Poets, Soldiers, and Shoe Polish

Remembering Value

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My Dear Lovelians,

I have this pair of leather shoes. They are my favorite pair of shoes that I wear almost daily, so imagine my concern when they began to fade and stiffen with use. Now, fading I don’t particularly mind. Fading to me represents history and having been well-loved because of time spent going about business. Evidence of life if you will. But stiffness is a red flag signaling potential cracking in the future. Because quality means upkeep, I bought some leather lotion, read up on how to use it, then proceeded to spend the next hour or so cleaning and polishing to soften and restore the material of this pair of shoes I value. As I worked, my thoughts drifted to a conversation I’d had with a friend that afternoon.

My friend is sparkly. She has bright eyes and a mama persona, the kind of person who believes smoked salmon and good conversation revitalize the soul and the biggest fools are those who speak without thinking and behave contrary to common sense. She experiences first-hand all types of people in her line of work, which can be quite grueling at times.

I unraveled the ugly rug from last letter. Turns out it shed. A lot.

Listening to her stories while popping chunks of cinnamon-apple scone in my mouth, I thought about how different our lives are. Her job directly affects the lives of others while my vocation indirectly communicates to their mind and heart.

While my work by no means leaves me devoid of human connection and life experience, I cannot deny her stories gave me pause. As a writer, I often don’t see for myself the effect I have on others and can easily fall prey to the comparison trap, which never helps because I either walk away sauntering or in tears, ready to rip up all my manuscripts and toss all my pens.

As I contemplated whether or not my vocation actually made a difference and was worth continued pursuit, this song played in my head I had not heard in years but adored growing up because it is a ballad, a story-song. It goes something like this:

“Did you hear of the City on a Hill?”

Said one old man to the other

“It once shined bright and it would be shining still

But they all started turning on each other

You see the poets thought the dancers were shallow

And the soldiers thought the poets were weak

And the elders saw the young ones as foolish

And the rich man never heard the poor man speak

And one by one they ran away

With their made-up minds to leave it all behind

And the light began to fade in the City on a Hill

City on a Hill

Each one thought that they knew better

But they were different by design

Instead of standing strong together

They let their differences divide"

Ah, but the bridge is my favorite:

But it was the rhythm of the dancers

That gave the poets life

It was the spirit of the poets

That gave the soldiers strength to fight

It was the fire of the young ones

It was the wisdom of the old

It was the story of the poor man that needed to be told

City on a Hill lyrics by Casting Crowns

As I polished my shoes, I remembered my value as a writer. No, my value as a person is not tied to my value as a writer, or “poet” if you will, but it is valuable none the less. People need storytellers just as much as “soldiers.” Stories inspire, encourage, and help remotivate said soldiers to keep fighting for worthy causes, after they’ve rested up with my book of course. Also, this should go without saying, but our different vocations are not an excuse for me to be a coward and not stand up and use audible words when the situation arises.

So, I removed the bits that shed and found a new pattern

My dear Lovelians, as January draws to a close and you walk through the rest of this year, remember to celebrate once in a while, both yourself and others. Only then will the light return to the City on a Hill.

Just Some Thoughts,

Olivia

P.S. When pointing out the good in others, they often return the attitude.

Ta da! Finished. I like this one so much better