What I am and what this is

Sometimes, I lose the thread of myself. I forget what I am – what this is.

Something in the world bursts into flames
and I am unable to get to the control buttons
quickly enough and
I fall.

It happens less now. But it happens.
The nest that I’d just finished weaving
out of truth and memory and faith
crashes to the earth;
another fragile, heart-made thing, lost

the castle that we built too close to the shore dissolves beneath the waves
the lights that we depended on flicker out

the casserole of organic vegetables
and brown basmati rice
that I assembled so carefully, so tenderly
is abandoned on the stove

II

We’d just hung a string of white lights across the salvaged casement window which my husband hung, suspended on wires, from the ceiling.

I’d just launched my next kite (I mean, class) into the world.

I’d finally found a tea that I liked enough to stick with.

III

We get attached to these things
these notions

of how things are
and should be

of how things work
and should work

We forget that these walls
that we place between things –
good and evil;
sanity and insanity;
safety and wilderness –
are as fragile
as the skin that keeps the blood inside our bodies from rushing out

IV

We keep ourselves so busy with
working
eating
laughing
arguing

and balancing the checkbook raking the leaves taking out the trash and sinking into tubs filled with warm water;
that we forget –
that we are
floating in the amniotic sac of a dream.

Plus, we are always walking into and out of rooms.

V

When I fell
(like every other time that I have fallen)
I panicked and,
though every explorer knows that in wilderness, the first thing one must do is establish compass points; and build a little lean-to against the rain,
I took off running
wildly, madly
tearing my clothing on branches
scratching my legs on sharp thorns

Desperately calling
Where am I?
Where are you?

This is what happens with exile.
When we are lost
we reach for the people we love

VI

Night falls.
God separates the light from the darkness
and the haunting begins
the bill left unpaid
the friendship left alone too long
that damn phone call that I never quite have the time to make

the crack of a twig
a rustling at the perimeter of the campfire.

How do we know anything?

How do we know if the things we cannot see are even there?
How do we know if what we can see is
friend or foe? Good witch or bad?

In ancient times, the people were never sure whether the sun would ever rise again. They lit fires, told stories, huddled together, hoping.

We do that now, too.
Huddled around the blue glow in the living room: our window onto the fire burning somewhere a little too close to here.

We lean in, listening –
watching shadowy figures move through the stages
of grief.

VII

What’s going on?

Is this the edge of a black hole, sucking creation into nothingness?

Is it a white one, spinning us into new shapes made out of luminous threads of light?

We won’t know until it’s over.

VIII

But even so, somehow,
today,
I woke up in the bright room,
and the light spilled in through the windows that seemed to be everywhere
everywhere.

I am never sure how I arrive here (though I suspect angels are involved.)

I opened my eyes and found myself holding onto my thread once more (was it here all along?)
washed with a gratitude so bright
so deep.

Thank You for this place,
this room,
this home.

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Showing 19 comments
  • Christy Harvey
    Reply

    Amy, your alchemy is most welcome at this time. May you be abundantly kissed with blessings as you share healing words with the world.

  • Mary
    Reply

    Thank you Amy, this is so powerful, and especially today for me. I have felt myself falling, and grasping, and trying to find my feet again, coming back into the light

    • Amy Oscar
      Reply

      Ah, Mary. I’m so glad this post found you as you were falling. So glad you found me and let me know. xxoo

  • Kathleen
    Reply

    Thank you so much, Amy.

    • Amy Oscar
      Reply

      Thank YOU, Kathleen – for reading the post, for leaving a note so that I know you were here.

  • Anni
    Reply

    Really, really beautiful written. Moments in darkness also help us to really see the beautiful things in life, I think. Even the most tiny things. Thank you, Amy for sharing this wonderful poem.

    • Amy Oscar
      Reply

      Thank you, Anni – for your note and that beautiful comment. It’s one of those ‘tiny things’ you mention, isn’t it? Just a few words and yet, so meaningful to me.

  • Lynn
    Reply

    Breathtaking. So moving. Thank you, Amy.

    • Amy Oscar
      Reply

      Lynn! I’m so glad that I found your comment and so touched that you read and liked my post. Thank you for leaving a note.

  • Lori
    Reply

    I love this. Such beauty here. Thank you. xo

    • Amy Oscar
      Reply

      Thank YOU! xx <3

  • Karin
    Reply

    Wow, how amazing. Such deep, pretty lines–all threads of their own.

  • Samantha Reynolds
    Reply

    The abandoned casserole got me. Gorgeous poem, Amy. xo

    • Amy
      Reply

      That’s the part that got me, while writing it – that’s where the tears began all over again.

  • Wendolyn
    Reply

    I LOVE this poem Amy. Thank you for sharing.

    • Amy
      Reply

      Thank YOU for visiting – and commenting. I looked at your site, Wendolyn. What beautiful work you are doing. 🙂

      • Wendolyn
        Reply

        I LOVE this poem Amy. Thank you for sharing.

        Thank you sooo much Amy!! 🙂

  • Cindy
    Reply

    Thank you for this Beautiful poem, Amy.
    The light returns, somehow. The light returns and I am awed by it every time.

    • Amy
      Reply

      It does and each time it goes, I learn that again. I am even learning, finally, to appreciate the gifts of the darkness. Thank you for coming by.

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