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Art

On Tiger Balm and Hope

Some cold winter nights
when it's dark and snowing
I rub tiger balm all over my collar bone.
Smear it on my neck, too,
right before I sleep.

Not because it's now flu season,
not because of sore muscles,
but because on the oinment tin

it says:

“Relieves aches and pains.”

I know it's talking about a bodily ache,

the kind you can rub some mystery balm on

and the pain will seemingly vaporize into the air

right along with the menthol.

I've got an ache

that won't go away. Not with menthol

or writing

or company.

Not with time or touch or

anything else.

I wanna smear it away so bad,

in one evening. I want to be heard

in the day of my trouble.

There's a better balm

than a tiger, a Lion.

You don't use him to make it better,

but his aroma is better, so I wait and I'm waiting.

And in the waiting I put on tiger balm,

and I put it on thick, to remind myself that

one can see goodness in

the land of the living.

There is such a thing as a problem

that the God of Jacob

eradicates before twenty four hours is up,

even before the end of this poem.

(Psalm 20:1 and 27:13)

oh, unendless grace.

....I leave for Baltimore, Maryland, Tuesday. Getting to fly far away couldn't come soon enough.

So much of me longs to be flying away to my home.
But of course I know that there is no such place, now, and I've been feeling the fact that I am an exile and longing for the city whose builder and maker is God, more than ever these days. And yet, in the midst of a dry and vague season I am eager to see if the Lord has a place where I can finally unpack my clothes into a dresser and dive into others' lives. Seattle, Minneapolis, Philadelphia....or who knows where.


I'm hoping that as I visit the east coast things will be made clear. I've been so confused, lately, about everything. I was once fairly confident that I had an idea of the path God had for me, even which desires of mine were His, too. Not so much, anymore.
But it is a sweet thing, because I know He will accomplish everything in His time.

All this to say I would love your prayers for me in the next two weeks, that I would feel a strong sense of where I should be in this next season, and even regarding the calling of my life.
Especially pertaining Philadelphia: I'm hoping to be able to take the train up to check out schools at sometime during the trip. If you actually read this blog, you probably know me well enough to know that I've been absolutely infatuated with this city ever since I was a little girl. I read books and books on the city of brotherly love as a second grader, cherished every story my nana told me about our Quaker abolitionist ancestors in Pennsylvania. In high school, I was convinced I was being led there for the sake of the kingdom among the arts and hip-hop communities. Needless to say, my dream might be a little shattered if I don't even like it. :)

On that note, I am grateful for you my dear friends! Especially if you have made it to the end of this post. Much love.

Grace and peace,

Rosie

An emo letter to a misogynist.

If you asked me if I loved you, I would say, “No. “ And if you came into Hard Times and our eyes locked, or if you saw me in the corner with my book, I would walk out without turning back, without whispering a hi or even waving. If your best friend asked me if I still had feelings for you, I would vehemently let the words stream out of my mouth, how I don't have a drop of respect for you, and can't believe your arrogance and how you treat people, and everything I said would be true. If my friends asked about you, I would say you hurt me over and over, and they would say you are a jerk, or even an ***hole, and I should never talk to you again, and I would agree.

But if you said you were sorry, with tears in your eyes, I would cry.

And if you sent me flowers, I would wonder.

And if you looked at me with eyes opened, I would hope for redemption, and I would hope we could call it new. I would hope He would call it new.

And if I had breakfast with a friend, and she asked if I was seeing someone, I might say, “No. No one I love loves me.” “....Who do you love?” And without thinking, between bites of blueberry pancake, I would say your name, easier than anything I said all morning.

She would laugh and say, “Is he your one true love?” But later I would wonder.

And if I dreamt about you, I would dream you were on the North Shore, and thinking of me, and I would wake up with a tear soaked pillow, and hoping it was true.

And if I wore my monkey pants I would think of you throwing pebbles on my window, and of your salt and pepper hair in my lap, Southside.

And if you went away and forgot me, the girl who never was much for you, I would still think of you.

And wonder why I do.

Tell me you smell my secrets.

Khary Jackson is one of my favorite slam poets. At the National Slam this year, his poem left me in tears. Because he has an amazing stage presence, the youtube won't do it justice, but you should check out his work, anyways.

At NPS 2010

Official website

Not Yet, But Soon.

When I was little, my mom germinated plants in the winter.

In Minnesota, winter doesn't mean more drizzle and extra chilly winds. It means snow up to your knees and fingers that fall off. And while the wind blew below zero outside in the dead of winter, the seeds were sheltered inside.

She kept them in our basement. I hated that basement. I tried to never go down there, not even to get ice cream. The shit piling high on the sides of the steps was enough, but it was dark, down there. The concrete floor was missing in places, and sand was all over. There were rats and mice and bugs, oozing mold, and enough sawdust from my dad's workbench to leave you feeling gritty. When I wanted a treat badly enough to go down there, I descended the steps with dread, creaked the door open, reached for the light switch as fast as possible, and snatched whatever I wanted from the freezer, slamming the top shut with vehemence.
I always leaped back up the stairs inhumanely fast and still remember the relief I felt once I was safely on the other side of the back entry door in the kitchen.

But there, among the vermin and the dirt and the cold dark, the seeds were left on shelves, right under a buzzing fluorescent lamp. All winter long.

And when the snow began to thaw into puddles on the sidewalks, and there were buds on the trees, I would put on my jelly shoes and blue striped dress ("It's not warm enough for THAT, Rosie!") and my mom would dig in the dirt and plant what she had kept in the basement, now seedlings.

I was always relieved when it was their time to be out in the sun and green and fresh air, having secretly felt bad for them all winter.

Of course, the ones that had been put under the lamp the longest always did best. They never withered.


I never thought the image of the sole light from the fluorescent in the basement that I saw as a six year old girl would now mean so much to me.



There is a time, coming.

And darkness makes roots grow down deep.

You think you're in a place you don't want to be- but you're probably just germinating.