Poem: Ties

I wrote this a while ago, but I've been thinking about it this weekend. I've started to get a little energy back lately and I really, really, really want to make some changes in our lives. I want to stop being so crazy busy eighteen hours a day, seven days a week. There's only one catch--I can't see how.

And until I can figure out how to change it, our life simply is what it is. Kind of like this poem I wrote back when. It meanders a bit, but that's kind of the point.

 

Ties

Sunny Sunday morning

Warmth in irregular

Squares on the carpet

Children sprawled coloring

Dog napping on guard

Poetry playing notes

Steam puffs from the iron

Meditatively

The crooked made straight

As my hands work on

My mind runs free

In separation and conjunction

The divergent tracks

Of my life crash together

A phrase, a measure

Calls forth tears

Spotting my work

Giving me pause

Forty years is not so long

These hands are young

In their work, too young

For my heart to surrender

For my soul to crave rest

For my life to be a chore

Mindlessly, I count—

As I do when bored

Or enduring—

The stops and stations of my trek

Thirty-three times three times 365

Setting the table—so what?

Twenty-seven times 365

Making lunch

That’s fine, really.

Vacuuming fifty-two times twenty-five

Plus more than a few…

Sounds good.

Fourteen times five

Dress shirts pressed, less a few

Plus pants—

My mind snaps back

To now

No need for dispensation

Blessed, privileged

My daily bread abundant

I live the American life

And I want to die to it

I want the peace

Of ending the endless

I do not choose this time

And this place, this race

I choose rest by a

Sun-dappled stream

Birdsong, hidden treasures

Children’s laughter

Warm, long-cooked meals

Full, rich nights of sleep

The joy of creation

The peace of making

The pleasure of adding

My craft to our home

Colorful cushions

Music that moves

Stories we share

The peace that opens hearts

And lifts eyes to meet

In shared truth

All that I’ve pushed aside

Dubbed optional, expendable

For the grim satisfaction

Of getting the job done

All that I let go is everything

That I want of life

Exhausted, shaken, I gaze

At the trainwreck in dull wonder

Which track leads away?

Which cars carry weight?

What to salvage? What to scrap?

What do I do?

What do I know how to do?

What do I want to do?

What if I do nothing?

Which question do I answer?

Somewhere under these iron weights

My heart beats, tired and stubborn.

“There was nothing to do, but always the next thing to be done.” Tehanu, Ursula LeGuin