Risky Business and Me Too

Last night I attended something called Gallery Night hosted by my church. I'm still at the early stages of getting involved and connected there, and attending events outside of Sunday morning is a big deal. I always get these emails about groups that are meeting and things that are happening, and I think, "Oh, that sounds so cool!" and then I chicken out and don't go. Am I the only one who does this?

Anyway, in the emails about Gallery Night, they asked for submissions from the community. They wanted submissions "from ordinary people at Exodus doing art, music, writing and anything else creative." And in a highly uncharacteristic move (seriously, I never do this), I emailed the organizer and told her I had some poems I wanted to contribute.

I love to read poetry. And yes, I occasionally write it myself. But aside from a creative writing class in high school where we were required to share our classwork, I have never let anyone else read my poems. Heck, I've never even told anyone I write poetry! Even typing the phrase "I write poetry" is ridiculous!!!!!!!

Hours could be spent psychoanalyzing my insecurities about writing. Who knows what possessed me to voluntarily contribute my poems for the Gallery Night. And then follow through by actually bringing them to the Gallery Night. And then stand around talking to people at the Gallery Night who might actually match up the name on the paper with my face! But I did. And the absolute best thing that could have happened in that whole scenario actually happened.

I met a new person in the mingling, and when I introduced myself, she asked me if I had submitted anything, because there were a few different Wendys who had brought pieces. I said yes, and identified the poems I brought. "Oh, that winter one..." she said.

"Yeah, when I showed it to my roommate she thought it was really sad."

"It was," she said, "but I definitely know the feeling."

The most comforting words a person can ever say are "Me too."

And, just for posterity, here's that poem:

I am glad

you broke my heart in winter.

I don't think I could bear

to see things growing

to hear birds chirping

to watch children playing in the sun.

Winter is cold

barren

desolate.

Frozen

like my heart.

The words come and go... Some days I just do not feel eloquent. When inspiration strikes, I love to write! I compose emails and blog entries in my head, long before I am near a computer. But some days I sit there with a blank page before me, and I just cannot summon the effort required to write. It's not that I'm in a bad mood, or depressed, although occasionally that happens. I am a good writer. I like crafting words, arranging them to my liking, drawing readers into my head for a brief time. But without inspiration, I avoid writing much because I know it's bad. So today, good reader, I apologize. I intended to write about a book I'm reading, and talk about how as Christians we are called to be good at whatever we do, and do it with the grace of Christ. But I'm just not feeling the word-flow today. It's taken me a good twenty minutes to write this short paragraph, and so I think I'm going to call it a day. Until the inspiration strikes again...