Odd, this gift of solitude. Perched canal side, I affirm my connection to the earth, and offer thanks. Late afternoon sun casts a glow on the foliage across the way, lighting up the mirror-still water. Vibrant reflections.
Two winters ago, I fought to breathe as temperatures fell below zero. Impassible walkways trapped me indoors. Depression fought for possession. Hope struggles in imposed isolation.
“There are no absolutes in life,” a professor once told me, and I think of that now – how just when it feels as if one sentence has been handed down, sealed, an opening appears. I am fortunate, savour the moment.
Walking away – the only solution I’ve ever excelled at…
…and yet, absence does not obliterate that which dwells within
I can pretend that I have nothing to offer, but life and circumstance require more of me…
…a challenge to exhume the remains of my potential… Will I be up to the task?
There is flattery in being looked up to – the feeling that someone needs me – but that is akin to temptation – an ego play
Could it be that acquired knowledge has merit only when shared; that we are all here to offer our piece; that in releasing what I’ve learned, I will find flow, feel in sync again, restore my abilities and reignite a passion for teaching?
Dare I hope?
( I first wrote this poem in 2017, three years after being bedridden with ME. Interesting to go back now and acknowledge that life still did have purpose for me. So grateful.
Should I escape these shackles – manage to re-surface, swim despite this weakened condition against the currents of disability, find myself once again on the solid grounds of civilization – will I be embraced with cheers of victory, or slotted into some back room, reserved for the fallen, spoken to in hushed tones, forever handled at arms length, an object to be feared?
And, if I manage to fight these bonds that for so long have threatened to annihilate, will I have the bravery to face the calling that once defined me, shake off the cobwebs of disorientation, defy the certainty of unpreparedness, draw from the well of past experiences and rise to a new battle, proving the validity of my return?
Or, with freedom, do I look to opportunity, clear the slate of former ambitions, rewrite the pages of my destiny, embrace an attitude of rebirth, decide to relinquish the sword, cut my losses and redefine a new, gentler way of being in the world, less dependent on a system which undoubtedly propelled this descent in the first place?
(My art, entitled Abandoned Forest, acrylic. This poem first appeared in 2016, when after two years bedridden with Myalgic Encephalomyelitis, I pondered what would become of me. As part of a support group now, I recognize this same struggle in others plagued by chronic illness. Personally, I eventually found my answer in the third stanza.)
Thank you so much to braveandrecklessblog.com for inspiring and featuring my poem: The Salt Grows Heavy. The challenge was to write a poem based on NPR’s Books We Love list.
One Woman's Quest 