Walking away is 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: challenge me to exhume remaining potential
Am I 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 wisdom acquired has merit only when shared, that we are all here to do our part, that we are meant to engage?
Will I find a flow, rediscover a synchronicity, reignite a passion, and belong again? Dare I hope?
(I first wrote this poem, two and half years into a debilitating illness that kept me bed bound. This version is edited, and I chose to share it now as a reminder not to give up. The answer to the questions posed is a resounding “Yes!” Image my own)
I am visible, yet hiding – balancing a vitality-blocking disorder that renders me inanimate, repulsive –
Who doesn’t flinch in the face of deviancy?
Creativity obsesses grasps hope that courage will annihilate the beast, that resourcefulness is all it takes to overcome – Hold on! it cries, nestled deep within the grief –
Oh, you think you see me, but I assure you, my friend, you do not – I am rebel, lost in isolation, vulnerability fantasizing revolution –
Resolve trapped between the exaggeration of infinite possibility and the unremarkable defence of compulsion to survive – thrive even, if spirit was not so aghast at current setbacks.
6:30 a.m. alarm sounds. “Time to wake up!” Compliance commands. “Just a little longer,” Sensibility suggests. Guilt, like an incessantly annoying child tugs on Conscience: “Come on; there’s lots to do!” Body does not respond.
Sleep wins and dreams come: homeless, relying on friends, no food, backed up toilet, children’s wide eyes fearfully imploring: When is this all going to end? Guild propels a return to consciousness.
8:25 a.m. “Up and at ’em! There’s a good soldier!” Compliance attempts to be chipper. “There’s really nothing more important than rest,”Sensibility suggests. “Can’t lie in bed all day!” Guilt counters. But body is MIA.
Dreams resurface: Setting up house in a thoroughfare people coming and going, oblivious to intrusion co-workers indifferent, eyes scolding – convicting… Guilt mutates to rage, Body chokes, gasps, reaches for inhaler sucking in desperate air.
11:11 a.m. “That’s it! Up you get!” “No! No! Rest is needed!” “The day is wasted! There’s no getting it back!”
“Silence!” A new voice emerges.
A collective intake of breath.
“Breathe,” comes the message. “Just breathe.”
A unified sigh.
“And breathe again.”
Tempers cool, and emotions begin to settle.
“What’s going on?” Guilt wonders. “Just trying to stick to routine,” Compliance defends. “It’s always been this way.” “But she’s ill now,” Sensibility adds, “and there needs to be concessions.”
“Breathe,” the voice reasserts, and all sigh again. “Just be in the stillness of the moment.”
Stillness has no voice. Its language is compassion and infinite, infinite wisdom.
“…and surrender.”
Compliance sobs with the release of such enormous obligation. Sensibility gratefully gives over the burden of responsibility, and Guilt…well Guilt is little, and happily snuggles up to Unconditional Love.
“There, there,” Voice soothes. “Isn’t harmony so much better?”
Body concurs and rises out of bed.
(Harmonics first appeared here September 2014, five months after illness left me bedridden. Image my own)
One Woman's Quest 