Hurdles line up
before me, am I
at the starting gate?
Who will hire me?
Will I be able to learn?
Can I leave the house?
Each bar set higher,
formidable tasks
to achieve, doubting..
state of dependence,
chronic ailments,
undercut propulsion..
have cleared course
of busy, overworking
professional attire..
have the motivation
to rejoin the race,
but legs lack spring;
picture myself tripping,
tossed, sunny side up,
too outdated to win.
(Image:Â www.postonline.co.uk)
What options for long term care?
Will life linger, abandon me, alone?
If unconditional love exists, then let
it talk to me, gesture desire, offer
support – safety only comes with sleep
despite this troubled unconsciousness;
oversensitive, naive perhaps, will make it,
if only I push outside the comfort of my bed.
suspicious of following, consuming, believe
that outsiders have forgotten me, worried –
security lies in the hands of loving, attentive
companion, otherwise; trying to trust life.
(Image:Â perfumeonherpassport.wordpress.com)
Accessible living –
exercise of uncertainty –
parking lot nightmares,
doorway barricades,
shopping intolerable.
Separate sleeping
quarters – no access
to slumber; more mishaps
than a puppy; broken,
despicable, disconnected.
Inherently wise hover over
disclosure of disease,
claim proprietorship,
push acceptance of
causal theories.
We are innocents,
tender-hearted,
veil our hurt, refuse
to be driven down,
wholeness buried.
Motoring through duality,
straining, in the middle –
socialized, yet reticent –
My heart is overflowing,
like an unwatched sink
falling apart, too much
Driving, the past’s rain
blurring any joy; feel
dirty, taut, losing control
Harm vanishes, comes
back around; hosting
good intentions, rank;
Progression entirely
defined by vulnerability
smothering celebration
Towed along by sweetness
of children, dining on their
innocence banishes despair.
I see it in their eyes –
the fear for my safety –
have not been able to paddle
my own boat for some time,
and here I am contemplating
going against the current,
taking a leap, seeking out
new sheltered places.
Survival is risky, they say –
risk is necessary if we’re ever
going to shake this malaise –
no explanation will appease them,
cannot understand the empowerment
that comes from discovering other realities –
promise to stay away from danger –
there are waterways, lands, mountains
to explore – this is not betrayal.
It is moving on, effective collaboration,
we will get along, disclose our differences,
have found willing transport, please
understand, children, we will work
this out, need to create a new reality –
one that allows for relaxation,
celebration – there is nothing left here
but a legacy of suffering, our absence
doesn’t mean our hearts are missing –
our love will be forever present.
(Image:Â artimagesfrom.com)
Used to be a teacher –
socially respectable –
graded papers, set
lesson plans, passed.
Now, locked out, I am
tossed like dirty laundry
heaped atop the sullied
citizen pile – a dirty,
tangled mess in need
of cleansing – those
indistinguishably ill
usurpers of public money.
Once, knew definitively
the standards set by
ministry guidelines,
curriculum based goals
now, am dispossessed,
mind lost, unable to focus
on details, angered by
trivialities, a nonentity.
How I miss the certainty
of rubrics, daily routines
set by hours of sweat –
sweet organization.
I am the student now,
submerged in this disarray
of emotional churning
unsolicited learning
environment in which
achievement is seldom
honored – no A’s awarded
for surviving life tests.
(Image: nutleywatch.com)
Get back to work! Bravado punches,
but my pick up is shelved – would love
to wheel out of here and take flight –
and interview skills are ungrounded,
fear I will let fly unfiltered gibberish.
Go for it! Boisterousness cajoles –
but boldness is dangerous, and pushy
only puts up walls; shifting gears might
be an option, but the road ahead’s a steep
decline, and I have to carefully find footing.
You have to try! Good-heartedness offers,
but the path and I are both handicapped,
movement needs support, and my focus
is failing – am more tortoise than hare –
regressing into this pedestrian existence.
You can’t just give up! Impatience scowls,
but not only is the party of energetics with
its social antics out of my reach – nuances
included – but to be honest, I am no longer
interested in being a part. Call it wisdom.
(Image: http://www.astrolog.org)
Baby Whisperer, they call me –
some definitions we just slide
into, naturally; discovered mine
at the age of nine, when my sister,
a child herself, gave birth and I,
the babysitter, was also born.
Ran a school that summer –
charged a quarter a week to
neighbouring parents, promised
to prepare their children for the
year ahead, turned my knack
into an entrepreneurship.
Uprooted at eleven to a highrise
full of families, filled my calendar
with other’s people’s offspring –
was in demand – while other teens
partied and rebelled, my wallet
bulged with babysitter’s cash.
Projected success into future
plans, told the guidance counsellor
I wanted to get my ECE – work in
day care – she scoffed, said I was
too smart, should be a psychiatrist
the world needs shrinks, not nannies.
So I signed up for psychology and
sociology – did not find myself, quit,
married a man – really just a child –
felt I’d found myself in the role of
wife, ignored the fact that I had
only replaced his mother – grew tired,
ran into the arms of another, racing
to have children of his own – knew
how to do children – returned to school,
studied Children’s literature, psychology,
set my sights on being a teacher – but
it all fell apart; alone raising three.
Married again, finding comfort in the
mothering role, became a teacher –
replaced offspring with classrooms;
certain I was fulfilling a calling, until
illness swept it all away, confined me
to a bed, homebound, erased purpose.
But wait; the story doesn’t end there –
because now I’m a grandmother – my
babies have babies – and even from my
invalid bed, I can care for the wee –
the Baby Whisperer still has the touch –
purpose reignited with each new life.
Disability, a bitter wintry storm,
constricts movement, freezes
intentions; intervals of icy peril.
I push against the onslaught,
will exert myself for promises
of toddler-sized embraces, live
for the sunny exuberance of
a grandchild’s laughter – am
momentarily revived; warmth
cut short by the tangled web
of instability defined by this
chaos – am learning to choose
battles; even the most mundane
tasks crippled by complications;
I live short-term, close to home;
bed, the only sanctuary I know,
awaits beyond the banks of
accumulated debris, pushed
aside in my haste for progress;
I am like a baby, startle easy,
sleep lightly, comfort elusive;
I am smothered by protective
measures overstated; sealed
in a plastic bubble, suffocating.
Difficult not to be snowbound
when disability’s frigid tempest
unleashes it heartless blast.
(Image: www.alabamawx.com)
There’s a place, at the intersection
of break downs and choices ahead,
where I have ownership, but avoid.
Courage resides there, and other
parts of self unnamed – I haunt
the place by night, intrigued by
the camaraderie, lack the guts
to venture into the unknown –
decidedly a criminal element;
need a sense of adventure to aid
escape, squeeze me past seedy,
neglected, cracked pane spaces;
lack wheels, coordinates confused –
am located who knows where –
war for independence my identifier.
In daylight, I am redeemed, visited
by semblances of normalcy, sweet
offerings of obligation, distraction;
revel in youth’s exuberance, pretend
that gifts of kindness sustain me,
ignore the relentlessness of corners.
One Woman's Quest 
