I’m being a good girl, Dad Staying out of sight Keeping my needs to a minimum Promise I don’t cry, Dad.
I’m being a good wife, Dad Cooking all his favourites Letting him walk ahead Never uttering a peep, Dad
I’m a perfect background wife, Dad Just like you taught me; just like Mom Only no one has to hit me to make me behave, Dad; I learned it good from you.
Maybe I just needed a new perspective – like the famed Hanged Man of tarot – committed to some deep, internal need, I willed a horizontal shift; landed with intent.
Maybe it is not my legs that are disabled, but a soul longing to escape the continual discord of perpetual motion, a never-ending to-do list of the success-driven persona.
Maybe there is a greater purpose for being that is not encompassed by outer drive – a mysterious meaning that is revealed only in the quiet stillness in which I now dwell.
Maybe I have been called to a personal pilgrimage – a Camino of sorts – a crusade of spirit designed to cleanse and enlighten – the journey is certainly arduous enough.
Maybe it is through acceptance, finally having released a need to control, move, achieve, accomplish that I am able to embrace the true lessons of suffering.
Maybe this cocooning is an act of Grace demanding surrender before the actual transformation occurs, and I will emerge, legless or not, winged and ready to soar.
Maybe, just maybe, this stripped down, barren existence is not a penance for shameful living, but a desert crossing, offering re-alignment: hard-fought peace.
(Maybe first appeared here Feb. 2017. Image my own)