To move freely you must be deeply rooted. (Bella Lewitzky)
IF ONLY
If peace were a bird, it would fly through heat or wind.
It would thrive in a nest open to storm.
If peace were a mountain,
it would stand patient,
constant, firm for centuries.
If peace were a tree, itwould begin
as an acorn, unafraid of darkness,
then grow to house birds,
and reach for mountains.
Peace. It transcends
mountain borders,
and allows foreign bird species
to nest together
despite unseen possibilities.
originally published in For a Better World 2011
Until you make the unconscious conscious, it will direct your life and you will call it fate. (C.G. Jung)
Before wrapping paper becomes shredded wads of color in the recycling bin, I imagine who-I-am leaking into an empty box. The first gift is meant for me. It doesn’t need a tag. It needs sorting. Understanding. Not hard censure and not high praise. Acceptance perhaps. And a willingness to change what isn’t working.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Catch the moment and ignore the hype. Then send the message—peace and joy to all. Names on the presents. No labels on the greeting.
All men should strive to learn before they die what they are running from, and to, and why. (James Thurber)Time. I’ve tried to wrap it in boxes
tied it with ribbon, thenattempted tobind an hour with duct tape.
I’ve balanced on one leg,
kicked through water
and pretened strength could be
my master over the inevitable.
Hurry through tasks, I say,
beat the clock, and then tell
exhaustion it doesn’t exist.
This moment—I’ve claimed it,
but held on longer than night and day allows.
Perfection. It doesn’t exist.
The whole of being can’t be
grasped, owned and hugged as if it were a teddy bear.
I smile at a stranger. She smiles back.
The moment is neither longer nor shorter.
And yet its presence feels stronger.
No eternal answers
and yet, we instead of I, a recognition of companionship
in a world that doesn't need to be one-hundred percent struggle,
adds running-with instead of fighting-alone.
There is no way you should feel, there is only the way you feel. (Akiroq Brost)
Good and bad,
bad and good,
right and wrong
the way of the church and the way of the doomed
fit into safe defined boxes when I went to school.
Black and white garbed nuns, rosary beads the size
of dried lima beads attached to their waists like holy chains,
explained life. All these symbols
spoke of heaven and hell,
with absolute certainty and no smiles.
My teacher sold eternity at fifty cents
a Gregorian chant book.
I lost at least three one year,
then found another book the same size and gray color,
and faked the intonations with soft whispers,
never turning my head and exposing the lie.
Me, this girl who couldn’t keep track of anything.
I did well enough when asked to reach for something in the clouds.
Yet tripped-over shadows on the ground,
a stranger on the practical path where everyone else lived.
The shy girl, the different girl,
who secretly played Mozart on old 78’s,
or hummed arias or show tunes
while the other kids screamed over Elvis.
I could never understand how hound dogs plus hips equaled ecstasy.
Already good and bad wouldn’t stay defined within the lines I’d learned.
One path for everything; who should decide?
One path for music or sexuality.
One path for heaven or hell or happiness.
I suspected that myopia led nowhere,
made the course narrow, constrictive, dull, unthinking.
It bound the spirit.
Even now, any unsolicited advice after, you should,
slips away from me, garbled, unheard.
No. Look into my eyes and see who I am.
I promise to do the same for you.
Perhaps together we can find
a new truth.
Wish not so much to live long as to live well. Benjamin Franklin
How good it would be
to live without pain,
to live without anger or foe,
to languish in riches,
frolic in health,
and miss every effort to grow.
***
I look at my blog for this week and want to add more, tell stories. The tales move with rocks, twigs, and drop-offs along the way. Each tale has a slightly different shape and edge. It belongs to the course. Maybe someday I will understand how.
That’s the secret, love. It’s not about finding what you’re searching for…it’s about valuing what you find. (Reed Logan Westgate, The Infernal Games)
Time. I find so little of it lately. And yet, this poem, written four years ago, hits me as if I’d written it yesterday.
GENE’S WORDS—AT HIS OWN FUNERAL
My death started in January
when bare branches caressed snow
cold as my body.
My friend, the gentle priest,
stood at one end of the casket
and asked if he blessed my head or feet.
He didn’t know I laughed, hearing him
from the gnarled branches of a nearby tree,
where a bright, red cardinal and I
waited to fly together into new,
exciting places I would never be able
to explain to those left behind.
The priest had commented on my raucous
sense of humor. He paused, memory or imagination
filling in the blanks. Church space remained
reverent. Stifled laughs warmed my spirit, the chill
of my body left behind. My eulogist spoke
about schizophrenia, paranoia. I carried
the burden and pain. My friend said I
was not my diagnosis. He mentioned
common moments. Coffee, killer cigarettes, picnics,
my volatile, unstable movements
as if they had been claps of thunder
during a hymn. Something that happens,
and can be embraced as part of a larger whole.
A woman reached one arm around her husband.
Their son held his infant daughter. I carried
the baby’s father as an infant. My cardinal
companion flew upward. I followed.
A voice came from a light breaking through
the winter gray. Your fear has been buried.
Come. I had never heard the voice.
Yet, I knew death had ended, a new life begun.
pic made from public domain photo and pastels
Much of writing might be described as mental pregnancy with successive difficult deliveries. (J.B. Priestley, author)
My keys are missing. The entire ring. It could be smashed on the expressway or recovered by a bird searching for shiny objects. I don’t worry. I panic. The keys could be anywhere in five states. As far away as eight-hundred miles. My husband did all the driving. My car sleeps in front of our house.
In the meantime, I breathe. Slowly in and out. It takes time to lose the difficult moments and embrace both my sense of humor and the many beautiful memories that swim through my mind. The picture taken in the Poconos is one of many examples.
The last load of wash is in the dryer. My older son calls and tells me I don’t need to go to the dealer to get a car key replacement. Walmart automotive has more reasonable prices.
Gratitude. It fits. I hope mama crow uses our house key as a worm plate for her newly hatched chick.
Loss. May it create room for blessings. Room for words that celebrate those blessings.
What you're missing is that the path itself changes you. (Julien Smith, The Flinch)
Are we there yet?
my child voice calls from the past.
And I recall waves of heat
on the road ahead, illusions of invisible fire
as my dad drives toward them.
Are we there yet?
a younger brother repeats
as the road continues
past neat rows of corn.
And cows, a rare sight for a city child.
Are we there yet?
my siblings and I wonder.
We’ve asked too many times.
And now I watch
a different road. My beyond grown
wrinkled hands grasp the steering wheel.
“You really are old,”
my honest granddaughter says.
And we pass the full summer
beauty of leaves soon to ripen red
and drop.
My granddaughter and I
laugh as the light turns green.
Are we there yet?I answer a long-ago child.
You were already there.
(pic taken from public domain photo)
There's a lot of difference between listening and hearing. (G. K. Chesterton)
As I drive, rain splatters on my car windshield. Fresh fat circles followed by long and hard streaks. I remember an old saying from my childhood, Run between the drops. Never a realistic expectation. More a fantasy notion.
I want to dry rain and tears, to change the diagnosis a friend recently heard. Cancer. And not an early stage. I want to run between the drops and take people who need healing with me.
A raincoat is the best tool for now. Live through all that happens. My friend’s laundry is in the spin cycle now. Clean wash soon to be dried. I will do what I can. And wait for the sun to shine again. It always does.
Vision is the art of seeing what is invisible to others. (Jonathan Swift)Flashlight
She stirs artificial sweetener into her coffee
as my husband shares one oldie recording after another.
Creedence Clearwater Revival, Jefferson Airplane,
The Supremes. The 1960’s scene.
Folk artists. One-time hits. I listen.
And watch as my friend moves her head
with the drumbeat. She is blind. She won’t look
for bookshelf dust or carpet lint. We welcome
few guests during pandemic time. She celebrates
learned pathways through my house and moves
between our couch and dining room table.
We share places where disability dissolves.
Or so I imagine until she reaches for coffee
and touches another cylindrical object instead.
“What is this?” I answer, “flashlight,”
as if she knew about the object the way
she understands the feel of our leather couch,
the last Elvis Presley song, or a groaner-pun.
“Oh,” she answers. Yet, I don’t see the un-seeable
until I return the artificial light to a desk drawer.
She would fathom flash-light
the way any sighted person grasps a concept like infinity.
I have a lot to learn about my friend’s life.
I am grateful she is willing to teach me.
published in For A Better World 2021
terrypetersen 