Being Human

Each face had a long time in the womb to decide
How much it would let worldly things affect it,
How often it would turn toward the wall or the woods,
I it didn’t have to be seen, how much
It would give in, how stubbornly it would
Hold its own.
                                           From “Looking at Aging Faces,” Robert Bly
 
I am human.
Worldly things have affected me.
I’ve acted in ways I wish I hadn’t.
I have skeletons in my closet—maybe not big ones
but there are some there.
They may not shock others, but they rattle
now and then to remind me
I am human.
 
Times I gave in, times I should have spoken up,
drawn the line, held firm. Stubbornness
has its pitfalls and its benefits.
I’ve held on when I might’ve let go
and saved myself, made a new start.
 
I’m still learning, still not always sure
how to choose, what to do, who I am.
Being human is a lifelong process.

Pauses

Each time a story ends

There is such a long pause before another begins.

                                                          --Robert Bly, from “Looking at the Stars”

 

Those pauses seem interminable, even if only days:

the pause between test and result,

diagnosis and treatment plan, breach of trust

and forgiveness, death and resurrection.

Though the new story may truly start

at the end of the old, there is a time,

disorienting, when one knows not what to do,

when you are frozen in limbo,

when no path is visible. The shock

of ending holds us fast, and though painful,

it is good to be held, to be kept from

stumbling any deeper into the chasm

between stories. The pause has its own story.

Listen.

Dreams

 And now the grain of sand becomes sand again,

And you stand on some mountain road weeping.

                                                            --From “The Face in the Toyota” by Robert Bly

 

Why the weeping? Is it loss of the dreams

for life and love held close in younger years,

or tears shed when what seems transcendent disappoints?

Life’s reality, either way, is different than expected.

Loss is a part of life, but bitter still, even when accepted. We hope

for the dream but it plays out incomplete

or not at all. Better to look

closer in, to find joy in smaller things, in the

present moment. Joy persists, though at times, unexpected,

the dreams will resurface,

their own persistence bringing tears for what was not.