Growing up, I thrived on being the responsible one. Need something done, someone to bail you out, an issue to be confronted – I was your girl. Until I wasn’t anymore. One day something snapped in me and that house of cards came tumbling down.
Sometimes it’s hard to see the ugly truth and yet, seeing with clarity is the only thing that helps us break the destructive cycles.
Petulance is actually the word that comes to mind at the moment. I feel as if my inner child, not getting what she wants fast enough, is throwing a temper tantrum.
I just need to convince her to give the grass time to grow.
Thanks Richard Adams.
The woman in the mirror is flawed
age spots where freckles once sprouted,
streaks of white, peppering former auburn,
inner scars marking discontent.
How then is she expected
to know wholeness?
In days when mind was sharp
self-confidence wobbled;
where spirituality was planted,
self-judgment undermined.
The path to wholeness
pitted with potholes.
How often emotion overrode
common sense, and choices
led her astray, how thick
the mud of guilt she mired in.
Repulsed at her own reflection
she was anything but whole.
Less self-defacing these days
she examines the worn bits
with wry acceptance –
acknowledges the toil.
If wholeness is perfection,
she’s ready to let go.
(Image my own. AI enhanced)
People ask: “How can you be so sick; you’re a strong person?” Or I am too positive of a person – how is it possible?
What if it is because of these very things that life has chosen me for a master class – a spiritual quest – not for the weak of heart? What if it’s because I’m a good student?
(Image and art mine)
This life a road –
the way prepared
signs to guide me,
and still, I get lost.
Construction, distraction,
disobedience – throw me off –
tendency to choose tougher routes,
broken down and been sidelined
And yet, the road still beckons,
invites progression, thrills.
A rolling stone gathers no moss,
my father liked to say, and so…
I push ahead, keep motoring,
trust the obstacles – more lessons –
will polish off the rough patches,
and eventually learn to shine.
A kidney stone, coupled with an infection has set me back five days – two trying to soldier through the pain, and three pursuing medical answers. Anyway, I’m on the mend, tired already of this foray into self-pity.
Tomorrow, I keep telling myself, is a new day.
(Image my own)
(This is found poem, previously posted on OneWoman’s Quest II)
Stories have power. Parents, teachers, public speakers, and therapists understand that the secret to engaging an audience or connecting with others is through illustration: storytelling.
I see it in the eyes of the my grandchildren, who love to hear tales of family history.
I’ve seen in the eyes of students, when recognition and understanding light up.
I’ve seen in in the eyes of audiences, who tear up or laugh at the telling of a relevant anecdote.
I’ve seen it in the eyes of the wounded trying to make sense of their past: the craving for a story that offers validation.
Imagine a world where we are absent from stories. This is a reality for many, whose race, ethnicity, or beliefs excludes them from discourse.
Chimamanda Adichie says it best in her Ted Talk: The Danger of a Single Story.
Isolated and incapacitated
I am prohibited from partaking
of the influx of information incessantly presented
consequently cut off
from prescribed expectations
dictating costuming and culture
external expressions of acceptance
are sorely missing, suggesting
an overall lack of self-worth.
Interestingly inverse to such conclusions
is the sudden contentment that arises
from escaping the mayhem
Internal relief overrides dictated performance
surrendering willingly to intrinsic motivation
and renewed self-acceptance.
(Originally written in 2014. Image my own)
