Heather S. Ingemar's Blog

  

I used to write. A LOT. I wrote fiction, poetry, songs… Anytime I wasn’t actively engaged in something, I was stringing words together in my head. Describing the world around me, carrying on a conversation with God, constructing melodies. I thrived on the creation, drank thirstily from the well of dreams, hopes, and the beauty of language and sound.

I spent a lot of time writing, I spent many years making much of it public. I posted as much as I could, expressing myself the only way I knew how, seeking to be seen, somehow, someway, by anyone.

These days, not so much. It might be just the season I’m in, it might just be that the water in the well has run a bit low, it might not. Who can say? Muses are fickle creatures, after all.

In the meantime, I am addicted to Life. To the experience of Living, wholly, completely, and fully, as I never have before. It’s as if I have finally woken from a deep sleep, and am alive in high-definition, where every touch and breath and sunny day is so much more than it ever was in my imagination. I am Being, thriving on existing, and there’s only so many words — sacred, mindful, meaningful, beautiful — I can find for the act.

Part of me feels like this is somehow wrong; I have, after all, spent most of my three decades here on this earth composing my narrative. Recording it all, as bards do. This is who I am, isn’t it? 

But the rest of me says No, because to record experience, you have to somehow set yourself apart from it. That this is just the other side of the coin.

And maybe it’s my time to let someone else do the recording, and the composing, and the writing.

Maybe it’s just time to Be.

  

Even after one of the worst droughts on record,

The crocuses still bloom.

Even with the hardest of conditions,

They give their all.

I think we could all use a lesson from the plants.

  

I built myself a tomb of stone,

A sepulchur devoid of life

And in it I hid afraid, alone,

Mistrusting, prey to worry and strife.

Hardship blocked the only door,

The promise of pain too great for me;

I sealed my heart up tight once more,

In darkness I died and could not see.

But patiently You called my name,

And though afraid, I did arise.

You removed the stone, absolved my shame,

And I stepped free, reborn to shine.

Your awesome grace has made me new,

My tender heart proclaims Your truth.

  

Emily Dickinson said that “Hope is the thing with feathers.”

Today, the robins were playing little birdie games outside my window. They have a nest in my apple tree, and the three babies are raucous and delightful.

Robins are hopeful.

They return early every year to play in the snow when all the world is bleak and devoid of growth, for no other reason than they believe Springtime is coming.

And you know what? They’re always right.

  

I’m in the middle of building a shirt, and my sewing box has been open for the last few days. It’s been a while since I had time to indulge my sewing habit, and it’s been pleasant work.

The shirt I’m working on requires a lot of pleats. Pleats for the sleeves, pleats into the cuffs, pleats across the front… Pleating used to be my most hated part of a project such as this, it always felt like life’s hardships — one step forward and two steps back — but over the last few years I have gotten adept at it. These days, I can hand-pleat faster than I can do a standard gather!

Likewise, I’m getting better at processing life’s challenges. It’s that beautiful turning point, where things stop feeling like backward motion and begin to inch forward, giving me hope that one day I’ll have it all mastered:

The knowing and being Me…

The courage to be Bold and follow my heart above all else…

The giving myself compassion and grace as well as I give it to others…

For now, I’ll take this pleating and smile at the progress made. :-)

The online application stared me down. All I had to do was click and my music would be on its way to almost-certain stardom… Or so the music label website promised me. I fidgeted, looked out the window of my second-story apartment. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t sorely tempted. I was a musician, had spent years devoting my life to the study of performance, and this was what all twiddlers of strings wanted. To make money from something you love with every fiber, to play for crowd after crowd and be free of the struggle of a typical nine-to-five. To make that “big break” every “true musician” worth their salt wants.

Wasn’t it?

My friend poked her head in my room. “Have you sent it yet?” She asked. 

I shook my head.

“Why not??”

I think I knew, deep down, that music was more to me than a mere marketable skill. It was mindful, the careful and intense pleasure like a cup of tea on a rainy day. A borderline spiritual offering that moves, soothes, heals the brokenness of humanity. Sacred, even when lyrics breathed un-sacred things. Holy, even when the notes sounded anything but. I think I knew it wasn’t about playing for cynical crowds, or anybody, for that matter. 

Even then, I think I knew. Even my hesitating mouse-clicker finger knew my music wasn’t a simple commodity to entertain others.

But it took me a while to realize that was okay. That sometimes, the beautiful pleasure of a song sung for your own ears is the only validation needed.

  

Sometimes, I have noticed it is easier to talk ourselves out of our dreams —

— finding every excuse why we can’t, or shouldn’t

— fabricating every lie about how not trying is better

Than it is to actually soldier forward and possibly achieve.

As if the longing of a dream unrealized

Is somehow easier to bear

Than the dream itself… Or even the journey to get there.

  

What have you talked yourself out of lately?

My Faith is like Nature:

     Nuanced

     Surprising

     Not easily labeled.

For a long time, I thought that was bad. 

“In order to be Faithful,” there were rules, they all said.

And I drove myself crazy trying to adhere to each and every one…

…to the detriment of actually knowing God.

So I threw out the list,

Removed the complications,

Rested in simplicity,

And sought Him with raised palms

Opening my heart.

I hear Him clearer when I don’t try to label Him,

Bind Him up in a tidy book,

When I surrender to His elements

As the mountains shift and change

With the seasons of 

His design.

 

I am a Believer in God.

But in recent days, I find my Faith 

     Challenged.

     Questioned.

I am a-typical. My journey is unusual.

Doctrine frowns in my direction, making me

     Hesitant

          Anxious

For others’ unfavorable perception

Of my uncommon voice lifted in Praise.

And yet:

He led me Here.

He led me where I never expected to find comfort

And I cannot go back.

I will not turn from my Great Creator

I will not abandon my Rock

— whom I am finally coming to know,

Viscerally as a song.

And I will sing.

On gossamer wings, you float by,

A vibrant beauty

Here to touch down

Briefly;

Create ripples in my life

Leaving me enriched,

Different than before

For having seen the truth

In your grace.