Poetry Party

Come join Christine's Invitation to Poetry here.

two doors stood before me
one of joy
one of sorrow
i choose joy

Worth Pondering...

"It's just a tempest in a teacup," someone says to the Warrior of the Light.

But he never exaggerates his difficulties and always tries to remain calm.

And he never judges someone else's suffering.

A small detail--which does not affect him in the least--could serve to ignite the storm brewing in his brother's soul. The Warrior respects the suffering of others and does not try to compare it with his own.

The cup of suffering is not the same size for everyone.

Paulo Coelho - Warrior of the Light

Refusal of Silence

“Being a Silent Woman is not about being quiet and reticent, it’s about stifling our truth. Our real truth.” --Sue Monk Kidd, Dance of the Dissident Daughter.

A few days ago I wrote a post called “Simmering.” Many interpreted it, including myself, as a poem about anger—my anger. And, yes, of course that is true and yet it is not. For as I wrote those words I could envision a specific time and place, I could see the room, feel the tension in my young body, and witness the face of the one who was simmering. The words were about that face and that time and place AND the words were bigger than that with a parade of other faces, times and events being added along the way. They were not simply “simmering” faces. They were faces that attempted to "silence."

Ah, but the beauty is. This woman; that little girl; refuses to be silenced.

Last weekend I was drawn to create a collage using my own picture as the base. When I started, I envisioned layers of color ranging from dark to light with an emphasis more on the darkness that I felt had been surrounding me for several days. But as I worked, the darkness began to recede and colors of life and light arose. A lioness emerged with her power and courage. Jewels began to cover the page. The process was amazing, because even as I had selected dark rows of background, I found myself covering them with flowers and diamonds and kisses; with sweetness and bubbles and butterflies. Something very real emerged. Even in the midst of darkness, my true essence would not be silenced or stifled.

"Even in the midst of darkness, my true essence would not be silenced or stifled." I believe that is something truly worth pondering. How about you?

Opening....what?

"An open mind, like an open window, should be screened to keep the bugs out." Virginia Hutchinson

This morning was a great example of why I should never open my e-mail before doing my quiet time and journaling. I spent half of the night (or at least it felt like it) pondering my post of yesterday along with a book i just finished reading. There was a seriously fabulous post rattling around in my brain. For some ridiculous reason, however, I chose to open my mail before journaling and now my head is filled with other stuff.

I received two chuckles from friends...a prayer request from a sister in need...an e-mail from a disgruntled co-worker...the new download of Grey's Anatomy...a great morning reading about "choice" and an update from a friend who is sheepishly leaving today for a Mediterranean cruise. Throw into the mix that my son is having minor surgery this a.m. and papers to grade for Monday and guess what...the 'fabulous post' must wait until later.

Hopefully I will find a little time today to put the 'screen back on my window' so not quite so many 'bugs' fly through!

photo by permission from j.d. stevens

Simmering

The mind is so complicated. A memory returns in a flash and you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that in that remembered moment your heart was pierced deeply and the wound is still healing decades later. Sometimes the healing does hurt more than the original wound.

anger simmers like a pot on the stove; threatening to explode while silent and steaming.

turn up the heat just a bit and you will be burned, so steer clear and gently tilt the lid letting the pot release some pressure.

still the anger simmers; ready to bubble over and make a mess. so, you inch away but not before inhaling the aroma of contempt and blame.

you believe you have made the mess. if the pot explodes it will be your fault; and so, you control the temperature as best you can with your tiny hands.

hands thrust inside too big oven mitts that swallow them like boxing gloves. as time goes by your hands will grow into them, but they will always feel clumsy.

never allowed to take a healthy swing, you punch the air like windmills spinning in the wind.

the circle continues on. the steam releases ever so slightly, but still the anger simmers like a pot on the stove.

photo from here