PAGES

“You open and close me,
Like a book that’s too much to read.
So you skip though my pages,
‘Til you find what you need.”

-from the song “Between the Lines” – Erika Luckett

The desire to be seen and appreciated is deep.
Some would say it is the deepest desire we have.
But the experience of it is rare. Far too often, we feel
misunderstood and unappreciated at work and at home.
We feel the deepest pain when our romantic partner seems
blind to who we are. We wish someone would be willing
to linger over every ‘page’ with love and understanding.

But, do I really give anyone a chance? Can I expect
others to give me something other than what I give
myself? Do I skip through my own pages
looking for something I think someone will want?
Do I hide pages and chapters even from myself?
Do I borrow pages from others, pretending
they’re mine – sure that none of mine would be
acceptable.

What if someone did manage to see through the smoke and
misdirection signs; pry open a few locks; and really
‘see’ me? What if someone told me that I was ‘magnificent’,
or ‘remarkable’, or ‘wonderful’?

Would I discount what they said?

“I know better. I’m full of faults. I’m no one special. Look
at my life. I’ve messed it up so many times, how could anyone
think I’m exceptional?”

“They can’t be seeing Me,” I might say, dismissively.

But maybe, just maybe; there is a Masterpiece within;
and maybe I am hearing a call to that Magnificence
….to come forward,
….to show itself,
….to quit hiding.

Maybe I’m being invited to Self-discovery,
to Self-love. Maybe I will want to linger
over my own ‘pages’ with love and understanding.

Maybe then, I’ll recognize when someone sees me deeply
and will be able to appreciate it for what it is – a precious gift.
 

 

CHOP WOOD

A chainsaw is Machismo incarnate. I remember the surge of testosterone as I carved through the limbs like butter. I didn’t care that the little motor put out more toxins than a Hummer; I felt POTENT. Through the roar that certainly irritated all but the deafest of my neighbors, I thought of winter nights in front of a blazing fire, sipping wine; in a reverie, while watching flames lick the air. But the chimney leaks and the fireplace can’t be used. So the woodpile stands, a monument to failed fantasies. Many times I have worked hard, preparing for a future that failed to materialize. Many such monuments exist for me – reminders of plans and schemes. There's a box of t-shirts with my design that I couldn't market; reams of academic papers, essential for degrees I didn’t finish. And let's not forget the wedding photos. Things often don’t turn out how I planned; and often that’s been a VERY good thing. (What was I thinking?) But I have memories of cutting wood and carrying water. I have vivid memories of the joys of the journey. I’m glad I noticed what I was doing, while I was doing it. I wish I had noticed more.

My daughter, who is 12, likes to play an alphabet game while we drive.  I tire of it sometimes.  Yesterday, I suggested we play "communal story-telling" where I would begin and then she and I would take turns adding. 

I started.  "Once there was a rabbit named Boots ..."
She added:  "Who was being chased by a monster who was half rooster and half dragon."

"Whoa, wait a minute," said I.  "What on earth would a half rooster, half dragon be?"

While she was thinking, it came to me.  So I said, "I think he would look mostly like a dragon, but he wouldn't breathe fire ...

because ...

here it comes ...

he would be too much of a chicken."

(I missed my calling -- Laffy Taffy wrapper writer.)

Photo-montage and poem by J. Farnham -- all rights reserved.

LOVE-WOLVES

Love-wolves search
hidden forests
for for those too weary
to keep up with the herd.

They rip their hearts free
and give them back
pulsing with love,
the wine of their sorrow
flowing freely on the ground.

Love-wolves howl
in drunken ecstasy
lifting their faces
toward each full moon
shining unobstructed,
free of all that veils it.

Let the blood
from your broken heart
flow freely.
Do not attempt
to stanch the flow.

Wail your despair
until the wailing fills the earth
and echoes among the stars.
Join your voice with the wolves.

Dormant seeds from deep within
will burst forth in beauty,
watered by your heart-tears.

THE LAP

Sometimes, when they were young, my children would come
to me in tears over something.  It could be the mean words
of another child.  It could be frustration over an expectation
that was not met.  It could be a scraped knee.

Often the reaction seemed out of proportion to the event.
The child who had been joyful and open the moment before
was now small and fragile. There was panic in the tears.
No amount of talk was able to bring relief.  Sometimes I
would take the “Make Nice” approach -- “They didn’t
mean it.”  But the sugar-coating didn’t seem to satisfy.
Sometimes I would take the “Get Tough” approach --
“Don’t be such a wimp”.  This worked, after a fashion.
They would eventually go back to play, but they were somehow
smaller and less joyful. There was a rigidity that wasn’t
there before.

But, just holding my child in silence until the tears subsided
seemed to help. They would then go back to playing with
the same openness and joy as before the incident.

I think that what made their tears so out of proportion to
the hurt was the thought that the world isn’t a safe
place to be open-hearted and expansive.  But, just knowing
that there was a place that was safe and filled with
love gave them the courage to face a world that can
be cruel at times.

It doesn’t get any better as an adult.  Things happen, daily,
that make me want to close myself up and hide away, or put
on armor and face the world with a wary, defiant face.  I
remain safe, but the joy, the expansiveness, the freedom is
gone.  In its place is isolation.  But I have no Parent on
whose knee I can climb; to be held and rocked ‘til the tears
subside.  So, what do I do?

There is no Parent, but there is what the poet Rumi calls "Friend",
the part of me that is also part of Everything (Spirit, Soul, Higher Self).
If I can resist the temptation to “Make Nice” or to “Get Tough”
and just let myself sob and moan or rant and rave, a warmth
comes into the room that holds me, taking the fear away.  I
begin to breath again.  The pain, or disappointment, or sadness,
or anger, is still there, but it isn’t amplified by fear.  I
feel Love embracing me at the same time, further softening the
experience.  I’m just a beginner, but even now, I have more
courage to face the world, knowing that I can return
to the lap of my Friend.