The Art of Lonely Artists & Paper Airplanes

The Art of Lonely Artists & Paper Airplanes

[Back story: On Friday the 2nd I was processing life and loneliness, the draw to create and how it breaks me. God, as usual, was being a wonderful sounding board for all my confusion and hurt. Ultimately though, I have a hard time believing Him when He says He loves when I create and fling it out into the world. And all my questions boiled down to: Then why doesn’t my art catch? Why is it not good enough-why am I not good enough- for it to be caught? What good is a half-hearted, or rather, a not-quite-good-enough, creative to Him? How can it do Him, or the world, any good if the words are spoken, the art created, and left unheard, unseen? I realized creating is the only way I know how to communicate and I angrily asked Him why He made me this way, “But why? It’s so lonely. I’m so lonely over here. I want to be heard. Creating is not fun for me, it’s heart-wrenchingly painful. It’s not a hobby, it’s a lifeline.”
The picture that popped in my mind left me sobbing. I saw it all like a movie, and seeing as I can’t animate it for you, I’ll have to roughly jot it down, and hope you’ll be able to see it too:]

Art, words, pictures, poems, folded carefully into perfect little paper airplanes.
There’s a chasm and on the other side it is bustling with crowds and friends and towns.
The artist sits alone, creating then folding.
A line of pegs sit at the edge to the chasm with strings that connect to each plane. Many of the threads lead straight down into the chasm where the plane was lost. Others bridge the gap but the planes lay motionless on the other side, either trampled, neglected, or unseen. Those strings remain attached to their pegs, little feelers flung across the gap, left in silent hope. The threads hanging into the chasm with their fallen planes are eventually cut off at the peg, but only when the artist has enough heart left for a proper eulogy and grief.

She falls asleep each night on the ground facing the stakes watching with weary eyes for a twitch.

Supplies are replenished when needed; coffee brought in the morning and late into the night. Blankets are draped over her shoulders in the cold and they’re straightened as she sleeps. Shade is provided when the sun blazes or when the sky cries her tears.
And the artist creates on. Her blood compels her and her bones would snap under the weight of her heart were she to keep it all in.
So she keeps on.
Create, fold, tie, fling.
Create, fold, tie, fling.
Create, fold, tie, fling.
Grieve, cut.
Watch, wait.
Cut, cut, cut, break.
Cry, scream, straighten, breath.
Create, fold, tie, fling.
Fling.
Fling.
Fling.
Fling.

 

 

twitch-

 

twitch-

 

taut.

Caught.

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Jason Tied Up [Poem-a-Day: 24]

[written t0 the homeless soul I met on Thanksgiving that is still breaking my heart]

Jason tied up
from his head
to his toes
in all the lost knowledge
his lost mind can hold.
It’s garbled and jumbled,
out in a mutter and slurr.
Some dark mysticism
at work here I’m sure.

Oh Jason alone
lost in all of these tombs,
not wanting to scare,
but cannot not share.
Can’t shake off this moment,
of four listening ears,
gauging and weighing
if your sayings are clear.

Jason, be free.
Come out into the light.
It’s stronger I promise,
than all the darkness inside.
You haunt and you’re haunted
by all you’ve seen with your eyes.
So look up to Jesus,
please, there’s still time.

Election Day Prayer [Poem-a-Day: 8]

God, heal our land,
the land of our souls.
Remind us evermore,
of our Eternal Home.

Your Father’s World [Poem-a-Day: 6]

Your Father’s World [Poem-a-Day: 6]

[Written to my friend’s brand new babes the day her labor began.]

Welcome to your Father’s World, little ones.
When you grow up you might have a hard time believing that,
that this hard world,
could come from a good Dad.
Maybe He’s not so good after all.

But oh, my dears,
look underneath.
You’re mom will teach you how
Oh, she loves Him so.
Look behind the veil,
look past the mud to see
the reflection,
the dim reflection
of a world of Light.
A world where there is no night,
No monsters in your closet,
or monsters in your mind.
Where your good, good Father
sits at the end of your bed
and sings over you
the whole night through.

He’s begun already,
did you not know?
Since He first knitted you
pure and perfect,
beautiful too.
He’s been singing over you
since your first restless night,
since your first entrance to this
cold, cold world.

He sings for joy,
He sings for life,
He sings because, Love,
He’s by your side.
And though you can’t see yet,
and you can’t hear,
He sings out pure,
and He sings out still.

As you grow up,
and as you play,
may you hear the music
on the wind someday.
May it catch your ear,
May it turn your eyes.
Oh then, be surprised
My love, my dears,
you’ll see Him standing
by your side.
You’ll see Him then,
as clear as day,
and see He’s never gone away.

Then join our song,
the one we sing.
We sing with Him,
the song He put
in the ancient stones.
The blood of the Son
has imbued your bones.

And you will see
with your very eyes,
beneath the shade
and shadow dark,
here you live,
and with Him abide,
here in your Father’s world.

An Autumn’s Saturday [Poem-a-Day: 5]

An Autumn’s Saturday [Poem-a-Day: 5]

My eyes are heavy — blinking, sinking

must keep seeing.

My head is pounding — pulsing, throbbing

must keep ‘wake.

Must dig for inspiration,

must mine for rhymes and stanzas,

and for goodness sakes,

fix those typos–

Or dont.

After all, it’s almost done,

The day is almost gone.

Spent well, lived richly

biked far, laughed loudly

played games, and loved softly.

An Autumn’s Saturday.

What would be sabbath day,

Now calls for sabbath rest.

The Land of the Pardoned [Poem-a-Day: 4]

The Land of the Pardoned [Poem-a-Day: 4]

Now rise and walk,
come on out into the light.
Let your eyes readjust,
you have no blame out here.
Let nothing else burden you.
Tread slowly, now steadily.
Raise your eyes, chin high.
Unslump your shoulders,
stand up tall.
This is the life you were made for.
Welcome Home,
to the Land of the Pardoned.

Welcome Home to the Land of the Pardoned.
It will take some time for us to
retrain your mind and to
live out here with the free.

It’s harder than you might think,
to rest in the trust that
you’ve been forgiven and that
you stand here blameless in Me.

Guilty and sinful no more,
Only beloved, holy and clean,
here in the Land of the Pardoned,
bear no more shame, please, for Me.

So many carry on burdened,
so many reject their new names.
“Child” is traded for “sinner”.
“‘Saved by grace’ makes it new, can’t you see?”

No, I came for much more.
No room for grace like Febreeze.
No stench is left on you to disgust Me.
You’re clean to the core now, believe.

A Lullaby and Dance [Poem-a-Day:2]

A Lullaby and Dance [Poem-a-Day:2]

I flip off the light
and in the dark we sway.
Left foot, right foot,
slowly both,
our sweet and gentle dance.

I sing and you rest,
your muscles all relax.
Pure and true,
still the darkness echoes
all my love for you.

My songs are done,
the time has come,
to lay you down to sleep.
A kiss for you, you kiss me too.
Your soul, our Love, will keep.