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.
Thank you so much to Navigating the Change for offering the opportunity. Warning, this article deals with end of life, medical assistance in dying (MAID)
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.)
6:30 a.m. alarm sounds. “Time to wake up!” Compliance commands. “Just a little longer,” Sensibility suggests. Guilt, like an incessantly annoying child tugs on Conscience: “Come on; there’s lots to do!” Body does not respond.
Sleep wins and dreams come: homeless, relying on friends, no food, backed up toilet, children’s wide eyes fearfully imploring: When is this all going to end? Guild propels a return to consciousness.
8:25 a.m. “Up and at ’em! There’s a good soldier!” Compliance attempts to be chipper. “There’s really nothing more important than rest,”Sensibility suggests. “Can’t lie in bed all day!” Guilt counters. But body is MIA.
Dreams resurface: Setting up house in a thoroughfare people coming and going, oblivious to intrusion co-workers indifferent, eyes scolding – convicting… Guilt mutates to rage, Body chokes, gasps, reaches for inhaler sucking in desperate air.
11:11 a.m. “That’s it! Up you get!” “No! No! Rest is needed!” “The day is wasted! There’s no getting it back!”
“Silence!” A new voice emerges.
A collective intake of breath.
“Breathe,” comes the message. “Just breathe.”
A unified sigh.
“And breathe again.”
Tempers cool, and emotions begin to settle.
“What’s going on?” Guilt wonders. “Just trying to stick to routine,” Compliance defends. “It’s always been this way.” “But she’s ill now,” Sensibility adds, “and there needs to be concessions.”
“Breathe,” the voice reasserts, and all sigh again. “Just be in the stillness of the moment.”
Stillness has no voice. Its language is compassion and infinite, infinite wisdom.
“…and surrender.”
Compliance sobs with the release of such enormous obligation. Sensibility gratefully gives over the burden of responsibility, and Guilt…well Guilt is little, and happily snuggles up to Unconditional Love.
“There, there,” Voice soothes. “Isn’t harmony so much better?”
Body concurs and rises out of bed.
(Harmonics first appeared here September 2014, five months after illness left me bedridden. Image my own)
One Woman's Quest 