My purpose is a language that can make us whole,
though mortal, ignorant, and small.
The world is whole beyond human knowing.
The body’s life is its own,
untouched by the little clockwork of explanation.
(from “Some Further Words” in Given: Poems by Wendell Berry)
Well, I’ve done it now.
In the past 9 posts, I’ve published as a 9-part poem my spiritual autobiography (beginning here). I’m left wondering if it was the right thing to do.
It seems so raw, so stark, so undeveloped. Like an unborn child not ready for the light of day, unable to breathe in the fresh air the world has to offer.
I’m left to wonder if in an effort to explain my pain I have violated some sanctity of life – my own and my family’s. Is there not value in leaving some parts of life “untouched by the little clockwork of explanation”?
On the other hand, it could be that the doubt I’m having stems from the shame of “being Bipolar”. Maybe the throbbing sensation I’m having in my gut now is more the hurt that comes from opening the wounds for healing.
I have no doubt this autobiographical poem needs a lot of work. Now it’s like dry bones in a desert, waiting for a gust of the Spirit to come along and breathe life into it.
I’ll leave it up for now, present it to my writer’s group tonight, and decide where to go from there.
I would be interested in hearing from those of you who have read it (or parts of it). Has this poem helped you know something in the world a little better? How can I make it better?