What Am I?

Starting the adventure full of fire
Seeing so much to do, veins pumping
Brain fizzing with possibilities
Then middle-aged asking where the years have gone
Ironing and folding, washing and tidying away all mess
Cooking and buying, stuff that will need more cleaning and work
A cycle of endeavour that no one really appreciates
Perhaps they’d notice if it were not done
But ordering in is easily done and disorder becomes the norm
So what is this all for?
A treadmill that began when tiny bodies arrived dependent and helpless

An ocean of love demanded that all their needs be met
A moment’s hesitation could cost their life
The roads, the knives, the scalding cups
And not just this
A sudden urge to give to them something of worth
From all life’s experiences, books, films, religions, great thinkers, science, philosophy
Cherry pick and feed them the morsels of the best
And not just this
Knowing that it is deeds not words that they really learn from
Fighting to be a better example
An inward struggle not to be selfish, mean spirited, fearful, despondent, negative and far from the light
Knowing that all the while that along with the morsels of goodness
They are also consuming great drafts of polluted us
Choking on the grit of our failings

Then dawns the day for which you struggled, worked and prayed
An independent soul steps out towards the light
Sometimes you see echoes of yourself, a gesture, a laugh
But it is just a faint shadow because they are so much better and brighter than you dreamed possible
And from that place in the sun they can look back and see the darkness of us
Our failings, faults and fumblings
Suddenly feeble, lost with no parent’s authority to clothe ourselves
Watching the ceaseless tasks we fill our days with
Wondering why we chose this
And you want to tell them it was all because of love
Every day the joy of those you love
Laughing, living, being
Out of that, a routine was born and even now when all stand before me independent
Strong and capable
I continue as before
What am I to do?
For so long this was the pattern of my life
Don’t judge me
I must find a new path but am just a little lost

You see you no longer need me and that need has fuelled the last quarter century of my life
Now I clean and iron and cook and wonder what am I?
No longer what I was, but not sure what lies ahead
Fearful, lacking confidence, older, forgetful and trying to find myself anew
Stumbling forward hoping to find direction

Trying to let go and trust
Suddenly, looking inward and within
Scrambling to find self worth to cling to
It’s difficult with all this flab
But somewhere in this half century of life’s battlefield
I have learned to be grateful for this ocean of love and am
Willing myself to end the adventure full of fire with so much to do.

What a love story - in the real sense of the word

Loved this true story from Youtube - they just blow me away with their sweetness and words.  Hope you enjoy it.

Thanks

I must learn gratitude
must learn to thank God
to really really thank God
for all that life has brought
the laughter, the tears, the gains
and the losses
for all the emotions
for all the experiences
They breath life into each day
fill each moment with potentialities
and even in my darkest hours
they speak of love and hope
I know too why we must not judge each other
for no one knows one's own end
everything that has not been
achieved can in an instant be gained
Even if that second is the very last
granted on this earth
Likewise all that you think you are
can be undone in a second's mindlessness
So judge no one
look to your own field
make every endeavour
for none of us know
when this race ends
We are on different tracks
and on different terrain
Sometimes the slopes are steep on our path
while others are coasting downhill
Envy saps our precious energy
keep our eyes on the finishing line
look up, look up, there's money bid for you yet.

Pain - a path of Grace or a damaged zone?

There are times when emotions must be allowed to run where they will.  By refusing to allow them free reign it just creates a dangerous build up of hurtful feelings behind a weak dam of self will.  Rather if they are allowed to trickle where they will, one does enter forbidden regions dark and loathsome but eventually sunshine shores are discovered around unexpected corners.  The damage that is done by clinging to emotions is that long after the event, flooding has wrought havoc through previously healthy regions.  The resulting clean up inside, can take the rest of one’s life and even then not be successful.  The preoccupation with damage control will not sanction the healthy regrowth of natural emotional undergrowth.

To see a future, some hope, some way out is so important and yet during a stage of grief there is no such light.  Tears come and go yet strangely little relief.  The relief that does come is usually mostly self- pity or some other self indulgence and as such is leading nowhere good.

Time will usher you from one form of grief to another and the progress is personal, not to be forced, not to be slowed.  Those you love can sometimes act as a bridge over deep chasms that would slow progress or vice-a-versa lose you much ground.  These are acceptable risks, life without love is much too pointless and these advances and setbacks should be accepted with as much grace as possible.  It is strange that in moments of pain, loss, anger, and resentment it is then that one’s resources of what I can only call grace are at their peak.  Grace, those moments when a transcending emotion takes hold and lifts one above normal human limits into a different plane altogether.  From this plane one gets a glimpse of the purpose of all these degrees of pain, a vision of the path that is the river of your life and a sense of rightness amidst all that has seemed so wrong.

Dear Ursula Muhlschlegel

Tiny in frame both in height and breadth

white of hair, curious eyes behind
gold circles of glasses.
She has a bedroom laid out like an office
with pencils sharpened, rubbers, rulers all at hand
the drawer beneath holds envelopes
stamps and piles of crisp writing paper.
All is ordered and tidy, taken care of.
Breakfast with her is meticulous
with linen napkins in matching holders.
Tablecloth blistering white
and pots of tea and coffee just at hand.
Even as she serves you crisp fresh
bread rolls and hot drinks
you breath the aroma of
thoughtfulness that goes into
everything and every action.
Consume her kindness in word and deed
knowing that the heart within this
tiny lady beats a mighty tune
take care, take care, take care
possess a pure and radiant heart
it seems to shout.

At the bottom of the ladder

We held a memorial service for my husband’s father, a lovely gentle man, in our flat in Rhodes.  We had a room full of friends and the atmosphere was special with memories shared, tales told.  It was emotional and there were a few tears shed.  Suddenly, our next door neighbours in the flat opposite started a typical row.  Screams and shouts filled the neighbourhood and the lovely atmosphere was dispelled with foul words flying through the air.  They grew in intensity and I could stand it no more.  I went out onto our balcony and lifted some potatoes and threw them at their shutters shouting “Shut up!  We are trying to pray in here!” at the top of my voice.  The potatoes hit their shutters with satisfying thuds and rattles as I repeated my cry.  There was a sudden blissful silence in response and I entered our flat again and sat down.  I closed my eyes and tried to recapture the silent contemplative mood but the room felt different.   I opened my eyes to find everyone looking at me in total astonishment and shock.  Yes, at times even I realise just how far down the spiritual ladder I really am!

Money laundering - my style

Last night I was ironing and discovered a note of money in a pair of trousers, not mine, but one of my son's.  I remember my mother saying that it was dishonest to take money from your husband’s pockets.   However, she elaborated, if you happened to gave them a good shake and something fell out, then that was fair pickings!  The logic seemed sound if slightly morally flawed.  The note was crumpled into a tiny ball, deep in a pocket, and I straightened it on the ironing board.  Then used the iron to flatten it and was impressed how new it looked.  I suddenly decided to iron all the paper money I could find.  With what satisfaction I returned the crisp flat hot notes to my purse.  The thing is today, it strikes me as more than a little odd to iron one’s money.  Is this the first sign of madness or the last action of an anal retentive individual?  As I use the bills in public I’m careful to crumple the notes a little.  After all, no one needs to advertise how strange one has become to the whole world!