Who Am I?*

I wrote the following piece in 2003, possibly the first piece I had written for 25 years

Who am I?
All my life I have been who you say I am;
Or rather, who I believe you say I am.

Like the weeds at the bottom of the river
Pulled to and fro by changing currents,
Thrown against the rocks
And choked by silt and pollution.
As I grew older, the “me” that I was bent this way and that
But never stood firm and confident.
The “who I am” started as a blank canvas
That in time was filled with soft oils that set hard.

But now restored to my former potential,
Who am I in my midlife years?
I am who and what ever I say I am,
Whatever I commit to being, I am
And suddenly I am unbounded;
No longer anchored to the river bed
But flowing free in whatever direction I choose.

The canvas is now a mass of vivid colours
And yet there is space for still more of me
As one area fills, another becomes blank
And who I am now is glorious,
A celebration of life and freedom;
An inspiration to the weeds that still cling fiercely to the rocks;
A powerful presence that provides firm guidance
And offers hope for peace and harmony where before there was conflict.
And that is who I am.

* This piece is not featuredin my book, Love in Abundance

Vocal Hands

In the aftermath of a Christmas party, my mother and her fellow residents sit, some happy, some sad, some chatty, some silent, some unsettled, some snug, some active, some sleeping. All the varied faces, the many personalities, the long life of infinite stories that brought each one to this place.

I have no idea what each one has seen, the sorrows, the joys, the challenges overcome and the pent up emotions, long-since locked inside minds that are now, to varying degrees, too confused to give voice to them, at least by conventional means.

Yet, sitting with my mother and a lady from a different floor, I sense some basic things they want to say, not from words but from demeanour, body language and eyes. Above all, I feel the need to give and receive love, through gentle hands clinging firmly to mine or to my shoulder or leg, these lovely, frightened souls giving voice through their hands, a voice to love and their essential humanity, a communication I receive loud and clear.

Till We Meet Again

What have you been doing in the month since we said our goodbyes?  Have you been busy?  Do you miss us?  Do you think of us often?

Me?  I’ve been up and down.  You know.  I think you’ve been there…with me… as I’ve gone through all this.  Now I’m feeling much stronger and actually things are going well.  It’s your doing isn’t it?  God I miss you, your ever present love that shone through your most frustrating moments, your mischievous eyes.

I know you chose to go, to free yourself and us from the burdens of disease and I thank you for that, but how hard it is to think we’ll never hug, hold hands, kiss, laugh and cry together again in this mortal form.

For you time no longer has any meaning and in a blink I’ll be with you.  For me I want many more years and though I love life enough to do that, I will long for you always.

Through the Eyes of Another

I look at my mother and see she is scared and alone: having little memory makes her feel dependent and frustrated. I notice these and many other thoughts and emotions as they demonstrate themselves in anger, bitterness, moaning and other symptoms of her illness.

But it was only yesterday that I asked myself, what would it be like, looking out at the world from inside her head, with her eyes, with her limited understanding yet occasional clarity? And what I see is another world; not the world I see but an unreal one in which there is little personal control, one in which people speak an alien language:

I know what I want to say but no-one seems to understand me and I feel sad and alone.

For me much is unfamiliar and yet there are bits I remember and yet I hesitate to say it for fear of looking stupid.

A man is talking to me: he seems to expect me to know him but I don’t think I do: oh, I’d better admit I don’t.

What’s up - they are so stupid – don’t they know what I’m saying?

“I’m not stupid you know; there’s nothing wrong with my head.”

Oh, my son. I love him so much: I want him to be with me always. Why can’t he stay? Huh, he doesn’t really want me; am I a burden to him? “Oh, go away, you don’t love me!” “God, I wish I were dead.”

The Nature of Love

It is interesting to note that love is often seen as a romantic concept, an extension of sexual relations that fulfils expectations driven by social imperatives such as protection and nest building.

In reality, love is far less sugary than this notion and involves the natural order of things in the universe. It is at the core of everything - literally every thing, animate or inanimate, for it is all of the Source who is love. Love is the light energy that unites us all and ultimately is all that everything is. Nothing has true substance. Everything is energy, light energy named love. Love is truly all around you. Just embrace it and be open to it so that it may invade your body and mind and claim its rightful place in your life and your heart, for love is all you are: you can fight or you can accept it and enter the willing state of peace that is our rightful inheritance. This is the true nature of love.

The First Real Mother’s Day?

Is it my imagination, or are there many more advertisements for Mother’s Day this year? They seem to be everywhere. Actually, I suppose they’re just more remarkable since my mother died. Suddenly, I am truly conscious of Mother’s Day, this man-made celebration of one of the most important people in our lives and I realise that, even when we took her flowers by the armful, treated her to lunch, tea or dinner here and there, wrote her verse in cards designed to make her feel good, there was still a fundamental failure to appreciate her for who she was and how much she really meant to us. Sad that it takes death to fully awaken the appreciation and yet I know she’s there, watching me dwell on her, aware of my acknowledgement of her contribution to my life.

The Final Waiting Room

I look about me at the many aged faces, some in eager anticipation for the afternoon’s events as the fellow residents slowly come in from their living quarters, some in another world, oblivious to what is happening, others bemoaning the upheaval from their daily routine and the bringing together of people they do not warm to.

One lady lovingly takes my hand and kisses it, another kisses me as she always does and my mother tells me she wants to go home, barely acknowledging my visit. The room sits quietly waiting for the fun to start as things are unexpectedly delayed for more than half an hour.

I sit with my anxious and hyper-critical mother and notice the myriad wrinkled faces about me: some more ready to engage with me than others. But then as the camp-looking singer, herself somewhat mature and reminiscent of a man in drag, starts the afternoon’s entertainment with a selection of “golden oldies”, she croons croakily and draws out the life in those who are still capable of participation.

My mother’s immense sense of fun is now lost in a heady whirl of unreal concerns while others ignore the limitations of their frailty and talent and give it their all, singing along and dancing, no doubt recalling better days when the desire for joyful interaction was matched by an ability to live life and express their love with energetic abandon.

I am moved by the many reactions to the situation and, above all, by the simple things, by the many people present who reach out hungrily for physical touch and reassurance, to experience still the lifeblood of love, friendship and approval but also have so much love to give at this last staging post in life, the final waiting room.