Since I hit my 70’s (five years ago) I sometimes find myself wondering … why bother? Living alone, even with the support of a few good friends, can often seem a heavy-going, lonely battle to rise above health issues and other slings and arrows of daily life.
My mother died in 1976. We were very close, and her spirit remains as much a part of me as it ever was. I am especially grateful for having inherited her positive approach to life,being able to put any negative thoughts on hold, close my eyes and wish myself back to better times, let them comfort, reassure, inspire me to understanding full well that nature intends that we live and die so it’s up to us to make the most, each in his or her own way, of what lies in-between.
Instead of brooding on woes, better by far (surely?) to count our blessings in the shape of those family and friends we have known and loved, any places we may have visited that are as flowers on the evergreen Banks of Memory whose perfume we have but to inhale to be transported away from whatever moment of contemporary crisis may have struck ... temporarily perhaps, but long enough to rise above its worse moments, pause the downward spiral into despair, self-pity, whatever … and rise above it all, slowly but surely emerging from the experience better equipped not only to start looking on the bright side of life again, but actively participate in it.
I am so grateful to my mother for her philosophical approach to general well-being that has helped me through some of the worst periods of my life, never more so than now as we all struggle with multiple consequences of the coronavirus pandemic.
Did I say it was easy …?
ENGAGING (POSITIVELY) WITH PERSONAL SPACE
There is a place I go
known only to me, where time,
no longer counting
along lines of arithmetic
or measure of its pace,
takes me beyond known parameters
shows me who I am
There is a place I go
whenever thought cannot reason
nor sensibility rely
on some abstract morality
to come to the rescue
if only to attempt justifying whatever,
or pointing a finger
There is a place I go
where bigotry on grounds of gender,
race, sexuality, creed
(and, yes, age too) but voices
falling on cloth ears
flagging up referrals for creative therapy
(hope springs eternal)
There is a place I go
where I am free to think just about me,
well-meaning advice
(from any perspective but mine)
given short shrift
by an alter ego weary of always being lost
in translation by ‘betters’
There is a place I go
where mind, body and spirit take a break
from running rings
around me, engage with each other
and help me connect
with that whole which is the sum of my parts
(amateur self-portrait)
It’s in my personal space
that I consider and reconsider my actions,
hopefully preventing
any future systems failure down
to taking fake news
for gospel and spreading it without due care;
(garbage in, garbage out)
Ah, but personal space
cannot be contained for long in any one
persona, but needs must
journey through time and space;
rites of passage
for artists, historians, anyone with an interest
in fitting jigsaw pieces
Copyright R N. Taber 2020