Of Judges and Poetry

Last evening I shared some of my poetry at Alexandra Writer's open mic night. It was the first time I read aloud for those who do not know me and have no context to my life. For any writer, the fear of rejection must be confronted or it will paralyze us. But I did share the following poem that challenges any who would judge... it provides me always with pause, should I be tempted to judge... And now, don't blink, or you might miss the poem. It's shorter than this intro.



Easy vs. Hard

the easiest thing
and the laziest
is to watch
read
listen
and judge

the hardest is
to do better




Originally posted here.
Picture: depositphotos.com #39196783, standard license

My Love is Like a Red, Red Rose

Today is Robbie Burns Day. One of my most favorite songs is a choral setting of Robert Burns' poem: "My Love is Like a Red, Red Rose." I have created a video with the song, featuring a photo-diary of  my love, marriage and life with Henry. It parallels the poem in many ways. I am so grateful for this love and for our life together.

Please enjoy the music and share our joy.



Poem by Robert Burns
Music composed and arranged by Bill Douglas
Sung by The Ars Nova Singers
Conducted by Thomas Morgan
From Songs of Earth & Sky/Hearts O'Space Records 11083-2

Photo credits:
Laura-Anne Smid, Engagement
Jill Hopkins, Wedding
Andrew Harback Photography, Wedding and Anniversary
"Which Santa?" by Meester Mustard
Balance of photos from personal collection

The Three Gates (plus one)

The Three Gates
by Beth Day, 1835

If you are tempted to reveal
A tale to you someone has told
About another, make it pass,
Before you speak, three gates of gold;
These narrow gates. First, “Is it true?”
Then, “Is it needful?” In your mind
Give truthful answer. And the next
Is last and narrowest, “Is it kind?”
And if to reach your lips at last
It passes through these gateways three,
Then you may tell the tale, nor fear
What the result of speech may be.

This is one of the simplest guides to guarding our tongue. How hurtful careless words can be, from both sides. We speak a careless word and wound someone, or hear a word that cuts us deep. Many times offense was not the intent but was the result. And, as the poem addresses, you're telling someone else's story. Gossip, which someone has defined as, "Anything of a personal, intimate, or sensational nature, shared about another person without their express consent."

At times I've thought if I could just keep my mouth shut, I wouldn't misspeak. However, silence is not always the answer. Sometimes the hurt comes out of silence which can be perceived as neglect, a lack of care, apathy, or intentional disregard. So I don't necessarily agree in every circumstance with Thumper's mom who taught him: "If you can't say somethin' nice, don't say nothin' at all."



But "nice" (kind) is one of "The Three Gates." If we decide to speak, we must first measure it. Thinking, in advance, rather than just running off at the mouth whatever pops into our head.

A colleague introduced me to these "golden gates":

Is it true? 
Is it necessary? 
Is it kind? 

There are numerous attributions online as to who originated these gates, the earliest of which seems to be Socrates. Even the poem above has been mis-attributed to others. However, no matter the source, the gates and the accompanying poem are wise guides to follow.

My wise colleague suggested we add one more. A fourth measure, also, a time-worn guide, which has helped me hold my tongue appropriately in several key places.

Is it timely?

Is this the right time and place to address this issue? Are these the people who need to hear what I'm wanting to express?

"A word fitly spoken is like apples of gold in pictures of silver." (Proverbs 25:11) 

I didn't understand that proverb for many years, I believe it simply means an appropriate word in the right setting is beautiful. It fits the situation, considers context and audience. and is crafted and delivered in a way which benefits the hearer. So, if it is true, and necessary, and kind, then plan when to speak this word, to the ones who are best to receive it.

There was a young clerk who reported to me in an engineering firm where I supervised administrative staff. One workday we were having lunch at a nearby restaurant. He began to complain to me about his soup being cold. When the server came to check on us, she asked, "How is everything?"

I expected him to send the soup back with a request to warm it, but he looked up at her with innocent eyes and said, "Fine!"

Everything was fine? I was shocked. After the server left, my shock increased as my clerk began complaining again about the soup. I put my hand up in a "stop" motion and spoke a "timely" word. "If you are not going to tell the person who can actually solve your problem, then I don't want to hear your complaint."

It might have been true that his soup was cold, but in grousing about it to me, he wasn't being kind to the server. Telling me wasn't necessary, because I couldn't do anything about it, and while venting might have given him some sense of relief or self-righteous vindication, it was unkind me as the listener.

It's clear this gate-keeping analysis doesn't often happen before many words are spoken. Especially in our current climate of social media comments and debates. Everyone feels entitled to be heard, and considers their opinion as valid as the next. It takes maturity and discernment to understand that there are others who know a great deal more than we do about many things. And the ignorant won't benefit if you insist on correcting them.

Anyone who rebukes a mocker will get an insult in return.
    Anyone who corrects the wicked will get hurt.
So don’t bother correcting mockers;
    they will only hate you.
But correct the wise,
    and they will love you. (Proverbs 9:7-8)

Do not speak in the hearing of a fool,
For he will despise the wisdom of your words.
(Proverbs 23:9)

My young clerk took my rebuke to heart. It was a new concept that he had not yet encountered in his young life: to speak to the right person who can solve your issue, rather than talking about it ad nauseum to everyone else.

"I realize even as I am writing that my memory is making much of very little," (to borrow a quote from Marilynne Robinson). "Making much of very little" could be the theme for almost every blog post ever written, including this one. I do consider these four gates when I'm writing paid articles and blog posts, and I've learned to take it seriously when I'm commenting on Facebook, Twitter, or Instagram.

One careless remark, one errant tweet, these can destroy a life.

Before we speak, we think. And before we find ourselves in that situation, we train our minds in preparation. A longstanding guideline comes from the apostle Paul as he writes to the church in Philippi. His instruction at the conclusion of his letter was this:

And now, dear brothers and sisters, one final thing. Fix your thoughts on what is true, and honorable, and just, and pure, and lovely, and admirable. Think about things that are excellent and worthy of praise. (Philippians 4:8)

In another translation, it reads:

Finally, believers, whatever is true, whatever is honorable and worthy of respect, whatever is right and confirmed by God’s word, whatever is pure and wholesome, whatever is lovely and brings peace, whatever is admirable and of good repute; if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think continually on these things [center your mind on them, and implant them in your heart].  (AMP)

If we follow this guideline, our minds will be primed in advance for guarding what exits our mouth. But let me close with one final encouragement, given to us in Paul's letter to the Ephesians:

Do not let unwholesome words ever come out of your mouth, but only such speech as is good for building up others, according to the need and the occasion, so that it will be a blessing to those who hear [you speak]. (Ephesians 4:29)

Can I recommend you read the context of this verse by reading the closing paragraph of chapter 4 by clicking here. Speak truth, it says in v. 25; what is necessary, helpful and timely in v. 29, and above all, be kind, v. 32. The rest of the passage describes what is unhelpful.

So, remember the four gates:

Is it true?
Is it necessary?
Is it kind?
Is it timely?

And "may the God of peace be with you."



#PreachingToMyself

At the Pool

I would call it Women Waiting, a watercolor by an unknown artist. Like a freeze frame in my brain, the image returns: seven women in bathing suits, bodies of odd shapes and sizes, stand ankle deep where pool meets wading area.

Poofy shower caps loosely cover hair, pops of color, a Q-tip bouquet. Their swimwear a collision of patterns: one striped suit, two polkadot, black solid, blue flowered, fuchsia print, faded green. Each wears a waist-belt PFD.

Ella stands tall, others gather round in a loose circle, facing the sunlight. It streams through vaulted windows, warms the large indoor space, deepens creases on aged faces.

They chat, some just listen, look steadily in the same direction. To the deep end.

Their class will start on time.




Photo: Raphaël Biscaldi on Unsplash

On Loan from God (Guest Poet)

My father was a poet, preacher, and songwriter. I came across one of his poems today that is quite timely after yesterday's blog post. It's intriguing to me to hear my father echoing words and feelings that I myself now experience. We are, after all, not so different, he and I. 


On Loan from God
Alternate Title: "Earth's Family Cycle"
by Frank P. Nickel

We take our infants in our arms.
No sacrifice, just joy!
And soon they take steps of their own –
our precious girls and boys.

They trust us so, and we in turn
don’t want to let them down
but we will fail, and they must learn
that God is God alone.

Reminded they’re just lent to us,
both for our joy and trust
and if we’d help them reach their goals,
show trust and hope we must.

Then comes the time to take hands off,
but heart-strings still hold fast;
and God keeps working, till one day
we’re satisfied, at last.

They find their niche in this wide world
by grace of God above,
and that is what it’s all about:
when they express God’s love.

Frank P. Nickel,
December 1980


(If you enjoyed this poem, feel free to browse the 200+ others at My Father's Poems.)

Photo Credit: Deposit Photos #8995377, standard license

A Psalm of Asaph, Chief Musician

Call on me in the day of trouble; 

I will deliver you, and you will honor me. 

Sacrifice thank offerings to God, 

fulfill your vows to the Most High

Those who sacrifice thank offerings honor me, 

and to the blameless I will show my salvation.

Psalm 50:14-15, 23

This is from Psalm 50, "A Psalm of Asaph." Who was Asaph?

King David appointed some of the Levites as musicians and ministers before the Lord. Asaph was the chief minister. Together with his brothers, they were to continually serve before the Ark of the Covenant to invoke, to thank, and to praise the Lord, the God of Israel. Asaph was a priest, musician, and poet; while others played the harp, lyre, and trumpet, his particular role was to sound the cymbals. (I Chronicles 16)

This beautiful song of Thanksgiving was appointed by David to be sung by Asaph and his brothers. It is a beautiful declaration we can sing before the Lord, to "ascribe the glory due his name" and keep our hope fixed on the one who is Lord of all:

David’s Song of Thanks

8 Oh give thanks to the Lord; call upon his name;

make known his deeds among the peoples!

9 Sing to him, sing praises to him;

tell of all his wondrous works!

10 Glory in his holy name;

let the hearts of those who seek the Lord rejoice!

11 Seek the Lord and his strength;

seek his presence continually!

12    Remember the wondrous works that he has done,

his miracles and the judgments he uttered,

13 O offspring of Israel his servant,

children of Jacob, his chosen ones!

14 He is the Lord our God;

his judgments are in all the earth.

15 Remember his covenant forever,

the word that he commanded, for a thousand generations,

16 the covenant that he made with Abraham,

his sworn promise to Isaac,

17 which he confirmed to Jacob as a statute,

to Israel as an everlasting covenant,

18 saying, “To you I will give the land of Canaan,

as your portion for an inheritance.”

19 When you were few in number,

of little account, and sojourners in it,

20 wandering from nation to nation,

from one kingdom to another people,

21 he allowed no one to oppress them;

he rebuked kings on their account,

22 saying, “Touch not my anointed ones,

do my prophets no harm!”

23 Sing to the Lord, all the earth!

Tell of his salvation from day to day.

24 Declare his glory among the nations,

his marvelous works among all the peoples!

25 For great is the Lord, and greatly to be praised,

and he is to be feared above all gods.

26 For all the gods of the peoples are worthless idols,

but the Lord made the heavens.

27 Splendor and majesty are before him;

strength and joy are in his place.

28 Ascribe to the Lord, O families of the peoples,

ascribe to the Lord glory and strength!

29 Ascribe to the Lord the glory due his name;

bring an offering and come before him!

Worship the Lord in the splendor of holiness;

30 tremble before him, all the earth;

yes, the world is established; it shall never be moved.

31 Let the heavens be glad, and let the earth rejoice,

and let them say among the nations, “The Lord reigns!”

32 Let the sea roar, and all that fills it;

let the field exult, and everything in it!

33 Then shall the trees of the forest sing for joy

before the Lord, for he comes to judge the earth.

34 Oh give thanks to the Lord, for he is good;

for his steadfast love endures forever!

35 Say also:

“Save us, O God of our salvation,

and gather and deliver us from among the nations,

that we may give thanks to your holy name

and glory in your praise.

36 Blessed be the Lord, the God of Israel,

from everlasting to everlasting!”

A Dutch Lullaby by a Missouri Boy

I think I would have liked Eugene Field. We were both from Missouri (but born more than 100 years apart). His distinguished father was part of the counsel who represented Dred Scott in the famous lawsuit which indirectly helped spark the American Civil War.

Eugene, however, was known more as a prankster and partier before he settled down as a newspaper columnist and writer of beloved children's poems, including Little Boy Blue (not to be confused with the nursery rhyme) and Wynken, Blynken and Nod (originally titled "Dutch Lullaby"). A short biography of Eugene Field is here.

Many versions of the Dutch Lullaby were set to music by artists of the sixties and seventies. The following Silly Symphonies cartoon was released by Walt Disney Productions in 1938, It stylized the fishermen of the poem as three pyjama-clad children playing among the stars.



And here is a shorter, sweet version of the poem set to music by Donovan, recorded as the 14th track off the 1971 album "HMS Donovan."



Another musical setting was written by Lucy Simon, performed here with her sister Carly Simon in 1968.



Many of Field's works were accompanied by paintings from Maxfield Parrish, such as the 1902 illustration used at the top of this post. (Source: Wiki Commons)

I hope you enjoyed this little walk down memory lane, even if it is a new memory just discovered.

Do you have a favorite lullaby or nursery rhyme you'd like to share? Leave a comment below!

What was Old is New Again

...to meditate,  
In these calm shades, thy milder majesty
And to the beautiful order of thy works  
Learn to conform the order of our lives.

~William Cullen Bryant, from A Forest Hymn

Today in 1794, William Cullen Bryant was born. He had an all-American pedigree with ancestors who were passengers on the Mayflower. He was a young critic of Thomas Jefferson, a supporter of Abraham Lincoln, and a mentor to Walt Whitman. His own career began as an attorney but he left that after a decade to pursue a literary career. He is known as a romantic poet, journalist, and long-time editor of the New York Evening Post.

In May 2012 we visited New York City and stayed near Bryant Park. My literary education was woefully inadequate, so I visited the park but did not appreciate the significance of the man it memorialized.

Since I recently acquired a 24-volume set of classic literature in the form of The Pocket University, I have begun following their schedule of selected daily readings as an introduction to the “best of” literature up until its publication in 1924. I noted yesterday that today was Bryant’s birthday and I’d be reading four selections he authored, so I began my education by the easiest path: reading his Wikipedia entry.   It speaks of his upbringing, politics, poetry, fiction, as well as his associations and accomplishments in the newspaper industry, but it also listed a few of his more famous poems and off I went, happily perusing poetry sites, reading for nearly an hour through a number of his works.

Bryant’s poems are noble, tender and graceful, “pervaded by a contemplative melancholy, and a love of solitude and the silence of the woods.”(1)  He wrote more about nature than any other poet, and his focus on nature as a metaphor for truth established a central pattern in the American literary tradition. (2)

Yet Bryant also left quite a legacy in other areas.

“Bryant, for most of his lifetime, was thoroughly a New Yorker — and a very dedicated one at that. He was a major force behind the idea that became Central Park, as well as a leading proponent of creating the Metropolitan Museum of Art. He was one of a group of founders of New York Medical College. He had close affinities with the Hudson River School of art and was an intimate friend of Thomas Cole. He defended immigrants and, at some financial risk to himself, championed the rights of workers to form labor unions.” (2) 

As a young 13 year old, he wrote “The Embargo” (1808), in which he demanded the resignation of President Jefferson. However, according to britannica.com, “Bryant will be remembered longest as the poet of his native Berkshire hills and streams in such poems as Thanatopsis and To a Waterfowl.”

I continued my education today by delving into four of his poems, the selected daily reading from The Pocket University, which is now completely responsible for this lengthy blog post, and likely to cause many others. These particular poems are categorized within a larger section of “little masterpieces of poetry.”

The Mosquito, a humorous poem that almost makes me appreciate, or at the very least, identify with the critter, something I certainly would never have desired nor expected. Good writing does bring unexpected empathy.

To the Fringed Gentian, is a floral description akin to a love letter. It simply entrances, and compelled me to research the flower itself (picture left).

The Song of Marion’s Men, is a tribute from the perspective of the band of troopers to General Francis Marion, “Swamp Fox,” who led them to several victories over the British and emerged as one of the most popular heroes of the revolution.

A Forest Hymn, my favorite. The woods become a cathedral. You must experience this, as my words cannot begin to do justice. I will defer to the description of Richard Henry Stoddard: "The gravity, the dignity, the solemnity of natural devotion, were never before stated so accurately and with such significance. We stand in thought in the heart of a great forest, under its broad roof of boughs, awed by the sacred influences of the place. A gloom which is not painful settles upon us; we are surrounded by mystery and unseen energy. The shadows are full of worshippers and beautiful things that live in their misty twilights." (3)

Click on its title to read A Forest Hymn, then come back and view the following video response to the poem.

Breathe, rest, and be refreshed.



Photos of Bryant sourced from Wikipedia
Photo of Fringed Gentian from Pinterest

Without Warning

trigger warning, n.  an advance notice for any content, usually violent, that might prompt a flashback, panic attack, or episode for survivors of trauma.

I venture into The Pocket University's selected readings for November 2. Perhaps next time I will read the section in which it is categorized before jumping straight to the page and diving in. A bit of a warning is sometimes helpful, and not at all a spoiler alert. But poetry has a way of couching hard subjects in beautiful settings, so anything remotely related to PTSD is softened.

Fifteen years have gone round
Since thou arosest to tread,
In the summer-morning, the road
Of death, at a call unforeseen,
Sudden.  For fifteen years,
We who till then in thy shade
Rested as under the boughs
Of a mighty oak, have endured
Sunshine and rain as we might,
Bare, unshaded, alone,
Lacking the shelter of thee.

excerpt from Rugby Chapel (1867) by Matthew Arnold

A quick summary based on a single reading:
As I proceed through the lengthy poem, I come to understand it is about a father by a son who describes both the character of the father and himself, the ways they differ, and his admiration for the father's life of inspiration and integrity.

My response:
This poem is not about my life. The similarity? I have a father who died. I can identify with a number of descriptors in the poem, and am deeply satisfied with the metaphor and imagery. But it is not my life.

Too often, much too often, those of us who have experienced pain (can I see a show of hands for anyone who hasn't?) begin to make everything about ourselves. Pain is excessively egocentric. I know that when I'm in it and still can't find my way to suffer in silence. Others can. Yet we must work our hardest to stop looking at everything and everyone we encounter through the lens of "how does this apply to me?" or "how can this help me?" or "how will this make my pain worse?"

Some poems are not for you. Some poems are not for me. Some movies, places, parties, churches, events, facebook debates, books, or stories are best avoided and I try to do so by screening content before I'm immersed in it and have to walk out.

Unsolicited advice:
1) If you are a survivor of trauma, avoid highly intense, dark, or morbid "entertainment" and situations. Movies, dark themes for parties, emotional music (even when beautiful) drain our emotions and energies beyond our capacity to self regulate our reactions.

2) Don't absorb or assess every situation as if it's about you. Most times it's not. Everyone is doing their best in their current circumstance to share their stories, and recover from them.

3) Let's aim for wholeness. Don't associate with that which takes a piece out of you.

That's it for today. Be careful out there, my friend. Your heart and soul need your protection.

Lest We Forget

Back to Basics

The brow furrows, the logic stalls,
the blood boils, the teeth grind.

Sounds like the hot place,
but happens every day on facebook.
Those wrestling with issues
of money, sex and power
and/or faith and doubt
won't accept poetic words.

Sometimes that crowd includes me.

Back to basics:
"Be still and know I am God."

Unbiased

It's gnarled

but birds make 
the most beautiful sound

in its branches.

Preaching is Easy but Practicing is Hard

I am the daughter of a preacher man who was also a mechanic, a poet, a musician and inventor. There's much more, but the story of my relationship with him (as I saw it and how it continues to impact me) would take an entire memoir to explore. This is not unique among daughters, but I must work out of my own experience, gleaning what is helpful and leaving the rest. Here's one piece.

After our father's death in 2002, my oldest brother began the process of gathering dad's poems for publication. Due to a series of unfortunate events, it became increasingly clear that it would not be possible to publish these in a traditional book format, so I agreed to post them online in blog format where they would be accessible and searchable by keywords to anyone from anywhere at no cost.

I started transcribing and posting them in 2014 but soon set the project aside. Out of sight, out of mind. Recently, I'd been praying about how to meaningfully and productively focus my time, now that both my husband and I are retired and home "full time." One day my nephew, Ted, contacted me about a particular song my father wrote, and asked whether the publishing project was finished. That was the motivation I needed to resurrect the project, so over the last month I have been back at it.

Why was it a struggle to do the work? This question bugged me for some time. It really doesn't take long to type out a 4-8 verse poem. It would often take longer to pick out a suitable photo to go with it and to format the text for publication. When I finally realized what the reason was, it was something I didn't expect: the toll it took on my emotions. Being a poet myself, I had to curb my desire to change dad's punctuation, style and/or word choice. I much prefer free verse over metered rhyme, which was my father's primary style. There are also a few lines which I would rather edit or delete; ones which I might not necessarily agree with, ones that reflect his opinion, or discuss the cultural norms and traditional roles of men, women and children the '50s and '60s. I have refrained from doing so, as these are his poems, not mine.

Many of these poems were songs we sang as a family during our 18 years of touring. Some are tied to particular memories, not always joyful. On occasion, a particular poem will send me back in time and I felt like a child again, receiving my father's training, instruction and/or reproof; regarding things I sometimes rebelled against (inwardly) at that time. These feelings would begin to rise again. My father was human and had eight children in tow. Sometimes it was hard for him to keep us in line. Sometimes his poems felt like sermons, like dad was trying to get me to stay in line.

The penny finally dropped. When I read and transcribed my father's poems, it felt like my father was preaching at me all over again, even after being gone for 15 years.

In reality, it wasn't that at all. He was probably about the age I am now when he wrote many of the poems. As I thought it through and prayed it over, I realized in his poems he was actually preaching at himself. He, like I, struggled with submission to God's will, with authenticity, with making life, faith and conduct align. He was immensely challenged by the trials he experienced: the loss of a son, rejection by certain friends and family members, a church split, controlling his temper, providing for his family, facing the challenges of the changing culture and yet, he also modelled his spiritual poems after the psalmist, often ending them with a declaration of trust in God's faithfulness, goodness, and sovereignty.

So today, as I transcribed another poem, I was reminded that the one true thing I know about my father is that he was resolved to do God's will, and he sincerely did what he determined in his heart (after prayer and soul-searching) seemed to be the right and most God-honoring thing to do. Did Dad always get it right? Likely not. Will I? Definitely not. He preached easy, he practiced hard. I am my father's daughter, I am much the same.

So, I'll leave you with today's poem, one that illustrates how preaching is easy but practicing is hard. The key to peace in the middle of it all? Accepting God's will. This poem can be either preaching or prayer, depending on the day.

Click here to read: Accepting His Will



Photo Credit: Deposit Photos #13157334, standard license

Inventory

Every day is the beginning of a new year.
Change doesn’t come with the calendar.
It comes when I choose.
Listen more. Declare less. Act different.
In quiet, determined, faithful, repetitive, mundane ways.
Every. Single. Day.

Changing the Narrative

This is the transcript of a talk given to First Alliance Photo Club on April 14, 2015. The theme of the evening was on photography in war. I expanded it to include our internal war.

The History Teacher

by Billy Collins

Trying to protect his students’ innocence

he told them the Ice Age was really just

the Chilly Age, a period of a million years

when everyone had to wear sweaters.

And the Stone Age became the Gravel Age,

named after the long driveways of the time.

The Spanish Inquisition was nothing more

than an outbreak of questions such as

“How far is it from here to Madrid?”

“What do you call the matador’s hat?”

The War of the Roses took place in a garden,

and the Enola Gay dropped one tiny atom on Japan.

The children would leave his classroom

for the playground to torment the weak

and the smart,

mussing up their hair and breaking their glasses,

while he gathered up his notes and walked home

past flower beds and white picket fences,

wondering if they would believe that soldiers

in the Boer War told long, rambling stories
designed to make the enemy nod off.

How often do we tell ourselves stories? Dumb down history?

There is always a narrative running in my head. And, by all accounts and observations, in your head too. For some of us, it sounds like the voices of those long dead or perhaps those who are still here. Father, mother, teacher, sibling, grandparent. And another voice, sounding much like our own has taken up the chant, or interjections like profanity, constantly speaking words of appraisal; judgments based on our actions or our output. The inner critic.

A chant that resounds as either an affirmation or a condemnation of who we are and what we have done now (or yesterday, or the day before). Sometimes the voice is a naysayer of what we will do tomorrow.

A sitting judge, this voice,

deciding on some sliding scale

whether we are a success or failure

good or bad,

smart or stupid,

athletic or klutz.

Stephen Pressfield, in his book, The War of Art, calls this Resistance. The scripture infers that this can sometimes be spiritual warfare. It can be negative self talk or neurosis. No matter the nature, complexity or volume of the voice, it can anything that keeps us bound from doing our best work.

Even when we think we are telling ourselves the truth, the inner voice can discourage us from finishing well, because to this judge, what is spoken is true. Like any referee can tell you, whatever call they make IS the offense that occurred, whether it actually happened or not. Once it is called, it is fact. So we take a photo and through post processing we make the photo look like what we saw. Once it is printed, it is fact.

A smile frozen forever on Facebook

says I have a happy life

A family gathering frozen over ice cream

says We all love each other

Dew drops in the new morning

may have placed on the leaf with a spray bottle

A landscape with brilliant blues and silky water

or stars that glow like diamonds under glass

stitched together over time, over space

but was boosted in PhotoShop…

Beauty exists for the taking.

Or the shaping.

Your call.

The earth is beautiful

My family is happy

My life is good

I have the pictures to prove it.

But what about the war in my head?

Or the argument we had yesterday?

Why do I never post pictures

of that ugly look I just gave him?

Why are there no pictures of the family

all heads bent over Xbox, iPads and cell phones

I don’t for a moment say we should

listen to the nagging voice

the accusing voice

and post only out of focus pictures

of the family laundry

of back alleys

and executions

men dying in the trenches

and the gas chamber

We are challenged in Philippians 4:8 to think about what is noble, right, pure, lovely, admirable—basically to contradict that negative or out-of-balance inner critic by thinking about things that are excellent or praiseworthy.

I’m not saying it is wrong to document the dark side of life. We see how photo-journalism and social media have transformed some very dark situations by shedding light on the truth of the injustices that are happening in the world.

On the home front, we’re not trying to be something we’re not when we post only our highlight reel: well-cropped, color balanced, rule-of-thirds, smiling faces and good news, or Photoshop our pictures so they pop. As photographers, artists, creative writers, we are doing our best to restore Eden. These happy moments and beautiful scenes ARE part of our life, even if they aren’t the reality 24/7.

Life is not one-dimensional. There are always things happening simultaneously in our lives and none of the pictures we share or poems we write or songs we sing can adequately portray that. Art is often about the ideal.

We have to be careful about assumptions we make when we look at pictures and status updates from others. Each of us seek beauty, seek to present our best possible self, our most excellent work.

These are the moments we live for:

The freeze-frame of beauty, motion, strength, excellence

This is a foretaste of heaven,

Thy kingdom come, a memory of paradise lost.

We are not rewriting history to make it palatable,

we are choosing to dwell on snippets of glory.

So when the voice in your head tells you

that you are a hack and your pictures are sub-par

Tell that voice to be quiet and find a new ruler.

Because Jesus is already ruling on the throne

and he says you are complete in him.

And if you should be called or moved to social action

to document war, horror, injustice and darkness,

then in whatever genre you find yourself,

do your best work to show the truth of it

Then find a quiet space and dwell on what is worthy of praise.

Summing it all up, friends, I’d say you’ll do best by filling your minds and meditating on things true, noble, reputable, authentic, compelling, gracious—the best, not the worst; the beautiful, not the ugly; things to praise, not things to curse. Put into practice what you learned from me, what you heard and saw and realized. Do that, and God, who makes everything work together, will work you into his most excellent harmonies. 
~Philippians 4:8-9 (The Message)

The Dark Side of the Lens: Olympics, Surfing and Doing Something Worth Remembering

This is a day worth remembering, celebrating events worth remembering by athletes worth celebrating. The closing ceremonies of the 2014 Sochi Winter Olympics.

After an early morning rise to cheer Canadian men to Olympic Gold in the hockey final, while the glow of the golden moment shone warm and I dig, in futile effort, through my ten bins of Christmas decor for the gold maple leaf ornament, hoping to photograph it in its perfect symbolism of this transcendent, if transitory, moment.

Giving up, I turn back to search the sites of my favorite pro photographers for new images; inspiration for my own feeble attempts at capturing and sharing beauty in all her forms. And I see John Marriott who leads me to Brandon Brown who leads me to a video of surf photographer, Mickey Smith.

As a poet, I was compelled to transcribe Mickey's last few words on why he does what he does. Enjoy the video, then read the words after in more depth. This is a clarion call to a deeper soul search:

am I doing something worth remembering?

 

The dark side of the lens
An art form unto itself
and us, the silent workhorses
of the surfing world
There’s no sugary cliché.
Most folk don’t even know who we are,
what we do or how we do it,
let alone want to pay us for it.

I never want to take this for granted,
so I try to keep motivation simple,
real and positive.
If I only scrape a living,
at least it’s living worth scraping.
If there’s no future in it,
at least it’s a present worth remembering.

The fires of happiness
and waves of gratitude
For everything that brought us
to that point, enough,
at that moment in time
to do something worth remembering
with a photograph
or a scar

I feel genuinely lucky
to hand on heart saying
I love doing what I do
I may never be a rich man
If I live long enough
I’ll certainly have a tale or two
for the nephews
and I dig the thought of that

-Michael Lee (Mickey) Smith

My Father's Poems

I have created a blog page where I will be posting my father's poems. Frank P. Nickel was a prolific writer of poems, hymns and spiritual songs. There are hundreds, some serious, some lighthearted, all intended to share truth and encouragement with his readers. Due to the sheer volume, this will be a labour of love transcribing poems one by one over many months. I will add one or two poems every few days as time allows. 

As a minister of the Gospel, Dad's style was simple rhyming poetry on spiritual themes. If you like them, feel free to subscribe by email on the site so that you can receive them in your inbox as they are published.

You can find the site by clicking this link: My Father's Poems

Double Barrelled

on the occasion of two friends suffering cancer and two others shunning me

Double Barrelled

it starts behind the eyes
pressure like gorilla knuckles pushing sinuses inside out
helium filling up the skull
without the comic relief of a cartoon voice
to at least let hysterical laughter decompress
it
is a visceral ripping away
the gouging of a dry well
wounds of friends
illness consumes cells like fire
emotional blackmail rots backbones
perhaps
this is what it's like
to have a shotgun pressed to your head
no negotiator in sight




So when spurned by unhealthy friends who don’t want restoration
or suffering alongside sick friends who just want life to be normal again,
I must ask the question: 

Am I willing to die to myself?

Surrender my plans? 
Give up trying to preserve my reputation against what others think?
Stop demanding God restore my relationships and heal my friends’ bodies?
These are good things, yes? 
But they are second things.

The first thing is to seek God’s heart.
To hear God’s voice.
To be restored in relationship with the trinity.

To finally let go my tight grasp on my demand for a specific outcome and move toward opening my hands and holding this all loosely on bent knees. Seeing with gratitude that it is by God’s mercy that we are not consumed. That even the worst circumstance can ultimately be a gift from a good God who loves me and gives only that which makes me more like Christ.

So my angst-ridden poetry, while an accurate snapshot of an emotional moment becomes nothing more than a portal to seeing beyond, tasting the eternal.

“In this world, you will have trouble,” Jesus said. “But take heart. I have overcome the world.”

So there is no need for negotiation. No gun to my head. 

“I have died and my life is hid with Christ in God.”

Restoration of relationships are secondary.
Healing of bodies is secondary.
God and God alone is first and will have no other gods before him.

He will strip away all that keeps me from seeing him.

Soli deo gloria

Poetry Blog

Over the weekend I attended two very different art exhibitions and craft sales, met up with several different friends over meals, learned to video chat on Facebook and enjoyed some deeply satisfying online conversation with a faraway friend. The inspiration from all this (verbal connection, visual, textual and graphic arts, along with singing and engaging in worship and remembrance through my home church) compelled me to write this morning. A poem emerged, which is posted over on my poetry blog.

The blog is not comprehensive collection of my work and has not been actively updated, but if you chose to wander through, I hope you enjoy your journey.

On His Blindness

When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide,
"Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?"
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies: "God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts: who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed
And post o'er land and ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and wait."

~John Milton
(9 Dec 1608 – 8 Nov 1674)