Teach the children to comply,
to learn by rote, to master
the art of performance
encourage them to control
the chatter, their fidgets
behave like little adults
so as adults they may
struggle for authenticity
confuse society with audience
forgo instincts for crowd
pleasing responses – wonder
at the innocence of children.
It’s all about investment, really
life, I mean – make a deposit,
withdraw – hope that in the end
the gain is worth more than
the cost – a healthy balance.
Have been running deficits,
too focused on serving others,
practicing the art of giveaways –
incentives to capture attention
(affection too, if I’m honest.)
I’m every marketer’s dream –
impulsive, in the moment,
disbelieve that time is money –
illness having dumped time
on my lap in massive dollops
I’d say energy equates with
income, begets funds – all
redundant now, overdrawn
as I am, no safety deposit
securing balanced health.
We are guardians,
caregivers charged
with ensuring a future
innocence cradled
in our arms, hope,
like an infant, trusting
our choices, embracing
our decisions; let us fill
our hearts with promise
set our minds to forging
a path worthy of the lives,
not yet weaned, that follow.
Have opted for a minimalist existence –
efficiency dependent on accessibility –
still suffering the effects of disease, age.
Used to dwell in the sarcasm of fixed roots,
keep-up-with-the-status-quo, thought that
swapping furniture equated with renewal
Now the only fitting-in we do relates to
rig size and whether or not the next stop
on the road can accommodate our home
Have sold off the real estate, motivated
by simplicity; seek vistas that restore
our souls, preferably with a water view.
We are comfortable marrieds, adapting
new perspectives, easing out of the shell –
shock of former agendas, rat-race lives.
Murmurs from the past –
tied to a former identity –
question my social absence
I have divorced that life,
that self, and yet, memories
dangle, challenge my validity
Once facilitator, now I shy away
hidden behind the curtain of illness
could offer suggestions for gathering
have a repertoire of ideas, stashed,
no doubt out-dated – so much of life
having surpassed me, even old selves.
(Photo from private collection)
The body has a voice –
not silent, nor harsh –
it is a knowing.
When ego drives hard –
screaming ambition
demanding to be heard –
Block it out!
Let your body speak –
waves of understanding,
gut feelings, truth.
Logic has no place here –
book learning seldom serves
the needs of the soul –
Set it aside.
Listen to your body –
that pounding in the chest,
that sudden surge of vertigo.
Intuition is cellular –
ancient, ancestral instinct;
trust the voice within.
(I originally wrote this in October of 2014, while contemplating how I let myself become so ill. Admittedly, I had for years ignored my body’s signals. Be well all.)
There’s a river runs between us,
you and I; our thoughts, like tears,
are liquid carried by the current.
But you, and I,
we stand on the banks, oblivious,
ignoring the connection,
proudly touting our individualism.
Still the river flows
and all you’ve suffered
and all I’ve suffered
or dreamed, or imagined, or hoped
flows with it.
Step into the water with me,
feel our connection;
do not be afraid
for it is sacred –
wade deeper and know
you are not alone
for I am here
in this river
that runs between us.
(Originally posted in October, 2014. Edited here.)
What I wouldn’t resort to –
just to get away – meals
prepared by others,
cleaned up, too…
but really, is there
any coming back once
it’s all handed over –
I’d be afraid I’d lose
my identity, come up empty
embarrassed by how little
of value I have to give –
and the guilt would taunt
slap my silly ego, criticize
me for laziness, acting all
privileged; worth is directly
linked to service…isn’t it?
And my shadow self would
appear – just break in uninvited –
and threaten complicity, beat me
down further, hope doomed
no way to justify my absence,
to keep the critics at bay,
I need to work, need to lose
myself in the routine of endless
chatter, a blanket of small talk
to keep me safe – busy noise
to drown out the thieving voices
and help me find myself again.
There is comfort
in old friendships,
reminders of things
forgotten, of misguided
adventures, and the folly
of youth; and there is hope
instilled by the passage of time
and the evidence that while life
changes, some things endure, and;
it is in the comfort of old friendships
that we find strength to believe in ourselves,
and the will to penetrate lingering angst, and
embrace the possibility of a future with purpose.
(Photo is thanks to an old friend who presence in my life I continue to treasure.)
Be compassionate when leading,
encourage community,
promote vision,
invite discussion
remember that pleasing
is not always possible
and that balance
calls for give and take
that needs are real
and genuine emotion
in times of personal grief
can be a catalyst for others
beware hidden agendas
when conducting business;
help young people find
their own secret gardens
never try to be all things
for all people, instead
lend an ear, a shoulder,
a hug – be a facilitator
all is doable, when ego
is willing to sidestep accolades
in favour of a shared responsiblity
and service to the whole.
One Woman's Quest 