Monday, 16 July 2007

We are the embodiment of stories most potent.

We are the embodiment of our story. The way we talk, the way we catch our breath, what causes us to howl with laughter or hold back tears is all influenced by our story. And indeed the big stories in our lives, the stories of great wounds and epic challenges create a template by which all other stories are invited to follow.

I have for some time been interested in what happens to us when we look at our lives as story. How does the retelling of one particular story over years change our history, as intensity shifts and understanding evolves? Where do we hold this sorrow? How does our belly react to that joy?

How often do we see a person and reflect on how their lives are etched across their faces. And what is etched across mine for all the world to see.
I ask myself how understanding the Christian story alters how I now tell the story of my life.

Such questions are large for me at the moment as I embrace the complex world of Hermeneutics and indeed question not only the influences I bring to my interpretation of Scripture, but also to the Story of me.
Several years ago when I first wrote the piece below I had just begun to identify the Holy Spirit as Feminine and indeed beyond those qualities attributed to scripture I personally had begun to relate to the Holy Spirit as very much a creative force that moved in and through me. Reading this I am encouraged to step away from the madness and and in an unguarded moment see how this story has evolved.

She wrote on me the Mother of the unformed word
Carved love songs and agonies into my flesh
She made me living word
And loved me when even angels turned their backs

She wrote on me the Mother of the unformed word
Word made flesh she nuzzled every story thread
Followed it with her teeth
Every revelation partially read she tasted

She wrote on me the Mother of the unformed word
With printers ink and captains feathers

she carved stories of tall ships
and small coves across my back
And wept rum when she had finished

She wrote on me the Mother of the unformed word
Of Unthinkable confessions
and dark tales in deep places
She sung sea shanty’s like lullabies
and whistled through worn down teeth

She wrote on me the Mother of the unformed word
Earthing me madly.
Mapped each sorrow, each delight
On completion her she paused
and whispered ideas for her next novel into the cove of my back
“A love song baby, something delicious-twisted sacred and pure”.
At this moment I am surprised how much I miss you

1 comment:

Pinarello Man said...

Phenomenal verse and you are right you do have a tendency for grandiose writing but I love it.
Where would we be indeed without our personal stories? They are a challenge and at the time amazingly painful but the end result is where we are now and how we react to others. Understanding the Christian story is new to me but again it does put a perspective on how we tell our story. Blame, unforgiveness, bitterness, anger, self doubt, procrastination can be viewed from a different angle and thus dealt with positively. For me reading and immersing myself in the text has served me well. What made it even more fantastically scary was that people from 2 different continents recommended the same course of action and reading material. So although we are separated by distance, the common uniting factor is God.