I’VE BEEN LIVING in the midst of a storm
that hit
without warning -
no time to batten hatches,
no time to acquire Band-Aids large enough
to stop the bleeding.
By the time it hit
it was too late for that.
* * *
COSTS ADD UP.
Already I’ve spent:
sufficient time
beating myself up
for not having seen it coming,
sufficient imagination
on what I might have done,
had I an inkling,
sufficient panic
over who might know,
sufficient tears
washed down the shower drain
sufficient anger
sufficient self-pity
(Is this not the ugliest thing?)
I have also,
as is my tendency,
withdrawn.
* * *
ON THE PLUS SIDE,
I’ve filled a journal.
I’ve gone away to a far place to breathe
and to fall into a river -
not once, but twice! -
and to laugh
at the metaphor of baptism -
total immersion,
surrender,
yielding.
Okay,
I get it, but do I have to leave here
and go back home?
Yes, that’s always the sticking point, isn’t it?
Whatever the epiphany,
you come up out of the waters
and must go home
and step back into life -
the same life,
but a different you,
you hope.
Legs wobbly,
steps unsure.
I see a one-year-old
get up from a crawl,
stand on two legs
and move forward
like she’s done it many times before.
She hasn’t.
But I have.
Do I have it in me for one more time?
Sometimes, in the midst of a storm
the best we can do
is hold on.
Hold on,
and after that,
have the courage
to go out,
assess the damage
and begin again,
picking up sticks.
I have no confidence in my own ability.
Maybe that’s a good place to start.
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