Restlessness accompanies me on this sojourn today – unfazed by ripe red belly of robin, or shimmering emerald of breeding merganser’s crown.
My lens seeks out decay – rotting wood, darkened cavities, as if my soul craves reassurance that life persists even where death hovers – I need a sign
Discontent, I move on- drive the river road snail’s pace – praying for something to shake this malaise – birds come and go, trees radiate Spring green, I pause, unmoved.
And then I spot it, across the river, up high, a massive hulk; lens raises, adjusts, snaps, the regal hunter turns toward me regards me with ferocious intensity, does not falter on his perch –
All-seeing, fearless, he is spirit-manifested, a messenger, lifting me from stagnation – momentary redemption.
(Needing a Sign first appeared here, May 2019. Image my own.)
In anticipation of guests, the hostess – always bent on pleasing – carefully selects the script, ascribes roles, envisions an afternoon of light repartee, peppered with philosophical pondering – satisfactory entertainment.
They’re just family, after all, she tells herself, confident in the outcome, fatally smug.
Crowd arriving, she fails to read disinterest in eyes, politely attempts to orchestrate interactions, while they cast about, calculating, shunning protocols of etiquette, dispersing in an unsettling way, then returning, savagely encircling their prey.
They’re just family, after all, she tells herself, panic rising, confusion overriding confidence.
Unprepared to defend herself – bears no arms but the giving type – she ducks, grasps, attempts retreat from the onslaught of vindictive agendas, but the wall of stored grievances, spotlighting a history of injustices, corners her, hopelessness in its wake.
They’re just family, after all, she tells herself, knowing full well the legacy of pain.
It’s friends, in the end, who save her – a surefooted cavalry, bearing the swords of understanding, compassion their war cry – reigning in the once-invited, now betraying guests – objective hearts demanding an end to the fray.
They’re just family, after all, she tells them, tells herself, composure a mere thread.
Tables turned, the offenders now plead for forgiveness, beg for help, pretend the slights were unintentional, harmless, expect their hostess to step over the bloodied and slain bits of herself, and with benevolence, restore her love for them again.
They’re just family, after all, she says weakly, the torn script of her expectations scattered.
(My art, entitled She Stands In the Middle of It All. This poem first appeared May, 2016)
The noise of speculation stark contrast to the reality that confronts us…
Where do we go from here, and what authority to trust and in this imposed solitude can we find the strength of reflection, the courage to follow an inner lead?
(This poem first appeared on One Woman’s Quest II, in April, 2020. Image my own.)
The ability to alter one’ perspective – to shift certainty to openness – allows for deeper engagement, life affirming and inspirational, akin to wonder…
To deviate is to dare.
(Image my own)
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No one told me, in my haste to grow up, that adulthood, awash with responsibility, would also be lonely
And, no one told me that the days and nights of sweating over lessons would likely not lead to the life imagined
nor that commitment – the kind portrayed in movies – does not exist – the word itself bearing more substance than the act, fickle as it is
No one told me that motherhood would change my reality permanently, colouring it with unfathomable pain and joy – such juxtaposition
And, no one told me that every battle I ever arm myself for, regardless of its justification, is really a struggle with self – inner demons the most menacing.
I never imagined that age, with seismic force, would alter my perspective so – leave me barren and yet enriched, enthralled with the ordinary and unfazed by the rest
And, in the end, as I watch the vernal rains announce renewal, in the quiet of my solitude, I am amazed and grateful for all that this crazy, driven life has become and that no one ever told me.
(This is an edited version of a poem published in April, 2019. Art my own.)
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)
One Woman's Quest 