Category Archives: Poetry

ship wreck

alton mills window

I have since watched seasons turn, tended gardens,

And I understand that for new life to grow

What has long been held back, held in,

Must be released, set free, transformed,

Composted, returned.          (from Leaving by Claire Sylvan)

 

I was sifting through Claire’s beautiful book of poems called ‘Turnings’ and this snippet from her poem ‘Leaving’ pulled me in and put words to a feeling I have been nestling for some time.

Strange how the other day the prospect of being offered a good job with a regular salary and Monday to Friday hours brought sadness instead of joy.  As if, instead of watching an opportunity unfurl, I was seeing the blinds be drawn on the window.  And I knew then that I needed to pay attention to that feeling.

I have been more silent this year.  Withdrawn.  A small ship wreck of my former self.  And i’ve allowed myself, for once, to simply sit with this for awhile and watch what comes back to shore.  To not jump at the first chance of change.  All too often I grab for the first thing that looks like a life jacket, only weeks or months later to discover it is the same piece of driftwood that i’ve been narrowly clinging to for years.

I have spent a lot of time worrying about what other people think or trying to achieve what someone else wants for me.  I’ve noticed that when I do put words to the things I want they are often shoved down.  Irresponsible.  Eccentric.  Too many ideas.  Too little focus.  Flighty.  Indecisive.  Not whole.

I’m ready now to start transforming the judgments I have picked up.  They do not come from me and don’t belong here.  Responsive.  Creative.  A wealth of ideas.  Outside the box.  Adventurous.  Decisive.  Whole.

I’ve worked hard this past year.  And instead of focusing on the isolation, the exhaustion, the sense of having given too much…I want to focus on the solitude, the rest, the sense that I can now

point to what i want (by virtue of knowing what I don’t want).

I was recently asked in an interview to describe my dream job.  What came out of my mouth was what they wanted to hear.  That is, after all, what we have been told to do in an interview.  But I’m spitting up truth these days when I least expect it.  I asked myself that very same question when I got home.  Naturally, I had a different answer.

Now the question is whether or not I am going to listen to and follow that truth.

What I would like to do with 2013:

  • develop a creative writing e-course and eventually expand that to a series of retreats.  An opportunity to engage people to seek and speak their truth, their story through a series of guided activities and writing exercises.  the kind of writing that will feel like invasive surgery, an embrace and a warm cup of cider (all at the same time)
  • craft.  create.  and sell little bits of beauty.
  • write.  write.  write. and when i think it’s out:  edit.  edit.  edit.
  • sip tea.  sell tea.
  • finish the last bit of my 2nd personal trainer certification and study wellness coaching.
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Moving Day

this shirt
once held meaning

perhaps i wore it on a trip
or a night when someone
set teeth into my heart

and now
wether a size too small or too large
torn or stained
i feel compelled to keep.

caught here in the hangers of my closet

my hear of losing ground
tokens that anchor me.

misplaced by sentimentality
things become the thieves of time
no place to hold what I can’t keep

each armload to the truck
a house for memories.

Anticipation

journal poetryI very rarely, if ever, share poems.  In fact, I realized the other day that I mostly operate as if I don’t write at all.  Over the last year there have been very few moments where I have opened up my journal.  So much so that when I went to go look for some poems to include in an upcoming anthology, I couldn’t even find where I had put my journals.  A few weekends ago I took a drive up to Haliburton and was able to join in on the writer’s circle that I used to participate in on a regular basis.  It was great to be back among the trees and the rocks and the lovely company of the circle.  Overlooking a gorgeous pond and with a fresh journal cracked open…I started to write again.  And over the last few weeks I’ve spent quite a bit of time thinking about writing, what it means to me and how much I miss this connection that for me seems to join in a peaceful way my internal life with the external.  Writing for me is very much a way of honouring the present and of being quite simply more mindful.  More hours in the day please…this girl wants to write.

Here is a draft of a poem I am still working on that I started at the circle a few weeks ago.

In Anticipation

a clump of hair decides to go
leaping by the root                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   from the back of my head

and 11 gray hairs are formed                                                                                                                                                                                                                                by my sour mouth                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   declaration                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  that everything is much saltier                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       than it needs to be.

the getting by                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              has worn me down

and with great narrowness
‘the kind i used to despise’

I now greet each day
not as the potential last
but rather
as an unsavoury repetition
of the past