Where has my muse gone? I haven’t written any even halfway decent poetry since I took that poetry course a year ago… Hmm. I need inspiration. Have I run out of ideas? Am I stuck with one mood or type of poetry that my natural selection of words and phrases caters to and that’s it? I’m beginning to ask the questions. Poetry used to be so easy for me… I remember getting into a discussion about whether prose or poetry was easier; I maintained poetry was since I could just let myself go. But lately when I take that approach it ends up sounding hackneyed and recycled. I don’t know.
Her words a few days ago struck a chord. She said I’m too influenced by others; that in effect I let the opinions of others shape my life. I can see it. It’s difficult, though. I asked Aaron whether her observation held any validity from his vantage point; he said it did. He said that I will often seem to disregard my father’s advice, then later, perhaps subconsciously, implement it. It’s so hard for me to see, though, but I am beginning to. Today at work, for instance, I could feel myself slipping into the same pattern. I was talking with Ed, my manager, a new believer (praise God), and I could tell I was just listening to his words on the surface, playing along, letting the conversation roll over my ears without trying to perceive the needs underneath, to be the friend that I need to be to him. He has many, many questions, concerns, and issues, and I wouldn’t be a true friend if I didn’t try to speak to those and lift him up. It takes more energy, yes, it’s something I’m not programmed to do, yes, but am I programmed to be the man I need to be from the get-go? No, I don’t think so. I feel an extraordinary kinship these days with a series of statues Michaelangelo sculpted (bear with me). These statues are only half-completed; half Greek hero or kingly figure or whatever they were intended to be, and half unhewn stone, rough and fresh. I feel like the intent behind those statues, like I am trying to pull myself out of the rough stone of my past and forge the man I am to be. The metaphor applies to the entire process, though, as it’s stone, and I can’t do it myself, not even to begin. What does it mean to be a man? What does that mean, in practical terms? I thrist with every breath for ever more fragments of the answer.
