Reflecting the finite
Of an eagle
What do you see?
Poems, writing, thoughts…learning
Just like so many other things about you that didn’t make any sense, but made me smile deeply, ‘breakfast food for dinner’ is one I love. I just didn’t think you meant muesli.
I spoke to my therapist today for another hour. We talked about how far I have come in the last 3 months. During that time my journal has stood so deathly quiet but this week it has been taken up again.
How different it is from when we first began to speak, as I sat there, falling to pieces.
We didn’t talk about you much today. You have become one of my “not yet” items. I still love you. There are days when it is so much harder, but now I know that I can love you without feeling like the world is ending if you don’t love me back. I forgive everything for I am not without fault, and hope that you will forgive me too one day.
My poems speak of pain and heartbreak at times. These things are still true. I still have bad days. I still have moments when the sadness of those final days breaks me like a wooden doll under the wheels of a pickup truck. My hope is to accept them and acknowledge that the past isn’t what matters: All that matters is now. When I feel the pain I let it flow through me onto the page and allow it to pass.
The pain is no longer what defines me, it just is.
You are still in my thoughts as I go to sleep, and when I wake I still look for you. No-one said I was over you. I am not, nor do I think I will be for some time. Maybe I will never be. What matters is now. Not what may be.
The road ahead is taken One Step At A Time; like climbing a mountain, or walking a long and winding path through the hills.
What is important
Is not the end
But each step
As it is taken.
I scratched you deep into my skin,
Felt the blood as I soaked you in,
From the memories I hold within
You’re leaking out; the mirror stings.
Such beauty in its simplest form
Those tears which from your eyes do fall
The smile which after graces lips
At what you feel when sorrow lifts
The knowledge that within your soul
Is all you needed to be whole
Organised mind sought
Life’s innundation managed
Always you persist
Softly settling into gentle realisation,
Nothing more matters.
A moment shared lives eternal in itself;
Nothing more is needed.
The fire cracks in the homely hearth
As memories and stories flow,
Recounting each our winding path;
Long years and days divide, we know,
Yet always we return at last
To ties which bound us long ago,
The memories of childhood past:
Of winter games amidst the snow.
When in some autumn year we meet,
And talk again of years before,
Will we in memories repeat
These patterns which the flames restore?
Of cherry whisky, tartan pleats,
Bad music choices fast deplored,
The plans which may yet come to be
And those that by the wayside fall.
If I should drift across the sea
Sharp memories of this may fade,
But always something here will be
That will not wane with groaning age;
A lifetime built of memories
The sum of which I’ll gladly pay
Whether my life shall set me free
Or drag me to an early grave.
A moth flits from the open window and lands on my knee. It tickles. Does he know how short his life will be or wonder where he is going? What the meaning of his existence is? No. He just ‘moths’. Action born of instinct. To do. Not to think.
How quickly I could end him.
I don’t, and he moths away. Fluttering his little brown wings without a care in the world.
Meanwhile I am left sitting looking at him. Trying to work out if it is possible to just ‘human’ and what just humaning is.
Is there a way to be which just embraces every moment as it comes, moves from moment to moment in blissful ignorance?
The moth comes back wondering if my bare leg is something interesting.
Then flits away again.
I sit and read for a little. Wondering if this is what humaning is. At least in part. Sharing experiences. Whether messages and conversations are like the moths as they dance around a candle. Or am I the candle? Burning slowly. Not wanting to burn too fast, too bright, lest I run out of fuel, waiting for someone to come along and snuff me out.
That lingering smoke smell the afterthought of my existence. The reminder of my light and presence. Reminder of the light that was.
The moth flies out of the window.
I hope it finds another moth. It may not be the most beautiful, elegant or intelligent of creatures but it is, just like me. Doing what it does.
Sometimes finding what it is looking for, even when it isn’t looking for it.
I wrote this some time ago when thinking and writing a little more than I have been of late as a message to somone I hold very dear to me, someone I always will hold dear to me, always.
It strikes me that what I said then applies so appropriately to how I am and what is, that it should be something I am more open about. To be, to Moth, to Human; these are things which should come naturally yet we constantly fight against them.
I hope that for at least a moment every day, with or without anyone or anything else in my life, I might be able to find the ability to just BE.