On Potential

The Red Wheel Barrow by William Carlos Williams

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.

When, I think of the word potential, the memory of this poem is the first bit of stored information that pushes itself into my conscious thought. When an individual reads this poem, their initial response may be something like, "What?" or "This is stupid", and it is because they fail to realize that what makes William Carlos Williams' poem particularly profound is because he has captured, in very few words, the potential of this wheel barrow. One can imagine it hauling chicken feed, firewood for a long winter, or perhaps mulch for the farmer's garden. In my head, I see this wheel barrow whizzing around on its creaky wheels from task to task across the gravel covered  property of the farmer (who I assume owns it). The poem is so simple, yet so genius (notice each stanza actually looks like a wheel barrow).  I can only wonder what such a poem would look like if it could capture the concept of human potential in a similar way.

As I wonder where the wheel barrow will go until it is broken and no longer able to be used, so too I wonder where I am going, what will happen to me, and how much am I capable of carrying.

Concerning the first question, I know that I am heading towards a bachelors degree in English, but what I'll end up doing with it, I'm not sure. For several months now, I've been pondering the idea of grad school: it would make me undeniably happy to be able to study for a Master of Fine Arts in creative writing with an emphasis in poetry, but whether such a wish will become reality is beyond my internal crystal ball.

Isn't it funny, how it seems easier to guess at the larger turns of one's life (such as eventual marriage) then for one to predict the many smaller curves that are capable of changing one's route--and consequently one's desires and needs--entirely? One would think that it would be much simpler for the individual to discern what the outcome of these lighter choices would be, but I suppose the problem is that one cannot foresee what the rest of the world will decide to do and how it will change or not change anything, which answers my question as to why I won't know what outside events will occur in my small sphere of existence.

How much am I capable of carrying? Hmmm...I don't think any single person can answer that question fully until he or she is no longer a part of this world or on his or her deathbed: by then I would assume that a person would be aware of his or her own capacity. But for now, I can answer that question in simple terms. There is a lot that I am currently carrying both psychologically and emotionally, yet I know that even now I am beginning to push my limits as to how much I can deal with internally and still be able to successfully navigate the outside aspect of my existence.

I am learning how to better handle the warring country in my soul day by day; I'm writing more, both in this blog and on a website where the goal is to write 3 pages a day, and it does wonders for me because I am forced to face the upsets and hopes that I hide behind an agenda of pressing needs. You see, that's the problem: when one continues to neglect the most serious matters of the mind (such as constantly feeling like a failure) it creates a back up that is similar to the overly powerful river that breaks through the dam. Once those walls are broken--the precious agenda completely overcome--it is incredibly difficult to restore.

This semester, I want to do a better job at everything: my schoolwork, my time management, my money, how I handle the responsibility of being an adult. I want to be able to look back at my freshman spring semester and be proud of how wisely and well I lived my life for four months. God is embodied within me, which means excellence already exists within my soul. I want to live up to that excellence, to my potential as a child of God.

Let Love In

I think being stuck inside my house for 6 weeks has made me realize how much I need people:  not to support me or to love me, but to appreciate and enjoy. Even though I constantly struggle to see my own merits as an individual, I find it so easy to look at the young woman or man next to me and see God's beauty and kindness: to believe in them and the sacred dreams their hearts hesitate to confess.

Oh my friends and fellow travelers in life, if only you could see yourselves with the optimism I do when I gaze into your eyes or talk to you. My heart beams with gladness to simply know you and what unique qualities each of you brings to this sprawling world.  God loves you and cares for you so much: I only hope I can help him show you his affection for you. 

I once wrote this in email to someone, explaining how I feel about people:

"When you look at an intricate figurine, you notice all the minute details about it, and it's those small embellishments that make a porcelain or glass figure precious. That's how I appreciate people: my shelves are full of beautiful manikins that give me joy by their God-given uniqueness. They don't have to dance or perform, they just have to be themselves. Furthermore, I realize how fragile they are--how fragile people are--and I take great pains to care for them because of it.”

If anything, my life has taught me how capable the human mind is of lying to and tearing itself apart; when I see a dark face, I fear the worst and see it as my God-given duty to lift that person up, if only for a moment. I'll admit though, sometimes I get tired of making it my personal calling to cheer everyone up, of walking from a conversation where I've made people laugh and hugged them only to tread back into my room and feel the sunshine creep away from my face.

I love deeply, but I need someone else to love, because it is so hard for me to really love myself. So you see, when I comfort you with encouragement or praise, I am merely reflecting your light--the beauty God has put in you--back to you. Let the God in me love the God in you.

Ambition: Its Weightiness and Anxiety

I think only God knows how badly I want to be a good poet.

He's the only one who can see sentences like, "Oh my goodness, this writer is so powerful and purposeful with their words and...could I ever write such a beautiful phrase?" or "Look at all these poetry volumes advertised! So much competition! Could I ever get a book's worth of my poetry published?"

Thus, I end up momentarily dropping my book on my lap or throwing my edition of The American Poetry Review over my head like-so:

I feel this pressure to be some kind of poetic prodigy; I keep thinking about writers like Sylvia Plath and Edna St. Vincent Millay who showed enormous promise in their youth and I want to be able to look at my own work and see that same promise.

Sure, I definitely have written exceptional poems, but it's cost me even more ok poems or just-plain-crappy poems: there are certain pieces I've done that I go back and read with a pleased smile, while there are other poems that I can't bear to read because they're so amateurly repulsive. Poetry is much like photography in the sense that you have to 'take multiple shots' to create a piece of art worth showing. I often have a hard time being ok with that.

I don't want to be a good poet to gain notoriety (truthfully the grandest of my ambitions is for one of my poems to be featured in an English textbook), but simply to be able to do something well. I love words, I deeply admire savvy writers, I wish I could spend all of my school days studying poetry: better put, poetry is the heart of me.

Yet, I know that the poets I aspire to be like didn't start composing moving, original work until they were much older than I am. How can I write insightfully and truthfully about life if I have only just began to really explore it? I guess I've never thought about the numerous poems that were never published by distinguished writers because they too realized that, at one point, their poetic skills direly needed improvement.

I'll continue to handle the anxious moments that remind me of how young I am at writing, but I'll also remember the kind compliments friends have given me on my wordy creations and, more importantly, the first time I showed one of my poems to a professor and he looked up at me and said, "You have talent."

Inside Information

Retreating into the Covers

Christ,

He was strong.

Scathing whips and nails—

Drawing blood—

Only won in a physical sense,

His soul was too strong to conquer.

Then look at me:

Sure I had strength,

I almost lasted as long

As the Trojan wall—

Nine long years.

But all the same,

I know it was of no comfort

To neither the citizens nor the wall

When after ten years,

It finally fell.

I'm going to go to counseling next semester because I feel myself falling apart. Bilbo had to face his dragon, so do I. I was thinking today about how much work it is to be cheerful and encouraging to other people, not that I mind doing it. In fact, I do it because I am well aware of how lethal one's thoughts can be against oneself: that inner Satan that wants to see  us look at God and still give up. 

Life feels so heavy to me, but I wouldn't let anyone know it. It is a hard thing to vocalize: both in the literal sense of finding and assembling the right words to paint an accurate picture of what I feel and because it is hard for me to tell people, because then I feel like I'm burdening them. Why would I want to inflict anyone else with another person to worry about?

It all relates to my sense of self-value and image. I've grown up thinking that my feelings, especially the ugly ones like hurt and disappointment, aren't worth drawing attention to. I don't think me or any other aspect of my life is worth someone else's thoughts or concern. That's why it is hard for me to show my poetry to people; you can't imagine how sensitive I am about it and what people say about the precious words that contain my guarded emotions. 

I wrote this poem trying to reflect how defeated I feel: this sense of bricks composed of defense mechanisms slowly breaking apart. It's like I can slap myself on the back and say, "Damn! You lasted this long with this many issues? That's impressive," but it doesn't mean much at all.

The Importance of Being Intelligent

Ah, Yentl: I watched this musical movie for the first time today, featuring the lovely Barbra Streisand. In case you are not acquainted with the plot of this motion picture, I shall tell you.

 It all starts with Yentl (a.k.a. Babs) as a Jewish women in Eastern Europe who dreams of studying the Holy books and etc. After her father dies, she disguises herself and runs off to school where she falls in love with a handsome man who later becomes her tutor. Fast forward to the ending: Yentl reveals that she is a woman and that she loves Avigdor (the handsome man), and he confesses that he has feelings for her too. However, when he exclaims that he and Yentl can get married and run a house, he notes that she doesn't have to think anymore. But Yentl wants to continue her studies, and so she leaves (presumably) for America to further her education. 

While even I, a musical enthusiast, have to admit that there was way too much singing in Yentl, I couldn't ignore how much of myself I saw in her character: she's just a woman who wants to learn, to make the most of the brain God gave her. I don't blame her for falling in love with the good looking genius, because frankly, I would too!

I want to marry someone who, even if I someday became a stay-at-home mom, could stimulate my mind and match my curiosity. I don't want a man who simply wants to teach me, I want a man who is willing to learn and be wrong, then right with me.

Age and Knowledge

My eyes have been bothering me for the last few months and today I was finally able to visit my ophthalmologist. As I was sitting in the waiting room, I quickly observed that I was the youngest person there: most of the patients consisted of older men and women, either in matrimonial pairs or walking individually with a cane.

While I waited, I decided to write this poem:

Today,
I was the young girl in the waiting room
Staring at faces and eyes
That have seen so much more than I have.

Did the older woman across from me
Wonder where I was going,
Knowing the situations and upsets
That will confront me?

I wonder if she knew about love,
Then I could've asked her what it was
And if it's the same creature it used to be—
I am only beginning to find out
What it is not.

 But at this moment,
It is my turn in life
To greet the free-spirited cat of experience
And simply wonder where it has been.

I suppose I'll call this poem "Museums and Children": seems fitting, no? Anyways, right after I wrote this I decided something; if I were ever to meet experience embodied in a certain way, it would be in the visage of an old man (not to steal from Joseph Campbell or anything ;) and I would sit across from him in a booth inside of a diner. We would both have cups of coffee in our hand, but the mug would fit his hand so much better than mine. My hands would be pretty and slender, but they would look as if they were grasping the cup, trying to fit all of the cup into my grip. He would wear existence better than I.

I think if I were to ever meet this man I would just stare at him, as if just a subtle twitch of the lips could tell me everything about eternity. I just wonder at all the things I'm going to have to learn: at my college they have this program called "Degree Audit" that lets you see what percentage of credits you've covered and how many more you need. I wonder what that percentage would be if it applied to the entirety of knowledge that I will someday possess like an impatient heir. I wonder, I wonder...

On the Doorstep

In the last drawer of my vanity-desk there is a scented, purple diary that was given to me long ago as a birthday present. On those rosy pink pages, for perhaps the only time in my life, I documented me: what I felt, what I observed, and what I wanted. It so happens that what one would find on those thick sheets of paper is quite antithetical to the outward theme of the diary itself; cheery, feminine pastels do not seem the proper vessels for the somber, wearily pained voice etched in black ink.

Yet, there was a power and comfort in passionately scribbling all of both the heavy and silly emotions that coursed me at 11 years old.  Today, I find myself facing a deep canyon of hurt, disappointment, ambition, hope, and many problems that have come to constitute my psyche, but I choose to do something about it. In the archetypal hero's journey, the would-be champion must confront the fear, doubt, and sores that inhabit his heart before he can help anyone else. Thus I have elected to both go to counseling and to write about how I feel and what I think again.

Despite the extreme unhappiness that seems to grasp me at times, I truly am an optimist: even in the internal conversations that occur within me where I find myself looking for the worst in the future, myself, or humanity, I always find a reason to smile and dismiss such claims as myth. I simply love the good in people too much, and it gives me hope.

So to you reader, who stands on my doorstep wondering whether reading this is worth your time, I'll tell you something that I continue to find true: the more we learn about others, the more we learn about ourselves, and the more we realize that the space between you and I in no way proves that we are composed of different elements, the more comfort and hope we are able to find.