the power of lost
possibility
armored over and
bitter coated
speckle-pretty and
color faded
trapped
in time’s musty
closet
or is it hope
redefined
pale protection
roundly painted
and preserved
in smooth treasure box
waiting
for polish and
jeweled key
to crack wide open
The things I’ve forgotten, the messes I’ve made,
the dried-up, brittle-boned detritus of survival.
Perhaps I left it out as a reminder.
A forecast. A prediction.
Or a testament to who I really am,
beneath the soil of wasted hour and wanted nutrient.
Root-bound. Buried.
Parched or drowning, depending on the weather.
Somehow, even so, I will bloom.
.
.
.
the moon kept me awake last night
or perhaps it was the clock-tampering
or the book i couldn’t put down
outside my window
shadows of branch and ice
looked enough like a forest
to quieten my mind
and i wandered
through fields of forced memory
wildflower whispers telling stories
long ago named forgotten
in the silence never silent
i listened to the music of this house
a symphony of survival and
companion
keeping time with tapping toe
and misplaced sigh
tracking half a century of hours
offered and removed
buried warm beneath a quilt
stitched pretty by restless fingers
tracing pattern and loss
joy and forgiveness
worn thin at the edges
by sandpaper hands and
the scrabbling ghost tempo
of tender perennial continuance
.
.
.
“Find a bit of beauty in the world today. Share it.
If you can’t find it, create it. Some days this may be hard to do.
Persevere.”
~ Lisa Bonchek Adams
Many of you have probably already heard that Lisa passed away last night. Her tweets, like the one above, crossed my path daily for years now, and I always admired her courage, her humor, and her willingness to fight her battle so valiantly and publicly in an effort to raise awareness.
In December, a good friend and member of our family–the same age as I am–was taken very quickly by cancer. I haven’t talked about it much here because her battle was private and not mine to talk about.
But today, I am reminded, yet again, how precious life is.
Just now, I know several other people who are also fighting:
an aunt, a friend’s mother, a friend’s friend.
So today, as I have on many other days, I thank Lisa
for the lessons, the reminders, the beauty.
I send love and hugs to those who fight.
And I remember.
.
.
.
It’s the shadows that reveal the pattern: dark light white, dark light white. The days roll into a fog of sameness, and I am stuck, wallowing in boredom, or ennui, or something worse: a voice that whispers not good enough.
Habits form and are broken. Wounds heal and become scars. Time is relentless and finite and never sits still.
Chaos is the natural order of things. We fight it, stacking plates and sorting socks, pushing snow and building walls, but it’s always there, lurking around every corner.
I kind of like that.
Except when I don’t, but that’s the nature of life.
I think a lot lately of a book that changed my life once, a very long time ago. Of Human Bondage by W. Somerset Maugham. It’s essentially a book about giving up, accepting, trying less and being more. At least that’s what it was for me.
The joy of sinking into who you are rather than who you want to be.
Walking into the sea of self and washing yourself clean of life’s dust.
Standing naked in today’s mirror and not cringing at your own humanity. Not wishing to be something or someone or someplace other.
I cook dinner and wash the plates. Again and again and again. I tidy the room and sweep the floors and straighten the papers on my desk.
The chaos always returns.
We spend our lives fighting for order in a world that offers anarchy.
And that’s the lesson. That’s the pattern.
Just now, the plates are clean.
.
.
.
and curtains of words
birds
pecking at windows
in hunger
and i need
sharper claws
stronger tools
dig
deeper
bony fingers
scrabble signal
red-bellied woodpecker
big-beaked bluejay
tiny chickadee
all surviving
huddled together
flutter waiting
still flying
.
.
.
cats know more about survival
than humans these days
hunt and kill
eat and sleep
play and rest
i fear, some days
we’ve lost our instincts
other days i fear
we’ve only buried them
beneath a thin veneer
of {un}civilized
virtual banter
canter
and we’re riding down a too steep hill
paved with words
we cannot say
art[?] we should never look at
hanging from trees
and strange fruit
dangling from vines
we cannot reach
i don’t know where he goes
when he heads for the woods
or whether his plan is
kill nap climb
(circle one and only one)
but some days
i’m envious of his ability
to walk away
except, of course,
for dinner
.
.
.
planted from a seed wrapped in blood-soaked cloth
on the edge of a forest scarred by arrow
blind-told witness held by treachery
and stars
in the season of growth and green glory
each ring forged of gold
crowned by emerald
each year fed by tear
and ambition
each branch forced to sky
by the sap of lost soldier
broken lock
buried heart
bitter potion
taking root
in the foibles of sand
.
.
.
