Honesty is such a lonely word.
Everyone is so untrue.
Honesty is hardly ever heard.
And mostly what I need from you.
Honestly, I've hardly written a thing all month.
A few months ago I joined a writers group online, and one of my initial goals was to choose a project. I thought of a few different things: a book about how Molly influenced my theology and ministry; a collection of worship dramas; a Lectionary-based book of daily reflections, either a year's worth or a season's worth.
And then someone suggested poetry. Which was flattering because that someone is a poet, among other things.
And then life became chaotic. Which shows few signs of diminishing. I have exactly two poems to show for April (one posted here), ironic given it was Poetry month and others were writing a Poem a Day.
And, honestly, I have no idea whether the poems I write are any good. Until recently I wrote a poem when I felt intense emotion about an experience and wanted to put it into words without explaining the life out of it. Most of my poems have been written quickly and never revised, creatures of the moment.
It was a new experience to revise and re-shape. I enjoyed it, but I don't know if it was *good.*
I will say, I find poetry very, very honest. So much of what I would like to write about I really don't want to share with others, or not many others, because these things have the power, I think, to hurt people.
Sometimes honesty about the things that have hurt us can hurt other people. I'm not sure I'm ruthless enough to tell the truth about some things. I care too much about the risk of collateral damage. Or maybe I care too much about having people regard me well. Or maybe I care too much about my private resentments. Or maybe I am taking a side trip through honesty to avoid making up my mind.