Creating, Creation, Creator

Sometimes, my pride seeps through.

It likes to take credit for the things that “I” do.

My words dance and reverberate

with power

and I accept the compliments

“you’re a great writer”.

I wish I had the courage

more often to say,

thanks but no thanks,

I was actually such a mess today.

And then God met me

in my wild, tangled up mind,

met me with words the way He designed

for me and Him to know each other.

 

See everything in this world

echoes His beauty

every stunning thing you see

is just a fraction of His truly

magnificent Creation.

And all creativity is

just us trying to imitate

Dad.

 

Abba knows best and so

He guides

with gentle hands,

allows our still learning fingers

to paint green rolling hillsides,

to smash together crooked pottery,

and write crappy lines of poetry.

Our mortal souls

see Creation and let out sighs

of elation

and then we set to work, trying

to express our never ending awe.

 

Like children learning to speak

our parent’s language,

Creation evokes in us a

desire to Create.

Paintbrushes and music scores,

woven baskets and dances that make bodies into

moving magic,

we each become more and more dramatic

as Life

becomes inspiration for Art.

 

I meet God

best among trees and poetry.

Creation and Creating

help me know deeper

my Creator.

And remind me always

that I am an Imitator.

I want to be known

as a someone made out of

clay,

shaped more and more each day

by the One who imagined

each grain of wheat and blade of grass,

forms rainbows and icicles that shine like glass,

the Maker who sewed together

all the wild fish in the depths of the sea.

All the things the Lord created

and he still want to meet with me

through creativity.

Wow.

 

And so together we meet and He

teaches me to write,

speaking to me and through me

and my face lights up

and I can’t help the smile on my face

as I glimpse

Love.

 

I am a writer,

a storyteller too.

They are beautiful parts of

how God made me and I want

to share them with you.

But don’t forget for a minute

I am just the vessel

for the True Author’s words

when I meet with him in quiet or while listening to the

chirping of birds.

 

I lean in,

let Him show me.

I put pencil to paper

and tentatively at first,

I begin

to Create.

Return

It’s been a while since I’ve posted any poetry, friends. Here is one inspired by the parable of the Prodigal Son that I performed at a church “Slam Sermon” this evening. It’s a little messy and unedited but I love the way God teaches me through my creativity, that I get to write inspired by the First Author. I got a little emotional as I read this evening because even when I’m “doing good” with God and with life, I am reminded that I too am a bit of a mess, that I have a tendency to hide my weaknesses and failures, that I try to deal with them alone, and that every single time, the Lord calls me by name and seeks me out. He is the One who leaves the 99 to come after the one and throws a feast when we return. What a wild grace we’ve been given. What a kind Father we have.

Return.

A voice in the chaos cuts through

the rain and the tears

the insults and the jeers,

return.

Return,

you who have squandered

and wandered away,

hidden in caves

and turned your face

to hide the scraps and the pain.

Return

the voice calls,

because I see the bruises

that don’t bloom on the skin

but attack from within and

slither through veins

in ways you can’t begin to explain

the mental haze that has found you,

made you lose your ways.

Return

say the voice

because I have heard

coins clash together in scenes that feel blurred

as exchanges are made and

you smile as pleasures

are handed your way

but at the end of the night,

lonely, sad and frustrated

you just want

to take flight and escape

what you have created.

Return

though your clothes are dirty

and you feel unworthy.

Return

not as a thief in the night

slinks back and hopes to avoid being seen

come in the morning when the sky is blue

and the trees are green.

Return.

Return,

in the light

so that He can greet you

in the way that is right

for a Father

to embrace his Sons and Daughters.

Return,

to a love so reckless

that it kicks up its heels,

an outrageous love

that revels and reveals itself.

A love that does not hide,

loves fully and with pride

in it’s Beloved Creation.

Return.

Return,

urges the voice

and He will run calling out for all to hear

the one I love was far

but now they are near

Return,

the voice reverberates

through all the other noise.

Somewhere a man awakes

looks around at all he has destroyed

He rises and looks towards the door

Return

the voice whispers

with love the man

no longer feels he deserves

return

and you will learn

how the Father longs

for his children

and does not reserve

love for only those who are “worthy”.

Return,

all are welcome,

those broken and thirsty.

Return

from hard work in the field

or a wild life abroad

the voice calls them in

not caring where they have trod.

Return,

the voice

says

I have been waiting.

With love anticipating,

always hopeful,

never hating.

Watching the door for you.

Return,

now is the time,

the Father waits

to wash away any shame and crime.

Return

to Perfect Love

to Divine embracing

return to being fully known

instead of always chasing

more.

A King’s feast awaits,  not just the crumbs

Here is your home

where you can always come

So now,

without fear

or condemnation

come boldly

and be cherished

by the Maker of Creation

And the Father will smile and

with the same voice He will say

all I’ve wanted

for years has come true today.

For you, My Child

have returned.

1530295926370

Storyteller

When I was little girl, my Grandma Kelly used to write stories for me and my cousins. Every few months or so, we’d get a new one in the mail and each one was illustrated by hand, complete with cover pages and each sheet in plastic slip covers. Sometimes, one of us grandkids would make a guest appearance in the stories, which was always exciting. My whole childhood, these stories piled up until I had a binder about 3 inches thick called “Stories by Grandma K”. They were always part of the bedtime rotation and my favourite was about Cecilia, the cyclops who learns to love her big beautiful eye.

I remember so clearly the day I decided that I was going to write stories too. We were in the car on the way to visit my Grandma for the day and I told my mom I was going to make a story for Grandma K (illustrations included, of course). I was probably 7 and I wrote 3/4 of a page on lined paper called “Too Litle Grils Go for a Walk”. There were crooked trees lining the page and a whole lot of spelling mistakes but I was so proud of my story and couldn’t wait to give it my Grandma!! She loved it (or claimed to, hehe) and about a month later, a story by the same name, dedicated to me, appeared in our mailbox. Grandma had taken my idea and written a longer story, completing each copy with my story photocopied at the back. I was enthralled. Look at what an idea that had started as a thought in my head had become!

And so, the stories continued. In elementary school I kept extra notebooks and filled them with stories featuring my friends and I as the “Horse Helpers” who rode horses and saved people in our neighbourhood. I self published a poetry book called “Daisy Chains” and wrote my first “novel” in 5th grade. I thrived in creative writing classes and clubs and told anyone who would listen that I was going to be an author when I grew up. I entered poetry and short story contests and sometimes I even won.

And then the storytelling began to stretch beyond paper. I read a ton as a kid and would reenact the stories for my friends who didn’t want to read themselves. At camp I would drag a book out over a week or two, using funny voices and making the best (aka my favourite) parts last the longest. I loved when friends would ask what I had been reading or ask me to tell them a story. I remember going on canoe trips and making up tall tales about the trees following us as protectors on our voyage.

In high school I discovered blogging and loved that I could share my thoughts whenever I felt like it. I learned about spoken word poetry and fell in love with the way people could dramatically and passionately twist words into powerful performances. Even my everyday life became filled with stories of spontaneity and humour, sometimes even stranger than fiction, that I would retell to my friends, hands flying and eyes sparkling with excitement.

I love to tell stories, in every way, shape, and form. When I think about the core of who I am and what I am passionate about, my identity as a storyteller is always one that just feels right. It settles into my soul like it belongs there. I love words and the way creativity and the real world weave together like multicoloured threads, making people stop and listen and feel and engage. Remember the last time you read a book that made you cry or laugh out loud or wish you could have coffee with a character?

I want to do that.

IMG_2899

 

An ode to 2017

2017. What a year.

Thank you for being one of the best yet. Thank you for allowing me to pursue myself, to pursue passion, to pursue learning, to pursue adventure, and above all to pursue Jesus and the plans He has for me. It’s been so good.

2018: you’ve got a lot to live up to…somehow I’m believing you’ll be even better.

So here’s to you, 2017, with all your jumbled joy and challenge. Thanks for being:

 

A year of adventure and of travel.

A year of learning.

A year of working and a year of rest.

A year of strangers and of friends and of family.

A year of thriving.

A year of passion, of cultivating dreams, a year of sparks being fanned into flames.

A year of church searching and finding.

A year of getting lost and of laughing.

A year of rain dancing and mountain climbing, a year of paddle buying and canoe trip leading.

A year of address changing.

A year of deep question asking

A year of meetings and long days in a cubicle

A year of language learning and poem reciting.

A year of climbing and of hiking, of dancing and of stretching

A year of coffee shops and life chats that lasted until the wee hours of the morning.

A year of geyser watching and waterfall chasing, of cave swimming and pouring rain zip lining.

A year of book reading and blog writing.

A year of coffee drinking and bread baking.

A year of bike riding and of long walk taking

A year of chasing the future and a year of quiet nights taking it the now

A year of back porch dreaming and fairy light hanging

A year of prayer and of pensiveness

A year of breathing deeply in Creation

A year of gratitude

A year of changed plans and positive attitudes

A  year of late night essay writing, of co-op interviewing, of office hours visiting, of difficult exam taking.

A year of duty and floor meetings, of loving residents and loving my teams

A year of bucket lists actually fulfilled

A year of inspiration

A year of loving people and of being alone

A year of contentment and of peace

A year of ignition, a year of climbing to the high diving board and getting ready to leap

A year of being spontaneous

A year of being unapologetic in pursuing who God created me to be.

Sometimes a year of anger, of fear, of frustration.

Mostly a year of hope and of joy.

Always a year of Jesus, a year of faithfulness, a year of promises fulfilled.

Thank you.

2018. I am ready for all you have to offer.

 

Passion Tea

GradPromJuly2015 309Hey friends,
It sucks that you all are so far away
(or maybe not, if you’re in Ottawa lets grab coffee).
I really love sitting with people and hearing about their biggest dreams.
The ones you don’t talk about so often, the ones that matter so much you don’t dare tell people, lest they don’t understand.
I want to invite you into my room,
pour you a cup of tea and sit with you on my couch by the window.
You’re lucky; I don’t clean my room very often but I always try to tidy it for guests.
Today, all the pillows are in place and the plants have been watered and the kettle is on
I want to hear what you’re passionate about.
I want you to explain to me things I probably won’t understand,
the things that make you talk a little too fast and gesture with your hands a little too much.
The things that make your eyes light up
and then keep you up at night, in awe of the beauty and complexity of the world we live in.
Tell me about how plants duplicate their chromosomes,
about how science exposes the miracles of creation
Explain how to find the best lighting for a photograph, how to set up the perfect shot,
to balance reality and creativity
Let me read bits of your soul on paper,
poetry and stories that capture the world and wrangle it into squiggly lines,
tell me how words beg for lined paper homes and pitch tents in old notebooks
Show me how to make a good cup of coffee, latte art and all
Share the secrets of the sky, the constellations and the nebulas;
whisper their stories, as if you lived each legend yourself. You, storyteller of the skies
Explain math to me, not in the way my 3rd grade teacher explained it,
Instead explain how the logic clicking into place explains the subtext of the way the world works together in I way I just don’t see
Tell me how you see colour and make paints and pencils
somehow recreate the world I can touch but never see the way you do,
let me into the exhale you feel when you do what you were created for.
Tell me what makes you feel alive. Tell me what you do to feel most you.
Who are you friend?
What makes you tick?
I only get one life, one set of eyes,
one mind to ponder with.
Let’s chat
and see through each other’s mind for just a little while.
I’ll sip my tea while you talk

 

Canoe with me

There’s something about sharing a canoe with someone.

You’re in each other’s space.

Moving forward as one, you can’t leave this person

behind.

Sometimes there is silence.

Except it’s never really silence because

your paddles are swishing through the water,

sending droplets flying and crashing down,

making noise in nature.

But when the other person says nothing, not even the biggest splash

can break the barrier.

Other times,

the banter flies back and forth without effort.

You make each other laugh and share silly stories

about the time you fell in a mud puddle at a school cross country race

or when you melted your compass into the plastic map case,

leaving it too close to the fire.

Voices echoing into the wide wild that surrounds,

two people connect

IMG_3419

 

Roots

Curled roots with deep dug holds in the dirt,

the dirt and rock

of the place I call home.

This land has twisted itself into every fibre of my being.

Growing up riding

on Dad’s shoulders, hikes through

Awenda and summer nights spent

learning how to imitate a barn owl

“Who cooks for you, who cooks for you, who cooks for you allllll”.

Setting fires, long lazy debates about

log cabin or teepee styles,

an afternoon spent rubbing sticks together

and wishing for sparks.

Butterfly catching

and fishing,

holding snakes and thinking

how cool it is to live in Canada.

Swimming until my parents swore I must be part fish,

doing everything to be on the water.

Put me in a rowboat, a sailboat, a canoe,

I need to be out there.

Laughter ringing through the woods,

recounting tales that made me known as

the storyteller.

Long hilly trails,

tears and sweat under a solo portaged canoe,

the moment when you finally see the water again.

Weeks of my life spent in the wilderness of Temagami.

Months of my life spent on the Island of Beausoleil.

All the years of my life, spent on the rocky, hilly, grassy, sandy, forest filled, sunshine blazing, cold air in the morning country of Canada.

Home.

Now, I wake up in the middle of the night,

to firetrucks raging down the road outside my downtown window.

My tent stays wrapped, buried in my closet, next to my backpack.

Sometimes I wear my hiking boots to school.

My souls cries out for

trees and wide spaces

for sunrises and quiet places.

For rainy afternoons on the back porch with a guitar,

for heart to hearts in a tent in the dark,

for swearing we were about to be eaten by a bear

and actually being woken by a raccoon in the cabin.

For quiet songs by the campfire,

glazed eyes entranced by the dancing flames and crackling leaves.

For moments of feeling small, laying

under the stars.

Talking about the future

or wondering who used to do the same things

long ago.

I can’t feel the earth beneath all this concrete.

The buildings wrap tendrils

around my lungs,

make it hard to breathe deeply;

they make it hard to truly be me.

 

 

 

Wild Fire Humility

They’ve said I should be a lawyer, because

I’m awfully good at talking.

A full steam ahead,

one track mind

and a stubborn heart,

an articulate tongue

and an eloquent argument.

I love a good debate and I’m full of ideas

that seem to make my brain a dam that will

inevitably break.

Yes,

this girl knows how to talk.

And yet, I am learning more and more

how to listen.

To quiet my soul,

to bite my wild fire tongue.

I am writing a new definition for

the word humility. (I keep my own dictionary

because I used to like to think

I know everything. )

Now, I pass my notebook around

and let other people add

their personal thoughts and commentaries.

Handwriting I can’t read in English,

let alone the addition of scripts

I have never learned. My definition becomes one

of many colours

and experiences that breathe the air

of every country in the world.

Each face I meet knows something I don’t

 

I am welcoming the taste of

the stones of ignorance that are harder to swallow than pride.

Welcoming the cold water shower that wakes me

from the sleepiness of my privilege.

I am opening my eyes wider than before.

I am tuning my ears to different channels.

I am engaging with people who ran on different train tracks

than my fast moving mind.

I am sitting down in the quiet with those who can’t stand up in the chaos.

I am letting humility be the fire running wild in my heart

 

Trust me,

I still love to talk.

But now,

I seek to expand my own definition

by also becoming a listener.

image

Just some unedited ramblings from this soul under construction

Until next time,

-Sam ❤

Samantha

img_1356

I dream that the world
will one day be printed and tattooed on the back of my hands,
like watercolours that swirl and mix.
Remind me of nights spent under the stars
Or nights I spent laughing
with a drink in my hand as I tried to understand tongues
I don’t speak.

I debate furiously.
My cheeks flush and I start flourishing my hands, sometimes
I knock things over, laugh it off and keep talking.
I listen intently and respect your ideas;
that doesn’t mean I won’t fight back
if I think you are wrong.
I just really love to have conversations with passion.

I care deeply about those I know
and those I don’t.
I will fly to the tops of mountains
and dance through valleys and fight off the dragons that
go bump in the nights of injustice.
I let hugs speak louder than words.
I will lend you my heart when yours is too worn out to be sewn together again.

I am the “mom” at 19,
I bake bread and cut it while it’s still warm and yeasty.
I will knit you a pair of mittens to warm your hands
or tuck you into bed when you have had too much to drink.
I love to sit inside while it rains and drink tea with milk and sugar,
eat sandwiches with the crust cut off,
creating things out of yarn or else twisting words into poetry.

I breathe deepest underwater.
Submerged and floating, I open my eyes
and see sunlight warped through the layers, I am alive.
I curl my toes into sand, struggle to climb to the top of a lookout,
run my fingers along the ridges of a tree.
I breathe easier in nature.
I feel the Holy Spirit best under the cover of trees, or out on the water in the morning fog

I whisper prayers for the girl with the tired eyes
who pours my coffee in the library
and for my homesick friend adjusting to university.
I sometimes forget to read my bible
or lack the boldness to pray at church.
I choose Jesus,
on the days when life is warm as summer
and on the days I am overwhelmed to the point where my tears
waterfall over my journal pages.
I am a girl, learning how to navigate the streets of a city
and the backroads of life.
Sometimes I panic because everyone I know
wants to work for the UN
or be a lawyer, a doctor, a CEO. I don’t.
I want to advocate for education,
to help farmers in Nepal
to give woman without a voice my own,
a voice that doesn’t just speak but
a voice that sings,
a voice that prays,
a voice that fights,
a voice that does not tremble or question it’s own validity and knowledge.

I hope that one day,
I will understand myself.
That the backs of my hands will be wrinkled with lines
of wisdom and stories told with great enthusiasm.
That the colours of the world painted there will melt together with
stories of triumph, of courage, of adventure and of humility.
I hope they will be hands that served others,
hands that held other hands
and hands that made a difference.
I just really want to make a difference.

fullsizerender

5:30am

20160628_055225.jpg

A finger dips into the water.

Ripples form rings as wide as the oldest tree.

The morning air tastes like

magic, as if a heavy sigh would be enough

to knock the world upside down. A boy

wraps his arms around his sun tanned knees.

Lily pad eyes peer out from under a waterfall of curls;

he lets his hair fall over his face, hiding

under the spell of dawn.

He wonders at the colours of

God’s crayon box.

The boy knows that the best shades are saved

for sunrise. The sun comes like a splatter.

The yellows, reds, oranges and pinks

seem to mix with every other colour he can

imagine. Absentmindedly, he twirls

a piece of grass between two sandy palms.

Eyes on the sky, he tucks these colours into the paint set

he keeps in an often unused corner of his mind.

A woman comes,

she calls his name and tugs him away.

She doesn’t care about the colours; she doesn’t know how

he craves the vibrancy of morning.

Morning is when the seconds drag more slowly

than his feet.

Morning is when the day is heavy

with surprise and potential.

In the morning, at dawn, no one

tells him he has to

talk.