Category Archives: Uncategorized

What batters you?

Quote

Posted on
4

“Let This Darkness Be a Bell Tower”
by Rainer Maria Rilke

Quiet friend who has come so far,
feel how your breathing makes more space around you.
Let this darkness be a bell tower
and you the bell. As you ring,

what batters you becomes your strength.
Move back and forth into the change.
What is it like, such intensity of pain?
If the drink is bitter, turn yourself to wine.

In this uncontainable night,
be the mystery at the crossroads of your senses,
the meaning discovered there.

And if the world has ceased to hear you,
say to the silent earth: I flow.
To the rushing water, speak: I am.

You are who you are.

Posted on
22

“It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are.” – E. E. Cummings

Artist.

The plan was for me to take some time to carefully and intentionally explore my creative side–the one that reaches deeper and further back than the songwriting side. Me and my preacher-man made this decision about 6 weeks ago and I thought the creative season would start in January, but nope. I accidentally chased a few rabbits down a few holes and I didn’t mean to tumble into all of it so quickly–tumble into myself so quickly–but here I am and I’m drinking the potion and holding the key.

Artist.

And with all the tumblings into this reality right-now, every time I turn a corner there’s a new story that I have for Drew and he shakes his head and says “God is all over this”. And he’s not the only one saying that. And that part is just the weirdest part of all of it, because if you knew how poorly God and I have been getting along lately… If…

Artist.

So here I am. Down this hole. And everything looks different but familiar. I can’t explain it. Not yet. It’s one big batch of secrets–tucked in my back pocket where most people don’t know I’m carrying them around. And I mentally pull them out sometimes to get my bearings again, my bearings in this new world and new season. Or show them to someone who needs to see.

Artist.

And so I’m leaning into this new world, as The Messy Mandy would say. I’m living into this. I’m growing into this. And it involves paints and brushes. It involves words and colors. It involves writing and singing and teaching and making and meeting and maybe even selling.

But, more than any of that–more than all of that–it involves Who I Am Now merging with Who I Was Then and there’s nothing but an explosion of life and beauty surrounding me. And I’m so scared that this isn’t going to last, but it might. And my hands are full and I don’t know what to do with all of it. And the close people that are watching are starting to use the word “artist” around me and when they do my insides squeal like a little girl. I remember her–I know her–The Little Girl that once held 2Bs and Cray-Pas and paint brushes. And the thing that really shakes me is this–and this is the biggest secret and I think I’m going to tell you anyway–when I look at myself in the mirror, I see an artist. And, with all these years of self-wrestlings and askings and hopings and diminishings, I can’t help but wonder if that’s who I’ve always been.

Artist.

Burn, Burn, Burn…

Quote

Posted on
6

“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)

For the Wordless Ones

Posted on
14

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.