Connecting with others here on WordPress saved me from utter destruction. And for that i am grateful. And in the process, i have returned to my first love. Creating is my lifeline and my grace to get me through to the other side.
Growing up i was denied every aspect of self for the greater good. And as much as i love my family, to neglect myself was detrimental in the long run. I lost my brother to suicide. And i still have trouble understanding that relationship. We were very close growing up. Until we drifted apart. Friends until high school, when his sudden budding interest in girls, sparked a fissure.
I will never fully understand suicide. The thoughts of doing away with self, once gripped me too. For thirty some years i thought it through. Jumping from second-story windows, holding my breath under pillows, imaging myself driving the car off a bridge, and holding a knife to my neck while talking to my therapist. I had my ideas. Pills and razors, ropes hanging from rafters. They all presented peace of mind.
I have wandered through the ensuing fog. I have spent countless nights in tears. I sacrificed myself for the greater good all while dying a slow death.
I started practicing art in recent years. Whether photography, watercolor, acrylics, textiles, or garden seeds, i have found my inner sense of life. In my poetic words i have tried to let you see a bit more of what stirs inside. And even though i am unable to practice my first love, dance, i found a place to move internally.
So take your bow. See me stand before light. You saved a life.
Please do not use any of my photos without my permission. Thank you.
With home in the distance and the dandelion chains grounded, i jostle my memory again dream of days spent carefree.
Watching butterfly wings grace grasses
—grown, in a star’s twinkle
Seeking out salamander’s rock ledge. Finding fox’s buried bones emerge. Dipping toes in granite pond.
Stirring grandma in the kitchen. Windowsill of blue jar pickles. Pies and noodles baked delicious.
As the cow’s path erodes.
Yesterday, trE posted a challenge to write a nostalgic childhood memory in five words, on her blog: A Cornered Gurl . I took it a step further and wrote a poem as I recalled the magical summers on the farm.
Life is bittersweet. Under the layer of happiness is another layer of grief. And we build the mountains steep.
I love snow. The beauty mesmerizing. The dancing flakes lightens the air.
The child in me awakens every time the colder breeze sends rain twirling into laughing drops. I leap into my coat and boots to head outdoors to form another soul from the white stuff.
Unfortunately, the wet, packing snow is destructively beautiful. Snug in the house, roasting by a crackling fire, I kept hearing branches creaking and breaking. So I jolted outside to find my beloved birch looking like a willow. And on the opposite side of the tree, three hefty limbs broke in half. Not to mention a stately, 50-foot tall white pine in the way back, leaning heavily towards the earth. I will need a potent night cap if Im to make it through the dark tonight. And lots of prayer.
Good morning. As the turning of days and as the grass sprouted from winter slumber, I found myself at a point where I realize I can tarry no longer. I must be courageous and serious. I must be willing and full of hope. I must grasp every word that spills from my heart and wring them dry, until I no longer see the darkness inside. What then should I do when the light allows too much room for curiosity? The despair I roam within ebbs and throws me into oblivion. I must be willing to try and write what I set out to create. Even if I fail. I must no longer tarry as if my days are endless. Grey is as good of a place as any to either brighten the world with hope or darken it with tragedy. I hope my efforts will lift us to hear the galloping of freedom drawing ever near. That heaven’s promises of long ago will not cease to keep heads from drowning under the growing storm. I sense the road has arrived. I cannot deny my calling any longer. I cannot be a child of milk and cookies. I must be willing to learn and sift knowledge. To discern the day’s signs and the evenings quandaries. To be, is my last attempt at fulfilling my heart’s rhythm. The beating lasts but a few days more. I am ready to accept my fate. Let it be so.
If we fail fail to see the wind coming at the break neck speed of a metal horse on tracks,
If we fail fail in our comfort food, shelter and clothing scraped together with goodwill given as scraps to wild dogs,
If we fail fail as foreign spies on fellow citizens drumming up grievances and rounding up heads rolling in wooden bowls we ravish our own hands.
We fail. We won’t change history any more than armies before us. We drip in mother’s blood and scour our bodies of father’s filth. We bury bones in rags doused with our enemies vapors. And cheer. Cheer our own demise as we beg for freedom from our own ills.
What am I doing here? Does anybody really know? I suppose some of us do. The smart and put together ones.
I sit up nights worrying who I am. Resign myself to think I may never know. Knowing one day I am sunny and the next day I send shivers up the coolest cat in town.
Life was going swimmingly. I had plans. I felt my square edges had been rounded to fit in society’s cylinder vision. Then, you know, a virus spread like a bad case of halitosis. Why didn’t someone tell that person to keep their mouth shut? Yeah! I wouldn’t have the nerve to tell someone either.
Then I have another problem. The world is divided along political lines. And religion. And between truth, morality, and friendship. I’m somewhere in the gray area of exhaustion.
I realize I am as much to blame. So I sit and wonder. Will I have courage to change my life to compensate for these wavy thoughts.
No. Im not suicidal. Not this time.
Still, I need a break from this break. Sit awhile and sing me a song?
Yesterday. I once played this song continuously on the guitar I bought myself in high school. As a teen, my summer days were spent babysitting for a divorced mom who worked for The Braille School in Milwaukee WI. The family came from New Zealand and had sheep rugs scattered throughout the house and ate lots of vegemite. The kids had a cat named Erasmus and a pet goldfish, whose name eludes me. The dad was a small-engine pilot and flew planes out of Oshkosh WI. I wonder where they are now?