This Is Christmas

Stressed out.

Bank account drained.

Overwhelmed.

Lost, lonely and confused.

Is this what Christmas is for you?

Toys and games.

Wants and must-haves.

Lists of plastic dreams.

Rushing to beat the crowds.

Is this what Christmas has come to?

Santa and reindeer.

Cookies and treats.

Holiday wishes and greenery.

A tree with gifts underneath.

Is this all that Christmas is?

What has happened to that simple story?

Of one Gift so small.

Of one Life given for all.

Of a Love that gave it all.

Of Mercy that covered it all.

Who will remind us?

Of a precious Baby born.

Of angels singing majestic glories.

Of Love come down to earth.

The King-child in a stable.

It is our Story too.

Of sin-stained man.

Of the innocent Son of Man.

Of an agonizing debt that was paid.

When Love was birthed we were reborn.

Hope in the form of One so helpless.

Yet He would rescue us all.

Glory clothed in the garment of humanity.

Peace came to earth, God's will for man.

This is Christmas.

Staged

And still the illusion continues
The strangling silence goes unbroken
My helpless cry is locked inside
Behind my constant smile.
How long have I been on this stage
Scripts memorized so long ago
This role of mine is cast in stone
Curtains up, the show goes on.
How well I have performed
For no one knows who am I
Long forgotten is my self.
Behind the curtain I watch anxiously
I must portray what is desired
True self denied, to be the star
The best of all with nothing lacking
But something is left behind
Out in the open for all to see
Oh no! A piece of me stands awkwardly.
He sits in the front row silently observing
Wait! He slowly stands to his feet
My heart clutches at my breath
And as he turns and walks away
The real me mistakenly left behind
Crumbles to the floor, rejected fully.
Crushed I quickly don my mask
Smilng I sweep up the errant pieces
The show must continue on
Pleasing to all is my starring role
My performance is acted out perfectly
The illusion, colored brightly, deceives all.
Today as the play draws to a close
Behind me the thick curtain softly falls
A stubborn tear meanders down my cheek
But my audience only sees my smile. fixed in place
And standing to their feet they applaud.

Copyright 2005 J.N.Gallegos

Author's Note:
This poem was written about my father. Unfortunately he grew up in a household where performance and perfection were the only things that mattered. He brought that to my home as well. I hope that some day he realizes that people and relationships are what truly matter---not how good you are at something. It took me quite a few years of marriage to Mr. Querido to learn that I was okay just as I was. And that I didn't have to make everyone happy. In fact, it was IMPOSSIBLE to make everyone happy. Mr. Querido taught me that I just needed to try my best and that effort was good enough. I am so thankful that I finally learned acceptance is based on who you are not what you are capable of.

Isn't that why God accepts and loves us? He loves us because we are His creation, His beloved children...


"We love Him because He first loved us."
1 John 4:19

Gone

This was a poem that I wrote in August of 2006...
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GONE

Hollow, my cry echoes within
Where has the real me gone?
So many years shut in
Voiceless, motionless sat the she of me
Once or twice she would appear
Only to be cast aside
Tired of drowning in her tears,
Her person she vowed to hide.
Never good enough on her own
Miss Congeniality was soon added.
Friendly even to her own detriment
Her pain accepted as long as others were okay.
Always placing herself last, behind the scenes, beneath all others
For fear of becoming like her father,
The star of the show--trodding on everyone.

And so now I look inside
Desperately searching for the me I hid.
However she I cannot find
And I wonder how long ago she disappeared.
Their disapproval drove her deeper
In to the black hole of ostracicity.
Until so far sucked in, she forgot that I was me.

Where is that little girl so tender? I ask myself.
And the only answer I receive
Is the hollow echo reverberating all around.

As I sit here, I ponder
If I have lost the me within
How is it possible I exist?
Has the facade so overtaken
Now running on autopilot?
Except that I am not the one driving!
Out of control is how I feel
Or maybe there isn't any left of me to weep.
No one of me to mourn my passing
No her to scream as we plummet.
Deeper and deeper into the abyss of nothingness, no identity.
In this place, there is no me!
How do I regain myself? I cry as we fall.
Can I even remember me?
Does anyone know my true identity?
The crisis of self grips my soul.
I feel empty inside
As if there used to be someone
But that me long ago died.
Shut away from reality the she that was me wasted away.
Can the dead myself be resurrected?
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Okay, that was a little bit darker than the poetry that I have shared before. But all of my writing is not necessarily so uplifting. There are times when the inner tears turn into words on paper. Or the fire of anger burns on the tip of my pen. I use my poetry to express my feelings in the truest most honest way I know. I can be brutally honest with myself when I write. And there is no one to judge how I wrote it, or what tone it took. It is simply for me. So I risk putting it out here. This is down to the nitty gritty of my soul. But I felt that you should know me as a whole rather than just a part.

The Coalmine

Currently,I am reading "The Freelance Writer's Bible" by David Trottier. So far it has been very helpful. There are some slightly off mind-games that the author recommends for creative writing. But as a whole, he really knows his stuff and I just ignore the weird parts.

As you may have guessed, by the above-mentioned book title, I am considering (prayerfully) writing as a career not just a cathartic daily activity. I was in seventh grade when my teacher Mrs. Olfert discovered my untapped talent as a writer. I think that our first writing assignment was a poem. Oh how I remember the despair I felt-- "How can I write a poem? I'm not a poet!" But it was mandatory, and I was an 'A' student, so not wanting to fail, I completed the assignment. Most students wrote about deeply inspirational things, or beautiful events and places. What did I write about? A desk. I wish that I had kept a copy of that first poem....sigh. Needless to say, Mrs. Olfert saw the diamond potential in that coalmine of words. She proceeded to cultivate the writer within me. I am forever grateful to her. After that, I couldn't stop writing. I had found a way to express myself! I kept pages of journals, chronicling my journey to adulthood. Sadly, those too have disappeared throughout the years. Writing was my faithful friend throughout many painful life lessons. I don't have to try to write, I just do. I also recall that in preparation for eighth grade graduation, Mrs. Olfert had us write out a speech of what we had gleaned from our junior years at school. I hated speaking in front of people so I tried my hardest to write a TERRIBLE speech, because she told us that the best ones would get read in front of the auditorium audience by the AUTHOR. I revisioned and rewrote it a bunch of times, finally confident that I had done poorly. Well, I ended up having to memorize it and say it in front of the audience. I touched Mrs. Olfert so deeply that she cried. I guess it wasn't that poor of a speech after all...lol!

Mrs. Olfert greatly influenced me. She always told me that I should write a book someday. Perhaps I shall, but it won't be today! However, I am seriously pondering writing for money. It would be nice to have a supplemental income that required no start-up capital, no college degrees, and no commuting! So I am researching how to get into the writing business. If anyone is reading my blog and you have experience in this area, please feel free to comment :)

So that is all that is on my heart and in my thoughts right now. Maybe I'll see one of my creations in print some day. For now, I just write for me!

With Purpose

The Vessel

With careful hands You carved me from nothing
Created to hold Indescribable Beauty
Out of common clay, my life You molded
Purposed to reveal Your Holy Glory
Why would You choose; knowing all of my impurities?
Why would You wait for clay so cold
To capture the warmth and vibrance of Your love?
What compelled You to let me house Your mercy
As You lovingly anointed me with His Blood?
Purified and sanctified, now I glow with Your presence.
As one redeemed, I shine forth Your justice.
A vessel born of grace, called to bear Your love.

Copyright 2005 J.N. Gallegos

Baby Steps..

This was written a little over four months after Mr. Independent was born. Babies are such great inspiration!

Eternity is held within your gaze
Bright eyes turned above
Heaven's wonder shown in many ways.
My child, my gift, my love.

Copyright 2005 J. N. Gallegos

I compose this for my firstborn as I watched him drift off to dreamland one day...

Sitting here watching him sleep
Still small and dependent on me
Deep brown eyes, closing slowly
I wonder what he sees in me?
Tiny fingers clutching dreams
Little ears listening to my heartbeat.

Copyright 2002 J.N. Gallegos

Flashback

As I was sorting through the disorganized mess of my writing portfolio (read: very small three-ring binder chockful of miscellaneous scribblings), I came across this...and I decided to share it.

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August 3, 2005 7:20 pm (Don't you like how I put down the time...neurotic!)

Tonight marks the genesis of my part-time career (excuse me while I go guffaw and snort)...(ok, I'm back again) as a writer. I find it rather amusing that I should even pretend to call myself a writer, but so it stands. A writer is someone who writes. Plain and simple. People would have this vocation become comlplex and forget the simplicity of putting pen to paper.

I, J.N. Gallegos, am a writer even if I never publish a single word or earn a cent for my work. I am a writer because it is a part of me. Writing is how I express myself best and most honestly. I am a writer because I see life as words, phrases, sentences and paragraphs. I am a writer because I write.

Long have I denied my most innate ability. I set it aside to pursue something more concrete (marriage and children..it doesn't get anymore concrete than that...lol!) And now as I stand with that dream realized, the desire and urge springs anew. It is time to write again, but now with a defined purpose. I am not so foolish as to suppose I can simply begin and have my work known. My writing muscles are grossly underused and weak. First I must strengthen them and then tone them. Perfecting my skill and finding my voice, yet once again. All of this will take time and this time must be allowed to pass. Patience and persistence shall be my watchwords.

Whether or not my writing will become good enough to be published is something that only God knows. And yet, strangely I feel Him smiling as I write the words. Why shouldn't He bless my talent, for He was the One Who gave it!

Tonight after many years, I find my voice and speak.

As I read my declaration, a sense of insignificance fills me. The feeling of breathlessness accompanies it. Yet mingled with these feelings is a "knowing" that this is what I have been called to. For so long I have ignored this calling and despised the gift I have been given. Oh God, forgive my casual attitude and ungrateful heart! I want to write what You would have me write. Let Your creativity touch my spirit as I embark on this journey to which You have brought me. Let me not grieve you any longer by neglecting this gift within me. Amen, so be it.

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Fast forward three years later...

What a lovely statement, but I cringe as I say that I have done nothing to make it come to pass. It was only the beginning of this year that I started my blog. The reason for its conception? An outlet for my writing and a place to stretch those creative writing skill muscles. Can you see my authorly biceps yet? However, I have immensely enjoyed coming to this humble blog and putting my thoughts down. I guess it is cathartic for a scrapbook impaired gal such as myself...lol! I like to think of this blog as my verbal scrapbook.

As I reread the above statement, I remember that failure is just strengthening you muscles for success...perhaps I have not completely failed in my quest as a writer!
And so dear readers, I begin the journey anew...

"There are no amateurs in freelance writing; there are only writers who haven't been published yet."
-Anonymous

"Write out of love, write out of instinct, write out of reason. But always for money."

-Louis Untermeyer