The Poem In Our Bodies

Who knows where or when the poetry of our lives will appear.

I had a childhood punctuated by the trauma of upheaval. This uncertainty led me to live in the shelter of my imagination, a world I could control with my mind and paint with my dreams.

With my imaginary mirror twin, Ila, I made up wild tales and escapades. We fearlessly explored the jungle of the unknow and played in a carousel of delightful innocence.

Under the pressure of maturity, Ila disappeared from my stories. But she didn’t completely vanish, and her voice was never completely quiet.

My refuge became reading, writing and drawing things I saw with my heart.  This was the poetry in my body begging for my adolescent attention.

Eventually, I put these things aside and became part of the trinity of work, responsibility, and family. But there was a cost. A vessel filled with yearning became a restless rebel bouncing like a pinball inside the hollowness I felt. I tried to fill it with a multitude of distractions including buying stuff and drinking too many glasses of wine. 

 It wasn’t until I returned to a serious creative practice that I reclaimed my poem.

 At birth we are neonates absorbing every molecule of beingness, expressing pure wonder, awe and joy.

 Our nascent nature is still who we are. We don’t need to set it aside as we “grow up”. We expand more brilliantly when we participate in this cosmic gateway to earthly experiences. We are the witnesses to the splendor and our real job is to add to its beauty.

I do not wish my final breath to be burdened with the sorrow of regret. I want it to be a fulsome sigh as I let go and travel back into the star-studded nebula, the tapestry of infinity.