Tag Archives: Transformation

All the World’s a Stage

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puppetIt started as a story

As old as all of time

Barely changed by history

Relieved of any rhyme.

A play upon a stage

The actors held on strings

To perform at any age

Both sad and glorious things.

We agreed to take the part

Not knowing how to feel

But like a puppet’s heart

Just wishing to be real.

Pulled in that and this way

Lifted time again

Our body, arms and legs sway

Dangled by some thread.

We have this opportunity

To act the story out

In whichever way we see to tell

What it’s all about.

We rise and fall with ease

Under power not our own

And dance upon a breeze

While longing to go home.

We wish for some control

Not knowing how it’s done

But the curtains too soon close

Like the setting sun.

If only we could see

That there is nothing at all to fear

For we are not the puppet,

We are the puppeteer.

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The Peace that Blooms

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The Peace that Blooms

 

 

 

 

The scent of roses hovers near
Chasing the pain away
Bringing us closer to the things we fear
Drawing them into the light of day.

And once we uncover the truth inside
The petals peel away into a flower
To open our hearts that wanted to hide
Unveiling the depth of our inner power.

No longer does the bud exist
It’s grown beyond its former bounds
Despite its death, it still persists
In the form that it has newly found.

Patience is all that is required
That, and, of course, an open heart
Of the souls that seek their fate’s desire
From which true love will never part.

On this journey wide and far
That starts from such a simple seed
We find that no matter where we are
We will always have all that we need.

Kindness

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A single drop,
One tear gliding down a cheek
Begins a weeping that flows.
Without pain, a simple outpouring
Energy goes unnoticed
Into a puddle.

But let it be ink.
Let the indigo drops
Bleed into the pool,
Swirling until fully suspended,
Thoroughly integrating
Into the whole.

Slow transformation.
Blending
Until all is deep
And changed.

The Dying of the Light

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Spring was pleasant

Ephemeral

Naïve

Blossoming hopefully in the dewy morn

Until steamy, hot red skin

Wiped summer from my brow

When loyal Sun prolonged the noon

Then August washed it away

Amidst thunder and lightning

And torrents of hurricanes

Falling into the arms of autumn

To cool my head and warm my heart

Finally harvesting what I’ve been tending

All this wonderful life

Now facing and bracing against it

Planning for winter’s cold

Hibernation

But not yet.

Chill nights are relieved by tender light

Gray-blue clouds blanket golden trees

Cattails gently sway, counting down the days

I could take September forever.

It’s Midnight

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Well, I came to the city… I was running from the past

My heart was bleeding… And it hurt my bones to laugh

A month in ICU. Yes, a month. That’s a long time for someone to need state-of-the-art life support. If you’re the one in and out of the coma, that time might pass unnoticed. But if you’re the one standing bedside, eternity passes between flashes of a blinking light on a machine. When it’s your partner of 35 years, your life together flashes before your eyes.

So I asked my friend if she wanted to come hang out with me for a little… just to get some relief from fluorescent lighting. She said she did need to get out of the hospital, and didn’t want to be home alone if they called. She said that once they got through shift change, and he was stable for the night, she would come. That was 6:30 pm. She arrived just after 11:00.

Stayed in the city…No exception to the rules, to the rule

He was born to love me… I was raised to be his fool, his fool

With old friends, no matter how much time has lapsed between visits, there’s no need to catch up. We know who we are. We are there for each other in that moment. We listen when the other needs to decompress.

She described her month – surgical procedures that went on for days, the barrage of “survival odds” given as a regular update, the staff telling her how worried they were for him, and how, in delirium, he had cried out for her for hours one night when she wasn’t there.  And, after 36 days, how thankful she was to be still describing him in the present tense.

Walk that line, torn apart. Spend your whole life trying.

Ride that train, free your heart. It’s midnight up in Harlem.

I was glad she came. But exhausted the next day when she left. We had spent hours talking… questioning… hoping… praying. As we held hands and closed our eyes to say Good-bye, I felt all of the love I have for her and her family, and all of the light of my being move through us together as we asked for a miracle.

Afterward, I felt so drained from being so fully present for her that I needed to sleep. When I awoke, I went out for a walk around the pond. As I sat on the grass and kicked off my flip flops, I checked Facebook on my phone. Posted by a friend was a song – Midnight in Harlem. His suggestion was to let it “blend with you.”

I came to the river… And I took a look around

There were old man’s shoes. There were needles on the ground.

No more mysteries, baby. No more secrets, no more clues.

I took a deep breath and exhaled as the guitar started to twang and the audience cheered. The cymbals shivered as the railroad rhythm unfolded. My toe involuntarily started to keep the beat. As my shoulders rolled down and began to sway, I could feel the chords move me as the singer’s sultry voice reached out. I became aware of the grass under my feet and was transported to that summer concert amphitheater when the back-up singers stepped forward cooing.

The stars are out there.  You can almost see the moon.

The streets are windy and the subway’s closing down.

Gonna carry this dream to the other side of town.

The warm summer breeze moved the grasses and the tall cattails in the marsh – in harmony to the rifts in the song. I could smell the muddy earth mixing with the sweet honeysuckle nearby. Red-wing blackbirds whistled and sparrows flitted, dipped and dived over the shallow water. I closed my eyes and breathed in the music just as I breathed in the air around me. A shiver ran up my spine as I totally absorbed all of the energy from the beauty of this moment… nature, music, poetry…knowing that the art of life is in the living of it and that the spirit is infinite and will bring you back from the edge of sadness to again feel the joy.

Walk that line, torn apart

Spend your whole life trying

Ride that train, free your heart

It’s midnight up in Harlem.

Many thanks to the artists: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7ubH7dLJJiE&list=FLv4ash5ErtR2eZM3Lu8PFxQ

The Last Word on Suffering

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I had an epiphany. I finally understand the crucifixion.crucifixion

It happened like this.

Event One:

I was staying with a friend who told me that she had trouble sleeping. After several days, I asked if I could make an observation about her inability to find sleep. She said “No, I’d rather you didn’t. A lot of people have given me advice about insomnia, and they don’t understand my problem.” I answered “OK. That’s why I asked.” But she continued, and I listened in order to try to better understand her perspective. (I’m paraphrasing)

“Sometimes when there is an experience of deep trauma while you’re sleeping, and then fear of what might happen again, you just can’t let yourself be “asleep at the wheel.” I found her self-awareness and ability to communicate her exact dilemma inspired, but her inability to want to heal it perplexing.

Conclusion: We choose to hold onto our suffering and we believe no one else can understand it.

Event Two:

I watched a woman be a total bitch to a guy who liked her. She actually laughed at him. He turned to me – a person he’d met a few days before  –  and shrugged.  I shrugged back.

Conclusion: People deliberately cause other people to suffer through their unkindness.

Event Three:

I recently related a story about how I was humiliated as a kid. As I told my friend about it, I realized I could still feel the betrayal of people I had believed were my friends. It still brought my eyes to the verge of tears and my throat clenched as my breathing grew shallow. I finished my story in a cracking voice.  I was that kid again. I am that kid still.

Conclusion:  We are all children, wounded and not knowing why.

Catalyst: My 50th Birthday

As this big day approaches, and coincides with the arrival of my first grandchild, I’ve taken to reviewing the journey so far. More to the point, I’ve actually started a travel journal. So, as a good middle-aged adventurer, I’m creating my bucket list.  But, before I could start thinking of all the things I want to do, I needed to make a list of what I’ve already done (and thereby prove I am indeed ready to kick the bucket).

After logging the places I’ve been and cool stuff I’ve tried, I thought I should record other milestones of my life. What have I experienced that other people haven’t or won’t? What traumas have I survived?  I thought about that last one for a few minutes. It’s a long list. And I’m very grateful to say Everything. I’ve survived it all. Not only that, but I’m thriving, happy and at peace. I’m glad I focus on the good stuff because boy, I’d be totally sad if I just thought about all that other crap. And then I questioned the Universe – Why do people hold on to their pain? Why do they cause others to suffer? Why do we tolerate witnessing this abuse?

And the answer came:  Because they don’t get it. People feel alone in their pain yet are too afraid to share it. They even feel that no one could possibly understand their suffering.  They believe that their grief or loss or heartbreak is somehow unique. They insist on describing – sometimes in great detail – all of their symptoms. Often they repeat this list over and over until they believe that the symptoms are the cause of the pain. They hurt others and stand by as others are hurt to reassure themselves they are not the only one suffering.

So back to my original point – the crucifixion.

Bottom line: It seems to me that the only way Jesus could stop people from wallowing in their own ego-driven self-pity long enough to be kind to others and not perpetuate the inhumanity we inflict on each other was to set the bar.  It’s the all-time-great decision of one man to say:

“Look, no one’s suffering is bigger than mine. I totally can relate. Get over yourself. We all know pain. We all have witnessed cruelty. Once and for all, you haven’t suffered any more than anyone else, just differently. If you need an example, look at me. Been there. Done that. I get it. I might not know your particular brand of pain, but then again, you don’t know mine. Just know that we share it. Now stop it. Quit your fuckin’ bitchin’ and put on the big panties. Focus on all you are, have done, and have survived and go help someone else. You’ll be amazed how happy you’ll be when you just do that. Forever.”

Silent Song

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In the peaceImage

At the edge of the deep

Silent corner of my mind

Lives the song of my life.

As the music of the clouds

And rustling breezes birth

A symphony in lush woods,

Lingering thoughts of distant places

Remind me of long-ago lyrics

And the rhythm moves me on.

It is the harmony of tides

And frequency of waves

That urge this traveler

To remember the movements

Of the distant past.

Lost in this voyage of time

Peeling back the layered years of my heart

I come to the song I’ve known.

Entering the quiet woods

Of my restless mind

I learn to sing.

Each Other

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When I was afraid

You held my hand

And told me not to worry

You taught me trust

You led me and followed me

Saying I will go with you

I will be there

When I was afraid

Of what the future held

You knew it would be fine

You are all brave things

It’s time now

When you are afraid

Of what will come

In the darkness or the light

I will hold your hand

When you are afraid

I can say today is good

We will trust

In what the future holds

But you cannot stay

And I cannot go

Yet you will not be alone

When what will come, comes

It will be fine

You are all brave things

All Fired Up

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porcelin

The heat is unbearable.

I always thought it was smart to bring a jacket. Now I’m stuck in three layers of clothing, sitting next to a rather large individual in a fairly small seat on the train.

Why, in God’s name, would they set the thermostat so high when it’s such a beautiful day? Looking around however, I’m the only one noticing the heat. Is it just me?

Oh, I get it.

It is just me.

Dammit.

My sister warned me about this. Out of nowhere, you become a kiln. A sensation starts small in the core of your body and ignites every cell on its move outward. Suddenly, what was comfortable is now suffocating and stifling. There’s an incredible urge to start unbuttoning everything. This is a public place though. I can’t exactly strip down. Oh dear God, will I actually immolate? Probably not. So here I am suffering the fires of transformation in golden silence.

It’s a test, I know.

Just as soft clay is fired to harden it to ceramic, the experience of my childhood, my youth, and my adulthood is being forged into the fullness of being a mature woman.

In a kiln, the higher the temperature, the finer the porcelain becomes. The imperfections are eliminated, the fine lines of paint are made permanent, and the colors become enameled. The result is a visibly delicate, but incredibly strong piece of china capable of withstanding daily use while maintaining its beauty.

And that is how it is with women. We reach a point where experience has done its job to teach us all the things we need to know… to be durable, to be practical and yet to display our gifts in a way that highlights the best qualities of our feminine assets.

We know who we are.

The doubts are burned off. The fear turns to ashes, and anxiety is just smoke rising and wafting away. With confidence and clarity we move into the new territory of being ourselves. Not a daughter anymore. Not a wife anymore. Not a mommy anymore. We become the women we knew our grandmothers to be: calm, assured, optimistic and ever faithful, tender yet strong, with the perspective to gauge the passing days over the lengthy years.

So as the intensity of this moment subsides, I’ll not wish it away. I will remember that in these brief minutes of internal combustion lies the serenity of my future.