I’ve been following the treeline and parking in the sky
to the place inside where stories tug my mind to come and look,
look again and see the changes left when time and truth came washing
like a current swiftly flowing
disheveling the storylines in my heart.
I’m looking again in a curious light
at old reels long been playing
as life spills the cutout figures I keep and my mind goes to set them on the storyboard fresh
like flannel cutouts that I know because I held the scissors that shaped them
and placed them, one-dimension, where I decided long ago.
There they are, the people that helped shape me,
the ones my mind holds in story now
just exactly as I think
because it makes me safe
to know things.
But life has a sweet and smouldering way of helping you lose the keys
to the broken stories you made
in the long-ago scramble to make sense
of big waves that didn’t care how tall you were.
Funny how the stories you keep dusty on a board in time
can become the very fabric of what ties you up frozen
in the wasteland of reason and blame.
I welcome you along as I dive in to untie my own
because our stories somehow happen to us all……
I knew my Father first by the buttons
pressed hard against my face as he squeezed me hello after the plane from Korea
brought him home again to us when I’d known him only as a figure in a frame.
I kept my face shy to his shoulder and felt the shy of him, too, as he held me unfamiliar tight.
I didn’t look up. In time I’d come to rarely take the look,
the circuitry between us
a current that would take a lifetime to learn to swim.
Come along this Fall as I pull words around some stories
that seem to be knocking on my heart to have a say.
“Life is not about counting the losses and the lost expectations,
but rather swimming,
with as much grace as can be mustered,
in the joy of it all.”
– Leisa Hammett