The Poem In Our Bodies
Who knows where or when the poetry of our lives will appear.
As a child, I lived in the shelter of my imagination, a world I could
control with my mind and paint with my dreams.
For companionship, I invented a mirror twin, Ila. Together, we 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 fey 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 divine, star-studded nurseries of infinity.
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