A Recovering Nostalgic’s Point of View
Nostalgia made my mother believe in
her childhood in the 1940’s
A ‘Shangri-La’ that protected her
her from the world’s complexities,
disfigurement and brutality
I used to dance to her stories
With willing enthusiasm
But then, like a wily child suspecting
The pretty woman who teaches him how to love
an argument ensued
It argues, between nostalgia and reality,
reality is the more reliable sextant
But I am like the compulsive liar
afraid of the truth
who indulges his habit
Believing he will overcome
what eventually will pass
My mind’s ghost ship
Recalls Past images
That make my blood rush
Nostalgia, says ‘continue’
though I recoil
Something says, I ‘won’t shut the door on the past’
An image appears out of nowhere, two doors
The first, ‘Sargasso of regrets,’ the other, ‘God’
Each says ‘open at your own risk’
‘Which one?’ I ask
A messenger suddenly slips
into my consciousness
‘There’s only one door,’ it whispers.
Thankful for This
I heard this meditation on anger today
Instead of running from anger
Being free of,
Or letting go of
We can use anger as a door,
A fiery door
Into what lies behind the confrontation
What wish, tenderness, or self love
If you are reading this, or typing, or
Checking messages, stop, get to a place of
Silence, stillness
Ask yourself ‘what is anger trying to protect?’
Or deflect
Sit with the idea
Just. Breathe.
Witness. Listen.
Gently, gently
To your heart, center of Wisdom,
which needs listening
Exhale completely, lungs implode
Breathe in, smile.
See, what is really behind the anger?
Release its weight
Just breathe in, out, repeat
It’s going to be
OK.
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