perspective – Page 4 – One Woman's Quest

Tribulations

A look back to two years ago. Sometimes we need the perspective of the rear-view image to put the present in better focus. How far we have come. (Photo from our earlier, healthier days.)

One Woman's Quest II

Preoccupation with my own woes blinded me to my husband’s suffering, which culminated in a heart attack on Saturday night. We are shell-shocked. th-2

“That’s what happens to caregivers,” a callous nurse commented. Am I supposed to feel guilty?

Unable to either drive myself, or push my own wheelchair, I am reliant on the goodwill of others to get me to the hospital, although even then, my body’s limits scream: Halt!

I trust that my husband is in good hands, and getting the help he needs. Meanwhile, I am home, alone, processing a gamut of emotions and what if’s.

This is not his first heart attack. The first was silent, and according to the specialists, all but fatal. It caused sufficient damage to have us all on edge. Thank God I saw the signs and called 9-1-1 this time around. The hospital said they will not release him until either medications…

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All I Need

All I need is a pair of pink boots,
the audacity to wear my hair
as if no one is looking,
the nonchalance to wear skirts
even on the days I plan to climb,
to adopt a no-limits, thumbs-up
attitude and smile triumphant
as if my world is a bubble
of contentment, needs met,
and no worries about
tomorrow – then I’d be
on top of the world.

Dialogue

Road behind is collapsing
remain upbeat, continue

a trail of childhood tears
practice giving, don’t falter

the past a faulty messenger
focus on beauty, facing forward

memories storm, threaten
Keep travelling, let go of concern

fears, like locusts, plague
work hard, be positive

anger rumbles, grows wings
be at peace, future brings promise

pain, ignorant of time, persists
rest awhile, open to possibility

the path is burning, consuming
passion seeks an outlet, a voice

broken parts craving protection
surrender to catharsis of creativity

(Image: cafepress.com)

Seeking Home

My father’s kingdom his castle;
I inherited his strife, witnessed
years of control and submission
felt used, undervalued, robbed;

Was overinvolved responsibly,
misunderstood the nature of his
anguish, drew attention to myself
interpreting his pain as personal.

Our Father’s mansion (no place
for inanimate objects) nurtures
wisdom, recalls neglect, reflects
on life choices, lack of wholeness.

I am called Home, lifted from
introspection regurgitating
old stories, see the youthful
exaggeration, adult immaturity

have a lot to learn – like a child
throwing a tantrum – emotional,
disappointed, destructive – hurt,
lacking constructive perspective;

need to dwell in a house without
walls, free from guilt of neglected
obligations, wounding relieved
by the light of a greater purpose.

(Image: www.themainewire.com)

Blogging Confidential

Find comfort amongst bloggers,
witness the birth of writers,
misplace my own purpose, fallen

gather ideas, maintain my shame;
I am a fictional character, having
miscarried my own story, declined

into dirt – dangerous; energy limited,
no stores to drive me, never really
known a home where peace dwells,

where brilliance is nurtured, worn
down with beatings, ascribed to
independence too young, immature

chose boisterousness over gentleness,
became a second/third-hand wife,
parent, place last behind responsibility.

beat myself up now over my stupidity,
lack of credibility, an obligatory failure –
any wisdom preserved redundant.

Stop already! This is but a one-sided
tale coloured by shame – change the
lens, multiple stories await birthing

find comfort amongst bloggers,
witness the growth of writers,
recognize the shared experience.

It’s Not That I Don’t See…

Somewhere, searchers are combing through rubble
to find signs of life, or remains, while I fret over the
size of my belly, bloated by excess, filled by gluttony.

Somewhere, a mother pleas for the return of her child,
a daughter stolen, held by soldiers, while another cries
because her toddler’s coiffed appearance fails to win.

Somewhere, their village destroyed by war, families
flee to find peace, encounter rejection, and worse,
while a son murders his sister to honour family pride.

Somewhere, parents wait with terror-seized hearts
as a gun-wielding lunatic holds their children hostage,
while businessman fatten their wallets over arms sales.

Perspective tells me that I am unjustified to complain
over my first world problems, am selfish to bemoan
the trivialities of my self-centered existence, that I just

need to shift my viewpoint, look outside myself, and see
that inequalities and hardships beg for my compassion,
alter my focus and become a beacon for the world; and,

yet, I am overwhelmed by the tragedy that floods my
large screen tv, desensitized by the staged and unstaged
images of brutality, tired of the unsubstantiated claims

of terrorism, and the political garnering for votes; cannot
bear to hear of one more gun attack in a country where
the right to bear arms is confused with personal security;

feel out of control when I listen to stories of great loss,
am compelled to shut off the media, turn my attention to
self-criticism, and find a manageable issue close to home.

(Image: dict.space.4goo.net)

Choices

“Come live with us”, Mother suggests
in her there’s-nothing-we-can’t-handle
tone of voice. Father lowers paper,
raises eyebrows, stern blue eyes
flashing over spectacle rims, says
nothing. Am I supposed to interpret
concordance or contradiction?

“But you live in a box! Where would
I sleep?” “More of a rectangle.”
I contemplate room dividers, imagine
claiming a corner of the room.

Or I can move in with the man-child,
learn to tolerate delusions, listen
to incessant rants of how he’s been
wronged, content myself with
picking up after endless trails of
discards – same four-walled
containment, different cohabitant.

But wait! “Where’s the plumbing?”
How does one discreetly manage
personal excrement in a one-roomed
existence? I startle; awaken.

No plumbing needed here;
I’ve received an invitation
from the grave!

Sometimes life gives us choices;
no guarantee either will be palatable.

Out of Step

Perpetually looking inward,
pondering commitment,
considering risks, projecting
humiliation, shame; daring

to dream of a second chance,
room to grow, opportunities
to demonstrate value – well
guarded, precarious being.

I am floundering in a fishbowl,
crowded by co-conspirators
operating out of step, trying
to acclimatize, compulsively

examining decisions, under-
whelmed by undeniable
growth, compensating with
dark, emotional outpourings.

Need to prove self-worth is
unappealing, disregards
viable efforts, disallows
definitions of acceptance.

This inwards, backwards
outlook critiques harshly,
harbours shame, sees
fault in successes, I am

stuck in the past, static,
abandoned, anxiously
forgetting, hindered by
confinement, jumping

to conclusions; I need
objectivity, to redirect
stored misgivings and
eyes outward, perceive

kindness, communicate
misunderstandings, shake
off disbelief, consider merit
as reflected by old friends.

Maybe

Maybe I just needed a new perspective –
like the famed Hanged Man of tarot –
committed to some deep, internal need,
willed a horizontal shift, landed with intent.

Maybe it is not my legs that are disabled,
but a soul longing to escape the continual
discord of perpetual motion, a never-ending
to-do list of the success driven persona.

Maybe there is a greater purpose for being
that is not encompassed by outer drive –
a mysterious meaning that is revealed only
in the quiet stillness in which I now dwell.

Maybe I have been called to a personal
pilgrimage – a Camino of sorts, a crusade
of spirit designed to cleanse and enlighten –
the journey is certainly arduous enough.

Maybe it is through acceptance, finally
having released a need to control, move,
achieve, accomplish that I am able to
embrace the true lessons of suffering.

Maybe this cocooning is an act of Grace
demanding surrender before the actual
transformation occurs, and I will emerge
legless or not, winged and ready to soar.

Maybe, just maybe, this stripped down,
barren existence is not a penance for
shameful living, but a desert crossing,
offering re-alignment, hard-fought peace.

Seeking Release

Days confined to a four-walled cell
morose gray skies mirroring gloom
drumming of an overworked heart
breaking this suffocating silence.

Twenty months sentence served
release date uncertain, life altered
beyond recognition, hope elusive
as the sun – I am powered down.

Pocketed energy calls for efficiency
integrity challenged by wavering
brain; peace a butterfly chained
by depression, praying for release.

Stability relies on yielding, practice
demonstrating caring, gentleness,
giving to self, mourning spontaneity,
I stretch to find perfection, believe.

Convince myself of synchronicity,
celebrate creativity, ideas, feedback,
focus on glimpses of well-being,
treasure merriment, inspiration.

Ego mistakes self-preservation
for selfishness, attacks motives,
loveability, invites depression,
awareness gained obliterated.

I cycle back; imprisoned anew,
am salvaged through interaction
simple sharing magically uplifts
rebirthing perspective; healing.

Through grace, I embrace gifts
surrender control, self-rejection,
retire the victim, and remaining
open, recognize response-ability.