You misconceive the calling, says bird in bush – troubled times call for comfort not derailment of humanity – petty, bickering without soul – I may be bird-brained but human sense has the consistency of overripe fruit.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
If I were a kitchen, I’d want an old-fashioned woman at my counters – rolling dough canning pickles, chutney, jam, homemade pasta sauce, and every Sunday, a roast. She’d wear her sweat like a saint, ignore her aching back – one practiced hand feeding her Carnation baby, while other children flocked to Formica, hot flesh sticking to vinyl as they picked at fresh made sweet buns, the pot on the stove perpetually simmering.
Or give me modern efficiency – ninjas and presses, air fryers and induction cookers – let the children belly up to the breakfast bar, chomp on veggies and humus, while cook totes baby in a sling, and preps bone broth, strains of Baby Einstein emitting from a propped up iPad, while a cellphone vibrates on granite, and the Keurig spits out Starbucks Pike.
Just don’t abandon me, piles of unopened mail, or tossed aside receipts company for coffee rings on my counters. Please don’t litter my surfaces with rotting takeout containers, or dishes caked with processed cheese – don’t leave my stainless steel sinks stained, spoiled food reeking in the refrigerator, traces of late night mishaps curdling on the floor; absence of familiar sounds declaring my presence invalid.
The eight of cups – an octopus balancing multi-tasks; I juggle fog, attempt to calibrate logistics but instincts are dull-edged, my tentacles lacking suction – will slither back into hiding.
(Tuesday, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
Checking symptoms for possible diagnosis: tab 1 Searching for gluten free recipes for leftover turkey: tab 2 Black Friday specials on tab 3 Writing a blog post on tab 4 Email on tab 5
Too many tabs open to concentrate and Christmas is looming and the fridge needs cleaning and I got the groceries but forgot the milk and potatoes and guests are coming and laundry is piling up
and, and, and…
Somewhere at the bottom of the pile is a note to self: compassion.
The woman currently abiding within this costumed realm is merely a lethargic version of the once vital but oppressed Miss, whose identification was stolen by means of unsolicited adversity.
The focus of this recanting is to invite a perspective that not only restores, but aids in the teaching of other shadow-selves, that to reassert original nature is more than fair.
(A quirky rant for Reena’s Xploration challenge: a stolen identity ; and Eugi’s weekly prompt: shadows. Art my own)
I wake before dawn, drive through blinding snowstorms, if lost, alter course – without faltering – even set out on foot when driving becomes impossible, navigating treacherous snow and ice, for you
So you can get where you need to be So you can succeed I risk it all for you
I keep you by my side so that you will be safe so that I can ensure your arrival
But, I grow weary, and my body won’t go on, and all I ask for is that we rest awhile, so that I can catch my breath
And in that instance, you are gone – no hesitation in your step, no looking back – and when you finally stop to wait for me it is too late…
A barrier has grown between us: like an eight-foot, chain-link fence separating me from protecting you
And you look at me with that glare of exasperation that says: “I should have done it on my own.”
Wait! Wait, I say. This wall may seem insurmountable but I can do it. I can do it; give me time. I’ll just climb to the top. It’ll be easy; you’ll see!
Don’t walk away! Give me one more chance to prove my love. I do it all for you.
(Martyr’s Lament first appeared here in November, 2014. This version is a rewrite. Image my own.)