in the car on my long drive, the radio plays and
i wonder about all these stories we tell, we hear
… what is the power of an individual story?
can one story make a difference ?
i want to believe that
each voice brings hope for change
through shared experience and empathy
– but as i watch each of us – watch myself –
turn away from others, i worry instead
that it is just a habit carried down
through all the years of our existence,
a catharsis to purge ourselves
of our hate and fear and pity
my own thoughts
having already been
spoken many times
but to no effect
is it enough to simply speak?
but the moment i pause
all my insecurities
rushing sliding colliding
hope is a circle
a ring of faith: round and soft,
yet resilient and strong
a welcoming table around which
we gather, always room for more
a band endlessly looping
but holding us close,
a promise we make
to those we love most
a warm full embrace
that protects and comforts
hope is a circle
I’ve been losing memories
Just a fuzzy spot where
My childhood once was
I’ve been repeating myself
To retrace my thoughts
Scaling toward the present
Note to self: make new memories
A friend said she had grit….but she couldn’t help feeling more like she just had sand in her gears. Because, somedays she could not tell the difference between her so-called resilience and her inability to get out of the same rut.
Another glorious Friday night unfolded in the suburbs.
They had pizza for dinner and then headed to the middle school, where her youngest daughter was playing in a Rec Department basketball game.
The entire scene seemed painted over in Polaroid hues: over-competitive parents living vicariously. Bored siblings causing mischief on the periphery. The spectators sat poised to move suddenly – for these girls played basketball more like a dodgeball game. The rumble of feet on wood punctuated by a blaring horn and the piercing whistles of pimply-faced boy referees.
She didn’t care much about the game and mostly paid attention instead to the oddities. She suspected, for example, that the “shoelace check” timeout called by the refs was not an officially endorsed call. Particularly when one of the parents yelled back, “Mine are tied!” She wondered whether a random whistle, which halted the girls midstep – followed by the call of “inadvertent blow” – really warranted a free throw for the team in possession. And she felt certain that the strategy of throwing the ball as far down to the other end as possible and then running like the dickens to catch up to it was in fact not a professionally used tactic. Then the game went into overtime – twice -because apparently 0-0 is a tied score, and the girls just couldn’t find the basket no matter how many times they tried.
Ah yes. Come to think of it: this did seem like a perfect way to end her week.
One day, she hoped to wake up and feel she actually belonged in the space in which she existed.
I celebrate the first day of 2017 with a migraine and the powerful medicine I take to relieve the pain. I cry about the memories I won’t be able to hold and the foggy world in which I exist more and more frequently.