The sun sets behind a building made of wood and stone and earth: time. She is a fireball in the sky. Burning orange with her shoulders wide, arms stretched out over the horizon, head back and into the sky.
I am passenger on swift moving train racing over the miles like wind past this scene. It is slow and beautiful and fierce and fast and sad.
Pale blues give way to deeper shades. I try to remember. I must stir. I must wake. I must write it down.
Lost are those long slender days when pain was less known to these bones. Fists clenched but the days have slipped through. The decades are left, waylaid and unremembered.
With the darkening sky weariness settles in as my eyelids close. And the gentlest wisp of cloud carries even these memories away, tucking them safely into its billowed folds: past.
About blocked care
How it looks
Just woke up to it’s hard reality
Sleep in my eyes
Father help me remember
How to chose love
#thisisfostercare #adoptivemom #feelingeverything #enneagram4
we were all gung-ho
we were determined
we were more than a little brave
we were going to go
and change the world
we did our best
we started families
we made our decisions
and now we’re left with this
it isn’t bad
it’s even beautiful
but it isn’t what we thought that it would be
and we are not equipped
for all that must be filled
so we must make decisions
must start again
30 OCT 2018
I wrote the above poem in 2006 I believe. We would have just been married. I think that it must have been winter, or at least that is the feeling that I get when I read it now. I remember that it hurt to write it and that it hurt my husband when he read it. We were both fresh from big life changes, from dying dreams and from the birth of new ones.
I come back to this poem every few years because we keep stumbling into new territory. Life is the moving into new phases, new seasons. As the days and years pass and the kids grow and change and as we do as well, there are waves of mystery and unknown and the new to navigate. Starts again, again require the stepping back and reassessing, again.
It is a discipline really, one that I hadn’t noticed we’d developed until the years piled atop themselves and my heart grew weary and yet so filled with hope. Dichotomy being the friend of the creative. Oh, that last line would have been a great blog title. Next time.