In The Iris Of The Storm (Spoken Word / Poetry)



In The Iris Of The Storm 


There’s this live performance ~ Iris, Goo Goo Dolls, their hometown, Buffalo, 2004 ~ July Fourth.

A free show. Tens of thousands. And right in the middle of it ~ the sky just opens up.

No cover. No break. No “let’s wait it out”
Rain comes down in sheets - equipment frying, band soaked, crowd melting into the music ~ but they don't leave.

They just…. keep going.

Johnny Rzeznik’s voice slicing through the downpour like steel wrapped in silk,
the lights catching every drop of water like starlight falling the wrong way.

And somehow, in that chaos,
the song feels realer than it ever did on the radio.

That image - it’s been living in my chest lately.
Like it’s trying to tell me something about what that song’s really saying

Vulnerability ~ unedited.
Exposure ~ with no guarantee.

“I just want you to know who I am.”

That’s not just a lyric.
That’s a dare.
That’s a confession.
That’s the price tag on being seen.

Because maybe the reason connection feels so hard isn’t that we lack the skill.
It’s that we fear the cost.

See, we are primally wired with a warning label:
If they push you out, you die.

So we shape-shift.
We edit.
We curate.

My version of hiding wore confidence as a cape.
“I don’t need anyone.”
“Can’t hurt me if I don’t let you close.”

I called it strength.
It was fear.

Later, I swung the other way.
Became the kind, agreeable version.
Asked good questions. Listened well. Showed up.

And it worked.
Sort of.

People liked me ~ but they didn’t know me.

Because I was still in costume.
Polished. Presentable.
Invisible.

And man,
that kind of belonging is exhausting.

So the circle shrank.
The noise faded.

And life ~ whispering ~ asked me:

Who are you when you stop performing?
Who are you when the filters turn off?

And lately I’ve noticed ~ sometimes I don’t want to be something.
I just want to be seen as that thing.

Do I actually want to be kind?
Or do I just want the credit?
Do I want truth?
Or do I want applause?

I tell myself I value honesty ~ but I still flinch when it arrives unwrapped.

It’s one thing to say you want truth.
It’s another to have the spine to stand there
when it shows up and says,
“Okay then ~ here I am.”

Being seen still feels dangerous.

Every time I speak my mind,
show my mess,
open my rib cage ~

five minutes later I’m replaying it all:
Should I have said that?
Did I sound weird?
Maybe I’ll just.… stay quiet next time.

But the truth keeps circling back:

If I’m not willing to look stupid,
I’ll never grow.

If I’m not willing to be wrong,
I’ll never learn.

And if I’m not willing to be seen,
I’m not belonging ~
I’m just blending in.

So yeah, back to that stage.

No control.
No perfect sound.
No way to know if it’s landing.

Just ~ showing up anyway.

Soaked.
Exposed.
Alive.

“I just want you to know who I am.”

That’s it, isn’t it?

The kind of courage that still breathes
in a world obsessed with polish ~
the courage to step into the storm
and say,

I’m here.
This is me.
Take it or leave it.

Even if it’s messy.
Even if it’s terrifying.
Even if I’m standing in the rain,
shaking,
singing my song anyway.

Storm and all. ❤️


That Buffalo performance feels like a rare, almost mythic moments in pop culture, the kind people don’t just remember, but carry.

I’ll admit it.... I’m a little jealous of the ones who were there.

Because it wasn’t easy.

It was pouring, people were freezing, soaked through, some even had to leave because it got too much.

It wasn’t comfortable or convenient.

But the ones who stayed.… they got something different.

The music, the storm, the crowd, it all kind of merged into one experience.

And years later, they’re still talking about it.

Because the moments that actually cost you something.… those are the ones that stay.

Side Note: Blooming Iris

My daughter took this photo in the front yard as I was finishing this

Our irises don’t bloom every year, but they did this time, a small serendipity, perfectly timed.

It’s her favorite flower.

The iris, in Greek mythology, was the messenger between heaven and earth .... a bridge of color and light, carrying messages from the gods to the world below. The name itself means rainbow.

And in the body, the iris of the eye opens and closes to manage light, deciding what is let in, and what is seen.

The flower and the eye are share this essence: both are about perception and the meeting place between shadow and light.

It felt almost symbolic, to notice an iris blooming just as I was writing about being seen, and the courage it takes to stay open.

One of those serendipitous moments that asks you to pause and pay attention

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

A Call for Truth and Dialogue

Image
Honest Observations & Questions I’ve wrestled with whether to share my perspective on the recent women’s conference regarding the council’s process, but my desire for truth and open dialogue compels me to speak. I’m frustrated by rumors and misinformation that have hurt people I care about, and I believe we can do better as a covenant community. What follows is my experience, based on careful study and conversations, offered with humility and an open heart. I invite anyone with additional information or a different view to join me in seeking truth together, as I’m committed to listening and learning. I debated whether to use names, but ultimately, my desire is reconciliation, and I don’t want to cause more offense than my observations and experience may already provoke. For full disclosure, my drive to stand up for the underdog may have roots that go way back. In sixth grade, there was a girl in my class who was bullied by the other children. She wore old, dirty clothes, her hair w...
Read more

Section 176 as a Prophetic Commentary on the Women’s Conference and Council Struggles

Image
  🕊 Now Is the Time: Laying Down the Past, Letting Go of the Future, and Laboring in Love "What have you learned? What ought you to have learned?" These words from the Lord are not just gentle — they’re surgical. This parable, given in 2018, now takes on fresh weight in the aftermath of the division, heartache, and confusion surrounding the April 12 women’s conference and the events tied to it. And maybe — just maybe — it was given in advance for this very kind of situation. Let’s walk through it again, together. 💭 A Word on These Three Roles Before we begin, a clarification: the three types described in this parable — stone carriers, tool-holders, and clay builders — are not fixed groups or labels. They don’t correspond to specific roles like “council member,” “conference organizer,” or “supporter.” In fact, a single woman could have occupied all three roles at different times throughout this process. I know I may have. This reflection isn’t about assigning bl...
Read more

"Blue-Eyed Son"

Image
A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall: A Reflection on Dylan’s Prophetic Lyrics Today, our firstborn turns thirty—the one who made us parents, our cherished blue-eyed son. As the eldest, he carved the path for our family, guiding us into parenthood with his boundless spirit. Though he’s grown into a man of strength and character, in our hearts, he remains the boy who first taught us a love beyond words. It feels especially fitting to share this today, as Dylan’s haunting refrain begins with a question to a “blue-eyed son.” This isn’t mere poetry—it echoes deeply within us. The imagery of journeying through sorrow and hope, of grappling with hard questions and seeking divine answers, mirrors the road we’ve traveled as a family—and the path our son, our trailblazer, has illuminated by his very being. Though written in a time of political upheaval, the imagery of this song stretches far beyond any single era. I believe Dylan tapped into something eternal—perhaps without fully realizing it. His q...
Read more