Open Anyway

Open Anyway

When I have fears that what I share

will never touch this hurting world,

I turn to the wild violets growing again

from clumps of moss on the forest floor,

how they unfurl a few limp purple

petals that seem no match for spring

winds and rain, but still somehow trust

that mining bees and fritillaries will

find them and feed—the flowers open

anyway. I still remember standing in front

of that classroom full of expectant faces

in third grade for show and tell, gripping

the thin notebook page on which I’d

written my first poem. The words swirled

and swam until I closed my eyes and

recited them by heart. It was all I had

to give, and not nearly enough, I thought.

Applause thundered through the room.


A fellow poet, Alex Dawson, recently offered the prompt to write about one’s origin story as a poet. I had to smile when I saw her invitation, since I had just written the draft of the above poem that very morning, and I took it as a sign that the poem was meant to be shared. As so many of you know, we don’t see each other on our worst, most trying days. We see someone’s glossy accomplishments, achievements, and publications, and believe they must be filled with confidence as they stand at that microphone or head to their desk in the morning. The reality is far humbler. After decades of writing, speaking, and publishing, you’d think I’d have this figured out, but I don’t. I still feel the flutter of anxiety before a reading, and recently had what I call a vulnerability attack when I published my most recent book, Breathing Room. It’s the longest poetry collection of my own that I have ever put together, and somehow, I felt extremely exposed and even reluctant to share about it as we approached the publication day. Feelings like these are natural, and are to be expected on the creative path, as long as we don’t allow the fear and doubt to intrude on what we actually want to do and share with the world.

Not a day goes by that I don’t wonder if what I have to offer will ever be “enough”—or if it will measure up to others’ standards. The truth is, it won’t for some people. Yet even knowing that, I keep showing up anyway. I acknowledge and name the tenderness that comes with exposing my deepest self, my hidden thoughts. And I say to myself as often as I can, especially when the worry of scarcity come up: “What I do is enough.” I turn to fellow poets and writers who keep meeting the page again and again. And every spring, I turn to the wildflowers, especially those wild violets, which open anyway—in spite of winds, possible sleet, pelting rain. In spite of boot soles and the hooves of passing deer that will surely crush some of them. In spite of their brevity, and the very real possibility that a sudden freeze will shrivel them. They just keep blooming.

When the old fears come up, I remember my eight year old self, standing in front of a classroom full of my peers, heavy wire-rimmed glass sliding down my face as I held that flimsy notebook page—my first poem. I don’t know where I got the bravery to ask if I could share a poem of my own for show-and-tell that day, but I’m grateful that my teacher, Mrs. Brown, said yes, even clapping her hands, encouraging me with her enthusiasm. I see that boy close his eyes, letting the lines rise up out of him like vines in the understory, reaching up and up, until the thunder of applause filled the room for something he had created. I could hardly believe it. It is still the sweetest feeling in the world, and the most terrifying at times, stepping in front of an audience to share something that seems so slight, so shaky, but still manages to touch the lives of others. When I most want to shut down, I call on the strength and drive of that little boy inside, and decide to open anyway.


Invitation for Writing & Reflection: Begin with my phrase, which originally belonged to John Keats, of course, “When I have fears,” and see what comes up for you. You might write about your origins as a poet or writer, or even as a parent or partner. Where do you turn when fear and doubt threaten to keep you from what you’re most called to do?


If you enjoy these free weekly emails, please consider making a donation here, or become a paid monthly member and support this offering below.

If you’re looking for signed copies of any of my books as gifts for yourself or your friends and family, you can always purchase them from my local indie bookstore, Battenkill Books, and Connie and her wonderful staff will ship them to you anywhere in the U.S. Feel free to order from the link below:

https://battenkillbooks.com/search?q=James%20Crews