I would stand on my head,
call in the big leagues,
imagine fun, opportunity,
but constantly meet with
the wall of your limitations.
My desire is innocent – impish
maybe – dependable; hope to
create memorable moments,
but boredom is oppressive,
and you are shutting me out.
I am alone here, hoop jumping,
giving of myself, willing to take
ownership in this rejection play
but relationship is not one-sided
and this game piece is opting out.
Every woman needs a man,
her mother told her, to make
her complete. To submit,
she realizes, too late, soul
traded for high-rise living,
big city dreams numbing
inner losses; she eats to
appease an inner sorrow,
a second-rate childhood,
afraid of being a burden,
loathe to create a stir,
conditioned complacency:
appeasing, pleasing, follows
plans, avoids decisions, never
really knows where she is going.
Can she fault the man, schooled
to provide – the alpha male taking
ownership/ charge? His child
lives here too, feeds on impulses,
craves attention, overcompensates
for fears of lacking with bravado;
cannot understand why she never
asserts her self, alternately reads
acceptance and disapproval, frets –
an eternally unsettled gnawing gut.
They stumble over one another, seek
separation in small quarters, discuss
repairmen, schedules – nothing;
avoid deeper issues like the fact
that they are both suffocating, near
jumping off the ledge of their high
faluting existence, into the snarl
of traffic that immobilizes them.
The noise of city living has negated
their ability to listen, the distractions
altered them; the distance between
is too far to bridge in a single sigh,
and she, no longer submissive,
has joined him, and checked out.
If searching for love
was like shopping for shoes,
I’d fixate on the simplest
of finds, choosing practicality
over fashion flair.
My preference is for earthy,
unassuming, plain is fine
as long as the structure
gives me room to breath –
no grasping too tight.
If I shopped for love,
like I do for shoes,
I’d ignore those pushy
sales lines, opt instead
for a supportive sole,
settle for guaranteed comfort
over flashy heels, can’t bear
the instability of pedestals,
love flattery like most,
but need to feel grounded.
No doubt I’d question
my selection, offer it up
to my children for feedback
be mocked, dissuaded,
put it back and search anew,
discover futility in my seeking,
realize that I need new love
like I need new shoes –
only a foolish indulgence
for a woman who lives in bed.
Rest; nap as often as you need,
life can be exhausting; store up.
Cry; let your feelings be known;
your voice is your saving grace.
Joy is a whole body experience,
immerse yourself in total delight.
Hold on to those who love you;
your survival depends on them.
See the world through new ideas;
you never know what thrills await.
Listen intently when others speak;
they will be your captive audience.
Imitate others; practice until you
have found your own expression.
Trust the process, living fully
in each moment; be present.
Honour the miracle of existence;
embrace the blessing that is you!
Slippers, perched at night stand,
twitching impatiently,
mark the absence of feet,
cannot appreciate the meaning
of unruffled bed covers.
Abandoned, a coffee mug
bemoans its curdling contents,
complains of thick brown lines
contaminating its porcelain shine,
has not noted absence of hands.
Chair, pushed back from desk,
in partial rotation, sits awkwardly,
commanding attention, disturbed
by its misalignment, has not thought
to ponder absence of body.
House, uncomfortable with silence
creaks unnaturally, loudly voicing
objections to the absence of footfalls,
automated machinery and incessant
rings, beeps, and chimes of technology.
I try to reassure them that the absence
is only temporary, that the man whose
presence so strikingly fills this space
will return, hope they cannot read
the apprehension in my tremulous heart.
Tucks her granddaughter in,
gazes into wide blue eyes,
flashes back to another girl –
now grown – apple cheeks,
and an unruly thicket of hair.
Nostalgia is shattered as
the child smiles back, lips
betraying a trace of another –
once father – whose absence
clouds the old woman’s heart.
She holds the child closer,
reassuring her undying love,
cannot not shake the echo
of words spoken only that day:
Kayla’s daddy always picks her up.
Told the teacher her dad is dead;
a reasonable conclusion for a
young mind unable to articulate
the questions in her heart: why
his name is only ever whispered.
Tries to draw his picture, talks
of missing his cuddles, surely,
cannot remember a man who
left before she was two – the
grandmother prays silently.
What will they say when she asks?
Niceties about how he wasn’t ready?
Leave her to believe she is somehow
lacking, unlovable, when in truth
it is he who is incapable of loving.
Chases women like cotton candy,
three or four a day, cannot help
himself, an internet-driven obsession,
uses his daughter’s picture as bait –
perhaps she is right, her father is dead.
Confront intrusion
head on, but know
that it comes with
a single focus, and
not from the sleep
of complacency.
Investigate when
it awakens you,
but be aware that
armed with the
element of surprise
it will overcome you,
tie you up in knots,
render you helpless,
oppressed, mute;
the vulnerability you
fight to protect, now
your only strength.
Fragility relying on
resourcefulness will
counterattack, take
appropriate measures,
stumble, falter, miss
at first, but in the end
conquer the invader,
reaching out for help
humbled enough to
admit dependency,
eyes open to solutions,
compassion awakening.
Isolation is disruption’s
ally; shared experience
unmasks the threat,
tears open its cover,
unites purpose, and
in communion prevails.
I know a little girl,
whose hair in ringlets
falls, unkempt from lack
of brushing; who stands
when she should be sitting;
who laughs with defiance when
challenged, her dark eyes gleaming
with mischief; who holds her chin up
high and stamps her feet, arms folded
in protest when she does not get her way.
I see that little girl,
have watched her play,
with a wild imagination,
and a fearless temperament;
have watched her climb a tree,
scrap with any bully, and dare to
venture on her own; have witnessed
her alone times, hidden and obscured,
watched as she cried unheeded, buried
herself in books, drawing, and future dreams.
I feel that little girl,
who wears such a brave
exterior to mask her inner
fears; who bears a burden of
responsibility to carry the weight
of those around her;Â who believes
she has the power to make her mother
cry, to cause her father’s violence, to save
her sisters from pain; who feels the punishment
of her situation and ascribes it to unworthiness.
I love that little girl,
whose mind is always
churning, who prays to a
god she’s never seen, and
makes wishes on rainbows;
who longs to make a difference,
and refuses to believe that suffering
is all there is; who devotes herself to
being a better person, and hopes one day
that she’ll finally feel at peace in the world.
I hold that little girl,
warm within my heart,
listen to her fears, hear
her heart’s longing;Â praise
her courageous efforts, appease
her doubts, offer condolences for
losses, encouragement for change,
forgive her of her burdens; allay her
misperceptions, reassure her worth,
promise to never let her go: she is me.
Fear repositions viewpoints –
two stories become the divide
desperately seeking renewal.
Dwelling in the past – decrepit
shambles hidden behind drooping
facades – uncovers slimy residue.
The heart is vastly accommodating
replicating passages – retreating –
is personal abundance adequate?
Sighting ignorance, we are moved –
comprehend eternal restoration,
available in every up and down.
Extra-ordinary applications allow
glimpses of under-story – glean
undercurrents, like muses – reveal.
Lovers imbibe, cause concern,
deflect rather than confront,
opt for derision over appeasement.
Withdraw, glimpse vulnerability,
forgive differences in preference to
domestic bliss – marital dance.
A letter came today –
an old-fashioned,
hand addressed,
post delivered,
greeting.
It’s the second
in two weeks –
simple messages
of encouragement,
heartfelt.
It’s from the same
angel that everyday
texts me a message –
a positive missive,
uplifting.
A letter came today,
and I felt ten years old,
special, remembered –
humbled by a simple act,
blessed.
A friend came by today,
had a rare day off –
thought of me –
offered her services,
selflessly.
Her confidence buoying,
we ventured out – pedi’s
then lunch – her quiet
offer of an elbow,
reassuring.
We talked about life –
grandchildren, husbands,
the state of the world,
and I felt normal,
alive.
A friend came by today –
and I was a kid again,
arm-in-arm with her bestie,
spontaneous and free,
cherished.
One Woman's Quest 