Words, My Path to the World

By Gwendolyn Swanson and Grace Swanson

Words, My Path to the World is a compilation of poetry and essays that Gwen wrote from childhood to adulthood. Writing until things made sense to her was her way of dealing with struggles. She wrote about many thingsbeing a sick kid, being a survivor of sexual abuse and of bullying, looking for and finding love, being overweight, her faith, her family, creation, music, etc. She loved the spoken and written word. Sometimes her poetry is silly and sarcastic; sometimes it has a definite wow factor. Gwen died on July 12, 2012 after a short battle with ovarian cancer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Apr 16, 2014
• ISBN: 9781496902689

Gwendolyn Swanson

Gwen Swanson was born in Hibbing, Minnesota. She graduated from Hibbing High School and was a member of First Baptist Church. She graduated with a degree in journalism from Grand View College in Des Moines, Iowa. She worked for the Hibbing Daily Tribune for five years before moving to Portland, Oregon. She worked in a nursery school and was loved by her “kiddos.” She was a board member of Rahab’s Sisters and was active in the fight against human trafficking. Grace Swanson is her mom, a registered nurse, married for 41 years. I was able to spend the final three weeks with Gwen, to see her on her final journey to heaven's shore, and to see the Lord taking care of my family. Finding and compiling her writings has been a joy and instrumental in helping me with the grieving process.

Book preview

2014 Gwendolyn Swanson compiled with notes by Grace Swanson. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse  05/08/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4918-7275-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-0268-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014906685

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Introduction

Childhood

Music

Time

Looking For Love

Faith/Salvation

Family

Nature

On Writing

Identity

Bullying And Abuse

Social Issues

Portland, Oregon And Alex

Cancer

Conclusions

INTRODUCTION

I have compiled these writings as a therapy in coping with my grief of losing my thirty-four-year-old daughter to ovarian cancer on July 12, 2012.

Gwen was an avid writer. Her way of dealing with struggles was to write until things made sense to her, and she wrote about many things—being a sick kid, being a survivor of sexual abuse and of bullying, looking for love, being overweight, her faith, creation, music, etc. She was a fun and challenging child who read early and was curious about many things. She often had trouble putting down her book to do her chores. I have found joy in compiling this book and seeing some of these poems and writings for the first time.

I chose the picture of the wooden heart on the front cover of this book for what it meant in the restoration and recovery group that she belonged to when she got sick with cancer. The group leader would have them check into their hearts and feelings when they arrived. They would take three or four minutes to stop and be silent and listen to what they were bringing into the room that day. Often people get disconnected from what they are feeling, and so they had a list of words that they used to help them connect. The process of honoring those feelings by speaking them and feeling them is a way of moving forward to healing.

I would like to thank Alex Russell, Gwen’s fiancé, for helping with the editing of Gwen’s book.

CHILDHOOD

I do not know if I can write this. Perhaps, like Legolas relating the Lothlórien elves lament for Gandalf, the grief is yet too near. Yet I know words are how I work things out—so I must try.

Of course Kissa’s sitting in the middle of the page attacking my pencil as I try to write. As I lie here she reminds me that life goes on.

My mind has drifted back over so many memories of Amigo. Twenty years ago, a towheaded kindergartener made her way up the steps to the apartment. In a cardboard box on the floor wiggled a litter of squirming puppies. They were about three months old.

I looked down into the box and looked questioningly up at Mom.

You pick, she said.

I watched them a few more moments. One tiny pup, a wiggling peach ball of fuzz, squirmed over his brothers and sisters and up the side of the box.

That one, I told them. He picked me, I want him. In the car I held him against me, his body just big enough to fit into my kindergarten-sized hands.

Written by Gwen Swanson after having to put Amigo to sleep after he had been her friend for twenty years.

If Dreams Could Build A Playground

If dreams could build a playground,

who knows what we might see?

Not slides, and swings and a merry-go-round,

I suspect dreams are what it would be.

The smile of Mother, those loving eyes,

the strong love of Father, and his large smiling arms,

The hopes of a child, the dreams of the young,

the building blocks of infinite size.

Those times with a friend, laughing and crying,

daisy-wreathed days and Winnie the Pooh nights,

a best friend’s love, and those terrible fights.

Memories, not timber, is what they’d be buying.

Quick dancing eyes and soft twirling hearts,

would paint it with moonbeams and dust it with giggles,

true love would march through, holding head high,

giving bravery and fear, both equal parts.

If dreams could build a playground,

I know what we would see,

Not timber and tin,

but love would abound.

Remember When?

Remember whens, the meat of memories,

The boats to cross life’s seas,

The memories cause a fleeting pain,

A heartache sure to please.

Remember when can be a lifeline,

A rejuvenating sign

The glue to keep a friendship close,

That detail most divine.

Remember whens aren’t just for one,

They lose power when there’s none.

The sharing is best between two friends

While the course of life is run.

Remember when?, that fleeting pain,

Can cause a heart to gain

The hindsight that we need to see

We have not lived in vain.

Memories are all I have left

you are my friend, the very best.

the times that we spent

the times that we shared;

for both of us, this pain should be spared.

I am here and you are there

both of us, eternal pair

I miss you so much

I see you around

When you’re not here, memories abound.

Sitting in the back of the church

smiling at me from your comfy perch

so much time for us

so little time for we

I look back there now, memories I see.

I do have friends, I know

but it’s not the same, so

I miss you a lot

I miss you so

Someday I’ll leave, I don’t want to let go.

I’ll keep it going, I’ll do my best

I’ll keep you smiling, I’ll never rest.

For friends like us

should never let go—

Between us both, we’ll keep it so.

A child’s friend is Winnie the Pooh,

and often he is the older teen’s too.

A bit of their childhood has recently strayed;

this makes them often a bit dismayed.

A clip of childhood clutched in their palm,

a type of quiet heartsease balm.

Oh, childhood is a fading thing,

that which only faeries sing.

A faery godmother was the stuff in books,

but many still look in all little nooks.

A way to hold onto childhood longer

and ward off the angry sadness-monger.

The stuff of memories is childhood games;

that is why they still seem the same.

Memories are helpers in the growing up time,

keeping wonderful kid recollections sublime.

MUSIC

The Song

I sing the song that soars through me

of twirling and whirling

the tangled rush of triple forte,

a mad Einsteinian thrill of birth.

the fences fortifying my heart fall flat

emotions emanating

an allegro shiver fills my being.

A jaguar growls

through the music.

A leprechaun dances across the keys,

gaining life through my inner voice.

The music remains

sempre vivace.

My Tired Soul

Music

Lion tamer

Words

And tune

Dancing

Together and

Soothing

The savage

Beast

And my

Tired soul.

Before

I tiptoe onstage,

And peer out into the vacant seats.

I think and remember.

I hear the ghostly audience applaud.

Stepping softly among set-up chairs,

I sit and listen.

I hear the cry of a wailing saxophone.

The faint tones of a phantom trombone

Slither onstage.

I glimpse the faint image of a conductor

His arms weave a dancing pattern.

The chairs around me

Fill with the hazy silhouettes of people.

They play a stately symphony

And I feel the magic

Of those who played here

Before.

*Music*

A jaguar

Growls

In my soul,

Its allegro shiver

Ripples

Across the keys.

A leprechaun dances

A jig

Twinkling his toes

On the

Ivory

And

Ebony

Steps.

Love hidden

Deep

Twinkles the

Starry sky

Song

of eternity.

The rose blooms

In its

Velvet

Softly smiling

At the thought

Of tomorrow

Tomorrow

Music pictures

The soul

Tangible intangibility

Singing for its supper.

Music waltzes.

Music. Uptight men stuffed into ebony suits and elegant women poured into slinky dresses listening to the soaring strains of a symphony. Long-haired men grimacing and screaming into a microphone. Country boys plucking a banjo. A diva crooning to an enraptured crowd. Music? Yes, but music is in more than a concert.

The examples above are what we traditionally think of as music. We forget all too often the music of life itself. Life’s little moments hold enchanting melodies all their own.

A first kiss—what magic, what mystery, and what music. Bittersweet strains echo through a heart, stirring chords not touched before. Triumphant yet melancholy, happiness edged with sadness… the music of the first kiss echoes throughout the halls of time.

Birth and death—they each hold a music of their own. The quiet slipping away of a soul into eternity—somber chords edged with loss and finality echo in the minds of those left behind. A baby’s first cry and first word dance on the opposite end of the spectrum, not pointing to finality, but new beginnings.

What of the music in a balmy summer breeze? Quiet chords that tickle the spirit and bring music to our lips. Each cloud is a note and each bird a crescendo, all swelling to the magical music of a summer breeze.

Pine trees play a melody of their own. Each tip reaches to the stars, dancing with the breeze. Standing next to each other, they point up toward the master musician, Jesus.

The music of a rainbow is a visual one. What better example of a chord—a succession of tones together—than a rainbow? Each color gently blends into the next. Clouds provide a gentle accent to the flavor of the rainbow.

The music of waves teasing a waiting shoreline lulls even the most callous soul to a restful state. Gently crooning a lullaby, the waves send the weary sun to its bed for the night. The melody of the waves brings up the moon.

The moon plays a tune all its own. The moon sings its seductive melody of mystery and madness, wreaking havoc with the minds below. The moon calls in its mysterious way, enchanting the dreamers and poets.

Language itself holds music, the music of life itself. The rhythmic rise and fall of inflection and the magic of words giving life, all embodied in language.

Music—the language of life. We all too often think of music only as being produced from instruments and voices. Nature itself holds a music of its own that we are often unaware of. All too often we simply rely on mechanical means to hear music. Rather than hope for beauty in mechanics, we need to listen to the symphony conducted by the Creator Himself.

Solo Violin

A solo violin

Quivers in the silence

Bow held in the trembling hands

Of a novice

Feeling the passion of music

For the first time.

Reverentially fingers

Bow before melody—

Order in the midst of chaos

One voice of sanity

Mid the warbling of the mad.

She watches

As emotions burst into flames

And stands fiddling while the boundaries burn.

I sit alone not by myself

And listen to the song

I hear the words but do not listen

Just the music thrills my soul.

I sense the power but do not believe it

The power comes from inside

I watch people but do not see

Only my visions are in my sight.

I touch the sky but do not feel it

It exists in my soul

I sit alone not by myself

And listen to the song.

TIME

The beginnings and the endings

of the things that once we knew

spell a time of growth and change for us

making growth for all to do.

As the years may end, the days march on

and dance with night’s fast wing.

The memories make a melody

of which the angels sing.

The beginnings and the endings

speak a language of the soul—

it tells of bright great things to come

as we skip on toward the goal.