How Poetry Writes Us

the magic of creating

I’m not sure if we write poetry, or if poetry writes us.

Or, if I write books, or if the books write me.

Or, if I create the thing, or the thing tells me what to create.

I think a lot about The Sacred using humans as a channel to write and create the things that are needed in the world, but is that just downplaying our own talents? Is it egotistical to think that the words we believe in actually come from our own minds and hearts, or is it ridiculous to believe that The Divine would actually want to use us to communicate with the world?

I think it’s probably a lot of both.

Especially with my second book, Native, I look back at passages and forget why or how I wrote them. I marvel at the words I ended up putting to the page, as if some out-of-body experience led the book into being. And maybe it did.

But I also remember hours upon hours at my desk in the attic office we set up in Atlanta, hours typing and thinking and re-thinking, hoping I was saying the things that needed to be said. There’s also something to be true for the sort of fog that takes over when you write a memoir, when you’re so submersed in your own story that you aren’t sure what happened in those hours, days, weeks.

With Living Resistance, I was so present to the writing it felt visceral, maybe too visceral at times. Inspiration flowed, or I had a day of writing in bed, or, during the two days I locked myself in a hotel room to finish it, the words became a blur as I edited and edited again, reading and reading and reading in hopes that I’d get it closer to right by the time I was done.

Do we write the words, or do the words write us?

In Living Resistance I reflect on prayer:

Maybe prayer is about the search. And it’s about the finding, the searching again, the wondering if what we’ve found is really the answer to anything. I’m okay with that because resistance is about rejecting the status quo that prayer is supposed to look a certain way—white, Christian prayers to a patriarchal Zeus-like character up in the sky, angry and waiting for us to fail. Prayer is and must be so much more than that.

I think I could put the word “writing” in most spots where the word “prayer” exists, and it would also mean something.

Maybe writing is about the search…

…resistance is about rejecting the status quo that writing is supposed to look a certain way…

Writing must be more than a petition to a Zeus-god. Writing must be alive and changing, an exchange of magic and everyday sweat.

I’m aware, of course, that I’m someone who tends to live in the mystical over the practical. As a kid I remember praying over the dishwasher a few times, willing it to have a smooth run. I think back on that and laugh now, but really, I just wanted everything to be infused with magic and meaning.

I’m still doing that today, I think, trying to find meaning and magic, letting the creativity lead me instead of thinking I’m the one in control.

I led a retreat in Connecticut last weekend and let me just tell you, I loved it. I loved every second of taking my book and breaking it down and facilitating time for guided journaling and discussion and creativity.

So, if you’re looking for a retreat leader, keep me in mind. I can’t wait to spend more time with people who want to rest through words.

While at the retreat, I led participants through some poetry prompts, just like we do here—one word, a few minutes to write, to see what comes up. On our last morning together, we did a poetry reading.

At first, I thought no one would participate and we’d just move on.

At first, I was worried that these people who had just met wouldn’t trust one another (or me) with their words.

But I was wrong. One person after another took the microphone, sharing poems on “stillness” or “appreciation” or their love letters to Mother Earth written with care and nuance.

I had to hold back the tears. These people were trusting me with their words, with their hearts. They were letting others see their magic.

In that moment, poetry was alive, showing us something about what it means to be human. Poetry was alive, guiding through the world.

Poetry is alive.

On May 1st, we start A Poem A Day In The Month Of May and I am so excited to bring this series back. Each day, you’ll get a one-word poetry prompt in your email inbox along with the poem I wrote based on that prompt, and I invite you to use this time as a spiritual practice.

As you write, pay attention to what happens in and around you.

Are you out-of-body?

Are you fully, viscerally connected to the experience?

Are you frightened or excited?

It’s worth stopping, again and again, to ask how our relationship to words, to art, to creative endeavors, is changing. It reminds us of that fluidity. It keep us tethered to the work.

Most of all, maybe it keeps us believing in magic.