Out of Sorts

I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve been “visited” by something dark in the night. The first of such encounters happened when I was only 6, and to this day, I can recall the specifics of that nightmare, though I’ve never quite been able to understand exactly what it meant. I have my suspicions, but the meaning of it isn’t important for today. It was Biblical, there were snakes, and even at 6, I knew the snakes in that dream represented evil, and I was most assuredly in harms way. When I awoke sweaty and teary, I knew even as a child, that this was significant.

In the long years since, I have had many more dreams like that one—something dark always moving towards me, always pressing in, and in my dream, I am always aware that I am in the midst of an invisible war. Most times, I wake from these dreams exhausted, with a nagging sense of dread, and with the firm belief that there is more than an overactive imagination at play in these dreams.

During the covid years—my God, do I hate writing that phrase—I dove head-first into art journaling as a means of creative coping with—*waves arms around in all directions*— everything that was happening. We were in a societal and political tailspin, and truth be told, I’m unconvinced that we’re not still spinning, these 6 years later. You lived it too, so let’s move on. Those were the worst of times for many of us, and we are still naming our losses, and that seems to be what matters most for today.

But there were gifts unearthed in that season too, and for me, developing a rich creative habit has been one of the treasures mined from the rubble of a life collapsed by grief.

I’m going to say things now about evil1 and I trust that a handful of you are about to close this screen, perhaps even with an eye roll and a no-thank-you. I get it. Do what you gotta do. This is my story though, and for the record, I did not choose the characters or the plot.

During those strange covid days, like many others, I suffered a number of relational ruptures that left me grieving, disoriented, and questioning my worth. Because of some specific situations that had happened, I struggled to use my words. Instead of writing, I turned to art and images as a means of processing and making sense of what was happening. The intensity of those losses felt pointed and targeted—like I was under an attack of sorts. It was friendly fire that ripped my life open, and those who’ve suffered similar rupture know that this is the most brutal because we expect different from those who claim to love us. We expect different from those closest to us. We believe better about those in whom we trust. The scale of this kind of relational destruction is vast. This kind of affront takes down entire families, communities, and even generations. The damage is long-lasting and devastating. Recovery is slow and the scars, always tender.

In those disorienting days wandering around the rubble of my relational life, I remembered some of the dark dreams I’d had over the years, and had a handful more. These ruptures were significant, and seemed to be about more than what they were supposedly about. I remembered the snakes from the dream when I was 6 years old, the black panther that stalked my bedside in the night, the man in the black hat who had stared through my soul with dark, shapeless eyes. These were moments from dreams, but they were speaking to some very specific life experiences, and they were confirmed by others in unexpected, but unmistakable ways. There’s long been a felt presence of something ugly around me. I’ve always felt haunted. The relational breakdown I experienced during that season did not feel random, and the ways it derailed my work for a long season seemed intentional. The enemy of my soul was working to silence me and for a long while, it worked.

I Peter 5:8 names this enemy, cautioning that “the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour.” Evil has one goal—utter destruction of anything Good, and the ways and means of said destruction are consistent in their brutality. This adversary cuts us to the quick, and the hemorrhaging from such wounds can last a very long time.

One day, flipping through a magazine, I came across the image of a snake descending a staircase. It was the visual prompt I needed for the poem that came next. Art as exorcism begins most often for me, with an image. If you want to take up the practice, you can begin with an image, or a phrase, or color,—or even a shape—but for me, it’s almost always an image that sparks the process.

After saving the snake image, I began looking through some books for words or phrases to elaborate on what the image of the snake provoked in me.

The gift of “found poetry”, is that you don’t have to come up with words. Found poetry is a simple practice of collecting words from other sources and then arranging them in a way that makes sense to you. ← And that is the key—arranging them in a way that makes sense to YOU, for your purpose, and context. Art as exorcism is spiritual, personal work, and not intended to appeal to an audience. If you choose to share your practice, as I am here, you certainly can, but not with the intention or expectation that it will make sense to an outside viewer. If it does, I consider that an act of Holy generosity—when God uses our griefs to minister to others—but that’s not the goal, and not a burden that should even be “at the table” with you as you work.

For my purposes, and what all I was sorting through at the time, the snake image inside a house was the perfect representation of how I felt in that season—as if evil was in residence, wreaking all manor of havoc in my life, and thus the image became the perfect backdrop for my found poem.

As I sifted and sorted through cut up words, I found the phrase, “you’re keeping me from my work” and remembered that Scripture in James, 4:7 that says, “Submit yourselves then to God. Resist the Devil and he will flee from you.” This was the perfect surprise close to my poem.

Since that season, I’ve made countless other found poems for fun, as exorcism, as prayer, lament, and for recovery, and every time, there’s a phrase of a line that carries the weight of whatever I brought to the page. I’m equal parts thankful and surprised by the power of this simple creative practice.

In my work as a creative mentor and Therapeutic Art facilitator, it’s not my job to define for you what kind of experience you will have when you engage creatively with your internal stuff. How this practice impacts you is going to be specific for you, and the things you’re holding and experiencing. This is a deeply personal practice. That said, it’s well documented2 that engaging in creative practices impacts the neural pathways in our brains for the better. (If you engage regularly with a creative habit, you likely already know the benefits of it in your life. (And, if you need help with this, let’s talk.)

• Gather a few simple supplies: a glue stick, scissors, a couple of old books or magazines that you can cut up, and something on which to glue everything down. (You do not need anything fancy. (I have made found poetry from junk mail sitting on my kitchen counter while waiting for water to boil.)

• Next, you just start clipping and collecting whatever words or phrases are catching your eye as you flip through your materials. Don’t over think this process. If you paused for half a second on a word or phrase, clip it! This is one of the biggest hurdles in the practice—not overthinking and judging ourselves as we gather words and phrases. Once you shift to a judging posture, you cut off the part of your brain that’s trying to engage creatively. Let your curiosity breathe here.

• Once you’ve gathered a pile of words, (or you can do this as you find words or phrases) begin to arrange them into your found poem. Again, it doesn’t have to make sense to anyone but you. Art as exorcism is, first and foremost, for you.

If you decide to give this practice a go, I’d love to hear your thoughts on it. I’d love to know if you found it helpful or even just enjoyable.