Friday, 25 October 2019

The Many Faces of Love.

If I could go back and change the manner of our parting that fateful day
when I turned and left without a thought or care for
the pain inflicted so casually in my wake,
I'm not sure I would alter the course of events that have led us from that pivotal moment to this. 

The look on your face should have alerted me - now that I think about it -
or at the very least, set alarm bells ringing; but
in truth, and despite your well-meaning efforts, my mind was already closed and
there was nothing you could have said that would have prevented my leaving.

And yet, here we are,
staring into the abyss once more.

Your silence smacks of triumph, whilst my confused mind is twisted
beyond all recognition.
I possessed clarity and reason only minutes before and
both those treacherous imposters deserted me
the second I stepped back through your door.

It was a relief to learn my absence didn't unduly disturb -
Oh, I was almost fooled, but then you hesitated and the light
of recognition finally dawned;
enough to catch a glimpse at last,
of the vulnerable soul sheltering behind that mask.

Shall we begin this dance again...

People come into our lives in the most unexpected ways,
wouldn't you agree -
and perhaps what I was seeking was actually seeking me?
A point where the terrain proved safe enough to land,
a yearning to be understood
as much as to understand.

In the end, when all is said and done, I know I'm not
the only one sheltering from the storm.
But in helping me reclaim my self, my space,
is it possible - that for you -
mine has become a face
of healing love, too?






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Thursday, 10 October 2019

The Cupboard of Doom.



If your home is anything like ours, you can never find the thing you need the moment you need it most. Especially, as you rightly suspect, it's somewhere at the back of the cupboard-of-doom, that dreaded place beneath the stairs where you take your life into your hands every time you open the door to be faced with a pile of coats, the ironing board, hoover, DofE gear, backpacks, foldaway crates, extension plugs, fishing rods, a box of candles, yoga mats - really? - that's where the blasted things got to; not to mention the mighty collection of DVD's and videos - obsolete now, but still difficult to part with - in order to reach the very back where it's dark and scary and beasties live. Closing the door can be done, although surprisingly not by slamming in rapid succession as it only springs open again. There's a deft art to cramming and ramming reluctant wherewithal whilst giving it some welly until the catch meets the lock with a satisfying click.

'For crying out loud, clear it out!' I hear you groan. If only it were that simple. I don't think I can remember a time when the cupboard ever was in good order with space enough to close the door with ease. Over the years, just about everything not immediately in use was put into that cupboard until a decision could be made whether to keep or let go, but as time went by, what was out of sight was also out of mind and decisions, in the end, never did get made. Clutter piled on top of clutter and well, here we are, somewhat at a loss and more than a little overwhelmed. The problem is the contents have a habit of spilling out without warning, and usually at the most inconvenient time.

Attempts have been made in the past to battle through but each time success was thwarted or sabotaged - I forget which - either way, you find yourself once more on the threshold wondering whether to take the next step or leave it yet again for another day, another week, month, year...

It's a job for two, really. One to empty the contents, the other to assess and advise whether to keep or let go. It takes time and discipline and deep consideration - and sometimes heartbreak when you come across an item you've grown attached to over the years, like ticket stubs in the pocket of an old fleece, that's way past it's throw away date but you just can't, the memories are still too strong, even after all this time.

Dig a little further to stumble across unforgiving shoes that give you blisters, yet you continue to accept the pain and crippling discomfort because deep down you love them in some sick twisted fashion despite the bad fit. That's fine, that's perfectly okay, we all have our Achillie's heel. A blister is only a surface wound, after all, that is until the blister becomes infected. Then what do you do? You could try cleaning it, maybe use a temporary fix, a plaster, perhaps... except you tried that before without much luck and this time the poison is in your blood coursing through your veins, attacking anything in its path. You have to let the shoes go. You know you do but still, you cling on ignoring the truth, the harsh gut-wrenching reality that the shoes simply do not fit. They never did. You just loved the style and the colour and tried to make your feet fit the shoe rather than the other way around. So you nurse them for a while before hiding them again in the darkest recess you can find, grazing the back of your hand as you do. The pain is sharp, searing. The cut is deep and you slam the door shut in heated frustration, except this time, it won't close, the lock is broken -  exhausted from years of misuse. It's enough to keep you awake at night, weeping silently, wondering what on earth to do.