I live in the sea,
tossed between waves
of unspeakable sorrow
and overflowing mirth.
This life is a river:
either bone-dry
or lapping wetly
at the underside of the bridge.
Often both.
Often it is a rushing
emptiness
or thunder
booming
from a clear sky.
This is where there is no middle ground.
No port of harbor,
no anchor to settle you.
There is only the faith
that your boat
- this self made
by hands not your own -
will withstand
the belly-fulls of laughter
that leak tears from your eyes
and the body-wracking sobs
that end in chortles
of incomprehensible laughter.
Perhaps you can not know one
without the other.
If joy
is knowing what you have
and sorrow
is knowing what you've lost,
perhaps
those who truly laugh
- at this oft-discussed "life"
and the merry fools
that populate it -
are those
who have learned to grieve.
Having gasping, messy
tears
visibly shake
our crouching figures of flesh
makes us privy
to those moments
when the stillness permeates our noise
and - beyond alive -
we are living.
For we have touched both ends
of an endless circle
and are riding out the storm
under a cloudless sky.
"If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away." - Henry David Thoreau
Most people have heard this quote, or something very similar to it, and yet we only partially put it into practice - if we do so at all. We tend to roll our eyes and forgive or ignore so-called "eccentrics" when they seem so loudly and purposefully out of step with our own rhythm. Some would see the quotation - from a writer who did so much more than provide us with fodder for repetitious platitudes - as a free-pass for all those with the ubiquitous wish of being thought exceptional. Were he here to discuss it with us, I believe Thoreau would tell us that we were missing the point.
He is not merely telling us not to make fun of the kids on the playground that we think are weird. That's part of it, sure, but not all. What about the person who's thinking track seems to be a little off center from the rest of the office? The artist who's unfinished painting appears to be a detailed rendition of pond scum? The writer who gets so excited at a new idea that you'd think she'd found the lost city of Atlantis under her bed? Okay, that last one is hitting a little close to home...
My point is that I believe Thoreau is trying to tell that we need to celebrate and embrace those that never quit thinking, those that are always imagining, always searching for the perfect rhythm to step to. He isn't implying that we all need to dress like the Lonely Hearts Club Band 24/7, but we oughtn't quiet those who keep the stream from becoming stagnant.
Three cheers for the thinkers, and one for you, Mr. Thoreau.
The first twenty years
of my life
were a fight.
A fight
against everything.
Like a toddler fights
against
every playpen
you put him in
against
every bite of food
that might do him good.
I raged at every turn
without prejudice
and without payment
for what I did
and what I had.
Every iota of energy
was used
against! against! against!
I felt tired
too early
and old
too young.
May the next twenty years
be a slow surrender
to who I am becoming,
whoever that may be.
May the fire in my spirit
be the hearth
by which we sit.
May I live
in quiet revelations.
May I always long to touch
the eternal
with my simple, mortal
hands.
May I breathe
slowly
and deeply
so that every flavor in the air
alights briefly
on my tongue
in a flicker of understanding.
May not a day pass
without learning
or a night
without courage
to face the dark.
May I stave off
stagnation
and always court
change.
May I never be dead
while I am
living.
May I never beg
for more days
than I am given,
whether twenty years
begets another twenty
or not.
-
I wish I could write a poem
as beautiful as a mountain.
Like that mountain,
that morning in North Carolina,
where I was shaking with my usual fear
and filled with my usual dread.
A stream percolated from the rocks
and ran past my feet
as I stumbled through the trees
on the footpath.
I was stumbling away from my
regularly scheduled panic
and fleeing into the
green and brown embrace
the mountain promised.
I sought the voice of God.
I heard leaves swishing
and water running
and realized His voice
was not as loud
as I remembered.
Here's a little "get-to-know-Sarah" video I made. I'd like to think that this is what you might show someone if you wanted to convince them to have me come perform poetry somewhere. In reality, about 2 or 3 people will watch it (my mom will watch it several times, I can almost guarantee) and that will be that. Cest la vie.
One of the criminals who hung there hurled insults at him: "Aren't you the Christ? Save yourself and us!"
But the other criminal rebuked him. "Don't you fear God," he said, "since you are under the same sentence? We are punished justly, for we are getting what our deeds deserve. But this man has done nothing wrong."
Then he said, "Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom."
Jesus answered him, "I tell you the truth, today you will be with me in paradise."
Luke 23:39-43
For as long as I can remember, I have been captivated by this short passage of scripture. It comes in the middle of the crucifixion, seemingly in between other, more major plot points. But this unnamed man, referred to as "the thief" or "the criminal" gets to play a glorious part in the greatest story ever told.
We don't know this man's story, except for what he tells us. The only information he lets us in on is that he is being "punished justly." He is on his cross for his own sins, and he is well aware of that fact. But he is hanging next to Jesus. If I could trade a moment of vision with anyone from history, it would be this man. What did he see when he saw Jesus? How did he...know?
"Remember me when you come into your kingdom," he pleads.
Is this not our lives? Sinners. Thieves. Murderers. Betrayers. Is this not us? Unable to do anything good on our own. Sentenced to death for our own sins. Pleading with the Lord of the universe to remember us in his kingdom.
Jesus answered him, "I tell you the truth, today you will be with me in paradise."
And so we have salvation. Our sins are laid upon another's cross and we are free to enter paradise.
Glory, glory, hallelujah. We are saved.
I give myself pep-talks constantly. Stand near me long enough and you are bound to hear me talk to myself.
"Keep going, Sarah. You can do this."
"Ignore that. You're above that."
"Be nice!"
"Deep breath, Sarah, deep breathe."
"This is one moment. This isn't your whole life."
That last one goes through my head quite often. I get caught on little things very easily. Little things burrow into my mind and pop up often. It is both my favorite and least-favorite quality about myself.
On the one hand, I can recall random things you say in conversations - even the way you said them, I remember little details from movies I've seen or books I've read. I can remember smells and textures and moments with amazing clarity.
On the other hand I can also recall all those times I did something stupid or said something bratty or insensitive. A lot of times these negative moments like to all pile up and act like they are my entire life. When that happens I just have to remind myself: "That was one moment, not your whole life."
I am, and I suppose we all are to some extent, that little kid in arts and crafts. I'm sitting there, stringing beads onto a necklace one at a time. And such is our life. We string it together, one moment at a time.
Solomon’s Light
Written: November 1, 2007 - February 8, 2010
I’ve heard of many artistic undertakings being called “a labor of love.” I’m not entirely sure that applies to my recently finished novel, tentatively title Solomon’s Light. To be honest it was borne of grief and overwhelming sadness.
In the book, Nova, my main character, is raised by her grandfather. Within the first few pages we learn of his passing and we begin to see the effects this will have on Nova’s life. She is left a rather unusual inheritance and soon takes off into space as the newest Captain aboard the spaceship Solomon.
Nova is an impetuous 16 year old girl when we meet her. She has no friends and no family to help her understand and deal with her grief so she chooses to express it as anger, which is easier for her to handle. She slowly adjusts to life in space and inadvertently makes a few friends and enemies along the way. With the help of her new friend Jack and the journals her grandfather left behind, she is learning about her past as she prepares for her future. When she is barely saved from a kidnapping attempt, she begins to realize just how dangerous her future might be.
The story begins with a girl some people called a captain, who didn’t know where she belonged in the world. It ends with a young woman who is the Captain and who knows where her place is. I feel my own story is very much the same.
I began this novel about 6 weeks after my father passed away. I was a 19 year old little girl, angry at the world. Some people called me a writer, but I wasn’t sure. I just knew that I was in pain and didn’t know how to deal with it.
Very slowly, I began to write. I would go days or weeks sometimes and never write or read a word. Gradually I began to see more and more of the story. The more I saw, the more I wrote. I would occasionally have times where I would slip into my own sorrow and ignore everything else. For 27 months, I slid between deep depression and the light that telling this story brought to my heart. As the weeks and months went on, I slid more towards the light than the other. Today I can say that the light is where I live. I am not under the oppression of my grief any longer. I am a writer, of this I am sure.
“He who was seated on the throne said, ‘I am making everything new!’ Then he said, ‘Write this down, for these words are trustworthy and true.’” - Revelation 21:5
While I don’t think it is the only story I have been given, I believe that right now, this is the story I was born to tell. God has given me a tremendous gift. I’m very excited for the time when I can share it with you.
Much Love,
Sarah Wofford
Things Lord of the Rings Fans Think Twilight Fans Ought to Know
written by Sarah Wofford, a supporter of fandom diversity
- You thought we were weird at the time but we were right about the magic of books, weren’t we?
- If you stop laughing at our elf costumes, we’ll stop laughing at the body glitter you made your boyfriend wear.
- If you *don’t* stop laughing at out elf costumes, one of us is liable to shoot you with an arrow.
- Be warned, our arrows tend to be handcrafted. And sharp.
- Legolas may prance a bit, but he doesn’t sparkle. Trust me. Our fangirls are very much okay with this.
- There is something inherently beautiful about a good death scene. We’re sorry that you’ll never get to experience that. It’s not because your characters are immortal. It’s because your author is kind of a wimp.
- There is a very good reason no member of the fellowship was described as being a “klutz.” Klutzes tend to die really quickly.
- I can’t say that any of us feel very sympathetic when people make fun of your fandom. We’ve been putting up with it for 60 years. Suck it up.
- We know you think Edward and Bella are really sweet and self-sacrificing, perhaps they are, but Arwen gave up paradise to be with Aragorn. And Aragorn, he put his own heart on hold to - you know - save all of Middle Earth.
- Be careful before you try testing our patience. We’re the people who have sat through 12 hours of Extended Edition DVDs. Often in one sitting.
- If you do happen to reach the end of our patience, remember: we have several languages to choose from in which we can call you some very nasty things.
- Do not try to outwit us. We learned from Gollum and a whole Shire-full of hobbits. We really enjoy making people sound like fools.
- Be wary of any Rings fan that wants to show you their “pointy hat trick.” I can’t explain to you why, but believe me when I say that it will be unpleasant.
- We’re pretty certain that Samwise Gamgee could kill a vampire whilst armed with nothing but a cooking pot, relying just on the strength of his heart.
- You may think you’re a fan. You may think you’re a fanatic. You may even think you’re obsessed. You have no idea.
