Chesterton, Songwriting, and the Wonder of Common Things

Today's Headline from "The Daily Exception"

Once I commented to a mentor of mine that I wish I could see through the lenses that G.K. Chesterton had acquired, to which he replied, "No, you see what gave him clarity was that Christ had removed his lenses so he could see more truly." One clarifying truth that I thought was hilarious (Isn't Chesterton always showing us the cheer of truth?) was his comment on journalism not representing reality: 

"It is the one great weakness of journalism as a picture of our modern existence, that it must be a picture made up entirely of exceptions. We announce on flaring posters that a man has fallen off a scaffolding. We do not announce on flaring posters that a man has not fallen off a scaffolding...Hence the complete picture they give of life is of necessity fallacious; they can only represent what is unusual." 

The News is in the business of reporting exceptions to the rule, abnormals, unusual things. Too much news will certainly depress you. So who will speak up for the things too common to report? the constant beauties of normalcy that we stomp past?

Songwriting and poetry are what I travel in, but the arts in general are in a business opposite to journalism. Da Vinci painted a mere smile in the Mona Lisa. Frost noticed a fork in the road. Herbert reported on household chores and sunlight through windows. Do you see? Poetry is in the business of noticing the normal and celebrating how exceptional it really is. Jesus is The Poet. Who else could transfigure plain bread, wine and a dinner table till their commonness shone through with the piercing blaze of eternal glory?

In closing, here's a poem I wrote along these lines:

Breaking into a Walk

Gave the car a break and chose a long walk home
Along the busy road-race, the exhausting speedway.

I was a moving stop-light with my bright red shirt.
It's the one with the cross at the center of the letters "SOS"

I walked on the side of the road without sidewalks.
That's where the flowering trees grow their inviting blooms

That hang like waterfall foam, white and baptismal.
You can't wade into their scent from a far

Or hurried pace. This subtle fragrant kingdom is
Only found when the six cylinders wont shoot straight

And you find yourself unarmed- hands freed from the wheel of time,
With pendulum feet down the grassway like a child on a swing.

That's where the clean wind spills over the chalice edge-
Meadow air communicating through a tear in the curtain.