Poem for Endurance

Eyes That See, Ears That Hear

I see it before me

Looming over me

Its size dominates me

Blocks nearly all light

The surface is smooth

Leaving me no place to grasp

No footholds to climb

The darkness and ferocity of my foe

Mock my small human form

I am so tiny

My grip is too weak

My legs have carried me

More miles than I remember

They tremble with fatigue

Before this beastly monument

This wall was not on the map

I have adhered to it always

Mountains were scaled by me

I wandered in valleys

Appreciative of their beauty and ease

The straightaways – I sprinted

All were on the charted course

My map is true

My compass has not failed me

Yet there it sits before me –

Wrong

Ending my quest before I can complete it

I am so tiny

And this obstacle so large

My grip is too weak

And there is no place for my hand

My legs tremble and buckle beneath me

I cannot win

Tears bathe my face

And water the earth

With handfuls of mud

I furiously scrub at my palms

Slowly awareness breaks through

I marvel at the callouses that have

Replaced the soft flesh

Without my notice

I rub the mud up my arms

Noticing for the first time

The strength of the muscles and sinews

My crying abates

The wall is large and seemingly indomitable

But my will is steel

And my eyes sharp

My mind is keen

On quivering determined legs

I stand

And stare the obstruction down

It is still enormous and terrible

But no longer frightening

And then, from the top

I see it,

Hidden in the shadows,

Blocked from light,

A hand

Extending a length of rope

I hear a faint voice calling out

"Take it, and I'll help you over."

Open Mic Themed Creative Writing, Part One

No Man’s Land

by Marianne Hales Harding

This is a reenactment of what happens when you are introduced in Relief Society as a theater artist: “Oh!  I did theater in high school!  But then I decided I didn’t want to be around those kinds of people.”

Thanks.

It’s somewhat similar to the reaction of many theater folks when they find out you are heavily involved in organized religion: “Oh.  I used to be religious.  But then I decided I didn’t want to be around those kinds of people.”

Thanks.

You could say that I have dual citizenship in two warring countries.

Countries with a somewhat permeable border but a huge problem with friendly fire.

Because even though most of the bombing campaigns aren’t aimed at me, personally, it’s impossible to set up house in No Man’s Land without acquiring some wicked scars from misdirected grenades.

I know what sort of Christian I am (and what sort of Christian I am NOT) but it still gets under my skin when someone rants about Mormonism.

And by “rant” I don’t mean “explore personal experience and come to a different conclusion than I would” or even “angrily denounce something I hold dear.”

And I know what sort of artist I am (and what sort of artist I am NOT) but it still gets under my skin when it is assumed that anything raw, anything that hits hard, anything that’s rough around the edges isn’t worth listening to.

I know which grenades are aimed at me (and which ones are NOT) but that doesn’t mean they don’t knock me off my feet when they explode.

Could this please be 10 square feet of Provo that doesn’t have a land mine?

Where we can be raw and open and personal and vulnerable and SAFE?

Where no perspective is deemed more valid or more truthful than another?

Where you don’t assume that I’ll grow out of my theology and I don’t assume you need to be rescued from yours?

Where we don’t stand here yelling at each other and never see beyond the Propaganda Enemy on the newsreel?

Where we start with the assumption that we are all good, smart people doing our best?

Isn’t this where a lasting peace starts?

Isn’t writing a quest to understand and be understood?

To take something foreign and make it familiar?

To make peace between two warring concepts?

To make us all residents of No Man’s Land?

If only for 7 minutes on a Thursday night.