The History of One Life

 

Linking with Shay's Word Garden Word List -- The Prodigy

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Through many windows life looks out...
Through windows rosy with young dreams
      And windows grey with pain:
Through windows bright with hope's gay light
      And windows dripping rain...
~George Elliston

I often think of the history of one life, not from a text book but one that may have been a grandmother to the second cousin of the lady I just passed in the cereal aisle. What was her story? What came of her first love? Did she die of a broken heart or natural causes, or is that the same thing? A million questions flood over me like when it rained last April. Does anyone still speak her name? Will she be remembered? 

Sometimes I think that is the most tragic part of it all; the thought of being forgotten!

Everything reminds me of all the numbered midnights with my lost loves.

For life is surely a legend but death is truly famous and not just on Sundays!

So, I write love letters to the world with ink not on my hands but my heart,

saying, remember me!

 The little girl, the rain storm, and the old poet.

And each are the threading on the edges of my cotton cloth,

the one my mother was sewing long before I knew the colors I myself would choose to wear.

After years of dishes, problems that linger like fat thighs, and seeing more than I ever expected,

I find I view souls like books, enormous books with fine print and chapters that cannot be counted.

The world is a library of beautiful and tragic stories.

It just makes me sad to think that some were never even opened and read at all.

What If?

 

 Art by Oleg Shuplyak  a Ukrainian artist,

Linking with Shay's Word Garden Word List -- Hapax

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What If?

Life is like sailing. You can use any wind to go in any direction. ~Robert Brault

 

What if something was done differently and could have changed everything?

Something was given instead of taken away,

like planting many trees instead of zero!

I have seen the sway the wind makes

and how it can change the direction of everything,

like a kite in March and which way a child runs.

Every movement has a certain force that pushes at the passersby.

Each loving mother tends to have a kinder child,

and every hateful father leaves a brokenness

 that can pass through generations like a torch from hand to hand.

So, open your heart and let all that tears down scatter and be gone, like tissues at a funeral.

Only wave the flags that stand for love and life.

Rock the cradle gently, and teach your sons to plant chrysanthemums and not just build with bricks.

For what if something was done differently and could have changed everything?

Wise words were a gift instead of words of idiocy stealing what could have been.

Life is a Squiggle

 

Vee Speers

Untitled #1, Dystopia, 2017

Linking with the Word List at Shay's Word Garden.

Words from Tomb Sweeper by Alexandra Chang

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“Being is not yesterday,

not tomorrow, but today,

which is the fruit of all past,

the seed and soil of future.”

~Cave Outlaw

Time, Love, and Hope traveled together to speak at a funeral.

Each had a message to share, with different photos of the departed and personal thoughts on the journey.

Time was quite busy and the details and remembrance would probably be reenacted by Love.

Hope was noodles about this because Love had been a major crush for Hope,

ever since they were arrested for standing together against Hate.

So, Love had a lot to carry on the way; bags of every category and brand, full with all that mattered and nothing fake.

Hope always walked in front, keeping a slight distance from Time since Time would stop for no one!

Love never worried about this distance thing, for Love had a deep instinctual sense that was a true gift. Time and Hope saw it as a true superpower on the entire journey!

The eulogy would be shared by them all, but Time would ultimately write it.

Strangely enough the memory of the years this soul had truly lived would write itself. Time would simply speak for itself and sign with a squiggle to prove that each moment is but a lovely curve and loop and quick end. 

The Details

 

Down in their hearts wise men know this truth: the only way to help yourself is to help others. ~Elbert Hubbard 

When we are planning anything in life, we are thinking of the destination and goals that we want to achieve, but it is truly the little things in place that get us there. A girl has to pack her socks if she wants to be ready to wear her shoes for the mountain climb. All the big plans we hope for are full of smaller details that cannot be forgotten. 

All those pesky little things, life is full of them! To do lists, errands, dry-cleaning, doctor appointments and the list goes on! So many of the seemingly mundane tasks occupy our day and fill our baggage, but in our life, there are many other details that have more significance in the big scheme of things.  

When I first applied for a job in the Harris County Library system, I tried to think of what skills I had that made me an asset to be considered for hire. I had a cleaning business for over 20 years, and I knew that one of the main attributes a house cleaner must have is an attention to detail. Seeing the cobwebs and stains on the countertop requires a closer look from possibly another angle. I knew that I wanted to point that out in my interview or on my application, but when I actually started working at the library helping customers, I realized there was another element to the concept, “attention to detail”. 

It isn’t just about seeing when a book is out of place on a shelf or knowing how to properly send a document to print for a customer, it is actually much more personal than that. When it comes to customer service, sometimes the needs that come up are much less technical, and much more intimate in nature.  I am talking about emotional needs that sometimes arise that we need to be aware of in the usual situations of helping customers.  

People come into the library for many reasons, and sometimes it is simply to get the next great book on their list, but other times it could be stressful in nature, like getting information for medical help for a terminally ill loved one.  That being said, we may never know the details of what they are facing, but we can be attentive and mindful when someone seems to be frustrated or having a bad day. I have had several instances where it was obvious that someone needed some extra help and support to get what they were doing accomplished, and sometimes that included being a listening and caring ear in the process.  

The details are more than orderly shelves, the correct copies, and requesting that hard-to-find book.  Sometimes the truest details are in the very people we are trying to help. Taking the time to notice the sadness behind a smile or reading the body language of dismay from a difficult day and responding accordingly can make all the difference for that person in need of a few copies at their local library.  

 Yes, life is full of small details that are part of the bigger goal each one of us is trying to attain. May we all try our best to remember the details that matter most.  

 

© Carrie Van Horn 2023

Unspoken Words to the Dying,

 

There are some griefs so loud
They could bring down the sky,
And there are griefs so still
None knows how deep they lie,
Endured, never expended.
~May Sarton, "Of Grief," A Durable Fire, 1972

 

 

When my father was diagnosed with stage 3 lung cancer, my stepmom could not bear for him to be told.  I am not entirely sure how he was in the dark of it all, but we continued with the façade that there was hope, and hence words that needed to be spoken that would have been obvious of what was happening were never said.

 One day on morphine and nearer to passing, my dad was hallucinating as only a very logical engineer could have done.  He would very matter of factly ask me, “do you hear that music?”  or “Do you see that car moving in the painting?”  When I answered with a bewildered no, he remained silent and unfazed.  I cannot help but think that music is something that crosses the border of here and heaven.  He was hearing the echoes of where he was headed.  Some sounds preach truth no matter what secrets may be kept. That is my thoughts on it and like the hope for miracles, that is what I choose to hold on to. 

 

I kept words folded and starched in an innermost closet like formal attire for a place I would never be able to go.

 You see, one cannot dance at the reception hall if the building has been burned to the ground.

Yet, still I dance alone with a grace that loneliness carries.

Swaying with words that know how to move in my company but never step out of that room.

It sounds absurd to someone else, but I know where they stand and why.

And I listen because I need to.

For I must remember, and I shall!

I smoke them like a joint.

Holding my breath hard as I wait for something more.

But there was a time that I was the voice that carried high, like a song reaching for broader skies.

Now my heart is a nightbird; still and quiet in the daylight.

You say I look brave and sure like a train to the city, but don’t be fooled my dear!

I am thoughts unspoken and dubious.

The regret of a thousand backward falls.

I am an old frayed ribbon from the gift of memory of long long ago.

Just one hard pull and I could break.

Linking with Shay's Word Garden (Janis Ian is the featured poet and singer/songwriter)

& the Sunday Muse for Muse #244

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Scarf Upon a Fence Post

 

Photography by Elspeth Diederix

But we loved with a love that was more than love... ~Edgar Allan Poe

If a heart could swirl like a scarf upon a fence post, mine would choose to do that with you.

 A dance of what is and could be.

 The wonder of discovery.

 The kind that new lovers hold, and dreamers think on and want to know.

The yearning that lonely hearts don’t speak of

 is as vast as ocean waves,

yet as quiet as a soft sigh can roll off parted lips.

The feeling I speak of feels like the most sacred of prayers.

Hands stretched out in adoration.

A reaching out and inward the way lovers’ hands will do.

For if a heart could swirl like a scarf upon a fence post,

 mine would choose to do all of that with you.

Linking with the Sunday Muse for Muse #243

Love Is Always Willing to Carry You Home,

 

There is no timetable for grieving —
      Grief is a snail
      It's a shooting star
      A walk around the lake
      It's eternity
      Or frost 'til bloom —
Memories coursing through the heart
It lasts as many heartbeats as it takes;
      sometimes all of them.
~Terri Guillemets

 

My feet are heavy with the weight of places my heart could not leave.

For it is a slow journey when loss comes along.

Memories stay with us like a canary in a cage.

Chirping and swinging on the same old perch.

Like the hardest of goodbyes, they never truly leave.

They remain right at the hip like a child whispering in our ear,

I am hungry.

Waiting rooms can still be sat in, and last words heard just as clear.

I want to hold each one tenderly.

Remember every smile.

Hear every mundane sentence than I once took for granted.

So, I let them stay up late and carry each and every one no matter how far.

You see, love is always willing to carry you all the way home.

So, I shall do just that.

Until we meet again.

Linking with the Sunday Muse for Muse #223

Some Shelters

 There are some things you learn best in calm, and some in storm. ~Willa Sibert Cather

 

My first nightmares were always storms;

lightening, wind, and darkened skies.

The storms that blew from your eyes

and reigned on everyone!

Some shelters are just too weak

to hold up to all that blows.

A girl can end up broken

unless she gets the courage to get up and go.

Now I dream of soft places much like a mother’s arms.

Knowing that some shelters cannot protect you from the storm.

Linking with the Sunday Muse for Muse #212

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There is Warmth in the Congregation,

 

I tell you what I see — the landscape of the spirit requires a lung, but no tongue. 

~Emily Dickinson

 

Sisters I speak to you of loss

the cuts that tear down and leave us broken

they hit just as sure as a lumberjack

and we are never quite the same

but despair and love are a two-winged bird

even in the struggle to move on

there is a promise that lingers

and it has the power to lift us

remember that in your winter journeys

for birds soar the sky together

and there is comfort and warmth in the congregation

~~~

Daughters I speak to you of hope

even in the heavy burden of doubt

it has the power to change the landscape

if we give it light like an open curtain in morning

for life is both a forest and a mountain of cut logs

the path is hard and lovely

but even in the struggle to endure

there is a warming fire in our truest home

~~~

Mothers I speak to you of life

beyond the cries and breath of being

and before the prayers that yearned for something more

there are seeds planted long before the blossom’s greenery

soul’s song carried long before the throat a voice

for every mother carries and birth’s eternity.

 

For Susie 💖

 

Linking with the Sunday Muse for Muse #197.  The image here is different than the one at the prompt for my poem became a tribute to brilliant lighted souls and love but the words hold resemblance to the Muse image.  

 

A Wide Open Gate

 

It is quite simple you see

we see what we want to see

from the ocean waves to the forest trees

Each day becomes what we choose to believe

For perspective is a wide open and closed up gate

It is magic and miracles or cynical and fake

for some know doubt and others know faith

So today I choose to see great things!

Linking with the Sunday Muse for Muse #194

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The Evidence of Eternity

 

“James Dean playing the bongos, NYC, 1955. Photographed by Dennis Stock ”

Ephemeral, eternal heart! ~Emily Dickinson

 

We are moved by the wings of longing

So we dance

We reach

We love

It is how we know we are truly alive

By more than a pulse of a beating heart

For there is a certain movement in everything

The soaring of unseen wings and visible hands bracing the fall

we bleed

we bruise

we learn

and rise to love again

it is the evidence of eternity

proof our heart beats for more than the blood within our veins.

Linking with the Sunday Muse for Muse #193

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When You Cannot Decide Write 3 Poems

 

Linking with the Sunday Muse for Muse #189 hosted by the utterly amazing poet Shay who has graciously filled in for me.  Thank you my friend!

I somehow ended up writing 3 different poems.  Nothing magnificent, just what the image spoke to me.

What We Learn to Carry,

 

When you are troubled with worry at a young age

Your faith either becomes a mighty force

Or it grows small like the mind of a cynical old man

Always speculating what could go wrong

But somehow you survive

The storm passes

If you are lucky

The near crash never happens

The fog clears

Your heart finds love anyway

You learn that the wolf on your back

Can be a friend even as a foe

One that gives us strength to carry on with him

Or the might to hold freedom in letting him go.

******************** 

Don’t Attempt This at Home,

 

Somethings in life are foolish and others downright dangerous

Like giving birth at home,

chain saws and beer

 motor cycles on icy roads

Falling in love with your therapist

 Announcing at your father’s retirement party you are marrying an artist

Giving your brother old tuna sandwiches and hoping for the best

Walking in the woods alone when you are directionally challenged

Wearing a fur coat to a Sierra Club Convention

Smoking in bed

Living beyond your means

Driving with no insurance

Not reading the directions

Shall I go on?

********************

Purpose,

 

We hunt for things we cannot see

The warmth we never knew

The shade of something greater

A love that is true

Sometimes in the searching

The wandering that lost hearts know

We find meaning in the journey

And show others where to go.

A Strong Yet Tender Pull,

 

Linking with the Sunday Muse for Muse #177

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There is no first or last in Forever. It is Centre there all the time. ~Emily Dickinson 

 

Life has a strong yet tender pull 

that can straighten and bend our path 

It leads us ever onward with wise and callused hands 

yet like children we pound the pavement  

Running hard to follow close 

With a crumpled map in hand full of Un legible notes 

So we lose our way and we pay the cost 

We weep from the hurt we speak of the loss 

Why is the journey so hard we ask 

As we scrape our knees on a gravel path 

It is like the gentlest of birds life says to our face 

That circles tangled branches to find its place 

To rest on a limb for a moment of shade or shine 

There is no rush life says, please take your time!