I chose the yellowed white pearls your hands crafted as a gift
your art, my memory forever entwined.
Now on the morning drive west
the pink gold sun
rising slow behind me
this gift says goodbyes to me.
Your death was from my art undone.
I am sorry.
There is more care than orders scripted or procedures done
more than the fatigue of so much hurt.
I chose the yellowed white pearls
in memory awakened to a daily becoming
burning off the haze of dawn.
She did not match the data presented
in hospital speak to a crowd of learners.
It was not so much a lie
as it was a revealing – a tale.
The well and the ill are stories
told from all sides of a hospital bed
in space and time
not captured in code and computer screens.
So let the record so reflect
the hurt and the heart of
beyond the numbering of days.
Photography thanks to Nick Van Zanten
Without respect to will
the heart still beats and chest breaths life.
Not true when with pain
to listen or not, to care too much-
hold so tight the hurt
the inner lines are lost
and I am not me but you.
The beauty of a sunset along the Appalachian gaps
reminds me that I wish no one ill
Yet then its shining point annoys
and the glare strains my soul
“go hide in the valley and die out”
and in that breath
I have struck an edge
from life to death
From the opposite side, I watched the murder
some might say suicide.
Racing never an attempt to waver.
Morning speed a must.
Indecisive the victim scrambled left -right
then frozen in fear –crushed by the weight
a heart stopped.
A morning death always makes me cry.
Photo courtesy of blumworks@wordpress
the wounding is the same
self inflicted in moments perceived through lenses lost in time
eternal scenes rehearsed to protect a shattered soul from love scorned
so taught by mothers and mother’s mothers until each is carried
Image courtesy of “Franziska/ Whataboutawaterbottle”
I really depend on problems. They engage my intellect. Energy flows best in me while in the “problem solving” mode.
But it’s killing me.
I spend hours intellectually solving the emotional crisis created in make-believe power struggles to right a wrong. I tune in preferentially to the oppression of wrong thinking, ready to push back. My eyes notice first the thing “wrong” with the picture.
I was educated to do this. My skills honed to fix the broken.
I have the mind of science, dissection as discovery.
Did I mention it’s killing me?
I use the quest for perfection as motivation to create. I think and talk and type until my voice is heard.
I yell louder – and over power.
I think deeper – and over intellectualize.
I focus harder- and over work.
It is killing me.
Can I just hang there? Can I hold a view on the edge that accepts the death of needing to solve the moment? Can I then live within the fall of mind to heart?
Can I live in the pain of brokenness, of autumn’s peace and beauty and know season’s change is not my call to arms?
Can I just die a bit in the strain of change without the torture of failure?
Image courtesy of Brenda-meditative journey with saldage.