How To Be a Poet
on me-time, three-dimensioned living, and life as art
I have included this audio version of this post for those who may be interested in listening to it. It is raw and may include the sounds of life around me, including my dog, and perhaps even a flub or two in my speaking.
When we arrived on the playground, I conducted my parental due diligence with a quick safety-scan of the scene. The boys and I were in an unfamiliar town and we’d never been to this playground before. They immediately hopped out of the car and ran toward the other boys who were running around the play structures. I sized up the only adults at the playground, two men. They sat adjacent to each other, on the only two benches close to the action. I chose a seat, 15 yards or so behind them, on a swing.
The boys were having fun, my spot had a good view, and nobody seemed to need me right then so I sunk down into my swing and decided to have a little me-time, just like those men.
Me-time: time all for me; time all for me; time all for me.
Of course, whenever children are involved, it’s not exactly fully me-time, but they are getting old enough now to not need me as much. So then, the question becomes ‘what’s a me to do with me’?
Out of habit, I reached into my back pocket to pull out my phone. I didn’t even know what I wanted to do, I just knew I could likely do it from my phone. Then, I almost began the habitual scroll - email check, social media check, to do lists, other lists, calendar check, and so on…but I stopped myself. Actually, it was the men who stopped me.
They didn’t do anything, yet in that moment, they did everything.
My gaze outward in the mindless reach for my phone landed on the two men. I immediately noticed they both had their heads down, looking at something. On the left sat a man in a baseball hat, my guess - mid 30’s, he was looking down at his phone. The several minutes I was making these observations, I noticed he didn’t look up from his phone, not even once.
The other man, to his right donning a sun hat of sorts, I’d say mid to late 60’s, was writing in a little pocket-sized notebook. He looked up, pencil-in-hand touching his chin, he looked at the kids, over to the trees, at the sky and then he’d jot something down. He repeated this, again and again.
This image felt powerful to me, perhaps in a similar way to how I feel when I’m out at a restaurant, look around and notice everyone is on their phones and nobody is talking. Powerful. Powerfully sad. But this one had a hope to it. I could feel myself drawing toward that hope.
I quickly snapped a picture of them and put my phone back in my pocket. This observation, alone, had the power to change the trajectory of my next half hour…
One man’s noticing his life,
The other is noticing other people’s lives.
Of course, it’s easy to make generalizations or assumptions as to what kind of people they were by these observations but I know at any given moment, I am both.
I am the mom checking out of my reality for a moment by checking into my phone and other people’s projection of their reality1.
I am the writer and artist with my notebook and pen or paintbrush in hand, recording strokes, thoughts and observations about life while trying to make meaning out of it.
On the heels of this powerful observation (and wishing I had a notebook with me), I thought about this me-time of mine.
Why would MY me-time be filled looking at others’ lives, thoughts or ideas on a screen? If all the time is for me, wouldn’t I want to use it wisely? And if my me-time is for me, wouldn’t I want it to be edifying, encouraging, inspiring, beautiful and/or good? And, as it’s my me-time, for me, I’d like for it to be contributing to my becoming the best version of myself.
“How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives.” - Annie Dillard
I peeled my legs off of the hot, black rubber swing, stood up and decided to take a nature stroll - one of my absolute favorite things to do in life. I slowly walked around the perimeter of the playground. These engaging, mindful nature walks are all about the journey for me, not the destination, my eyes are scanning, anticipating God’s beauty and delight all around me.
I feel like many times when I engage in these best-self-honoring moments, where God gets to witness my choice to seek his beauty, truth and goodness over the undesirable (mindless scrolling), he provides the goodness and beauty and then delights in my delight. And keeping my mind open to the unexpected brings even more delight.
It didn’t take long; I found a fowler’s toad. Its beautiful shades of green camo body blended into the mossy lichen on a tree’s bark almost seamlessly. I called the boys over and they enjoyed cupping their hands gently around the toad, giggling when it jumped onto their hands, giggling when it jumped out, and I oversaw as they carefully tried to catch it again, only to bring it to me so I could see it up close.
These boys are giggling, with new friends, being gentle, being curious, excited about holding this life in their hands, excited to show me, who first showed them
I found two large patches of dog-vomit slime mold and called all the boys over again. How cool it was to share something called ‘dog vomit slime mold’ with a pack of 7 boys, all in the ranges of 3-10 years old.
Boys astonished with wide eyes, oohing and making gross but silly boy noises, dying to touch it, dying to experience it in their boy-ways
Then, my senses awakened to another level - I heard the sounds of clapping and cheering. My curiosity led my feet toward the raucous to discover an impeded view of a baseball field’s outfield fence. A baseball game was entertaining a crowd of fans and although they were out of sight, it was an uproarious crowd and their excitement beckoned me to join in and watch the game (I LOVE baseball). I couldn’t get my boys to agree to come but I enjoyed acknowledging in that moment that their mere enthusiasm, heard and felt through my ears and heart, drew me in.
People cheering, clapping, laughing and yelling….people living
Sidebar: This reminds me of a time our family went to a Durham Bulls game with our children and their friends. At one point in the game, I looked over and my son’s friend was on his phone (our children don’t have phones yet). I said, ‘What are you doing? The entertainment is right here. Here, live, right in front of you!” He said, ‘Oh yeah’ and laughed sheepishly as he put his phone away.
I remembered the writer, over there on his bench with his notebook. I had material now from this last half hour of living. I saw, I experienced, I shared, I felt God. I am the writer, standing here now and my life is art. I am grateful for these men and the perspective they gave me. I am grateful for how I chose my me-time.
I was facing him from across the playground. In that moment, he stood to round up his grandchildren as they were about to leave. His demeanor was gentle, slow, and intentional. He walked with the youngest one’s hand in his and they disappeared beyond the bushes to the parking lot.
The other father was leaving, too. Yet, he was hurried, seemed aggravated with his children’s displeasure to have to leave, and rushed as he took large, powerful strides to the exit among the bushes, not looking back at the boys, trailing and laughing with each other behind him.
I don’t know what any of this really means but…
I know how screens can make me feel - unattached, disconnected, not worthy/doing enough, anxious…not living my best life.
I know how enjoying a quiet moment, thinking, observing, experiencing and writing makes me feel - like a poet.
. . .
I like to think that the older gentleman, jotting notes and looking up at the birds passing by, was writing what would become a poem.
And I like to think that my seeing that, inspired me to put away my phone and choose living my life instead of scrolling past others’ so that I will have experiences; experiences that I may choose to jot down in what perhaps might become a poem I pen someday.
And what if my sharing of this little story inspires you, too. After reading this article, of course, you choose to engage in some life-giving you-time.
And we could keep this going…what if someone sees you, not on your screen beside someone who is, and you inspire them to live their life more three-dimensionally, too.
This is sacred ground, folks, and we must protect it. Our daily choices, even the micro-choices we make, add up to become the sum total of some version our ourselves. How we choose to spend these minutes that make up our lives is as relevant as the air we need to fill our lungs to breathe. Our me-time, and all of the other time we have, matters.
“Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom”. - Psalm 90:12
Now is the perfect time for a reminder that a life truly lived encompasses this mysterious, yet meaningful duality - there is pain and joy, there is beauty and sorrow. But it’s all living and it all speaks to you, in the silence, like prayers prayed back to the one who prays2, or like a wonderful masterpiece in the making. Don’t be fooled that anything good must be pleasant. Your truly lived life is your art and God’s masterpiece in the making.
When Paul tells us that we are God’s masterpiece in one our most beloved scriptures3, the original Greek translation of this uses the word poiema, which translates to ‘things that have been made’ and is where we get the word poem in the English language. To put it into context, the thing being made is us by God, the Creator, when he made us anew in Christ. Thus, the lives we live are His work of art, his poem. C.S. Lewis said, in his book The Problem with Pain, “We are, not metaphorically but in very truth, a Divine work of art.” But certainly we need reminders and encouragement on how we spend the minutes in our days to insure we are living this best version of ourself and coming into our masterpiece.
On that note, I want to challenge myself with this thought and question:
I am God’s masterful work of art. Everything I do can be on sacred ground. To become the holy masterpiece God created for me, he has given me everything I need. All of my choices matter, like single threads woven together to become a beautiful and intricate tapestry, each thread matters. Can each thread be sacred and beautiful, like art? Like a poem? The way I wake up, my morning routine…the way I compose an email…how I address my husband, my children…how I breathe…the way I look at and interpret things…how I create…the way I prepare my meals…I can live a poem; God’s poiema. I am a poet.
In his poem, How To Be a Poet, Wendell Berry not only gives us instructions on how to be a poet, he gives instructions on how to be a human being - three dimensioned and among sacred places.
Included at the bottom of the poem is a recording of Mr. Berry reading his poem.
How to Be a Poet
(to remind myself)
i
Make a place to sit down.
Sit down. Be quiet.
You must depend upon
affection, reading, knowledge,
skill—more of each
than you have—inspiration,
work, growing older, patience,
for patience joins time
to eternity. Any readers
who like your poems,
doubt their judgment.
ii
Breathe with unconditional breath
the unconditioned air.
Shun electric wire.
Communicate slowly. Live
a three-dimensioned life;
stay away from screens.
Stay away from anything
that obscures the place it is in.
There are no unsacred places;
there are only sacred places
and desecrated places.
iii
Accept what comes from silence.
Make the best you can of it.
Of the little words that come
out of the silence, like prayers
prayed back to the one who prays,
make a poem that does not disturb
the silence from which it came.
which we all know and let us not forget, most social media posts only expose highlight reels
section iii of How To Be a Poet by Wendell Berry
“For we are God’s masterpiece. He has created us anew in Christ Jesus, so we can do the good things he planned for us long ago.” - Ephesians 2:10