My work might not seem difficult to those who lift or stand or strain, since most of it is sedentary using just my brain. It doesn't take an iron nerve, or being tough, or strong, or brave: but I assure you, it's enough to put me in the grave
Tag: Reality
poorhouse
I cannot say I understood how bad things were, and yet, I knew the look that came into her eyes when she would say the word: "poorhouse" -- an abject horror, and a dread, of what had been, and might yet be. This was her truth: and nothing mortals say or do, or ever said, or ever did, can take away the fear she knew, and knows, and goes to bed at night with, there in the nursing home, alone wondering, when she wakes in the dark if she is somehow way back there
To share is human:
Life Happens, and then Suddenly It Doesn’t
There is a 'before' and an 'after' that we forget about 'during' -- but every calendar carries colors that change, not with the seasons or weeks, or even days, or hours, but with moments -- And we cannot find a 'why', we just know the 'when', and we reach for something invisible, and beyond, and within, and we reach uselessly, uselessly into the multicolored dawn -- beautiful, and indifferent. Because life happens, and then suddenly, it doesn't:
To share is human:
Grateful Doubt
Two chairs
Exhausted whispers
Wrinkled clothes
The magic is in the everyday
Book to read
Toast for dinner
A warm shower
How many years do we get?
I do not know what awaits
But I am grateful for this moment,
These moments
For real love is
Unremarkable
To share is human:
Imaginary Life
My girlfriend calls what I have An imaginary life; (Ok. She's not my girlfriend. But one day she'll be my wife!) I travel all around inside My many RPG's: Still, she thinks I'm unstable With some kind of brain disease But yet: I am undaunted. I am true, and fierce and brave: Where I live's real and lasting! Unless I forget to save
To share is human:
The New Girl
I’d see them chatting after lunch; They’d pass each other in the hall - He was a handsome sort of guy, And she was very shy - Sometimes I’d catch her watching as He and some other guys played ball; He was a local sort of star That she watched from afar. One summer day, right after work, We had a thing down at the park, A barbecue and get-together Just to mine the weather – The beer was flowing freely, and She stood resplendent, with her friends, When he stopped by to check in some She thought the time had come – But just right then, the world turned wrong, She watched his eyes as his head turned - A new girl: and to her surprise Her guy only had eyes For someone she had never seen. He walked away to get two beers; And she looked stricken dumb, as blankness To her eyes would come So, she drank fiercely most the night, But her friends - they looked out for her, At some point, she stopped glancing there: At the now-friendly pair – I saw all this, and took it in. I read it all as off a page -- That much emotion I recall As though ‘twas yesterday -- The love that never came to words, The heartbreak no one ever knew, ‘Cause some "new girl" just wandered in And took it all Away
To share is human:
For Love of Dancing
For as long as she could, she danced: wherever, whenever. Every day.
She didn’t dance because she was the best at it. She didn’t dance for the attention. She danced for love of dancing, for the pure joy of it.
Long before I met, and fell in love with, and married her, she had this other love. Through the ups and downs of childhood, and adolescence, and a turbulent young adulthood, and a failed first marriage, she had this.
Music made her want to dance. Dance made her free. For real joy always comes both from the outside in, and from the inside out.
She was very good at it, and it did garner her a lot of attention. In addition, she got to the point where she could be paid to do it, and to teach it, so she did both.
While she was still a teen, she had been told she had structural deficiencies in her knees – parts weren’t there that should be – and that she probably ought to give up her more athletic pursuits, as one or the other of her knees could give out at any point.
But given the cause, she reasoned, that was ultimately going to happen anyway. So she danced: wherever, whenever.
When I showed up in her life, she had three daughters, and all of them danced as well. The eldest was slim, graceful, and her body expressed itself naturally in dance: but she loved dancing for the attention more than the feeling, and so ultimately fell away. The middle girl loved the creative aspect of dancing, and dreamed of maybe being a choreographer; but other disciplines offered her the same chance for creativity, and so she too fell away. The youngest danced only because she wanted her mother to be proud of her, so she fell away the soonest.
We have a niece, though, who has continued to dance and to teach dance for love of dancing. Even with a young family, and a busy career: because not to do so is unthinkable for her.
My wife’s knees eventually got to the point where the kind of dancing she loved was not possible anymore. But we can, and do, dance some at wedding receptions; I also often catch her dancing with one or more of our grandchildren in the living room, as the familiar signs joy on her face have me falling in love with her all over again.
“Dancing”, for you, may be some other thing. It may be riding a bicycle, or running, or playing basketball; it may be writing, or going to the movies, or participating in poetry readings; it may be music, or painting, or drawing, or cooking, or surfing, or blogging — but, whatever it is, cherish your joy. Nourish it. Love it while you have it.
For the lessons of love and joy are the same: they’re born, they grow, they will change, and they will ultimately pass away. Part of life is about wringing every bit out of these experiences while we can, then letting them go when we must.
So dance for as long as you can: whenever, wherever.
Every day.
To share is human:
“The Thing in Itself”
She first escaped at twenty-three. A bicycle, a battered van, A life that she could taste, because She sampled it, at her own pace and where. She felt the wind upon her neck, And her own tongue within her mouth, The ache of stretching, working limbs That carried her the whither she would go. A weathered book of Kierkegaard, A necklace made of icy gold, And one September when she had No answers, nor desire to provide them. And who was I? Just one regret. A place she’d traveled to, and cried; A type of warning of the life She’d never settle for in place of freedom. So, now there is a woman grown, Who owns a bicycle no more, Who’s seen her own two daughters go And wanted to impart this gift, this lesson — But cannot find the proper words To speak of strength in time alone That do not sound like hectoring Or lessons quaint and from an era gone... For night means nothing If you’ve missed the day; And love is only possible If you have your own self To give Away
To share is human:
Home
This place is home
because it’s “us”
Now we can be us,
because we’re home
© Irinamahova | Dreamstime.com – Home Photo
