Poetry, Reflections

Immobilized…

I stand alone, within a crowd

immobilized.

Calming breaths, burrowing roots

still my restless self.

Every ounce of fortitude

every spark of will

every bit of discipline

required to rein Me in…

Now a statue, not stone, but flesh

my focus turns without.

To see the world pass me by

unmoved by my existence.

In every face, despair

In every voice, fear

In every life that passes

a story of distress.

For chaos rules the world today

and wicked winds of change.

Perhaps, if I can hold my ground,

my life would feel more sane…

But even here, unmoving,

reality seeks its claim…

Lightning strikes me from above,

attacks quite unanticipated.

Raging cyclones chip away

at balance, strength, and certainty.

And flocks of birds fly overhead,

to defecate quite purposely…

Yet here I stand, immobolized,

completely unprovoking…

So how am I to name this space?

What judgment comes to mind?

How can I explain this?

Or justify my time?

Is standing still the least destructive

for me and those nearby?

Or should I slip into the flow

let chaos be my guide?

Hanging on or letting go,

the difference is extreme.

So, caught between the consequences

Immobile I remain.

 

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Poetry, Reflections, Visions

Tangled threads…

Sitting at the Loom of Fate,

weaving a destiny I choose to create,

I notice…

Old threads are coming loose, fraying,

unravelling the past I built.

I reach over, hoping to minimize the loss

but the holes are already forming

the damage done by time, man or moth.

Or all of the above…

So I refocus on today, and what’s ahead,

the pattern sweet and true,

only to discover knots in both the red thread and the blue.

Sighing deeply, frustration raging,

I calm my spirit, and focus my mind.

“I can fix this,” I tell myself,

“just take it one thread at a time.”

And so begins the process of detangling tiny threads,

ever so gently teasing the knots apart,

so as not to weaken them.

But my eyes grow tired with the task,

and my hands begin to cramp…

I wonder if I can weave them in,

without ruining the final product.

“That would be cheating,” I tell myself,

“and lazy, too…

“Is that how you want the future to remember you?”

So I sit back to take a break

and another thought occurs…

“What happens if I just walk away?

“Right now, without delay?

“Will anyone notice?  Does anyone care,

“if I never finish weaving my own fate?”

With the past unravelling,

and the future unwoven,

now might be the perfect time to quit.

Let obscurity claim my name,

and simply clean my slate.

And I will never have existed,

apart from All-That-Is;

I will not have lived or died

or suffered, endured, triumphed or lost.

Ever…

once the remnants have dissolved.

Hmm…

So tempting is that thought…

I turn back to my tangled threads

as I contemplate the cost…

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Reflections

Where has my compassion gone?

I’m standing on the deck this cold winter morn, reflecting on all that is around/within me.  I notice the waning moon, face brilliantly unexpressive, shining dispassionately against the perfectly blue morning sky.  The crows caw their morning greetings, but I can barely force myself to respond.  As the chill seeps through the layers of my human made winter wear, I cannot rouse an ounce of motivation to push it away.  It reminds me of something… something close enough to feel, if not yet to name.

My mind reaches for happier thoughts… connections to the world around me.  I recall the joy I felt yesterday at the first stirring of the trees.  They are nowhere near awake around here yet, but I felt the rootlets twitching slightly, and the sap begin to soften, as the trees baked in the strong midwinter sun.  Soon… soon enough, my dear friends will waken, and our work together will commence once more…

I listen, and can hear my grandchildren giggling at last night’s party; such carefree abandon always makes me smile.  I see my grandaughter’s impish grin as she watches me, looking for a reaction as she manipulates the adults surrounding her.  I think about how my 6 year old grandson put himself in a “timeout” (yes, he called it that as he sat down), for accidentally knocking over an empty bottle in his enthusiastic play.  He is always so hard on himself, but I cannot help but admire such self-discipline in one so young…

And then my thoughts drift to the others, those in pain, who crossed my path yesterday.  My focus, however, is not so much on the pain they expressed in countless known or unknown ways, but in my reaction to it.  Because everyone is in pain these days, and such pain must find release…

My concern is about how I felt about it, how I reacted.  The person who told me a dozen times over a 4 hour visit how tired they were became annoying.  The one who worked so hard overcoming sadness and grief that their faux happiness gained enough volume to become excruciating.  The injustices shared, to which I could only mildly respond, “such is life.”  The person whose physical pain mirrored my own, so much so that I was grateful when they finally left.  Even my own discomfort captured less than my full attention, as I crawled up stairs with hands and feet, involuntary groans escaping (in front of people, even!), without me caring what others (or my self) might think…

Tears slip silently down my cheeks as I write these words, but no sobs accompany them.  They are the hopeless, unacknowledged grief of something lost, without the desire to even identify the cause.  But I suspect I know already, if the title of this piece carries any significance at all, for what I do NOT feel this morning is compassion.  Not for myself, nor for anyone (or perhaps any thing) at all.  I feel a void where it used to exist, an emptiness that holds only fading memory.  I remember caring.  I remember hurting.  I remember helping.  But all of that is in the past…

My eye is drawn back to that brilliant moon in a flawless cold midwinter sky…

Yes… dispassion is the right word for today, and it has crept in to every aspect of my awareness.  I guess that answers my question, doesn’t it?

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Poetry, Reflections

“The Pillar…”

A pillar stands before me –

plain, white stone.

Unremarkable in every way,

except for the attention it has drawn.

No markings, no decorations,

not holding anything up;

just standing there, alone,

upon an unremarkable bluff.

I can see the top, easily enough.

I can wrap my arms around it.

But when I try to move it,

the pillar does not budge.

I count this as significant,

the only thing it does –

standing like a pillar

upon a lonely bluff…

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Reflections, self-discovery

The Analogous Mind…

Write your self a story,

complete,

and live it as your own…

Chances are you’ll learn something,

about yourself,

that was previously Unknown.

***   ***   ***

That’s the thing about fiction and fantasy, though, isn’t it?  Innocuous, entertaining, completely unreal-istic.  Until you live it as your self, and make it your own.

Then it becomes real.  Totally real.  For you anyway…

The magic of great writing is that ability to pull you in, immerse you in the “safe” realm of words.  Feeling isolated from the drama and trauma of life for a while, comfy and cozy in your little reading nook…

Until the truth slams into your heart, taking your breath away, leaving you stunned.  And speechless.  For there is no response when it happens that way, no escape, no retreat.  The author may have lured you in with beautiful words, but they stick, remaining with you long after you look away…

Like a curse…

Writing your own story allows you to control the ending, but otherwise the process remains the same.  Hidden gems and unconscious agendas control the rhythm and the rhyme.  Your Self directs the flow, while your self just rides along.  These truths last…

Until the next story is written…

***   ***   ***

In the “real” world we call this empathy; less thought, more feeling.  But the steps remain the same.  Immersing our selves in someone else’s frame of reference to learn about ourselves.  Each new Other we encounter is a new opportunity; each new being we meet, a lesson come to greet…

We live in an infinite hall of mirrors…

What a disturbing thought to think…

For this story, this analogy, has led to yet another unforgettable truth, the previously Unknown, revealed:

I, too, am a narcissist!  And this  is All about Me…

Ugh…

 

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