The Child is poised
On the edge of an endless field
Crisp, tall grasses sway and wave
Cajoling the vivid wildflowers within.
The shy bright sprigs
Slide against the shifting sea of grasses,
And then coyly bend away
In the ruffling breeze.
The breathless wind skips over the tips,
The whispering is barely audible.
It teases the flora
And it teases the Child,
Tickling a place deep within that has no words or reason.
A child must run
When faced with a wide open field
Or even a long corridor.
The impulse insists
And the Child runs
Happily embracing the burst
Of brief careless freedom.
There is no destination or purpose.
There is only the running.
Rustling in the fringes
A flash of indiscriminate color,
A glimpse of the quirk of a mocking smile,
Opening out and spreading
Silence seeping in, then saturating.
Nowhere to be seen,
But I feel it,
Blending with the surrounding scenery.
The Thought hides
and I wait, poised and expectant
for Inspiration to leap and strike.
I can’t exactly tell
Where the Desert kisses the Sky.
The silence hides their passion well,
But the smoldering shimmer reveals the lie.
Is it where the dunes reach to embrace?
Or where the valley submissively yields?
Perhaps it’s when a sudden wind does race
Over the seemingly barren and brooding fields.
Electricity trembles where they doth touch.
My senses hum the tune they sing.
So thickly quiet, but speaking so much.
My skin is parched and mine eyes they sting
The blue is brilliant against the sand’s pale clutch
The sun it colors me and the sand doth cling.
Is neither warm nor cold.
It is neither black nor bright.
It is slightly too large.
My footfalls echo when I am pacing.
But I am not always pacing.
Mostly, I sit in the center,
Emptying my mind
Listening vaguely to
Of my Evolution
In the quiet
For the brilliant butterfly of my existence
On the outside
Of my cocoon.
Dark streaks on the window pane
The rivulets stutter
And absorb the filth
Before pushing relentlessly downward
Continuing the purposeful journey
To soak the ground
To enable growth to spring forth.
At times they are trapped by manmade
Rendering them useless to their mission.
There they wait
Until the sun collects them
Anticipating the chance to try again.
That dark, lonely place
Away from life bustle
Away from the love and joy we know
Can be charcoal gray with frayed edges,
The deepest black with no sides or depth.
A cocoon of despair,
We lay engulfed and alone within our mind,
Lost in time and place
Wanting only numbness.
We have all felt depressed. Eventually, most of us can gather the fortitude to take our own hand to ascend back into the daylight to continue moving within life’s bustle and accept the love and joy we know exists for us and realize pain is just part of the whole game. Oftentimes, it does take a kind touch or word from someone else to pierce the darkness and coax us back into the realm of positive function. Depression is a universal tourist trap that we all have visited solo in our life travels. However, some people get lost there and cannot fully reemerge onto the highway and shake off the lingering blackness. Be aware of those with such a clinging cloak, look closely through well manufactured facades. It will be their undoing. Perhaps a bit of sun or aid offered will be the salve that is needed to pull them out of the pothole and back on the path. Perhaps it will not be enough. But our eyes should not be blind and our hands tired of trying. And if you find yourself in a seemingly impenetrable state of depression, try turning it on its head by being there for someone else who is struggling. You also must let your loved ones in to help you because, believe me, they do want to keep you. And of course there is always professional help as well.
Joan D. Chittister goes so far to say that “Darkness deserves gratitude. It is the alleluia point at which we learn to understand that all growth does not take place in the sunlight.” Depression happens, but it must not be allowed to move in and stay. Use it and then lose it.
Some weave and pass
On their meandering way
Leaving no mark
Or snag of questions.
Others bite and hold
To be played out over time
Warnings or truths to be presented
Words or events to be watched for
Some unfold quickly,
Pricking thoughts at odd intervals
Or lost within the flow of days, but still