Tag: nonfiction

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I dream that I am teaching again, and having assigned the class independent work, I am spending time connecting with each student to see if they are grasping the material. It’s my favourite part of teaching, and I wake up wondering if I’ll ever have that feeling again. So rewarding.

It is bittersweet, growing old. Many of life’s goals have been achieved, and yet, the desire for more still exists. At least, it does for me. I’m just not sure what to do about it.

Not Everything Is Defined by Age

As a child, I knew no limits, setting out on adventures with never a fear for how I’d find my way back home.

Now, nestled in my home, I limit myself to certainties, fearful of risks.

Some days, I wonder about that child, and how it would feel to wander freely, and it makes me smile.

The body may be hindered, but the imagination remains forever young.

(Post originally appeared on One Woman’s Quest II, May 2022)

Relevance of Story

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.

Evolution

Evolution takes effort –
requires a heart unburdened
by unrequited daydreams
holding me in limbo, emphasizing
past heartaches, yearning
for unconditional love.

I pedal backwards, am
overwhelmed by where
the past has led me –
exaggerated reproductions,
laughing at my proposals,
spurning attempts at reparation –
I am out of touch, stale dated.

I long to make a difference,
find value in youth – declarations
of worthiness are jeopardized
by this state of immobility –
I hang on tighter, resist
progress, believe hope
is in the past – obligations
wrench me back to present –
evolution a preferable destination.

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.