“If you stuff yourself full of poems, essays, plays, stories, novels, films, comic strips, magazines and music… you will automatically explode every morning like Old Faithful. I have never had a dry period in my life because I feed myself well.” Ray Bradbury, who’s written a LOT of books.
Could this somehow possibly miraculously be true?
The afternoon air was windy and warm and weighted by artist-chatter. In a turn of topic, the conversation slowed. Steadied. Our words were short steps onto a path untrod–were we allowed to explore? Were we allowed to ask? Were we allowed to see ourselves in the prophets? They looked so familiar:
They sounded so artist-like. Maybe with all their poetry and sculptures they were. Maybe these poet prophets were our very own Biblical example of the life and voice of the artist. She passed these suspicions along to me in the same way that she’d been given them–a legacy of hushed questions.
And these questions whispered in me for weeks. I decided to ask aloud. I looked over to my brilliant Bible-scholar husband and, with brave release of breath held back, I dove right in:
“Do you think the prophets were artists?”
His answer came easy–carried on an air of confident clarity.
“Yes.”
Relief.
He showed me what the translations didn’t: Style, Form, Imagery, Patterns, Lyrics, Poetry, Art. David and Jeremiah wrapped their message in poetry so memorable that the words were etched on the hearts of God’s people. Truth so creative. Truth so deliberate. Truth so beautiful.
“Well, then, why do we never hear these things? Why is this not preached?”
Pastors and teachers focus on what the prophets are telling us, and don’t give emphasis to how they present their prophecies. Yes, we can see it in the original language, but it’s a sub-point that’s just not taught. Besides, it’s very difficult to maintain the poetic-devices of a language when it’s being translated. Most miss it because the artistry of the prophetic word is literally lost in translation.
A part of my artist’s heart jumped to life with his explanation. And another part of it died.
He sensed the dying before the words escaped my mouth. He said maybe artists would feel more at home in the Church if we took the time to reveal the care and beauty and artistry with which these passages of Scripture were originally presented.
Yes yes! Show us their art. Teach us what they did. Teach us how to be artists.
His preacher-words were the sermon I needed to hear. And his husband-words were the permission I needed to be given.
My mathematical genius left-brained preacher-husband validates the voice of my soul, in all its rhymes and photos and paintings and drawings and writings. It is not frivolous. It is not petty. It is not selfish. It is the artist’s voice.
And, on the other side of our conversation, I found myself a step further in this exploration of my voice. This path is safe. I will walk. I will listen. I will write. I will share.
1) Things that inspire me: creativity in others, candles (!!), coffee, pre-dawn rituals, time to sit and think, sunlight on skin, quotes that jump off the page and slap me in the soul, honesty, goals.
2) Are you all out of inspiration? I came across an article last week that floored me. It’s a psychological look at inspiration (here, since my little linky button isn’t working right now and I don’t know why and it’s too early in the morning for me to figure it out: http://blogs.hbr.org/cs/2011/11/why_inspiration_matters.html). Ok. Yes. It’s very much worth the clicking and reading. I had to read it three times to grasp what it was saying, but I needed to get it in my brain.
3) The way Ann Voskamp paints a word-picture and turns a sentence leaves me dizzy. In the best way. And I will read certain passages over and over and over again dissecting the way she stitched her words together.
4) What inspires you? How can you add more of those elements to your life?
“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a
commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes “Awww!” (Kerouac)
I didn’t know why and I didn’t know when, but the words were gone. I could find nothing in me worth writing or singing or sharing. And she knew it.
And I was frustrated in that hand-flinging high-pitched-voice sort of way. And she, who knows me so well, reminded me that she’s never known a wordless Mandy–with no inner awareness–with no self-revelation–with no words that flow into songs and writings and conversations. If I have no words, I have no self. I have nothing but silence… And silence is not my soul’s voice. Silence is suffocation.
My resolve to find answers and words and self pulled me deeper, down into the cold still places.
And then came the gasping for air, like surfacing after a deep dive. And the exhale of truth–of all that I had been holding in, too afraid of its power. And the dam cracked. And my soul cried tear-words. And dripped. And bubbled. And streamed. And rumbled. And rolled.
Out of me and onto page.
Confessions, large and small, in words and songs and images, all spilling out in everything that my hands touched in the name of truth and art and life.
The spilling is so freeing that I return to the confession before every cathartic creation: Is this true? Is this truth? Is this saying something about me and the world and the way I see things?
I know there are other Wordless Ones–those who are locked and lost in silence of selves.
Are you one of them? Have you lost your words?
So, for the sake of art and truth, let this be an invitation for you to spend a patient stretch of time holding a mirror of a blank page in front of yourself. Look closely and then write, draw, paint what you see within yourself. Put on page those truths that are yours. Confess. Let your soul be your muse and say what it is crying to say.
It may be ugly and snotty and confusing. And that’s ok. Perfect isn’t always pretty. And pretty isn’t always perfect. But truth is truth. Let those artful confessions be what your soul needs them to be. And, who knows. The floodgates might come swinging open after a few of these moments.
