Books and Poetry
She is like the migratory bird, restless in the cage that imprisons her.
Eager to be set free in the morning light, yet no longer able to fly the distance.
What shall she do, but lie in wait for the cage door to open and a strong wind to pick her up and revitalize her.
Then she shall soar to the far reaches of the earth once again.
I know it appears I am staring incoherently as I attempt to process the meaning of the jarring words I have just heard. I understand what is happening; likely better than the specialists surrounding my bed, uttering conciliatory words and promises. These well-intentioned men and women are determined to make me whole again. It is not an issue of understanding or coming to terms with the predicament I find myself in. It is a matter of losing control. Behind my stupor is a type of awakening; a dose of reality. Being in control is a farce.
Oh, we certainly have our in-control moments. We pat ourselves on the back when we curb an urge to engage in harmful behaviors or when we make decisions that result in positive outcomes. When life is going well, we believe it is to our credit. It is when things truly fall apart that our lack of control becomes evident. Despite the harsh reality, the acknowledgement brings me peace. You may say that I have gained control over my emotions. I call it resignation.
What do you do when your friends call on you To suggest something fun and new? Do you say “no way” or “not today”? Do you think the problem through? Are you the man that comes up with the plan? The woman whose middle name is “fun”? I wouldn’t know because I need to go; My tendency is to run.
It’s not acceptable in this can-do world To sometimes say “I can’t.” You must be lazy, unmotivated; Your contributions scant. But who’s to judge the state your in; Overburdened, sick, a quirk. There may be a day, a week, a month, When can-do just won’t work.
It all starts with a vigorous walk in the woods. An opportunity to stretch my legs and get my heart and lungs pumping after a prolonged period of sedentary isolation. I divert from my usual route (a wide, moderately traveled path) and follow a narrow animal trail along the creek. The diversion helps get me out of my head. I immerse myself in nature, inhaling the scent of damp earth and admiring the early spring wildflowers that dot the landscape.
It must have been fairly late when I broke free from my tomb, as the darkness now descends quickly. I know my way around these woods and have no difficulty making my way back to the wide path. As I emerge from the animal trail, I intend to take the left turn that will lead me back to the security of my prison, but to the right there is firelight and the sound of laughter. I know it is them. My instinct is to flee as I always do. My feet, however, appear to have a mind of their own.
I walk toward the firelight. Of course they know I am coming. The banter and laughter continue, but there is an underlying anticipatory tone. I cautiously make my way to the clearing and stand among them. The communication ebbs as eyes fall upon me. It has been a long time since I have stood in their presence. I know I am a pathetic sight. I, having once been their leader.
We had flown together, disbursing our magic among the unfortunate. A thankless job, I grew tired and weary and could lead no more. I withdrew from the fairies, despite their efforts to console me. I isolated myself in the woods; my wings lying limp. I have no desire to reclaim my position, but I miss my family and the loneliness weighs me down. Do I dare ask their forgiveness? They are waiting.
A seed is a most unpredictable thing; dead or dormant or ready to spring. Yet no good seed will fully sprout in a toxic environment, inside or out.
I look into the shadows And expect there to emerge a form; Something solid and substantial, But there is only blackness. A fleeting glimpse from the corner of my eye; I quickly turn my head, To catch the presence I know is there, But all I see is empty space. Lying in bed in quiet stillness, An unfamiliar voice whispers in my ear; My eyes fly open, And I look around an empty room. But there are shadows in the corners. Is anybody there? I look into the shadows, But there is only blackness.
When did you become a man? Was it the day you decided to walk yourself to class? Leaving your mother behind, as you, still so small, took the long walk down the school corridor. Was it when you began to explore nature? Navigating the woods; catching critters in the creek. Was it when you discovered extreme sports? Performing stunts with your bike; free running over rooftops. Was it when your friends became your tribe? They, knowing your daily story, while I could only catch glimpses. Was it when you started to drive? Finding a passion for cars. Was it when you met your girlfriend? Spending every free moment in her company. Was it when you started working? Discovering a bit of financial freedom. Was it when you left home? Running an independent household. Was it when you became a dad? Producing a magnificent child of your own. When did you become a man? I just don’t know. As I look at the wonderful man standing before me, I only see my child.
When it’s there, it’s there. It clicks into place, A piece of a puzzle, Connecting a whole. A cognizant moment; An inexplicable bond; A strong attraction; An insistent pull. It cannot be forced; It cannot be avoided; It just happens, And you know it is there.
A little imagination can go a long way; We find it in stories and use it in play. A leap in the air and with wings we do fly; We soar over treetops and swoop through the sky. A dive underwater sprouts fins on our backs; We swim past the mermaids; avoid shark attacks. A walk in the forest no longer ourselves, As we turn into fairies or dragons or elves. But imagination is not just for fantasy; As it turns us into the best we can be.
JJJ Interactive Books