March 28, 2001

Try as I might to have my will done I have figured it out:
one cannot get in the way of living.
And no matter what effort I made to control,
I could not prevent your dying.
All this need to manage, as if
you had no mind of your own.
Overwhelming fear masquerading as concern
constricts the flow of our loving.
Pinched and paranoid
all we convey is judgment,
misplaced fruit of unfulfillment.
Attempting to teach from this place runs aground,
trying to force life lessons
into vessels untried
and unfit
for the barnacled beauty of our own bruised being.
Parenting child becomes ungraceful chiding argument,
for the young cannot accept our broken dreams
as the treasure they are,
instead see only deficit.
None can take wisdom before it is owned
through the fullness of living
completely spent in the trying.
Grasping, we miss it
and each other.
The first of many times I learned this
I was sitting at potter’s wheel,
working sea sponge dropped accidentally
and discovered the silly futility
of reaching for that sponge while the wheel was spinning.
It eluded me repeatedly until holding still
it returned to me on its own.
Is there ever a still point where all is made clear
and do we ever stop to receive it?
Till then the only grace left us is to accept and hold dear
that beyond conveying and understanding,
hands open, palms outstretched,
welcoming.

Copyright © 2001-2003 Kristen Spexarth