We held a garage sale this past Saturday – no small feat for two gimpy old folks. Fortunately, we had help, and as it was a town-wide event, there were many people out.
Still exhausted two days later, but feeling like this squirrel with his treasure – blessed by abundance.
(photo mine)
Favourite colour?
Black, says she
without hesitation;
I falter, stumble
mind reaching –
who likes black?
Is that a colour?
It’s all colours,
she’s nonchalant
intent on task –
carefully keeping
within the lines
Of course it is,
ill equipped am I
to disagree, images
of dark somber
corners, sorrow
and death crows –
Why black? ask I –
composure forced –
had anticipated pink
equate childhood
with primary shades
splotches of yellow
and rainbow skies
candy red apples
on lollipop trees
but black? no –
black obliterates,
negates, destroys
It holds the colour
inside, she explains;
It’s the outline.
Not annihilation –
order; her mind
conceives of order
so much to learn
from innocence
have long forgotten
the art of staying,
within lines, finding
good in all things.
(Drawing from a different granddaughter: her GG)
People ask: “How can you be so sick; you’re a strong person?” Or I am too positive of a person – how is it possible?
What if it is because of these very things that life has chosen me for a master class – a spiritual quest – not for the weak of heart? What if it’s because I’m a good student?
(Image and art mine)
Do you think they are conspiring? Or just pondering the strangeness of humans?
I would befriend hesitation,
take her shopping with me,
invest the time,
but impulse
is my constant companion.
Hesitation,
born of shared trauma,
labours over pain-filled decisions
My need is palpable,
throbbing,
must suffocate it,
weighted beneath
layers of numbing fabric
Afraid to show myself,
afraid that she will find me,
block any progress,
or worse
make my pay for these layers
of stolen moments…
encounter crazy reflected in her eyes
(Poem first appeared here June 2016. This version has been edited. Image my own)
A friend from my poetry circle honoured me with a birdhouse painted with Ukrainian colours. John has since passed away, and this summer we were finally able to give the birdhouse a home in our garden.
Happy to say, John, that the chickadees have settled in and I am joyfully reminded of you everyday.
This life a road –
the way prepared
signs to guide me,
and still, I get lost.
Construction, distraction,
disobedience – throw me off –
tendency to choose tougher routes,
broken down and been sidelined
And yet, the road still beckons,
invites progression, thrills.
A rolling stone gathers no moss,
my father liked to say, and so…
I push ahead, keep motoring,
trust the obstacles – more lessons –
will polish off the rough patches,
and eventually learn to shine.
(Written during my bedbound years with ME/CFS)
One Woman's Quest 