01.05.2021

Late

Yet unconcerned

Unrushed

To this invitation to myself

Of words, or silence

Of rest, not striving

Of peace

To simply be

Or not

Wherever I am.

Time

To ponder

And dwell

To behold

Or just notice

Beauty all around

In dishes—which is a stretch

And my dog

And my daughters— which is obvious

Yet illusive

To words

Which I can’t make as beautiful as they

My plants

Green and brown in the window

And I don’t usually bother

Pruning away the dead parts

But maybe today I will

Maybe I will

My “New Year’s Resolution” for some time was to write a poem a day. While I may have other goals in mind- to be healthier, more mindful, to spend more time outside, to be healthier, to read more, etc- this poem-a-day goal has simultaneously been the most nourishing and most challenging of my resolutions. It’s been a discipline- write something every day. And an invitation- spend some time with yourself every day. Always, it slows me down, forms me into more of the person God intended me to be. Simply, a whole human, attuned and alive, honest and allowed to have a voice, to take up space, to be imperfect, and to be.

It was during one of these years I was 5 days into January and had already failed at writing any poems when I wrote the first piece. I realized while staring at a blank page, a blinking cursor, that feeling guilty for not producing a practice meant to help me rest and refill was the most hypocritical of self-cares. There is much of my life that demands my production, that demands a certain amount of success, much that is measured against some standard- and that standard is never reachable, or if it is, the success is short-lived and you are on to the next mile-stone. Progress. Perfection. Productivity. The goal of writing a poem a day was meant to be the resistance of these unrelenting parts of my life. It was a way of answering the deep beckoning call inside myself that longed to take longer walks with my dog, or let my kids stop 100 times to pick up every fallen leaf on the ground in wonder. It was a way of noticing magic and even sorrow- a way of paying attention to life- paying attention in a way as to live it most fully and satisfyingly.

So instead of beating myself up about missing 5 days of poems, I went unhurried into this poem, an open invitation to a slow year. A better year.

01.15.2021

I am learning, still

To be still

My plants

And daughters, grow

Without trying

And everything that is, formed

Without forming

It is kept

Without keeping, Itself

Whole

Humans, and mainly me

Are the only ones

Who have to work to trust

A simple life of becoming (or not)

Who we did not create ourself to be

Who have to remind ourself, constantly

We don’t have to try to breathe

(Or breathe ourself into being)

We didn’t create ourself

And what humility, to believe

Neither do we will ourself, free

This poem is about learning to be still and trust that it is The Lord who holds and keeps me. Which is something I learn and relearn almost by the minute. The resolution to write and the learning to trust often go hand in hand for me. These are concepts I learned first at The Wesley and am learning still through prayer and contemplation. The word that comes to mind is “nourishing.”

Are my goals for the year, for life, day by day— are they nourishing or not? If something is not nourishing my soul, my body, my life, it is not worth it. Yet, I have to constantly come back to that truth. And I find it most echoed in prayer. I find it in stillness and silence. I find it in watching the carefree growth and life of my kids and plants. Who are so full and full of joy and beauty and wonder. And yet they do so little to ensure their growth or satisfaction. They eat what’s put on the table. They embrace the life before them. They feel— hard and fully, good and bad. They are not yet old enough to be ashamed of anything. They are needy and independent. They simply are. And trust that my husband and I will hold their world into place. In prayer, I simply am, and know that, in spite of all my striving, God is holding me, and will still, all of me, every moment. And I trust him. Living in that trust, I am able to be most fully who I am, and that is a nourishing place to be.

More than a better you, more than a better year. I pray your year be more full. More nourishing. That you are held— whole. That you come out, whole.

Two Poems: Kaiti Lammert

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