It's amazing the difference a day can make. As I worked in my studio tonight, I was filled with painful memories: memories that bring self doubt and misgivings. I was "wounded in the house of a friend" withheld from the love and companionship I'd anticipated. And for what? . . . . .
The events that caused it are not important. The outcome is inconsequential. What I do now is all that will matter.
The poem is my own.
It’s not a road I planned once more to travel
A path I know but do not wish to follow
Yet, I stumble on toward my Babel
The promises I made resounding hollow.
“But tell me there’s not cause” the stubborn heart cries
As if that makes this journey now required.
With each word and step my joy and peace dies
While a flame with bitter fuel is fired.
Painful memories join to make me sour;
Gratitude and tenderness would stay me.
Angry sirens call me from their power;
One more injured thought comes in to slay me.
“Wait! Recall now where this road will take you.”
Comes a voice I know inside my spirit.
This soft voice, continuing to break through
Will help me turn away if I will hear it.
So, what will I do with this rejection
Shall I forge ahead where reason calls me
Where bitterness grows like a vast infection
Or shall I turn about and let it fall free?
Memories like other fine things must be handled gently and put away quickly or damage will be done. Why is all this stacked on my table? That's another blog.
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