All These Places

A few weeks ago, I spent some time digging around into yesteryear.  I was asked to produce some pictures from my awkward childhood and that led to pages turning of old photo albums, journals from my distant and not-so-distant past, and my book of poetry from a time when words flowed out of me and could not be stopped.

Some of what I found was comforting….I no longer have a silver tooth and a perm for starters.  But the read through the journals was nice too.  I read of past pains and smiled a bit for the relief that they were over.  It gave me a sense of peace.  That everything eventually passes and leaves in its wake a little bit of wisdom.   It’s comforting because it allows sort of a crystal ball for the present.  Although I don’t know how current things in my life will play out exactly, I do know that they will play out one way or the other.   This too shall pass and all.

But what of those things that keep playing out over and over?  Well, that’s where the book of poetry comes in.  Sure, some of what spilled out of me in my teenage years was super angsty and almost laughable.  But I feel like some of it I could have written a year ago, or a week ago.  And that’s a little disconcerting.

I did a workshop last weekend in which we dealt a lot with these deeply wounded parts of ourselves that keep showing up over and over in all adult lives.  The woman teaching the workshop led us through a group meditation in which we were asked to acknowledge what part of our past selves, our child selves, keep showing up and wreaking havoc in decisions that we continued to make in our present lives.  It could be a message that we somehow got into our head once, or more than that….and though it’s no longer true, we keep living our life in reverence to it.  In the yoga world, we call them samskaras (loosely translated to mean ‘some scars’).  The description I’ve read that most makes sense to me is that they are like grooves in a record.  Places that are easy to slip back into if you’re not careful.  The default.  The go-to.

That all sounds a little hopeless doesn’t it?  But here’s the thing.  Once we acknowledge these grooves, truly look at where they are, how they got there and then figure out we don’t want to play that song over and over….well, maybe we pick up the damn needle and put it somewhere else.  It’s not easy work.  Lord knows holding up that mirror of honest reflection is not always pretty.  But it’s the only way to break into new ways of being if the old ways are no longer working.

All of this is an incredibly long introduction for the poem I wanted to share….finally, after 20 years.  I wrote it in 1997 and it’s the one I was always most proud of.  I read it today and I wouldn’t change a word.

“The Storm”

In spite of longing she chooses not to leave

Instead of recovering she chooses to grieve

She wants so bad to believe

That one day the rain will stop

The pain will make puddles in which she can dance

Jumping up and down, head tilted back, catching every little emotion

Her mind says “this isn’t good for you”

Her heart says “this is gonna hurt”

But somewhere between those insane yet vital organs something tells her he would love her

He would love her if only he knew

He would give her everything if he had a clue

That her heart sang songs of god and her body could be a sacred gift

Her thoughts could lift them both above this rainy day

Until then, she gathers a bucket of emotions, only slightly rusted after all these storms

And sifts through them

Discards truth and tucks forgiveness under her arm

This storm she can survive.  With or without him

Closure after closure

She stumbles back in the wet shoes, her toes squish together in the sole

Falter too often.  Blindly in the rain

Because of the comfort of his warm hold

She stays

Never thinking “How did he get to be so good at this?”

And “Is he so good that he forgot how perfectly my chin fit on his shoulder?”

And why can’t she forget?

Jumping up and down, trying to shake it off

And knowing that the itch is in a place she can’t reach

It’s the small of her back.  And it’s only ticklish when he puts his hand there

In spite of this smile that lights up her life she chooses to leave

Instead of hurting she chooses to be freed

So she gathers a bucket, getting rustier with every storm

Faith is slipping through a small hold that’s been weathered away in the bottom

She discards hurt and tucks forgiveness under her arm

She’ll need it for the next rainy day