I am sorry that you did not know
But I did
I’m sorry that you cannot hold
What I did
I’m sorry but the things I saw
Were mine
I had to learn the best way to carry it
And to fold them all inside
Didn’t work
So I wrote them in a note
Cast adrift in an envelope
And it blew upon the breeze
It contained the essence
Of a scent
So beautiful
To me
It looked like grief perhaps
I saw love
I don’t know what you witnessed
Only
I saw love
We own our life, our memories, everything that happens to us – we own it and that’s the trouble. It’s a closed circuit. Everyone who has ever lived and died – every animal down to the body of the tiniest bee – is still right here – changed energy perhaps. But it didn’t leave.
And our body, our memories – they are like that too.
There is no way to rid ourselves of what we carry inside – memory is what it is. The past is always dragging behind. But it is ours. If we cannot unburden ourselves of it – we can at least decide how we carry it.
And that is ours too. The decision.
Some choose to leave the vessel that contains it rather than live within the closed circuit alongside everything else that hurts them.
But there are so many other ways to brave the dark but live for the light. And the more you look and search for light – the more of it you will find.
I thought of this when I came up with the idea last month for poetry workshops. Because my poetry was a wonderful device for showing me the lessons of life. It allowed me to take whatever pained me and get it out of my system while still holding that valuable remnant – the lesson.
The memory is there, but whenever it hurts, I write through it and eventually that awful heavy feeling in my chest lightens. The emotion walks the bridge – from heart to tongue and leaves my circuits.
And of course it may come back and then it is a rinse and repeat process. Until eventually something special occurs – negative turns, not into positive but into neutral and then neutral drifts upwards to something that feels like compassion, for self for everyone in any situation.
If you sit with fury long enough, with rage, it will eventually abate. That won’t happen though if you squash it down – then it just becomes resentment and pain and an odd unidentified morass that feels like some sort of tripwire covered sensitive agony. And it builds into ugly ugly ugly and even harder to be close to.
Anyway, poetry workshops.
I’ve had no takers for the idea which I must admit I have been too busy to advertise and most people here on WordPress are adept at writing and walking their own bridge anyway.
I spoke to another writer – a wise man reached out and he said “leave the door open, that’s all you can do”
So the door is there – on my website and right here, if anyone wants to reach out and write with me – I’ll pass the nails – you can begin constructing the bridge – from heart to tongue not even as a workshop but one on one.
I don’t mind when.
