“Chosen” as a poet
When I was 16 or 17, I was desperately trying to find the meaning of life. Since I was well-fed by the lie that God hated me, with my broken and then hardened heart, I was seeking to establish my self-value through some achievement. As a girl who loved literature, I soon found my place in writing. Reading and composing became my confidence and also my refuge, since along with feeling rejected by God, I also suffered from depression, anxiety, and so on. I took great pride in my works, and at the same time was tormented by great fear when I couldn’t achieve the aesthetic level I intended, for that indicated my failure as a person. I admired other writers, but was more often jealous of them–how did they get all these inspirations from? I could have been better than them if I just knew how. I sought to learn from the way they wrote and tried hard to surpass them.
Little did I know, writing was not only about being skillful in sentence structure or metaphors; it was about the heart, and every voice uttered represented the person behind. Thus, the point was not how the literary works were shaped, but who was behind them. In other words, who was in these writers’ hearts? Who was behind the voices I heard in their “masterpieces”?
Around the time I started to build my life on literature, I had a distinctive experience of learning how to write poetry overnight.
Before the day I got “enlightened,” I never understood how poetry worked. It was hard to read and comprehend its meaning, let alone write a poem myself. I felt like I just couldn’t reach the heart of poetry, not being able to know what it was thinking. Yet one day while I was in a literature camp, as we were watching a documentary of a famous poet, I suddenly perceived how to write poems. It was like something just came over me when I heard the reciting of one of the poems–something like waves rushed into my being, and I was thrilled by the fact that I was chosen to be a poet. I went back that night excited and, opening my notebook, I started to compose poems. And it went as smoothly as I knew it would be earlier that day.
The poem I heard was from the hand of a surrealistic poet. And looking back, I believe what came over me was not some sort of inspiration; it was an evil spirit (if not evil spirits). It wasn’t just something; it was someone. And that was how I attained the language of that kind of poetry, with which I was never familiar beforehand. It was not through the cultivation of a skill that I first learned about poetry, but through the possession of demons. Sadly yet undeniably, that’s how art is produced in many areas: through writers, poets, musicians, actors/actresses, painters, dancers and etc that are vessels of evil spirits, making offerings to the devil himself through their works. And the devil in turn feeds their pride, their flesh that long to be worshipped and adorned, and that is how this trade keeps on. I know it well, because I was once one of them.
Days in a dream
For almost three years, I tried hard to build my crystal world on the mists and ashes of surrealistic poetry. I was obsessed with metaphors such as dreams, a faraway land, stars, night, eyes, lakes, and forests…anything that seemingly provided a broader and deeper space in which reality may not necessarily be what it seemed to be. In short, I was unwilling to live the life I lived. The pain I experienced was so great that I had to find an escape. And I chose to rebel and tried to seek my own way out. I believe, as I yielded myself to worship poetry, more demons came into me and led me to deeper despair, which I then considered as beauty. There were times I experienced poems writing themselves, which was definitely some degree of automatism looking back now. And most of the time, I would try to let some mental images emerge in my mind, and what I did was simply using poetry to record what I saw. I made genuine efforts to fulfill my “calling” (probably a demonic one) as a poet, as I felt privileged and conceited to become one.
By the age of 20, I finally had to admit to myself that I was innerly not improving. Being more depressed, more anxious and more despair, I was eventually able to see myself in deeper darkness. Poetry didn’t save me, and I still needed something greater than myself. By then, composing poems had become a game that I knew so well, and there was nothing more to expect in its operation. It was like this: you spend a whole deal of time polishing your work, and it is done, and you are temporarily satisfied. Then you are afraid you might not be able to write something better or different than this one, and to conquer the fear, you decide to start a new poem to prove your self-worth as a poet. And the cycle continues. I was very disappointed by the discovery of this never-ending trick. In fact, I was very disappointed with life itself. I thought being a writer or poet would grant me the meaning I was seeking in life, yet it did not, and I was so weary that I had no choice but to be honest, no matter how reluctant I was. I started to break down roughly once a month, and it became even more frequent. I was indeed on the brink of total despair.
And it was in those times, by His grace and mercy, that Jesus met me. And since then, everything has not been the same.
Count all as loss
The changes didn’t appear in an instant, though. It was a long and painful process of repentance and healing, with some milestones marked by His grace. For instance, one day I stopped writing things and composing poems altogether. When I first believed in God, I tried to imitate the psalmists in the Bible and wrote some poems to praise God. Yet it never sounded quite right and sincere. I still felt like I was somehow performing for others to see; the ambition of making a name for myself hadn’t fully receded. So, I eventually gave up the whole idea of writing. Meanwhile, I had no idea that the inspirations I used to rely on when writing poems were actually demons–that was exactly why when I wanted to use the same voice to compose praise poems for God, it never worked. The kingdom of darkness has nothing to do with the kingdom of light. Yet besides relying on them, I didn’t know another way to write things. That was how I eventually quit trying.
And there came another day when I decided to throw all my old poems away. I was hesitant for a while, since I spent so much time and effort on every one of them. One poem cost me at least three to four hours on average, and I kept around fifty of them which I dearly cherished. But indeed, what’s the use of them? I am the Lord’s now, and I could no longer imagine publishing anything that doesn’t give glory to Him. So I dumped them in the trash can. Honestly, I was pretty depressed that day, feeling like a part of my life was gone, and I still wasn’t fully sure who I was. I tried to rewrite my label as a poet into a Christian writer or poet, because I still desired an identity tied with achievements, fame and reputation. And of course, it didn’t work, since the very core of being a follower of Christ is to lay down everything for Him, even one’s life.
And finally, there came a day when I decided to destroy all the trophies I received through literary competitions. I used to hold a compromised idea that God showed me favor when I didn’t know Him and let me win these awards. Yet one day, when I examined my heart, I wondered: wasn’t I promoting values contrary to God’s word in my works out of ignorance and rebellion? And aren’t these the wages of my wicked poems and other writings? What do they have to do with God’s favor? If I am keeping them for memory’s sake, what do they stand for? Memories of my pride and self-promotion? And so I broke them and threw them away. And amazingly, it felt like home this time–I had grown more in the Lord, and discarding all these only strengthened my faith and dependence on Him. He is the only one I should ultimately seek approval from. Praises from men are nothing compared to praises from God.
Would God one day call me to pick up my pen again and this time, write for Him? Maybe. I am grateful that His grace is constantly at work within me, and I believe that’s how He enables me even now to write down my story. Yet this time it is not for others to see me. No spotlight, no camera on me, please. Behold, our King who was bruised and wounded for our sins; behold, He is coming! Let the heavens and the earth praise Him!