Pleasures and Ponderings

Monday, January 18, 2010

SELF ACCEPTANCE (written after a weekend workshop)


Red sweater, white blouse dropped over a pile of unread newspapers,
Wilted flowers in the vase, an unsorted basket of items from the dresser top.
A blue Eeyore atop a stack of books.
What significance is there in any of those?
They’re merely place holders for ease, convenience, love of beauty, childhood.

Neat or not, the room does not define me. It’s simply a metaphor, a snapshot,
Of a moment, a mood, a knowing, a need.

The meaning of a rumpled or a radiant room is as much a matter of conscious choice
As it is of tuning out what doesn’t matter right now.

Today, and I hope every future today, I will neither flinch nor prod myself
To accommodate anyone else’s standards.
I am the overseer of my bedroom.
It is my safe haven, my inanimate best friend.
No judgments here. I am loved and lovable.
I am total self-acceptance.
And that leads wherever it shall take me.

Vignettes I wrote Dec. 2009

We’re walking the trail at twilight. The moon is full.
We hear loons, see an occasional fish jump in the lake.
Soon we’re sitting by an enthusiastic fire.
Lost in thought, I lean against him. Here in the silence, there is no past, no future.
The presence of NOW fills the screen, soothes the senses, Reminds me to tune out every why, every how.
The rowboat and trees and rocks and stillness Are the answer to every question.

Dee called this morning. That made me happy. We both hoped my cold wouldn’t jump ahead in line And keep me from enjoying New Year’s Eve.
But I didn’t even have the energy to call it out As its coughs and sneezes herded me to bed.
It only granted a temporary reprieve for some TV and reading. Two weeks later, my energy walked as my longing skipped and danced. But the real Moreah is coming back. And I’m going dancing again.

The leaves in the bowl are scattered loosely,
Sprayed in the fall to keep their colors.
When I go past the bowl on the coffee table,
I walk, in retrospect, under autumn trees,
Picking up more red and orange and speckled leaves.

I don’t mind that they curl up and become fragile in a few months.
They act as a memory of all the times I couldn’t resist
Leaning down for one more leaf.
And they foretell next fall’s feast of beauty
For eyes, for touch, for my soul.

The door swings shut and I’m in the kitchen
Filling my plate or doing dishes.
I LIKE nudging it with my shoulder as I leave with tea and vitamins.
It will finish the job—I need no hands.
The other door has a knob I must turn to close.
I won’t let it make the rules.

I almost whimsically feel a do si do as I go back and forth
Through that obliging door.