Letting Go of That Which Once Meant a Lot

Movement out the window catches my attention. The brook runs high and fast from the earlier rain. The water’s fierceness draws me, for a brief moment, from the chaos swirling inside me. My mind is in turmoil.

My mother looks down on me from the perch where I keep her photo. Would she approve? Perhaps not for herself had she still been alive; she loved to hold onto stuff. But I have to believe that she would understand I have to do this. She would definitely like to see me get rid of music she didn’t like or approve of. Yeah, she would understand. She would support me. She smiles at me from her photo.

Today I went through my couple hundred CDs and half… or almost half went into a box to go out to the curb. I don’t know why I hang onto some of this. I can’t even really say it’s for the memories. Maybe the real reason is because it is MINE; my stuff, stuff that once meant a lot to me.

The key here is: once meant a lot. So, just because it meant a lot at one time, does that mean I have to keep it forever? For what purpose do I even care anymore? Many things have been stored in boxes for over 10 years. All it does is take up space – of which I have precious little now. What’s the problem in letting it go?

Letting Go of Stuff

The past is stacked

into a box

with care

soon to be carried

to the curb

free for the taking

Do it!

Don’t think!

Don’t remember!

Don’t feel!

I wrap my heart

in numbness

lest it starts to break

lest I refuse to let go

The past is 

the past 

and not needed

today or tomorrow

I hold myself tight

lock down feelings

so I won’t miss

what was once dear

I have to do this

Too late

my throat closes

my eyes leak

already I feel the loss.

---SW 09/2015

Rewriting Older Poems

In today’s blog, I use a couple pages pulled from the old book which were written in a waiting room. Waiting rooms of one form or another; whether it’s for a doctor’s appointment and car repair, and the time spent in limbo is similar. I hate the blaring TVs everywhere (and in restaurants, too). Heaven forbid people are alone with their own thoughts for awhile.

Instead they need to be assailed with the media trying to push products at them or some soap opera putting more drama to the senses. Some places blare the news and it’s all about disaster or the most recent government program taking away people’s rights (all in the pretext of protection or making life better – the question being making life better for who) or big business running another mom and pop store out of business. Is it to have someone else’s problems relieve those waiting of their own? Is it the need to be told what products they need to make their lives better? Is it only for distraction?

Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy TV. I spend a couple hours watching every night, but the shows are my choices and I’m very fussy at what I subject myself to. I have a DVR to record the shows I watch so I can fast-forward through commercials – which I find absolutely disgusting. 

I do not want this in my life. Waiting time for me is used to write or read or meditate. The limbo-ness of waiting is an opportunity for reflection. I certainly don’t want to be bombarded by negative news excitement or have commercialism shoved down my throat. People don’t realize what the repetition of the same types of media messaging does to them. (Think about it – exercise and training is about repetition so the muscles, body, and mind can react quickly when needed. So when repetitive commercial messaging or having some official tell you over and over… it’s similar. Your body and mind takes it in. You believe what they are saying even when you, at first, don’t agree. It’s like being brainwashed.) 

But I digress. This topic is about waiting rooms. When I can, if no one is around, I will shut off the TV so I can sit quietly.

Waiting Room TV

I’ve been here before

been more affected before

I remember the feeling

remember the fear, the worry

the unfairness of it all

as some government news

attempts to control everything

I watch concern on others’ faces

hear their despair

feel their sorrow

It matches my own

and I refuse 

to subject myself

to the added stress.

(originally written 07/10/09; edited and titled 09/28/15 – SW)

And this one:

Meltdown 

“Computers are down”

people panic

can’t function

don’t know what to do

don’t know how to 

handwrite a form

communication shuts down

work stops

When technology fails

life comes to a standstill

I pull out

a notebook

and write

poetry.

And this one: 

TV Distraction

Breathe in

breathe out

an attempt to shut out

other noise

Sharp voices penetrate

blaring siren on TV

pull further in

breathe in

breathe out

concentrate on feet

center and ground

Shut out economic concerns

block out job loss fears

try not to feel it

as another business closes

desks sit empty

phones unmanned

Waiting seems forever

when listening 

to sad news. 

The Words Come

Poems come to me when I’m out and about. I always carry a notebook and pens, as I’ve said often. I write when I’m walking. Words flow when I’m driving, but I won’t stop then and usually I forget by the time I reach my destination. I tried doing the recorder while driving. It doesn’t work for me.

This is how my philosophy about the muse came about. When She (the words) come, I have to pay attention in that instant. If I don’t, She goes away. She demands immediate attention. When She gives attention to you, you’d better take the time to listen to her. Thankfully She doesn’t hold a grudge and will come back another time.

The notebook comes out when I’m in a restaurant waiting for a meal. Different atmospheres will sometimes evoke different feelings. Of course the current state of mind plays a role in what I write, too. Whatever comes out, I’m always amazed and pleased.

I knew a woman once who used to write these amazing, funny poems about food. My food poems tend to be how I try to use food to make me feel better when I’m down… and how it doesn’t work, ha ha. As much as I love certain foods and food can certainly be cheerful, it doesn’t help solve problems.

I wrote this poem in April of 2009 at my favorite restaurant, the Flying Goose Pub in New London. (I always like the words in the first two lines and have used them before and since). By this time, my mother’s health was really going downhill and it was hard to be away from her and I never knew what I’d find coming home. Would she be okay? Would she be miserable and awful to me because I’d been gone so long? (I’d usually try to bring her home something to eat to appease her.)

Don’t get me wrong. I loved her so very much! But it was hard. She’d try to be understanding when I went off. Sometimes when I got home, she’d be excited to hear about my adventures. Other times she’d be very angry and upset with me because I’d left her alone. So, I never knew which mom I’d come home to. I understood, too. It was hard for her.

Emotions Unreleased

My heart bleeds tears

my eyes will not shed

the knot in my gut 

will not allow release

It’s 1 p.m.

and I wonder 

if eating anything

will help

Driving for two hours

did not erase

the sadness

in my soul

The solitude

did not bring the comfort

usually found

while out and about

Maybe the weather

affects my mood

Maybe if it was warm and sunny

my mood would be also.

---SW

------

Friendships can ebb and flow. Sometimes words can sever a relationship. Sometimes boundaries are crossed. Sometimes ties need to be severed. It doesn’t have to be forever, though at the time, emotions are strong and the ego screams, “Never again!”

After some time, these words came to me. I don’t normally include little snide comments that my conscious mind can throw in, but in this case, I kept the comment.

Below are two poems written about broken friendship. Words spoken can easily be misconstrued or the hurt can cause such a spiraling down that it can take a long time to recover from. 

Friendship Betrayed

I thought by now

my heart would have healed

I thought by now

words would have lessened

the pain

But still I fear

What trust I had

has long gone

When will it return?

will I ever get it back?

(Maybe not where you’re concerned)

(originally written 04/23/09; edited and titled 09/26/15 – SW)

Did You Know

The chill in the air

matches that in my heart

Did you know your words

would cut my very soul?

Did you know I’d retreat

into a dark, damp abyss?

Did you know I would give up

everything I was building for myself?

You did not call

nor did I call you

Neither willing

to apologize

neither willing

to acknowledge wrong

I cannot face the distance

in your voice

nor the accusation

in your eyes

My loneliness 

eats at my joy

I will never

be the same

For now I will be alone

you cannot accept me

as I am

and I can’t be anything else

Did you know your words

caused me to change my entire life direction?

(originally written 04/23/09; edited 09/26/15 – SW) 

I’ve not talked much about this happening. I’ve not said what really happened to me or how I totally turned from a path I worked towards for many years. But I turned my back on all the training and the practices and focused on being only an artist and writer. I’ve never told anyone how it affected me; never said how I’m still affected.

I forgive other and self. Five years later I am happy to say the friendship rekindled. There are still scars. Someday I may talk about it fully. Not to place blame or find fault for there are at least two sides to every story. I played a part and I’m not blameless.

I would have been a great soul healer. It’s still in me. But the other path was chosen and I don’t have regrets. I love being an artist and writer!

Returning to a Childhood Home

I am saddened whenever I ride by the home(s) where I grew up. Though we didn’t have a lot of money, we had enough. Though there were unhappy times, as is wont in any life, for the most part, we had a great childhood. Don, my brother, and I often talk of it.

Life was simple. A lot of time was spent outside; especially wandering wooded trails, climbing trees, building tree forts, playing in brooks and fields, riding bikes, playing hop-scotch in the road, and erecting big snow forts with tunnels at the end of the driveway in the winter. (Things parents now-a-days would not allow their children to do.) We waited for the school bus without a parent present and sometimes we’d walk far down the street to wait with other kids.

We grew up, as kids do, and moved away from the childhood town. The years passed and eventually there were moves to the other side of the state. Going back to the old home area is seldom done, but when I do, there is always a sadness. We can never go back to childhood, to those simpler times…

I want to do more thinking and talking about this. It feel like it was a lifetime ago. It was. There are stories to tell, stories lost...

Home Town Return

The claws of unfamiliar

in a familiar place 

rip holes in my heart

Recognition brings sadness

the familiar

deteriorated or gone

With brightness glare

new sites 

dot the once-open fields

and woods where

we played hide ‘n seek

now filled 

with buildings and concrete

The many changes 

make the landscape

hardly recognizable

My stomach knots,

heart pounds

sadness permeates

I try to remember

yester year

it is but a faded memory

The wooded trails

I once walked

are no more

What was familiar

will no longer be…

even memory fades.

When the Past Echoes to Today

In the reworking of the old poems to get them on the computer, I am surprised to find I still hold the feelings in my heart. Oh, the moment is not exactly the same, but there are echoes through time. I can still feel those emotions even though I am not in the same place.

Time, circumstances, and personal growth have made changes within, and yet, there’s that part of me that knows, that remembers, that understands. Some things don’t change much. There are things in a person’s soul, things embedded deep inside, that will always be there.

Maybe I am a person who carries sadness. That doesn’t have to be considered bad or negative. I will even admit there are times when I enjoy being in that place because it is a chance for exploration and discovery. I find it rather fascinating… when I can move beyond the personal in-the-moment emotional outburst, that is.

Writing allows me that chance to explore. How do I describe what I feel when often there are no real words? How do I let you know that I find excitement in these discoveries? 

It’s a definite treasure hunt. Find the right words to share pain while not making the writing sound depressed and unhappy. Find the right words to bring beauty to unpleasant moments. Find the right words to convey falling down into the dark depths of the well and crawling back out to vibrant sunshine and life. 

Writing poetry that comes from those darkest places is like shining a beautiful light into the soul. The words enable me to find my way out. What joy to see that light! What joy to put the words on paper or the computer and see that I’ve done something amazing. What joy to be alive to experience these things.

In Limbo

I don’t know when

I quit shedding tears

Sorrow gathers in my heart

like autumn bees

sucking the last nectar

from a dead rose

It doesn’t matter

I sit with this moment

of sadness

knowing joy is just

around the bend 

of a mind

when it agrees to yield

I don’t know why

mountains shed color

and new coats

shiver in different hues

What once my heart

called delicious

is now stale

Yesterday’s hunger

Does not satisfy

the cold breath

of a frigid morn

My mind overheats

and I lie

on a bed of coals

waiting for spring.

(Original writing 11/07/08; edited 09/23/15 –SW)

For the Beloved

Snow fell 

ice formed

walls came down 

for a brief glimpse

before

doors slammed shut 

I could never be

until

I acknowledged

But you knew

and you waited

with a patience

I could never 

achieve

Oh, Beloved,

when summer

becomes fall

will you still love me?

(Originally written 02/09; edited 09/23/15 – SW) 

I occasionally write about the Beloved, although I’ve not shared many of those poems. Maybe it’s because I am unsure how to describe Beloved and is it THE Beloved or is it just Beloved?

Beloved isn’t any one person, or even a person per se. I don’t know if Beloved is God or Great Spirit… Maybe Beloved is different for each one. I’m not even sure if Beloved is male or female, though most of the time, I feel She is female. But it doesn’t matter.

Beloved… higher spirit, my higher spirit, it doesn’t matter. There is something greater, something beyond this realm, something watching, waiting to be acknowledged…

A Walk in the Past

Today in looking through that old notebook to record poems written there onto the computer, I reach the year 2007 and 2008. Here are writings of doctors’ appointments and long waits in waiting rooms. Here is some of the anguish as we dealt with my mother’s declining health (mental and physical) and my own declining mental well-being. I could not be the daughter she wanted me to be and that cut a hole in my heart.

Feeling Lost

Asking questions

I cannot answer

searching for truths

only she can find

I soothe the energies

reach invisible arms

of comfort

of listening

of understanding

I know the pain

I once walked

these very shores

crying my heart out

to the wind.

--SW

Nightmare

Tunnels and rock

square, hard, and dusty

the narrowing chokes

breath and mind

saps all strength

Nothing to feel

but fear and terror

filling my entire soul

I can’t go on

What was this

that happened

the other night?

What was this fear 

that had me trapped

in my own mind?

I fought my way

out of the dream

missing the message.

--SW

And, of course, there are words of past relationships:

But

I thought I was

but I was wrong

I thought he was

but he wasn’t

Was I wrong to trust?

I wonder

but I cannot be

anything else

but what I am. 

--SW

Betrayal

Words cut deep

a cold jagged knife

shreading my soul, 

leaving me questioning

my very being

Hurtful words ripped

through my heart

creating a bleeding gaping hole

filled with tears

my eyes cannot shed

I have become

an empty wasteland

in a body lost of joy

sorrow grows like mold

its seeping ugliness

spreads through my mind 

screaming obscenities

to the wind

What did I do wrong?

My cries echo

through the barren canyons

of my mind

until my tongue lies still

and eyes leak the pain

I cannot hide

For now

I am dead

there’s no hiding

from the grief

of shattered friendship

(From two poems originally written 09/12/08; edited 09/22/15 – SW)

Healing

To heal

I must let

time and nature

melt the pain

My soul

I must sink 

into the earth

where the womb

of the Great Mother

will bring me

back to life.

--SW 09/12/08

Back to the Roots of My Creativity

Selling the Bradford house and preparing to move took the entire spring and summer seasons. My entire life was wrapped up in downsizing and moving. Life, my artist’s life, was put on hold as the stress built. This week will be the fourth in the new house… which I cannot call home… yet. 

The artist’s call is growing strong again, and I steal time from unpacking and organizing to catch up on some much-needed creativity. It’s my strongest suit – writing – which has saved me so many times in the past and will save me now.

Today I continue going through an old notebook to record onto the computer the writings I recorded while out and about for the past ten years. I am trying to decide what to do with them. Many should be gathered into a book; a book about my life. I’m not quite sure what to call this new book or even how to organize it. Maybe that doesn’t matter at the moment. Maybe it’s good enough to save the writings to that folder of “memoirs” or the one of “poems.”

In This Instant

I have no words

for the emptiness

that waits in my soul

I have no words

to describe the way

I experience life

Too often I am dimmed

my tongue not seeing

what my eyes hear;

my mind is speechless

I touch a rose

but cannot decipher

the language

that wraps itself

around my heart

in tissue paper

In this instant

I am nothing.

In this instant

I am everything.

In this instant

there is no I.

This instant

is the simpleness

(or the greatness)

of just being

in a moment.

(Originally written 09/13/06 and edited 09/21/15 --SW)

This is an example of what I feel when I am able to reach a certain… space… within myself. It is within me, and yet, it comes through me from somewhere else when I am open to whatever there is. This is what poetry is like for me. I sit and wait for words. 

It is about opening to something greater than just the self. It’s moving beyond the mind chatter. It’s about trusting that something will come and whether it is a bubbling up from the well inside or it comes from somewhere “out there:” my higher power, God, Great Spirit, or whatever, doesn’t matter.

Trust is the issue. Trusting that whatever happens in that moment of sitting is the right thing. Sometimes the words that surface don’t make much sense, but if I am patient and trust that everything is all right, the writing happens. And although most of my poems are short, there is often a surprise as the ending isn’t what I expect.