aging – Page 7 – One Woman's Quest

Clearing Corners

No more out-on-the-town bustles –
the late afternoon light fading in
my corner – focus now turned to
higher issues; try to keep company

with mindfulness – a worthy educator,
facilitating release – but my inventory
is too spun. Achieving a semblance
of completion, something to reflect

my life’s toil, would be welcome, yet
I fear my story is cooked. Guidance
might suggest I’m not alone, but
without my professional footing

I’m at a loss for identity, prodding
to find answers – a woman without
substance, grasping at what is mine.
Seems silly to think that breathing

might offer consolation for this no-
return-on-investment outcome; have
hit a wall, would rage if not numb, so
many parts of self lost in passage…

Midnight approaches and I am tapped
out – a social passenger hitching a ride
on hopelessness – flat broke, empty
(tried to dial up creativity – wrong#)

Contemplate sorrow, luck, temporary
breakdown’s, orchestrated scenes,
a lifelong inability to keep quiet (sorry
kids), a callous bitch – could never get

her to work in my corner, channel that
energy into fitness or financial success –
she just likes to stir things up, doesn’t
believe in peace of mind, jolts me awake

out of my comfort zone. Maybe I need
her now – forgo relaxation and surrender –
to shake this inactivity, give a hand up
to those repressed, forgotten selves –

get her to lift me out this self-conscious
mire – she doesn’t care about feelings –
markets herself with confidence, breathes
assertiveness, knows her own business…

can you see me sitting up a little straighter,
composing myself in the light of this new
possibility, readying myself to relaunch –
reconsidering my stance on corners?

There’s remodelling to be done here –
and orienting to the new will take a bit,
given my age, but I’m willing to concede
that there is community to serve, and

that as long as human rights are being
violated there is a place for compassion,
and no town is immune to need, so I’d
better get my bustle on and start painting.

( Image: lokeshsomu.blogspot.com )

Suspended

What options for long term care?
Will life linger, abandon me, alone?

If unconditional love exists, then let
it talk to me, gesture desire, offer

support – safety only comes with sleep
despite this troubled unconsciousness;

oversensitive, naive perhaps, will make it,
if only I push outside the comfort of my bed.

suspicious of following, consuming, believe
that outsiders have forgotten me, worried –

security lies in the hands of loving, attentive
companion, otherwise; trying to trust life.

(Image: perfumeonherpassport.wordpress.com)

Split Commitments

Split commitments:
One is ambitious,
the other a wanderer;
one labours while
the other lingers.

Yet alike:
Polished political performers,
once knew how to party,
now regressed,
searching for youth –

His a flop,
hers nourished by weed,
each hiding
desperately attempting
to clean up the misery.

He overindulges,
she tries to steer,
both losing their edge
nothing new to offer
former lovers

now fading away,
only thoughtfulness
and a craving for
each others’ support
to bind them.

(Image: truefactsonlife.blogspot.com)

Impotent Pursuit of Perfection

Watching a movie that I PVR’d –
hunkered down with popcorn and fizz,
hoping to get lost in the couch cushions –
when I remember that I might have homework
more specifically an assignment related to a show
already in progress, and I don’t know where I put
my backpack, and while searching frantically, suddenly
recall that I have more work due, and my boyfriend is
coming over in an hour, and I panic that I’ll never get
it all done, and then in a moment of clarity, realize
I am also taping the program in question, and sigh,
and take a breath: it’s doable if I stay up all night.

Riding in the backseat of a jacked up jeep –
the taste of freedom blowing through my hair –
when the driver hits a bump, catching me unaware,
sends my lack-of-seat-belted-ass into the air, and I
frantically grab the roll bar, praying to get my bottom
back in the seat before he hits another bump tossing
me out of the vehicle entirely, when I realize that we’ve
driven onto the field, the entire school filling the bleachers,
and if I lose my grip now, it won’t just be my body that will
be broken, but I run the risk of becoming the laughing stock
of the school: my entire reputation at stake from a joy ride.

This teenage angst is overwhelming me –
guidelines and deadlines – too much authority
and not enough free time – just want to break loose,
shake off responsibility, hang with my friends, be
foolish, and to hell with consequences, but my
A-obsessed sensibility and “good girl” persona
take charge, and there’s no slacking off, and
I’m locked in an eternal state of yet another
obligation to fulfill before I can rest, and in a
blink I am fifty-eight and a Grandmother, and
I still haven’t taken time to watch that movie
that I PVR’d or dared to joy ride without a hitch:
still tangled in the impotent pursuit of perfection.

Call It Wisdom

Get back to work! Bravado punches,
but my pick up is shelved – would love
to wheel out of here and take flight –
and interview skills are ungrounded,
fear I will let fly unfiltered gibberish.

Go for it! Boisterousness cajoles –
but boldness is dangerous, and pushy
only puts up walls; shifting gears might
be an option, but the road ahead’s a steep
decline, and I have to carefully find footing.

You have to try! Good-heartedness offers,
but the path and I are both handicapped,
movement needs support, and my focus
is failing – am more tortoise than hare –
regressing into this pedestrian existence.

You can’t just give up! Impatience scowls,
but not only is the party of energetics with
its social antics out of my reach – nuances
included – but to be honest, I am no longer
interested in being a part. Call it wisdom.

(Image: http://www.astrolog.org)

Haunted Corners

There’s a place, at the intersection
of break downs and choices ahead,
where I have ownership, but avoid.

Courage resides there, and other
parts of self unnamed – I haunt
the place by night, intrigued by

the camaraderie, lack the guts
to venture into the unknown –
decidedly a criminal element;

need a sense of adventure to aid
escape, squeeze me past seedy,
neglected, cracked pane spaces;

lack wheels, coordinates confused –
am located who knows where –
war for independence my identifier.

In daylight, I am redeemed, visited
by semblances of normalcy, sweet
offerings of obligation, distraction;

revel in youth’s exuberance, pretend
that gifts of kindness sustain me,
ignore the relentlessness of corners.

I Stand In The Doorway

Surrounded by the animated chatter of youth,
a mother piles food on plates, busies herself
with addressing individual needs, smiles warmly.

In another room, a woman lies lifeless, grieving
a life now passed, children gone, an absentee mate;
she is alone, feels the burden of her inadequacy.

I stand in the doorway between the two,
longing to join the reverie in one room,
unable to tear myself away from the other.

Would you like something to eat? I offer,
wanting to draw her her out of isolation,
but she turns away, claims to be dieting.

That’s not the right way to go about it…
her eyes are cold, dying, my words a lecture,
how can she ignore the succulent aromas?

Outside, the men gather, raising glasses
and voices, masculine camaraderie, content
to let the women do their thing – oblivious.

We could join the party, I offer, but she is
tired of parties, tired of small talk, tired of
it all. I am inclined to agree, have known futility.

I want to go back into the kitchen, forget
about her, but it’s too late; I’ve touched
her sorrow, cannot let go, am powerless.

Think I’ll go outside, air out my mind,
sit amongst the clueless, talk about
everything and nothing, deny responsibility.

I stand in the doorway between two women
one who finds purpose in service to others,
and one whose life has lost all meaning.

I stand in the doorway between the two,
and notice that the mother is no longer me,
and that woman in the bed has no future,

and suddenly realize that I have choices,
and that motherhood or empty-nester
are self-imposed definitions, irrelevant.

Whether to participate or not in life is my call
and not a reflection of how I feel about my body
or whether or not I am giving or doing enough.

I turn from that doorway and make a decision
to just walk away – the kitchen will always be
a place of vitality and the bedroom a refuge

and me, I will be outside enjoying a drink
and conversing about who knows what
and living, obligation-free, in the moment.

Absence

Slippers, perched at night stand,
twitching impatiently,
mark the absence of feet,
cannot appreciate the meaning
of unruffled bed covers.

Abandoned, a coffee mug
bemoans its curdling contents,
complains of thick brown lines
contaminating its porcelain shine,
has not noted absence of hands.

Chair, pushed back from desk,
in partial rotation, sits awkwardly,
commanding attention, disturbed
by its misalignment, has not thought
to ponder absence of body.

House, uncomfortable with silence
creaks unnaturally, loudly voicing
objections to the absence of footfalls,
automated machinery and incessant
rings, beeps, and chimes of technology.

I try to reassure them that the absence
is only temporary, that the man whose
presence so strikingly fills this space
will return, hope they cannot read
the apprehension in my tremulous heart.

Disability’s Rant

It’s not that I’m not open
to new perspectives –
I am aware of daylight
beyond these walls –
conscious that mine is
not the only viewpoint.

It’s just that the inflexibility
of this existence is unrelenting,
and I have come to see opposing arguments
in the bleak morbidity of aging –
am having doubts about the willingness
of skilled, principled, professionals
whose rigorous platforms require
energetic, sheltered, regard.

I am lacking confidence
in my ability to articulate –
sanitizing personal inkling,
disinfecting institutional
impotency.

What lesson have I signed up for?
How is it I’ve found myself,
mired in sterility,
shrouded in grey,
an unwitting student
in my own life?

She is Ready, God

Ushering the last of the condolences out,
she turns and slowly shuffles her way back
down the grayed barren, institutional halls –
a shock of white hair bent over metal legs.

She pauses at the doorway – hesitates, feels
weight descending – the finality of her loss –
recalling the years of companionship, how
they were the Ma and Pa for staff and alike.

Wondering who she is now, willing herself
to pass, once occupied, now stripped bed,
the abruptness of silence accosting frailty –
at 88 she’s survived three husbands. Alone.

Laboriously, disrobing, hangs her mourning
dress, unrolls stockings past swollen calves,
winces at the pain of bloated feet, stiffens –
wills past the stark emptiness once more.

Routine carries her through nightly rituals,
and numbed with weariness, she slumps –
a bed-for-one poor remedy for what ails –
she turns to the wall – shunning harshness.

Tomorrow, reassurances and guilt-ridden
faces will hover over the arrival of another,
erasing memories, eradicating familiarity –
Too soon! she cries to unheeding darkness.

Take me too, she pleas to her unseen God.
I’ve had enough! But like the dawn she’ll rise,
comply with changes, adapt to new tides –
find her compassion, forgo self-indulgence.

She is awe-inspiring, this mother of mine,
a tireless sentinel of peace, selfless crusader
for love – acceptance her chosen weapon –
having navigated unimaginable adversities.

The buoyancy of her steps, now subdued,
the flames that framed her face – symbiotic
with passion – now extinguished, age spots
disguising freckles – yet her smile remains.

Do not mourn my passing, she instructs,
know that I have lived fully. I do, I respond,
wishing her an effortless transition, silently
commanding courage, offering up a prayer:

May the angels that receive her wear red shoes,
and may they whisk her away in the flourish of
a big band chorus, inviting her to join the dance –
sprinkling the essence of her beauty as they go.

May she behold – clarity of ecstatic revelation –
the light that she has spread in this lifetime,
witnessing the masterpiece of her existence,
understanding for eternity, that she is love.