FLOW & BLOW
“Art enables us to find ourselves and lose ourselves at the same time. The mind that responds to the intellectual and spiritual values that lie hidden in a poem, a painting, or a piece of music, discovers a spiritual vitality that lifts it above itself, takes it out of itself, and makes it present to itself on a level of being that it did not know it could ever achieve.” Thomas Merton
Finally, the long-awaited season two of CenterQuest’s Asia Poet Society huddled over Zoom last week. We welcomed four new poets to the group, adding to the original six, all graduates from the recent cohort. As one of my biggest surprises in recent years has been the discovery of my love for poetry, I circled this date with great anticipation and excitement. As I had the privilege of facilitating this time, we had spontaneous fun composing acrostic poems based on the word FLOW as a warm-up. The main theme I chose was “close,” as in near or intimate. We wrote for 12 minutes, came together, presented each of our poems, and then companioned one person at a time.
Art, or in this case, poetry, allows us to find ourselves. Our words, the economy, and the luxury of words dig, search, and draw something from deep or even the subconscious. When words show up, we are surprised “on a level of being that it did know it could ever achieve.” It is the kind of experiential union with myself that beckons me back. Our modern mind looks for reasons and rationale to prove, with precision and certainty to follow. So we think. Comparatively, our imprecise intuitive soul suffers until it is given room to operate and express in words, art, or music. Our words can be both frustratingly limited and delightfully limitless.
On numerous occasions, I have been surprised by the impact and invitation of one word or phrase buried in the sentence being conceived. I have been surprised by heart-tugging, soul-grabbing images while trying desperately to translate them into words. Sometimes words feel so intimate that I might as well be naked. Sometimes, lucidity arrives at a time least expected. The last line of the poem I wrote ends with this sentence. “Close is an elusive, earthly home between longing and belonging.” Close is a seductive, blissful space of being human, having arrived, and yet not arrived. To use biblical imagery, close is the Kingdom of God, residing between now and not yet.
My words are clearly my own, but at the same time, I am aware of the fact that they are not mine. They reflect perennial wisdom gleaned and processed in the context of my own life, spilling into the page for my rumination and inspiration, perhaps benefitting others. I am very aware of the “communal” human process that spans centuries and millennia. In this sense, I am part of a proud and prudent human tradition of expression, one that can never be contained in trying to make sense of life and its meaning.
Art also allows me to lose myself. I would not find myself without losing myself first. They are so interdependent that it must be “at the same time.” Art is not an addition to what we already are without losing oneself. Art must take some things away to add. I translate losing ourselves as suffering, a suffering of letting go. Art rediscovers who we are by both losing and finding ourselves. Richard Rohr talks about the two great agents of transformation: love and suffering. In the end, we are transformed only by love and suffering. To paraphrase Meister Eckhart, our spiritual maturity does not take place by addition, but by subtraction. I resonate deeply with the idea that art embodies this spiritual truth of losing oneself. I want to think that suffering unites humanity by leveling the playing field, thus providing solidarity. It is on this foundation of solidarity that art speaks and unites across all humanity at all times.
I honestly have no idea where this love for poetry and art will lead me. As of now, I am content to let it flow and blow, like “the wind of God” (John 3:8, The Message).