Grayscale & Color: a spoken word
I've slowly been encountering more and more of a writers block on this blog. Not for lack of content, but for lack of momentum to form complete thoughts. I realized, maybe these complex thoughts that tend towards overly wordy paragraphs, are meant instead, to be articulated in lyric form. So here goes, a stab at spoken word. Video and "lyrics" below:
by Megan Kara
Sometimes, it's just grayscale.
Dimensions faded into a two tone outline of days,
hedged in by a series of unilateral boundaries.
Life goes on, the world goes around,
and I'm there somewhere in between these repetitions seeking a remedy.
A chorus of crying wakes me at 7am,
from two needing babes seeking me like a mother hen.
My stomach aches for hunger, my body aches for motion,
my mind aches for intellectual conversation and perhaps meditation.
Yet what's more,
my soul.
My aching, aching, soul. It craves the colors of big sound and expression.
God, WHAT are you doing?! I scream on my knees.
The sun on the horizon, ants biting at my feet.
A day, another day,
another day,
all the needs the same,
what, what, what am I doing, what am I possibly here to gain?
A moment I find the flow, it's not without interruption,
how's an artist to grow in this zoo
or is it mental corruption?
Am I even an artist anyhow? Or just some sort of well intending fraud?
Who am I really, do I even believe in God?
Then I get offended, no where to turn,
so on my knees screaming sobbing tears serves to confirm.
More than a crutch, it's substance of reality,
made in the image of God very very specifically.
More than mysticism or intellectual rewiring of our brains,
I shared this with Gabriela of the grocery for whom I'll continue to pray.
Oh why would I keep this to myself?
Even the skies are illustrating this kind of radiance,
their expanse is shouting out about this extravagant creation of His hands.
After one breath comes though another storm,
when my mind digs deeper into the questions and thoughts I store.
There are two that help me navigate this territory,
one man on earth and the other eternity.
How to mother small ones and nurture a soul,
when my body recovering from labor is still repairing & sore,
God, WHAT are you doing?! I scream on my knees.
The sunset on the horizon, ants biting at my feet.
Then, stillness and calm,
like a cool soothing balm,
when babes are contented or the night lets them rest,
when I can simply soak in their presence and just be me without some sort of test.
The tiny and growing frames, of their bodies so smooth and pure,
yet so undefiled by profane things of this world.
Oh God protect their hearts and their minds, especially from monster me,
help me show them repentance where and how You set us free.
They're just soo..
beautiful.
Calm into the night,
laughter into sleep and dreams into flight.
Woken soon by rustlings, remembering even rest isn't my own,
so little margin for oneself, deep deep cravings to just be alone.
Why am I crushed through this funnel,
all those thoughts,
dreams,
pursuits,
friendships,
left to be filtered and narrowed.
Yes it's temporary, I know it's just for now,
I'm still allowed to grieve and cry sometimes just to try it out.
To let feelings be feelings, they don't have to hide neatly away,
let my offspring learn young,
that emotion is a part of a soul,
that form of beauty is confusing and not meant to be constrained,
Welcome the world into it? My mess, my clutter?
My son insists he'll help me "find my life" he looks for me in the drawer.
That's me?
Megan Kara? A pure beloved pearl?
And with that a new tender thought is born.
I'm not always graceful,
I have swinging arms and blocky legs,
my voice isn't trained,
my son sometimes wets the bed.
I often say more than I should,
I feel deeply and it overwhelms,
my dishes have cracks and chips,
I've got many projects half begun.
My clothing style fluctuates,
I dream beyond my means,
my husband eats canned soup for lunch,
I struggle saying no to things...
...the thing is though,
Laying on prickling grass looking at sun setting skies,
breathing in hot sticky air with sweat on the face,
because finally,
Dancing.
Singing.
Painting.
Writing.
These things are motion.
getting beyond the cerebral devotion,
jumping into a new chapter where obscurities don't matter,
whether it be style or particular character,
or making a dancing commotion in orderly neighborhood streets,
oh my God, would You give me some rhythm to my beat?!
Too many months, or is it years?, cooped up in my body and brain,
for a little while there all the colors looked the same!
But slowly, you're seeping color through these cracks,
the broken places in my state of utter exhausted unrest,
That's redemption, color through the cracks,
of this grayscale reptition, I see it now through another lens,
It's a foundation to my madness, a desert for discovery,
a jungle for growing stronger, linking our arms in perfect comradery,
the beautiful people,
oh such beautiful people,
the needy smallest squishy ones,
to the old hardly hearing wrinkled ones,
to the gorgeous elegant and the tired frazzled ones,
and everything in between,
made in Your image,
we've each got our songs to sing.
I'll be your beloved pearl,
formed in the dust of the desert and the depths of an ocean,
or simply the frontiers of new motherhood assortments.
Even on grayscale days, you make porous cracks to fill,
with Your Spirit of color
and You always will.
-M
Grayscale & Color from Meg Engelhart on Vimeo.
Grayscale & Color
by Megan Kara
5-26-2017
Sometimes, it's just grayscale.Dimensions faded into a two tone outline of days,
hedged in by a series of unilateral boundaries.
Life goes on, the world goes around,
and I'm there somewhere in between these repetitions seeking a remedy.
A chorus of crying wakes me at 7am,
from two needing babes seeking me like a mother hen.
My stomach aches for hunger, my body aches for motion,
my mind aches for intellectual conversation and perhaps meditation.
Yet what's more,
my soul.
My aching, aching, soul. It craves the colors of big sound and expression.
God, WHAT are you doing?! I scream on my knees.
The sun on the horizon, ants biting at my feet.
A day, another day,
another day,
all the needs the same,
what, what, what am I doing, what am I possibly here to gain?
A moment I find the flow, it's not without interruption,
how's an artist to grow in this zoo
or is it mental corruption?
Am I even an artist anyhow? Or just some sort of well intending fraud?
Who am I really, do I even believe in God?
Then I get offended, no where to turn,
so on my knees screaming sobbing tears serves to confirm.
More than a crutch, it's substance of reality,
made in the image of God very very specifically.
More than mysticism or intellectual rewiring of our brains,
I shared this with Gabriela of the grocery for whom I'll continue to pray.
Oh why would I keep this to myself?
Even the skies are illustrating this kind of radiance,
their expanse is shouting out about this extravagant creation of His hands.
After one breath comes though another storm,
when my mind digs deeper into the questions and thoughts I store.
There are two that help me navigate this territory,
one man on earth and the other eternity.
How to mother small ones and nurture a soul,
when my body recovering from labor is still repairing & sore,
God, WHAT are you doing?! I scream on my knees.
The sunset on the horizon, ants biting at my feet.
Then, stillness and calm,
like a cool soothing balm,
when babes are contented or the night lets them rest,
when I can simply soak in their presence and just be me without some sort of test.
The tiny and growing frames, of their bodies so smooth and pure,
yet so undefiled by profane things of this world.
Oh God protect their hearts and their minds, especially from monster me,
help me show them repentance where and how You set us free.
They're just soo..
beautiful.
Calm into the night,
laughter into sleep and dreams into flight.
Woken soon by rustlings, remembering even rest isn't my own,
so little margin for oneself, deep deep cravings to just be alone.
Why am I crushed through this funnel,
all those thoughts,
dreams,
pursuits,
friendships,
left to be filtered and narrowed.
Yes it's temporary, I know it's just for now,
I'm still allowed to grieve and cry sometimes just to try it out.
To let feelings be feelings, they don't have to hide neatly away,
let my offspring learn young,
that emotion is a part of a soul,
that form of beauty is confusing and not meant to be constrained,
Welcome the world into it? My mess, my clutter?
My son insists he'll help me "find my life" he looks for me in the drawer.
That's me?
Megan Kara? A pure beloved pearl?
And with that a new tender thought is born.
I'm not always graceful,
I have swinging arms and blocky legs,
my voice isn't trained,
my son sometimes wets the bed.
I often say more than I should,
I feel deeply and it overwhelms,
my dishes have cracks and chips,
I've got many projects half begun.
My clothing style fluctuates,
I dream beyond my means,
my husband eats canned soup for lunch,
I struggle saying no to things...
...the thing is though,
Laying on prickling grass looking at sun setting skies,
breathing in hot sticky air with sweat on the face,
because finally,
Dancing.
Singing.
Painting.
Writing.
These things are motion.
getting beyond the cerebral devotion,
jumping into a new chapter where obscurities don't matter,
whether it be style or particular character,
or making a dancing commotion in orderly neighborhood streets,
oh my God, would You give me some rhythm to my beat?!
Too many months, or is it years?, cooped up in my body and brain,
for a little while there all the colors looked the same!
But slowly, you're seeping color through these cracks,
the broken places in my state of utter exhausted unrest,
That's redemption, color through the cracks,
of this grayscale reptition, I see it now through another lens,
It's a foundation to my madness, a desert for discovery,
a jungle for growing stronger, linking our arms in perfect comradery,
the beautiful people,
oh such beautiful people,
the needy smallest squishy ones,
to the old hardly hearing wrinkled ones,
to the gorgeous elegant and the tired frazzled ones,
and everything in between,
made in Your image,
we've each got our songs to sing.
I'll be your beloved pearl,
formed in the dust of the desert and the depths of an ocean,
or simply the frontiers of new motherhood assortments.
Even on grayscale days, you make porous cracks to fill,
with Your Spirit of color
and You always will.
-M
 |
| Graphic artist unknown - but I have grown increasingly attached to this image as a visual to my thoughts as of late. |
Comments
You seem to have a natural ability for prose. Keep it up.
Love, Mom