Friday, August 23, 2013

How To Say It

I'm sitting in the dark of my apartment living-room.  I don't know what I'm going to say, what words I'm going to put here.  I know only that I need to write.  I need to write because it's in me, because it's good, and a reminder of all things good, and because my Mom, my sweet Momma, was so supportive of my writing, and so proud.  She saw something in me, and she pushed me to pursue it, the push I needed... the push I'm feeling dreadfully alone without.

I'm so weary of these emotions, these heavy, weighted emotions.  But, they're not done with me yet.
Not yet.

It's so difficult to see God's goodness anymore, even though I've seen so much of it, been blessed so strongly by it.  Now, in the dark, in the depth of this intolerable loneliness, it's difficult to trust that goodness.

This is heavy ya'll, and I'm sorry.  I don't want to grouch.  I want to say sweet, artistic, heart-blessing things.  But I have to tell the truth.

The truth is, life isn't easy.  Life hurts.  And I wish it would stop.

And, yet, deep down, there is goodness.  There is, because it was goodness that led me to open my computer, to ease my grief with the pressing of words onto this page, to open the black box of my loneliness, and share.

Because, dear readers, we must always share.  The hurt and the hope, the cold and the warmth, the truth, heavy, hard, and sweet.  Bittersweet.  But still sweet.

And all this heaviness, the broken words scattered here, are tokens of the goodness that will never leave us, nor forsake us.

A goodness I will find again, someday.

Thanks for listening,

-  Emma Pearl

And the Spirit of the Lord shall rest upon him, the Spirit of wisdom and understanding, the Spirit of counsel and might, the Spirit of knowledge and the fear of the Lord.  And his delight shall be in the fear of the Lord. - Isaiah 11:2

Wednesday, July 17, 2013

Home is...

A place to create.

Wednesday, October 17, 2012

In Praise

Is it offensive, do you think,
when I gush about my family?
When I smile a secret smile,
remembering my mother,
my father?
I know I am lucky, that so few
men and women
my age
were raised faithfully
from the opening of newborn eyes,
the stretching of red, warm, limbs,
into the realization of firm adulthood.

There are few of us who recognize
the weakness
of our parents,
the humanity of the men and women
who conceived us
birthed us
loved us,
few who know that
and respect,
mean blessing that humanity,
blessing those humans,
once warm and new themselves,
for doing their very best,
for heaving shining swords
at the sharp edge of life
that runs toward us,
their children,
for fighting while bleeding because
they would not see
one they love

They are never perfect.
No.  So often they are wrong,
so wrong.
Yet, so often they are right
beyond right.
We have not lived
the long and painful years
they have.
How can we argue?
How can we not love the very ground
their youthful feet once walked?
How can we not honor the effort
they made,
to build us and shape us,
bright monuments
to the goodness
that can be found,
that is,
warm and breathing
in the raw imperfection
of the human race?

-  Emma Pearl

This poem is a little different, less old fashioned in tone, one might say, than my normal writing, my attempt to be poetic in a modernist manner.  That, and a bit of a rant, the words that flow when a blessed person like myself, being away from home, misses her family very much.  Hope you enjoyed!

Wednesday, July 25, 2012

The Gifts He Gives

Posting over at Clickety Clack today.  Thanks to dear Everly for hosting me. Enjoy!

- Emma Pearl - 

Sunday, June 24, 2012

I Am A Writer

I am a writer.
Though my weariness slides over me,
pushes me to rest,
wraps me warm in sleep,
keeps me
from making music with words,

I am a writer.
Though my days are wound tight together,
task after task stacked
like dominoes,
things that must be done
jammed hard against my head

I am a writer.
Though I fear I shall never learn to focus,
never learn to sacrifice
for this passion for words,
this hard, aching, desire,
to grab ahold and never let go.

But I am a writer.
Though words rarely leave my fingertips,
my heart still holds ,
warm, and breathing,
the breath of words,
beating beside my heart.

I shall never give up,
never give in,
never stop trying,
because, regardless of anything,
my heart knows.

I am a writer.

- Emma Pearl - 

Sunday, June 17, 2012


My brother James carves wood, literally.  
He works the rough grain with knife and chisel and turns a blank slab into something unbelievable.

We had dear friends for dinner some evenings ago, shared chili and cornbread, then upside-down plum cake and poetry.  Afterwards, the twilight waiting behind the dusk, we walked to the wood shop to see James's latest project.

He is building a table, a sort of of altar table, for a Methodist worship conference. He designed it himself, a table with two sturdy, yet graceful, legs supporting an expanse of hand scraped surface.  The table comes apart, to be assembled and reassembled, and is fastened together with detailed mortar and tendon, a table with no metal, only warm, brown wood.  It is as if an ancient carpenter had taken a thick tree from the earth and shaped it with medieval tools and skillful hands.  The table is clean, and pure, a masterpiece of careful craftsmanship.

(Below is the completed projected.  Pretty stunning, right?)

The sun hung low, pressed against the horizon, when we left the building scented with wood.  The evening, still but for the clicking of crickets, met us with peace.

There is such a goodness in this changing of seasons, this refreshing of old memories, and this chance at new beginnings, this circle that wraps up our lives.  The circle brings us back, to where we were, shows us how we've changed, how old things are no more, and awes us with God's faithfulness.

Here I am, in another summer, watching my little siblings carouse about the yard in the glee of childhood, feeling the weight of new responsibilities, the crowded, unavoidable business of this time of year, yet stilled by the weight of quiet.  Summer, with its stifling heat, its long days of labor in a sweltering kitchen, heat cooled by sudden and furious rains, has a stillness to it, a stillness that pulls me from the kitchen, in the quiet of evening, to the sunset in the night air, echoes of childish laughter on the gray night breeze.

And I find, in that stillness, a place to pause and press my heart up against my soul, to listen to the beat I know so well, remember my own childhood, my old dreams and old passions.  They are still there, under my adult skin, wound tightly, balled up in my throat.  Write.   They say.  Write about everything. Write about life, its goodness, and its grief.

Adulthood does come.  We do move on.  But in our moving on, our childhood clings to our quickening feet, clamoring to be remembered, to be carried with us.  The seasons, with the warmth of memory, remind us of what we've left behind, carry us full circle, and offer us a moment, like an hour on the round path of a clock face, to start again, to remember, and to reflect.

May I offer you a blessing?  That this summer, as the heat pushes up against you, and your lives are filled and full, that your heart will come full circle, and our Father's grace, and faithfulness, will awe you and inspire you, and grant you peace.

- Emma Pearl - 

Wednesday, May 30, 2012

How I'm Doing This

There are several elements to my writing,
all of which I love.

First, there is my novel,
my magnum opus,

Then there is poetry,
the lyrical magic of words,
my old and new passion.

After these
comes blogging,
sharing life.
with you,
my dear friends,
old and new.

there are more academic
forms of writing
articles, essays, and
more professional pieces.

How to pursue
all of these?

Here is my plan.

Here, daily,
I shall share a poem.

And, weekly,
a picture of my life,
my home,
my heart,
also here.

Also weekly,
I will share a piece
of that week's work

one may overlap into the other.
thoughts shared on
may appear here
or poems written for here,
pop onto

And yes, some of this will be in a form other than free verse, such as just plain prose.
You shall see.  I promise.

- Emma Pearl -