Finding the Power in Poetry

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

Poetry is something I've always been interested in. Back in middle school, it was writing angsty poetry about anger, or being rejected by a boy. As I grew older, it began to evolve. Had more depth to it. Yet, poetry still felt like it made little difference to how the people around me saw the world. I was made fun of for writing it, or liking it. Either that, or my fellow students and I were left to beat at a poem to discover some unseeable meaning. Poetry, to me, was special, yet not powerful.

On June 18th-19th, I got the amazing privilege to attend the Skagit River Poetry Festival, a poetry festival where poets from all over attend in the Pacific Northwest to talk about poetry, give advice, and read. According to Molly McNulty, executive direct of the Skagit River Poetry Foundation, the festival's goal is to be a "love letter" to the community. To sum it up? It was powerful. But don't worry, I enjoy writing much too much to just give you a summarized version of this event.

During my last quarter of college before graduating with my AA-DTA, I took a class with the intention to study poetry and how the written word interacts with performance and the audience. It was through this class that I got to attend the festival and shadow a poet for two days. The poet I got to shadow was Lena Khalaf Tuffaha. It was through her that I learned the power of poetry.

Tuffaha is a first-generation American and has Palestinian, Jordanian, and Syrian heritage. Many of her poems are about crossing cultural and political boarders. In an interview with her, I got to ask her a little bit about why she writes what she writes. She told me that as a writer, she feels a responsibility to tell the truth of what is happening in her homeland and the lives that are being affected there. Here's a little sample of her work:

"Run.
You have 58 seconds from the end of this message.
Your house is next.
They think of it as some kind of
war-time courtesy.
It doesn't matter that
there is nowhere to run to.
It means nothing that the borders are closed
and your papers are worthless
and mark you only for a life sentence
in this prison by the sea
and the alleyways are narrow
and here are more human lives
packed against the other
more than any other place on earth
Just run.
We aren't trying to kill you." (An excerpt of "Running Orders" from Water & Salt)

Tuffaha told me about her home. About the library her grandfather had and the countless hours she spent reading. The influence that had on her poetry. Yet, so much of that is being destroyed. It broke my heart. "How can I create a change?" I asked. She told me, to simply use my knowledge of the world to create a change in the people I know. In other words, don't let sexism, racism, and other offensive behavior go uncalled, especially with the people you know and who trust you. Use your light to shine in the darkness. But most of all, don't under estimate the power of the written word and a passion to create change.

Poetry is power.

I saw this in other poets as well. Tina Chang reminded the audience that every missing child could be one of our own. Ada Limon described the feeling of watching a life slip away right before your eyes. Quenton Baker used spoken word to transform the audience to slave ship. And every single time, I was right there. I was walking with the child and then he disappeared. I held the hand of the dying person until it went limp. I saw the shivering mass of bodies huddled in fear as the boat rocked violently. All it was were words, but it was what were in those words that mattered.

It's easy to think that your words don't matter. That no one will get, or even want to hear, what you have to say. It's not true. Your words, passions, experiences, they have so much power. Use them. Celebrate them. Embrace them.

Most of all, I invite you to find the power of poetry. Allow it to give you a different view of the world.

If you would like to learn more about Lena Khalaf Tuffaha, click here.
If you would like to learn more about the Skagit River Poetry Foundation, click here.
If you would like to read some of my poetry, click here.

What does the power of poetry mean to you? We all have something to say. Go ahead, pick up that pen, and write. But don't write for the world. First, write for yourself. 

Happy writing,

Elizabeth

Backpacking Through Ireland

Hello friends,

As you may know if you follow me on Instagram (go do it), I went to Ireland over spring break. I'd always wanted to visit everywhere and anywhere in Europe, so after I found out my friend Chloe would be there over my spring break, I knew this was the time to go. My friend Sasha, who has been living in Russia the last few months, also was able to meet us. Honestly, seeing these girls and getting away from work and college was SO needed.

I've had multiple people ask me "So Liz, how was Ireland?" And honestly, I've never sure how to respond. Awesome. Great. Amazing. Adventurous. New. Tiring. Good, so so good. It was one of those experiences, that the entire time leading up to it, and even while I was there, I couldn't quite believe it. But what truly made the trip so memorable were the girls I spent it with. From getting dropped off on the side of the street in the middle of nowhere at night after missing a bus stop and getting snowed in at our airbnb, to sneaking in a third person into our hotel room (lots of giggles involved ) and visiting a Lord of the Rings themed pub with a "stalker" trailing us, there were so many crazy times where we just had to laugh (and frantically figure out what to do). I was so thankful they were by my side the entire time.

When I was preparing to leave, I knew I wanted to visit the Cliffs of Moher. Let me tell you, they were amazing! If you can get past all the tourists and are daring enough to venture past the walkway (ahem and ignore a couple signs) you will find yourself much more alone and with a better view.

I didn't realize just how much beautiful scenery Ireland had to offer, though, and my friends and I only explored a tiny scratch of it.

Can't get enough from just photos? Want to watch a weird video of my friends and I? Go for it darling.

Wow guys, it's been a long time. I got back from Ireland completely refreshed, but then work started again, and my final quarter of college before I graduate with my Associate's (three more weeks!!) and I just got so tired. Have you ever been so tired or overwhelmed that the things your normally love become a chore? That's what writing was becoming, so I had to take a step back for a little bit. But boy did I miss you all.

Have you traveled anywhere cool lately? Whether it's a camping trip, road trip, another state, or an entirely new country, let me know down below!

Have a wonderful rest of your week dear friends,

Elizabeth

My dad died on a beautiful day.

My dad died on a beautiful day. The skies were as clear as crystals with bright winter sun dancing across my hair as I laughed with my friends on the playground. He took his final breath right before dawn, unaware of the day that was to become the most memorable of his daughter's life. 

They say death waits for no man, and that one can never predict when one might die. Live each day to the fullest, they say. But I knew. I knew as I left the house that evening that that was the last time I’d ever see my dad’s living face. After all, his nearly lifeless body had been laying downstairs in a hospital bed for nearly a week, scaring me from leaving my room. My once strong father, turning into ash right before my eyes.

I had plans to stay with a friend. How cruel, you might say, that I left knowing my dad was going to die that next day, but you must understand my motives. My house scared me. I was terrified one day I’d walk downstairs staring at my dad’s unmoving body. I didn’t want to be the one to find him after his spirit had left his body. 

Please do not think me heartless. After all, I sat there grasping my dad’s hand, endlessly sending prayers upwards in hopes that somehow, my dad might pull through. But my mom knew, just as I did, that this was his last night. She begged me to tell him it was okay to let go. I refused. It wasn’t okay. My tears spilt onto his skin, but unlike the movies, they did not wake him. Unable to say anything else, I fled. I would not watch him die. I would not pretend I was okay with that. 

It’s a bit ironic, how such a terrible morning turned into such a beautiful day. How something not okay, can look so very okay on the outside with just a little bit of sunshine. 

March 19th, 2011 was a beautiful day. It was one of the warmest days of the winter, giving the people of Western Washington an early taste of spring time. My friends and I made our way to the schoolyard near their house, still damp from the winter rains. My nose was pink from the cold. Maybe also from crying. I dodged a hand trying to tag me, and laughed as we both clumsily slipped in the grass.

My dad had just passed a few hours before. 

I remember thinking, how terrible is it for me to be laughing right now, after such a horrible thing happened? The guilt gripped my heart and turned it into ice. It would take years for that guilt to thaw into a puddle. 

Years later, I am much older and much wiser. I would change much from that day, yes. Now, I would hold my dad tight and wouldn't let go. I would be there for my mother as his body was taken away. I would cry and celebrate and mourn. My dad was gone, but he was no longer in pain. At age 12, I did not do these things, but who could blame me? I was only a young girl too afraid to look death in the eye.

I believe I needed that beautiful day and giggling friends. God provides blessings in the most outstanding of ways. He knew I needed to feel happiness before going to an empty house. It would take years before I could walk downstairs again without thinking that my dad would still be laying there. His helpless body taking painful breaths of air, never knowing which one might be his last. 

I still hold a puddle of guilt in my hands. The ice has slowly been thawed, yet something inside of me can’t let it wash down the drain. The puddle represents the stories I never asked about my dad’s childhood, the cuddles I wiggled out of when he was in pain, the body I abandoned after death. Yet, slowly, I’ve learned to accept that you can’t hold on to guilt forever. 

Guilt has a tendency to hold on and never let you go. But we are not defined by our past. Christ has called us His and we are loved. Let that guilt melt my friends, let it pass between your fingers and welcome in the freedom that is only possible by letting go and trusting Jesus. His grace is abundant and His joy is ceaseless. 

It was a beautiful day, the day my dad died. March 19th. It was beautiful, because the sun was shining as the birds sung their first song of spring. But it was also beautiful, because my dad was no longer sick. It was a beautiful day, because heaven had gained my dad. God had heard my cry. His answer was bringing him home. I didn’t understand it then, but I think I’m starting to now. And slowly, drops of water fall from my hands as my heart becomes warm again.

Thank you, Lord, for beautiful days. 

Here's just one chapter of my story. What's your story?

Elizabeth