It’s not that I’m not open
to new perspectives –
I am aware of daylight
beyond these walls –
conscious that mine is
not the only viewpoint.
It’s just that the inflexibility
of this existence is unrelenting,
and I have come to see opposing arguments
in the bleak morbidity of aging –
am having doubts about the willingness
of skilled, principled, professionals
whose rigorous platforms require
energetic, sheltered, regard.
I am lacking confidence
in my ability to articulate –
sanitizing personal inkling,
disinfecting institutional
impotency.
What lesson have I signed up for?
How is it I’ve found myself,
mired in sterility,
shrouded in grey,
an unwitting student
in my own life?
One Woman's Quest 
I’ve let this poem sit in my inbox since October for a reason. Because my illness is not as limiting as yours, platitudes seem heartless. Especially since I’ve felt the inflexibility, the impotency of doctors, the limitation that age has added. My solace has always been similar to the quote by Chodron. So, I embrace it, prickly though it may be, knowing there is no guilt in needing to learn whatever it is here to teach me.
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Writing, for me, is akin to dreaming: I lose myself in the experience and then waken and move on. I had to go back and read the piece before replying, and am happy to report that I am doing much better – today, at least, ha ha. I am still holding on to the belief that “this too shall pass”.
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