Creeping through a sleeping house
In my wool socks and Yoga Tee.
The world is blessed with slumber
Except for exhausted me.
Lying still with eyes pressed
Mind reeling with disjointed thought.
To haunt lonely corners the drowsy sneak
Bargains for an hour of dream .
Everyone else slumber s in peace;
No appreciation of good fortune
Until they pad the dark with me.
Why does slumber elude me so?
I truly love her best.
Those she caresses appreciate not
and the one she spurns is obsessed.
Here I am in the soundless house
Where even the termites rest.
Dressed the part, and hopeful
That fortunes will turn and reset.This week @USCD
As I drive west on Interstate 70, there is no other traffic. Draped in the solitude I continue lost in the rhythm of the road. The scorching sun beats down as I face hours of a straight highway and the only scenery consists of uncountable rows of corn. The vibrant green stretches beyond my comprehension, only broken by a few farm houses with dirt driveways. I peek down the rows as they pass organized in an unnatural pattern of human control. I see evidence of life on both sides of the car, and I’m wondering about the generations of choices that provided for a life on the plains. My personal angst continues to reverberate “What am I doing?”
I have labeled myself by relationships, job titles, politics and a few accomplishments, but I still don’t know who I am. Who I am supposed to be? What was I meant to do? I want to know the eternal question, the down deep, below false expectations.
I have had days to think as I look at my life. Today I see the metaphor of the highway. My story seems as straight and narrow as the barren road racing to the horizon not knowing when it will meet the setting sun. I can see my life as a series of stories, usually starring someone else and not a single hero. I see the multitude of possibilities spiraling in and out from the interstate, but there is no exit. So I chose the road most traveled. I have worked hard to fit an image that was designed and sold for women of the 50s. I have fashioned myself to appear to be a good girl, a loyal wife, an honest employee. In reality, I have only disappointed myself.
I turned my back on the possible adventures of life and wasted into a sad older age. I recognize at this moment that I’m not alone; we are all defined by our secrets, our dirty little secrets. It is the truth that breaks the rules; it is the truth that leads us to our authentic self. I want to turn my back on the lies and follow truth to the genuine me. I wasted decades hiding and lying, followed by even more years wanting to atone for the unspoken. The sins I committed in haste and confusion didn’t go away; they expanded in the dark recesses of my humiliation. I have exaggerated and fed the lies as they linger, poisoning and causing the same destruction as a slow moving cancer.
It is impossible to cut them out, as they have roots that enslave the heart. From this milepost I will no longer blame others for the crimes against me. I was complicit by allowing it to go on. What I can do is set the secrets free, and I will leave the guilt and shame at the very next rest stop. My salvation is this moment when my escape becomes a journey.