom it is still very new. It's a hard season of contradictions. And those are the very reasons for which I love it. I love it the way I love inclement weather. Because it forces you to look up from what you're doing and take steps to meet it. I live most of my life in a contented little fog, almost absurdly present in this particular moment and no other. It's hard for me to step into the past or the future without some kind of catalyst. That's why I love stories—novels and ...

This morning I was trying to remember Thanksgivings past. It's a big day, and it only happens once a year, so you'd assume they'd stick in one's mind. But I remember very few of them. I remember last year and the year before, because we had special guests. And I remember the Thanksgiving I celebrated in Scotland, because it was the first time I ever cooked something for the holiday myself, and because we were expats in an island of selective American tradition, desperately trying to find cornmeal in a Tesco (FYI: can't be done). I remember the first Thanksgiving I spent at my sister's house—the other guest was vegan, and the pumpkin pie boiled when it should have baked, and I liked stuffing for the first time and drank a Blue Moon. But the Thanksgivings of my childhood, the ones I think of when I think about Thanksgiving, those I don't remember. They would have been at my Grandmother's house, and the extension would be in the table, and there would...

When you open yourself up to inexplicable joy, you also open yourself up to deep sadness. It's a hard step to take, knowing the lows can get very, very low. But it is better than giving nothing its due. I would rather feel the hurt and the happiness as acutely as they deserve than be cold to everything. Because if you fail to feel what each situation calls for as fully as you can, you lose your capacity for sympathy. And that's a lonely way to live.

Go barefoot. Find all the heavy things. Press stuff. Move furniture... ...and listen to music at full volume.

Can't apologize for not posting much when I've been doing beautiful things. But I will share them with you.