Back in the Saddle Again: A New Poem

Sometimes things come to me when I'm swimming laps.  (I guess I'm not the only one; I love this poem by Alison Luterman. )

Often, I am reviewing poems, especially if we're coming up on a salon or a Rumi's Caravan.  But once in a while, some other words spring up in my mind.  This poem was that.  It surprised me.  It's not like other poems I've written.  It's strange, even to me - a little funny, a little sad.  I wasn't convinced I should send it out into the world, even on this little blog.  But, for some, reason, it's complaining about sitting on my desktop.  And maybe it's appropriate for Friday the 13th.  So, here goes.

Well.

Back in the saddle again.

What saddle?

Which horse?

The black one.

The black one.

Going down

that lonesome valley.

Not off into the sunset.

No.

Way past sunset.

Full dark.

I let the horse lead.

Why pretend I know

where I’m going,

or even that I can see

through the murk?

The old horse is familiar

with my weight.

The old saddle has molded

to my girth.

We’re mostly quiet together,

the dark old horse and me.

Only the muffled sound

of his hooves on the trail.

If it is a trail.

Maybe we are making

our own trail.

But sometimes I sing.

He doesn’t seem to mind.

Yeah.

Back in the saddle again.

Called to the Page: A New Poem

Every morning,

mug of hot cinnamon tea in hand,

I go down the stairs to the green table

flush with goddess figurines, Tarot decks

and a view of both the lowlands below

and the rise beyond this hill.

Every morning,

I am called to the page.

The old leather journal heavy

with lined paper that will soon be

either put aside or tossed,

in light of my mortality and the desire

to spare my children the chore

of having to choose whether to read

my musings or to feel guilty when

throwing them away unread.

This routine, this daily habit,

is not so rote as to be meaningless,

even when the writing is boring

blah-blah-blah.

Ink flows from the silver fountain pen,

shaping letters that fill the blank space,

running from line to line, all valuable 

because they are called, I am called, 

to the page.

Does it matter if anyone reads my words, 

if they are never published?

Is being published what makes 

a writer? No.

What makes a writer 

is being called to the page.

Understanding that,

I am satisfied.

Medical Appointment Rant

I really wasn't going to post this, but I'm fed up, specifically with the western medical system.  When I go to acupuncture (thank you Jill Stevens) I always feel supported in a comfortable and aesthetically pleasing environment.  I am also fortunate to have a compassionate and caring primary care doc.  But there are times....  Know what I mean?

Entering those white impersonal rooms,

antiseptic, paper sheet over the “bed”

where you will uncomfortably sit and

where you are therefore defined

as “the patient,”

do you shrink, fade back, become as

colorless as the walls?

Are these rooms meant

to make you feel small? 

They are clearly not intended

for your comfort or reassurance.

They are designed to inform you

that you are to be treated,

dictated to, or put in your place.

If your practitioner is compassionate

and willing to see you as a person

(a rarity, it seems, these days),

you may receive assistance or even relief.

You may walk out reassured or hopeful.

Or, you could get attacked with

an unwished for diagnosis.

Your emotional reaction is

seldom their concern.

They are mechanics.

You are broken.

They will fix you.

In any case, you seldom leave feeling

like a partner, a collaborator

in your body’s wellness.

Today, I saw a nurse-practitioner.

She was efficient, thorough, pleasant.

She knew things.

She prescribed things.

And I left with tears welling up.

I left feeling like a problem,

like a ticking time bomb.

One number is the highest

she has ever seen.

Does it help me to know that?  

My blood pressure, 

never a problem,

was high, too.

And let’s not even talk about

my blood sugar.

On top of it all, none of

these invisible “problems”

was the reason for

my visit.

This is not a poem.

I know that.

It looks like a poem, but really

it is a rant.

I hate the medical establishment.

I am beholden to it.

Has it helped me?

Yes.

Has it harmed me?

Yes.

There must be a better way

than having to spend

the rest of my day recovering

some peace of mind and the knowing

that I am not a statistic.

There must be a better way

of healing.

My SoulCollage® card for Hygeia,

goddess of healing