POEM: On the Updraft
The witching hour brings new perspectives
Dear Ones,
Yesterday, as I walked through the empty March landscape, this came to me. As I watched two hawks circling and playing on an updraft, I felt myself glide with them into a poetic reverie.
POEM: On the Updraft By Schuyler Brown March 2024 Watching two hawks play on the updraft, I long to soar with them. But, ideas like invisible tethers keep my feet on the ground. Life is an equation to be solved. Follow this formula for success. There's always right and wrong in the problem of living. At first I am surprised to find them still influencing my experience. "Outdated," I think. like so much these days. At this point in my life-- the age of fifty the time of menopause-- I am struck constantly by the irreconcilable nature; the inscrutability of it all. The way age brings wisdom would have baffled my younger self! I sit on a wooden bench-- placed here with care on the edge of the overlook just when I need it-- as the vast incomprehensibility penetrates the surface calm and I watch the hawks soar upwards and away-- taking the illusion of certainty with them; taking the distraction of vicarious flight with them, too. Ideas root to the degree they soothe. I feel a quiet rage at the loss-- the raw deal, the glamour, the wasted time-- of this hero's journey. "But, I stuck to the script! More or less... Where is that ship of mine?" I shout to the wind where the birds have been. It blows a response in my face. Not cruel, just direct: Who gave you that script? What story are you in? Put the book down and live! I'm not sure what to say, Someone give me my line? The hero's journey is all about time. Questions replace ideas: What is the equation that encompasses eternity? How much patience does it take to balance the scales? And who ever discovered a formula for success that could be replicated? Are these the right questions for a woman mourning the loss of something that can never be returned? Or a youth setting forth into an unknown world? Are these the right words? How is it that truth can be so deeply unsettling at first? The hands of my biological clock strike midnight-- The witching hour! Deep in the forest dark, a shrill cackle breaks-- literally rips-- the fabric of reality. Faster than comprehension, everywhere and nowhere at once. The hole is gaping, dark, beautiful, and luminous with stars; like the cosmos. Of course, it is the witch who has this power. What NOW? What will you hold onto now that the old script is gone? My hands are empty and so is my mind. Do you want to know my secret? There is no script and no lasting satisfaction of any kind. Blessed unrest! Nothing in this life will fill the hole you've been tending. It is not the void you've been avoiding. It is not going to suck you down... Oh, god forbid we go down... Anywhere but down! She mocks. That hole is a mirage if you look at it from this angle and with the right attitude... and with the right mindset... did I say right? I meant, just like...THIS. And if you do THAT, then it is the womb of all possibilities; the matrix. You fool, look what you've been trying to fill... with your plans with your job your love your children your regimens your escapist endeavors your clothes your debt and your addictions. Talk about a con. The robber is your own mind. You weren't wrong, honey just running in the wrong direction while feeling right. She's right. I'm right. And there's nothing wrong. I want to go back to the place where I left you before that witch cackled and broke the whole damn thing open to those thieving ideas... because there's something important to say about the fact that life might not be satisfying in the way you expected; or felt you deserved; and it may be devastating the extent to which it insists on surrender. But, that's the key: Let's let go of the idea that life owes us anything and fly like two hawks on an updraft, or bloom like the first buds of spring, or decompose like a log on the forest floor. I'd rather feel my heart burst with joy, and your hand in mine... Ah, there I go: longing for life again. One day you will not be here and neither will I. (Well, not in a physical sense, anyway.) I want to think we'll have a broader perspective then... more like the hawks. Maybe it will all make sense from a bird's eye view? ~~~
Beautiful! It resonates, saddens and demands acceptance. Thank you!