perspective – One Woman's Quest

People ask: “How can you be so sick; you’re a strong person?” Or I am too positive of a person – how is it possible?

What if it is because of these very things that life has chosen me for a master class – a spiritual quest – not for the weak of heart? What if it’s because I’m a good student?

(Image and art mine)

Self-Sufficient

Isolated and incapacitated
I am prohibited from partaking
of the influx of information incessantly presented

consequently cut off
from prescribed expectations
dictating costuming and culture

external expressions of acceptance
are sorely missing, suggesting
an overall lack of self-worth.

Interestingly inverse to such conclusions
is the sudden contentment that arises
from escaping the mayhem

Internal relief overrides dictated performance
surrendering willingly to intrinsic motivation
and renewed self-acceptance.

(Originally written in 2014. Image my own)

Blessings

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.

(Image my own)

Sheltered

“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.

(Image my own)