My friend Kat has a poet’s soul. And her poetry has fed mine for nearly a decade in emailed and messaged exchanges that have been and still remain the choicest morsels for my spirit.
Coming out of a long tunnel this past year she has burst into the light of green meadows, frolicking horses, dancing children, and swarming bees. And she’s drawing out her poet’s feather pen to start writing again on a new blog. I promised to pester her mercilessly to start. writing. daily.
Part of that pestering will be posting some of her past poetic meanderings here.
But today I will start with my own poetic havering sent to her last summer as she was in the heat of cancer and chemo with marrow transplants looming over the horizon for her daughter.
She was being leaned on (because going through hell with your daughter isn’t enough, earnest God-lovers must pile on and turn up the heat) by religious voices from her past who disapproved of her, her beliefs, her choices.
[Middle fingerpainting with both hands barely being held in check]
Kat took in those multiple religious stings, and feeling the venom, wondered aloud to me if they were right. Was she a God-reject? Was she a believer, a woman of faith at all, after all?
And so I fingerpainted this to her on a smoke-filled August day when I myself happened to emerge from my chemo cave. Visit Kat’s blog. Pester her mercilessly to write.
Katcoe, your statement today struck me.
Being serious for a moment
Just a moment.
How can you say you have not
the perspective of a believer?
Your eyes are eyes of wonder
beholding more than baleful theologians;
Closing both eyes you see
with the other eye;
Your poet heart muses on the depths
struggling to express in words
visions, raptures, descents;
Your spirit expands and flows and moves
finding nowhere to rest her feet
Stoneyfield exchanged for Peacefield;
Your mind rescued from numbing
a despairing pit
deadening soul solitude;
Body and soul revived, rising,
successive plucking of ego, of false selves;
Supplanting of black shuns:
Your face radiated, radiating
healing beams for the treasured girl
kept close and closer still;
A cathedral of light your habitation
with horses too and Dunbroch’s king.
Say you have not faith’s view?
Nay, you see, you see.
And are seen.