Is it the stillness
of the rock pool
that draws me
again and again?
Authority eludes –
is not my own –
I dodge hawk-eyed
critics, am weighted
down…struggling
to resurface…
Crave tranquil
company, a chance
to breathe…
unseen…
Nature always the key
(Image my own)
I was just doing the final walkthrough before an Open House (we’re selling our house) when I noticed the Art Room floor was wet. Looking up at the sagging ceiling tile, I hollered for help . Ric came to the rescue, removing the tile and letting the rush of water free.
At our age, we do not move fast, and given the fact we both require use of the chair lift, the clean up was even slower. We did the best we could given the timeline and quit as Real Estate arrived.
“Tell them the plumber has been called”, Ric offered, anticipating people would come.
Exhausted we headed out with dog on board to vacate the house for 2 hours. The rain was pouring down with no relief in sight.
As I type this, the plumber is hunting down the problem. The rain continues. I am feeling waterlogged.
Awakened by a crash just past midnight, I quickly realized my husband was not in bed and had fallen again. It’s the second time in two weeks. He couldn’t get back up.
Paramedics arrived within minutes. Three strapping men had him on his feet again in no time. He was jostled but okay.
I laid awake for hours.
It’s hard not to worry, focusing instead on the good.
This note is to myself. Encouragement to keep moving forward.
It’s not like I didn’t know
that life is tenuous
and death a given
I chose to ignore the signs –
seems that which we avoid
has a way of catching up
I pin-balled my way
searching for something
undefinable
A break from responsibility?
a Saviour?
Condemned myself as failure
Sentenced to a lifetime
of love lacking
How does one traverse such margins?
Re-engage in the face of rejection?
I have pen,
and thoughts,
and maybe
if I bleed enough,
the path will be revealed.
(Image my own)
Illness has built
the bricks that bind
has birthed this wall
I am postnataly withdrawn.
If I emerge
it will be armed –
sharp comebacks
I am curious
about the caring
my rage running deep
Can you see it’s outlines –
zones broken out
of the practical
Quieting the hurt?
(Image AI generated)
Is survival resilience?
Those who crawl
from the trenches,
elbow-deep in mire,
trust not the leniency
of asphalt nor concrete
Resilience dons bravado
picks itself up, dusts off
the ashes, and wheels on –
tires squealing in the face
of those mud-laden.
(Image my own)
Walking away –
the only solution
I’ve ever excelled at…
…and yet, absence
does not obliterate
that which dwells within
I can pretend that I have nothing
to offer, but life and circumstance
require more of me…
…a challenge to exhume
the remains of my potential…
Will I be up to the task?
There is flattery in being looked up to –
the feeling that someone needs me –
but that is akin to temptation – an ego play
Could it be that acquired knowledge
has merit only when shared;
that we are all here to offer our piece;
that in releasing what I’ve learned,
I will find flow, feel in sync again,
restore my abilities and reignite
a passion for teaching?
Dare I hope?
( I first wrote this poem in 2017, three years after being bedridden with ME. Interesting to go back now and acknowledge that life still did have purpose for me. So grateful.
Image my own)
Should I escape these shackles –
manage to re-surface, swim
despite this weakened condition
against the currents of disability,
find myself once again on the
solid grounds of civilization –
will I be embraced with cheers
of victory, or slotted into some
back room, reserved for the fallen,
spoken to in hushed tones,
forever handled at arms length,
an object to be feared?
And, if I manage to fight these
bonds that for so long have
threatened to annihilate,
will I have the bravery to face
the calling that once defined me,
shake off the cobwebs of
disorientation, defy the
certainty of unpreparedness,
draw from the well of past
experiences and rise to
a new battle, proving the
validity of my return?
Or, with freedom, do I look
to opportunity, clear the slate
of former ambitions, rewrite
the pages of my destiny,
embrace an attitude of
rebirth, decide to relinquish
the sword, cut my losses
and redefine a new, gentler
way of being in the world,
less dependent on a system
which undoubtedly propelled
this descent in the first place?
(My art, entitled Abandoned Forest, acrylic. This poem first appeared in 2016, when after two years bedridden with Myalgic Encephalomyelitis, I pondered what would become of me. As part of a support group now, I recognize this same struggle in others plagued by chronic illness. Personally, I eventually found my answer in the third stanza.)
Like living in the shadow
of a volcano, each complacency
shaken by treacherous rumbles
While some see equality
others chew on bitter lack,
and who profits when
tempers succumb to
the hot lava of anarchy?
(Image my own. Poem first appeared here 04/21)
A soft-sided,
well worn,
briefcase
slouches
in a closet
One side agape,
a red lanyard
stuffed inside –
occupational identity
A row of black, brown, and gray pumps
line up beside it – a thin layer of dust
betraying idleness.
Silent, unblinking,
a television recedes
into the wall,
flanked on either side
by smiling images –
shadows of nostalgia.
Stacks of books
and journals
rumour
a scholarly mind.
The woman,
to whom all these trivialities
once had relevance
is no longer here.
She has been called to another purpose.
(Originally written in 2014, The Pilgrimage strives to help me understand the purpose behind losing all to illness. Image my own)
One Woman's Quest 