The football is set, with enthusiastic support,
This is going to be such a great help!
But instead of the football being held at the perfect angle for the kick that sends it through the goal posts,
Lucy has snatched it up again. She shrugs.
You wanted to kick for THIS game?
Oh no! The game you get to kick for is three months from now!
Just hold your foot up until then, will you?
Each act ahead comes
from what’s behind.
We are all walking wounded
trailing bandages
that tangle us,
tie us,
trip us
into our future.
Wear a blind fold:
we cannot look into a mirror to see the pain
etched across our faces.
See the bandages?
Trip over them
leaving the bar.
Scream yourself hoarse,
stamp your feet.
Shout “I’m fine, fine, FINE!” *
Ah. Methinks,
The lady doth protest too much.*
.
.
(*Allusions: In Louise Penny’s wonderful Inspector Gamache books, Ruth Zardo has written a book of poetry where FINE is an acroynym for F*cked up, Insecure, Neurotic, Egotistical. I’d say that applies here, too. “Methinks the lady doth protest too much” is from the play within a play in Shakespeare’s Hamlet).
Fleance dreams of flight,
soaring on outstretching wings
into a moonlit night,
No day trips for him, he’s heard things
about flying too near the sun.
Day is for escape, for climbing,
Peaks ascending, journeys begun,
At sunset (it’s all about the timing)
he leaps into red glowing,
falls on moon rise
spreads his wings, catches winds flowing
embraces skies,
Wonders at all he does espy
and murmurs “Fly, Good Fleance! Fly!”
Eventually
Reality has to intervene.
You’re not destined for the NHL
Or the corps de ballet
Your voice will not sell
A million records.
Simon sends you packing.
Reality can suck.
But if playing hockey
Brings you happiness
Why stop just because you’ll never hoist the Stanley Cup?
Dance like nobody’s watching
Sing until you’re smiling.
Don’t let reality rob you of the joy
Of the activity itself.
The rush of a beautiful pass and goal.
The beauty of a perfectly formed pirouette.
The harmony than hums in your ear.
Celebrate those moments for ten thousand hours.
They say ten thousand hours yields excellence.
Perhaps you’ll need twenty.
Or thirty.
Embrace the joy.
Share in a community of like minds.
Perhaps after forty thousand hours
Your reality will change
And if it doesn’t,
At least you’ll nurture your soul.
Like reality,
Success has many faces.
The green gold glistens
in the spring light
waving languidly in the breeze
as if to greet friends
seen from a great distance.
Looking forward to seeing you this weekend!
the mother wrote.
The greeting card holidays remind children
of filial duties.
Without them, would they ever call?
Text message comes mid-day:
Happy Mother’s Day.
An opening!
Mother replies,
When will we see you?
No response.
Cat’s in the Cradle.
.
Sacrifice. Care. Tuition bills. Sick beds. Pain.
And here,
A lesson in humility.
It’s strange how
Happy Mother’s Day
can feel a lot like
F-you.
A greeting card sentiment,
leaves a slashing wound,
sliced by a weapon wielded in a war
she didn’t know had been declared.
There had been no need to
clean the vase,
dress up for the surprise
brunch,
lunch,
dinner,
visit?
or even stay home to hang around the phone
so as not to disappoint
the kids
who call to wish
Happy Mothers’ Day.
.
.
.
(I’ve got a short story in my brain, but we’ll start with this.)
Some days
I feel like a little kid standing against a ruler:
“You must be this tall to ride.”
Stretching beyond all comfort,
but still coming up
short.
