Mother’s feet scream – agony of her miserable condition, underlying disease eating her. My feet, free of calluses, paddles slightly bent and fallen, carry on with forgiving kindness.
Husband’s knees are red-hot pokers shooting knife-sharp volts with every rickety step. Mine are knots in spindly trunks that bear movement graciously, allot me flexibility.
Father’s back grew weak faltering in the end, hunched, as if he’d born a cumbersome burden. My back, not without its moaning, carries me proudly erect – like the spring sapling, winter endured.
Uncle’s heart beats erratically, ceasing despite its mechanical support, his life a testimony to modern science. My heart flutters with expectancy, aches with disappointment, and soars with each new birdsong.
Sister’s tension rises, the stiffness in her neck suffocating, headaches blinding her vision. My neck, slung now like a rooster’s, puffs around my face like an old friend, allows me the comfort of perspective.
Brother’s mind has seized, lost somewhere between today and yesteryear – never certain of either. Mine, a constant churning cog, gathers information, spews ideas and bends in the face of creativity.
My eyes have seen suffering, my hands throbbed with desire to help; yet each bears their cross stoically, and so I watch with compassion and gratitude for the life I might have lived, had my own vessel not been so blessed.
“If the doors of perception were cleansed every thing would appear to man as it is, Infinite. For man has closed himself up, till he sees all things thro’ narrow chinks of his cavern.” – William Blake
Weathered the would that frames this perception, once painted with optimism, long worn.
How bright the ideals of youth, now blurred, colours stripped, raw intention bared –
Life mocks these aged perspectives old structures fail, light dims with neglect
Still the heart beats solid, hope like putty sticking to the sills, solidifying half-truths.
How deluded am I, trapped within walls defined by out of focus panes, separated
From a reality that would behold me fragmented or whole, and who will ever know
Have not the wherewithal to strip back old mindsets, repaint the trimmings
Am content to dwell behind screens of my own making, distorted but secure.
The ability to alter one’ perspective – to shift certainty to openness – allows for deeper engagement, life affirming and inspirational, akin to wonder…
To deviate is to dare.
(Image my own)
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One Woman's Quest 