The Queen is Missing

She’s not in the kitchen –
presiding over the preparations,
thriving amidst the chatter,
tutting away thieving hands.

She’s not in the classroom –
mastering subjects,
upholding order,
ruling with a charitable hand.

Nor is she at social affairs –
smiling regally,
head bent in rapt attention,
compassion oozing forth.

The Queen is missing –
the poise and grace
that marked her carriage
has vanished without a trace.

Don’t ask the old woman –
tottering down the lane
stooped and stumbling –
she’s not all there.

Her mind’s a trickster,
her ego a petulant child
unwilling to concede wrong –
she’s merely the court jester.

 

Oh, To Dream

I dream of waking before the dawn,
preparing for my day with proficiency,
professionally preened and on the go.

In reality, I see the early light of day
through an insomnia-induced haze,
or miss it altogether, unable to rise.

I will carelessly tie my hair back,
and moan at my image, forgoing cosmetics –
no one will see me, after all.

If I dress, it will be for comfort,
elasticized waistline compensating for swelling,
soft fabrics to soothe the burning aches.

In my dream it is the first day of school,
and I am excited and anxious,
caught up in the camaraderie of the moment.

I awake to the resounding silence of solitude,
no schedules await me, no colleagues
exchanging pleasantries, communal conspiracy absent.

I will pace myself, shuffling
between bed and simple tasks,
a cup of tea, maybe some writing.

I drive in my dream, a shiny red car
in which I glide through the streets
and park with the pride of knowing it awaits.

Its been years since I’ve felt the freedom
and independence of self-chauffeuring,
reliant on the more able-bodied, sharply cognizant.

It’s a rare occasion that rouses me from
this compelled complacency, enough
to venture into the hyper-stimulating world.

Disability has closed around me,
limiting experience, restricting imagination,
until I dream – and am whole again.

My Spirit Stands Strong

Progress – seldom linear –
tosses me into unexpected decline –
stranded and incapacitated.

My son – with labour-hardened strength
leaps to my side, steadying me
and I feel the fear in his caring grip.

My daughter, ever compassionate,
reaches out for me with horror-filled eyes
as my body crumples onto the bed.

My husband, my oak, seeks to comfort
his voice betraying the helplessness
this futile predicament imposes.

Beloveds, I know that you see me
this dis-abled, non-functioning shell
weakened and sickly, lying on this bed.

Do not be deceived – that is not me –
it is only an illusion –
a vessel – temporarily fettered.

I am, in essence, beside you –
ambitions and desires intact.
Feel me there, tall and proud.

Sense the wholeness of my being
remember me for the woman I am yet to be –
My spirit stands strong.

A Mountain of Grief

I exist in the spaces –
crushed and flattened –
between the rocks that form
this mountain of grief.

Each sorrowful fragment
petrified,  polished –
a collection of coldness
hardened and maintained.
I’ve never known how to grieve.

How do I shed the weightiness –
crawl out from the crevices –
breathe new life into myself?

Should I try to scale the mound?
Conquer my emotions?
Raise a flag to victory
and ultimate denial?

Or, one by one,
should I examine
and relive the losses
counting them till my head spins
and my heart beats no more?

Lacking the strength to do either
I sit and feel the hollow agony –
the overwhelming numbness
that precedes movement.

I live in the cracks
of this precariously constructed
shroud of stones –
a self-imposed prison –
and pray for resurrection.

Creative Process

Routine, I find, is both a comfort and a discomfort.  Stripped of all routine when I first became ill, I floundered about looking for some order to the resulting chaos.  I longed for a routine, like a navigational device, to help me define exactly where I was in all the madness.  (Still compass-less I’m afraid.)

At the same time, I fear a numbing sameness – a morose monotony of nonsensical repetition.  I remember doing anything to break the boredom – taking a different route home from work, turning my lessons upside down, or rearranging the classroom – anything to invite new energy.

I feel the same about writing.  It is seductive to find a comfort zone and stay there – convincing myself that this is perfecting my craft, however; I suspect a trap.  Ego, I’ve noted, likes to sabotage.  Exploration is the only way to expand creativity and ignite revelation.

Let me illustrate.  Take a simple thought:

I cried because I was alone
then opening my eyes
discovered another
also alone
my image in the mirror.

Possibly interesting concept, dull delivery.  The image craves development.  One thing I have been experimenting with (wherever possible) is removing pronouns, or any references that personalize my poetry.

loneliness cried
opening eyes
discovered another
also alone
mirror image

Well, this is better, but sounds like a flowery way of saying misery loves company and that’s not the essence I wanted to capture.  What if I do some word/concept association?  Will this help me expand my ideas?

loneliness – feeling of rejection, abandonment, not belonging, desire unrequited, left out
crying – tears, release, unable to contain, unrestrained emotion, grief
open-eyed – awakening, willing to see, open to possibility, searchingdiscovery – new appreciation, renewed hope, joy, alternatives, perspective
other – outsider, relationship, communion, community, connection
alone – isolated, cut-off, solitude, retreat, respite
mirror image – reflection, reversal, commonality, empathy/sympathy, not alone

Not sure this helped, but I’ll try putting it back together using the associations.  Maybe I’ll play up the personification.

Loneliness,
abandoned and rejected,
grieved unrestrained,
then willingly,
hesitatingly,
opening to possibility,
discovered hope,
connection,
in solitude –
not alone.

I like this better – the message is more satisfying.  What happens if I turn the whole thing upside (taking liberties, of course)?

In solitude,
connection
discovers –
hope, and
possibility –
opening.

Hesitatingly,
willingly,
unrestrained grief
abandons,
rejects,
loneliness.

Wow – I like this even more.  I feel as if it is an invitation from the soul to grieve.

I challenge you to explore and expand your own writing.  What hidden messages await your discovery?

A Room of My Own

” I have a recurring image in my dreams of a house with two floors that I have either forgotten about or abandoned. Both have separate staircases, and while others are aware of the one set of stairs, the other is only known by me,” I tell my therapist. “I get the irony of having two stories hovering over me,” I add. “But haven’t really worked with it. The one floor has many bedrooms and bathrooms and feels overwhelming.”

“What’s on the other floor?”

“A single room, like an attic, that sits at the front of the house. A room with a view,” I joke.

“What’s in the room?”

“A lot of cobwebs, as if I haven’t been there for a long time, and only two pieces of furniture. I think that it represents my spiritual connection – a kind of sacred sanctuary that I have neglected.”

“I think that should be your homework,” she advises me. “Decide what you want to do with that room – create a visual of a room that brings you peace or whatever else you need to maintain equilibrium. I think its’ especially important at this time.”

It’s not that I disagree with her, but I find this exercise difficult. Born fifth of six children, I have seldom experienced a room of my own. Even after I left home, I had roommates, or husbands, then children, and the focus has been on compromise or pleasing others. What would a room of my own look like?

I picture myself back in the dream, in the room with many cobwebs, and in my mind’s eye that’s where I begin: cleaning away the cobwebs. I would paint the walls lavender, I decide: a soft, comforting colour, reminding me to be tender with myself. And I’d have three windows – one facing forward and two on the sides to create a cross breeze, so the wind would always blow and the thoughts that normally crowd my mind could follow the wind. And I’d have crisp, white lace curtains, to add a touch of delicacy to the room. There would be no window looking back.

One of the pieces of furniture is an old cedar chest that once belonged to my mother – her original hope chest. Battered on the outside from years of use and being moved frequently, the chest’s cedar interior remains pristine – aromatic and well-constructed. It reminds me of a time when I believed in magic and mystery – childhood fantasies of what the chest contained; although my mother always reassured it held nothing fancy, I liked to imagine otherwise.

The other item in the room is a Bentwood rocking chair. “Rocking is a comforting motion,” my therapist reminded me, “something mothers do with their babies.” “I still like to rock,” I agree. Why a Bentwood, I wonder?

Like my mother’s hope chest, my Bentwood rocker was the first thing I brought into a marital home. It symbolized my wishes for a cozy home life, and the children that would follow – a woman’s hopes and dreams. Why are they in this room? Is the dream telling me that it is important to hang on to one’s dreams – or at least one’s values? So much has happened throughout the years that I wonder if that’s possible. How many times does a woman get knocked down before she stops believing that family, harmony, and peace can exist?

I’ll trust my dream source and keep these two pieces of furniture. What else does this room need? Music, I instantly think, I need a source of music, and not just my cellphone playlist – I will not have a cellphone here – that’s for certain. No wi-fi either. I’ll need a word processor, and if I need to look something up, well I can go return to the life of electronics by leaving my room.

If I’m going to write here, I’ll need a desk, or one of those lounging sofas so that I can sit comfortably while I compose. Shelves for books, too, so I can surround myself with inspiration.

An easel. I’d like an easel. Not that I’ve painted in a very long time, but maybe I could dabble – it’s something I always wanted to learn to do. Sketch books, of course, and art supplies. I wouldn’t restrain myself. This is my room, after all.
I would need art on the walls – water colours of beautiful landscapes, or seascapes – or maybe works of my own creation – making sure the view out my
window is always a beautiful one.

A view. Whose heart doesn’t yearn for a view? I’d have a big old willow tree, constantly reminding me of long ago summers, whiling away lazy days in on the uppermost branches. And water too – although my cravings fluctuate from the laughing chorus of a trickling stream, to the lulling waves of the ocean – water is a must. No roads, or buildings. Just green as far as the eye can see, or fields of wildflowers – nature at its best.

I’m enjoying this exercise. Even as I write this, I can feel the tension in my mind easing, and the possibilities singing inside me. A place of peace, of sanity, and restoration. A safe place where I can explore my creativity or just sit and soak in the beauty and tranquility. A place where time stands still and there are no disruptions. A kind of heaven.

Next step: Who would invite in this room with me? Hmm, more contemplation needed.

What would your room look like?

Day 266 “Return To The One”

Lethargic limbs
immobilize
while swarms
of thoughts
like predatory
insects
buzz
about
threatening
to invade
crevices
of the mind.

Imaginary nets
fail to repel
escape eludes
breathe
breathe
visualize peace
dissolve chaos
surrender
to source
return
to the one.

Confessions From The Sick Bed

Before I was sick,
I counted the days and hours,
not because of drudgery –
I loved my job –
because I had stretched myself
beyond normal limitations.

Before I was sick,
I wore responsibility
like a superhero,
and defined by work,
prioritized tasks
above well-being.

Before I was sick,
I joked with others
about the disabled
lounging around,
living the life of leisure,
usurping the system.

Before I was sick,
I prided myself on saying “yes”,
being dependable,
loyal to a fault,
a friend to all.
I thought I was invincible.

When I started to get sick
I trudged from doctor to doctor,
underwent tests,
and humiliation,
learned to doubt myself,
and turned the blame inward.

When I started to get sick,
I chastised myself
for being overweight
and not exercising enough,
and stopped eating carbs,
and pushed harder.

When I started to get sick,
I ignored my body,
failed to set boundaries,
continued to eat on the run,
and felt ashamed
that I had let myself go.

When I started to get sick,
I was wracked with guilt
for the compromises
I had to make,
failing to juggle
so many obligations.

Now that I am sick,
I value more than ever
the importance of priorities,
recognizing that well-being
always proceeds well-doing,
and appreciate my body’s voice.

Now that I am sick,
I understand that work
does not define me,
and disappointing others
is a reality in life.
I am not invincible.

Now that I am sick,
I’ve learned that richness
is a quality of living
and not a figure
in a bank balance.
Happiness, the same.

Now that I am sick,
discernment defines
the relationships I desire,
no longer willing
to negate self
for the love of others.

Now that I am sick,
I no longer pretend,
or reach to meet standards
that fail to sustain me;
I have a new set of expectations
and am learning to be.

Now that I am sick,
I see with compassion
how insecurity
and a longing for approval
drove me to demise,
always failing in my mind.

Now that I am sick,
I pray that wisdom,
and humility
will guide my recovery,
and that life will await
this metamorphosis in me.

Life Challenges Continued

I started this blog four years ago while awaiting the results of a lumpectomy, facing the possibility of cancer and questioning life.   I ducked the bullet, but a year later my husband was not so lucky – he started treatment for Stage III prostate cancer.  Then, to complicate matters, he ruptured his quad tendon and needed reparative surgery, which had to be repeated ten weeks later when he re-injured.  The second surgery became infected and after a nightmare six months and five more operations, he was finally on the mend.  We thought the worse was behind us until I was struck down by a life altering debilitating illness that has confined me to home.  Roles in our house reversed and after a year of caring for my husband, he now has to look after me.  It is a reality that we have learned to accept, believing that the worst is behind us.

We have been naive.

A recent visit to the doctor for a routine physical has resulted in a barrage of further tests and Thor finds himself back in the care of the specialist who originally delivered the cancer diagnosis.  “There’s only a fifteen percent chance that this is cancer,” the doctor has told him, but we’ve both heard that before, and somehow, we are not as confident this time.

We are too familiar with all the signs.

So, as I write this, we are back to that awful place of waiting:  waiting for the tests that will confirm or allay our fears; waiting to know if life will be put on hold yet again; waiting to know when it is safe to plan again.

Are we being tested?  Is there opportunity in the midst of all this anguish, or is life just a random draw, and we have pulled the short straw?

In the end, we really have no control over what happens to us, and while we would not have chosen this path, there is not much we can do to change it.

We will put in our time these next few weeks, immersing ourselves in trivial distractions,
desperately trying to think about anything but the worse that can happen.  “One step at a time,” we tell ourselves.

Forgive us if we falter in our obligations, or if we appear distant or disinterested.  We have a lot on our minds.

Death Threat

“Viewers are cautioned that this next report contains images that may be disturbing to some.”

Naturally, I turn toward the television to see what all the fuss is about.  Photos of a crime scene where two women have been brutally stabbed to death are plastered across the screen along with images of the hotel they had been staying in and the victims themselves.

“Uh, Ric,” I manage to utter before sheer terror takes over me.  Not only are we staying in the same hotel, but the two women are occupying the same room we had originally been assigned.  When we’d arrived, just days before, and found there had been a double booking, we gracefully offered to move rooms.  What if we hadn’t?  Suddenly, I feel deadly cold.

“Maybe you should stay at the farm tonight instead,” Thor suggests.  The ‘farm’ is a small rural property we have purchased for our retirement.  As the house needs repairs, we decided to take a vacation at this nearby resort in the meantime.  Ric has to return home on business overnight, which means I will be on my own.

“No, the report says the police have a suspect in mind – a drifter who has been seen loitering in the nearby town.  The farm is too isolated.  I’ll be safer here with people around.”

Somehow, in the deep middle of the night, isolation feels more pronounced.  From where I lie I can see the outline of the door to our room and try to reassure myself that the deadbolt will hold.  I pray the double sliding doors in the adjacent room are secured enough to prevent an intruder.  I must fall asleep at some point, because when I awaken it is morning.

Relief floods me.  Daylight brings a return to normalcy, sanity.  All is well.

I have a quick wash and throw on some clothes, deciding to catch breakfast in the restaurant.  This suite we are staying in has two rooms – the bedroom, which is accessed from the outside, and a living/dining/kitchenette area, which is accessed by the pool area of the resort.  A short hallway with a bathroom separates the two living spaces.  It isn’t until I pass through into the kitchen area that I notice the intruder and I stop short.

Standing well over six feet tall, he is a giant of a man, with a disfigured face and scarred hands.  Like a rabbit, I freeze, assessing the situation.  In my mind, I picture the exits, both locked as far as I know.  How long has he been here?  Do I have time to unbolt the door before he’d catch me?

As if reading my mind, he flashes a pass key.  He works here, I realize.  Remain calm, I counsel myself.

“Am I going to die?”  I ask willing my voice to remain steady.  “Because if I am, do you mind if I have one more cup of tea.  Tea is my favourite thing?  Could you allow me that?” An element of surprise is my only hope of defense.  It worked for me once during an attempted mugging.  The would-be assailant stepped in front of me and demanded money and cigarettes.  In my nervousness, I laughed and said: “Do I look a smoker?”  The ruse worked long enough to let me dart away from the mugger and yell for help.

He doesn’t answer, just glares at me with that menacing expression, reminding me who’s in charge here.

“If it’s about sex, I’ll do anything you want, no need to get violent.”

“It might get rough.”  Do I detect a hint of bemusement in his voice.

“That’s okay, but I’d still really appreciate that cup of tea.  Can I make you one?”

“No, I don’t want any damn tea!”  but he doesn’t move to stop me and he’s dropped down onto the couch now, stretched across it, his legs splayed out over the end, his massive belly displaying one long scar carved into his side, and I realize he’s removed his shirt.

Cautiously, I make for the sink, feeling like I’m moving in slow motion.  His voice stops me.

“Why’d you have to put lanolin on the food tray?”  His voice is mournful, gravelly, and if I didn’t know that my life is in danger, I might l have laughed out loud.  My mind races:  He must work in food services.

“I didn’t,”  I stammer.  “I mean…I don’t use lanolin…don’t even have any.”  Then, sensing the opportunity:   “Somebody would do that?” I play the sympathy card.

“Makes my job damned near impossible,” he mumbles.  “Makes me angry enough kill!”

So we’re back to that.  Is that what happened to the two young women?  They greased the dinner tray?

“Hurry up with the tea already; I don’t have all day.”

He closes his eyes for a moment and I examine his face.  An unfortunate soul, really, I think.  Large, beefy jowls, and a bulbous nose that likely indicates years of alcohol abuse.  A scar covers one eye socket, and his lipless mouth seems to hang open unaware of itself.

Just as I turn again towards the kitchen, a light tapping on the door precedes the entrance of an entourage of people.

“Housekeeping, Miss.” A woman bustles in carrying freshly pressed and hung laundry.  “Where would like these?”  Behind her comes another housekeeper bearing clean towels, and a team poised to clean.  “Is this a good time?”

“A very good time!”  I turn to see that the hulk has gone.  Did he slide away?  I wonder.  Did anyone see him?  I direct the clothes to be hung in the bedroom closet and smile with genuine gratitude for the disruption, but keep my council.  He may still be hiding in the suite.

Two young teens then barge through the now open door and buzz around delighting at everything in the room.

“Excuse me,” I say to them.  “What are you doing?”

“This is our room!  We just checked in!”

“This is my room,”  I can feel the anger rising up in me.  I have had enough disruptions this morning already.  Things are beginning to feel surreal, and I just want some peace to recollect myself.  “There has been a mistake.  Leave!”

The doorway fills with what must be the rest of the family:  a man and woman and four more children.

“Check-in,” I tell them, ” is not until four o’clock.  The room is still mine.”  I had forgotten that today was check-out and the realization brings me new hope – I might get out of this alive yet.  I have work to do.

The family and housekeepers all leave with the exception of one little straggler.  I start to give him directions to the lobby, then realize he is too little to understand, so I walk him down the hall instead.  As we approach the reunion with his parents, I see that Ric has returned and is approaching the building.  The nightmare is finally coming to an end.

I turn back towards the room, anxious to get packed up.  I see him in my peripheral vision as he steps out of the shadows.  I stop.  Surely he won’t accost me here in the hallway, with people around.

“Did you see my scars?” he asks, eyes turned away.

“I did,” I respond unemotionally.  What can he possibly want me to say?  Like the wounds you left on those poor young women, I think.

I hear Ric’s approach and see the killer step away.  Should I tell my husband? I decide not.  Ric would react protectively, and could end up getting killed as well.  I greet my husband warmly, and turn our attention to the task at hand.

Car loaded, Ric pulls toward the exit just as a police vehicle drives in.

“Stop here.” I command, rolling down the window and catching the driver’s attention.  “The man you’re looking for works in the kitchen,” I tell him.

Then I signal for Ric to drive away and wake up.

It’s all been a dream.