So many inner-voices show up to tackle the mundane and the life-changing; and they don’t always agree.
“Cute dogs,” I tell the person in front of me walking their pets, partially hidden by the tall grass framing the dirt pathway.
They turn. I get a better look. They’re not dogs. They’re goats. Two miniature goats. On leashes. Being taken out for a walk in our local park.
What unexpected and surprising things life can serve up, I thought.
Evening sky
Gray-edged
Burns
With unseen stars
Brazen
Setting-sun
A final burst of brilliance
Before darkness tumbles
Into the yawn
Photo source: WTG
A woman in a red car
Slows down
Creates space
Waves at me to join
The steady flow of cars
Heading toward town
Expectation
Of being stuck
While the long line passes
Is reversed
By her kindness
As we all creep
Toward town’s entrance
The driver ahead
Waves a car in
From a gas station
Another kindness
The stop light ahead is out
Forcing an I go You go
Dance of cars
Calmly taking turns
Passing through the intersection
Road rage gets the limelight
Yet car kindness
Underappreciated
Happens around us
Every day
Photo source: Alexas_Fotos on Pixabay
Outside the picture window
Pink flowers bloom
Yellow finches flit and bounce
On delicate stems
Eating seeds
Nearby
The cat lays
A bird lands
Within feet of him
He moves his head slightly
Focuses
There is no flexing of muscles
No preparation to pounce
He is inside
Behind the window
He can’t catch a bird
They are safe
The birds
Like thoughts
Come
And go
He watches
Does not chase
Embodies
Meditation
Photo source: WTG
It’s not that I have nothing to say
It’s that I have much to say
And a desire to say it perfectly
Smartly, wittily, wisely
So many words from which to choose
Puzzle-pieced together one way
Beauty
Another way
Fury
A desire to get it just right
Can overwhelm
And goad me
To run away from all words
Photo source: WTG
I have a habit of apologizing. Unconsciously. Frequently. Especially at home.
Sorry, I drank the last of the wine.
Sorry, as Bubba and I dodge each other around the kitchen island.
Sorry, I’m going to be late.
These apologies don’t reflect deep distress, one definition for sorry.
They’re closer to a feeling of penitence, some hidden feeling of fault or sin for which forgiveness is sought. From the nearest person. Absentmindedly.
Do I reallybelieve drinking the last of the wine, or dodging each other in the kitchen, or being late is a sin? In need of forgiveness?
Or is it a habit I picked up somewhere that I’m finally noticing?
I don’t know where it came from.
Or why I do it.
Sorry.
Photosource: WTG
A guest piece by Carole McConkie, Insurgent Writer, 12/12/2023
Mer…ry Christmas, everybody! Mer…ry Christmas!
Well, that’s very nice of you, thank you. But don’t you think it’s a bit early? We just celebrated Thanksgiving a short time ago.
I know. That’s why we need to hurry. Haven’t you noticed that ads are showing up everywhere to tell us to “Shop Early for Christmas”?
Gigantic Yule trees are being shipped now to large shopping centers and big jolly be-whiskered Santas are ringing their bells everywhere. “Ho, ho, ho,” they all shout. Time to buy, buy, buy.
A lot of bright red, glitter, and green decorations are showing up. The emphasis, you’ll notice, is on the “green” as if to say, “let’s spend a lot of that Green.”
Shop now and pay later, four easy payments, lay away available, free giftwrap. Start making your holiday lists, plans and menus. Book your flights and trips now for the best price. Hurry!
Shop, shop, shop. Spend, spend, and spend. Your ATM cards are happy to oblige your whims.
But what about the war, homelessness, politics and all that other unhappy stuff?
They’ve gotta wait, I guess.
Tis the season to be jolly! Now, everybody, let’s hear it.
Fa la la, ala la la!
Photo source: WTG
Note: Carole submitted this piece on 12/12/23 to a writing group we’re both members of. I intended to post it a week ago but, hey, it’s the holidays and I got busy. Better late than never.
Beware fruit-filled apple trees
When hungry squirrels abound
They have no interest in the fruit
That’s rotting on the ground
Their tails they twitch
As they reach
For apples way on high
They move and search
Up in their perch
They even seem to fly
A warning though
To those below
Who read and nibble bread
The squirrels set free
Fruit bombs—with glee!
That hit you on your head
Photo source: OlcayErtem on Pixabay
My historical habit pattern
Has been to see
Life’s glitchy moments
As errors
Failings
Things deserving of
Criticism
Or censure
If a bag of ground coffee
Spilled to the floor
My default wasn’t to say
Doesn’t the kitchen smell great?
It was
Instead
To apologize or blame
Ways of acknowledging
That spilling coffee
Is something to be
Frowned upon
Ways to make sure
The observant parent
External
Or internalized
Knows I know
Right behavior
What type of person
Laughs
Over spilled milk?
Through fluttery apologies
I demonstrate
Not me
Such responses
Take life’s ordinary stumbles
Imperfect moments
Coats them
With judgement
An oily slime that has never
Successfully rewound time
Or kept coffee
From spilling
Photo source: WTG
It startles me The things my mind Can get hooked on A misplaced brush or Jar of mayo Not returned to the right place Suddenly an infinity loop Of irritation Agitation Triggered Desperate hunting to find The missing object Voices seek to blame me Or others for the loss Turning the moment grey And tight Another set of voices joins in Adding a layer That lets me know It’s small of me To be annoyed Over such trivial things With all the suffering in the world You’re so selfish As to whine about a lost brush? The voices are persistently unkind Finding me wrong Not just my missteps But my essence As a person They’re telling lies I know this Yet When they show up and spin their tales Sometimes I forget And their chastising energy Pierces Rumbles and tears at my core Squeezes my insides Sucks the joy from my moment Feeds their negativism And my self-doubt I fight with them Try to deny them Breathe into them Remind me they are simply voices Bad habits Patterns of responding Familiar admonitions That seems wise and good Until I realize they exist As long as I believe they exist Fighting them Sitting with them Breathing into them Nourishes them If I stop feeding them Maybe they’ll cease to exist
Photo source: WTG
Embrace this moment This breath Life’s irritations Drops of rain Embrace slow lines Loud cars Laughter Frowns Embrace uncertainty Beauty Learning Pain Embrace sadness Joy Stop lights Clowns Embrace This moment All that is While you can
Photo Source: WTG
This was the original inspiration for last week’s 12-word poem.
Be with now All that is While you can While you are
Photosource: WTG
I do a bunch of different jobs For many companies I check out and bag groceries Am a phone operator for utilities And insurance companies Guiding calls to customer service staff I pump gas at the local service station And wash car windows At the airport I check bags My parents used to rely on operators To help call people But making phone calls Is now one of my jobs And while I know how To make coffee I’ve been known to Wait in line for a barista To do it for me
Photo source: WTG
My mind feels feral Dashing back-and-forth Between past and future Ricocheting from yesterday’s memories Real and imagined To tomorrows to dos Occasionally my mind Glides over stillness A breath This Moment Rarely does it linger Or pause long enough To truly experience it I try to govern my mind Coach it Encourage it to give me thoughts I want Turn away those I don’t Petition it for poetry one instant Philosophy the next Power it down at night It resists my efforts Reminding me While I listen to my partner To do the laundry Add garlic to the grocery list Worry about democracy’s survival It berates a curt tone I used recently During a call with my internet provider Then pivots to a childhood memory A wound And starts to pick at it It’s gotten senselessly trapped By a thank you card never written It savors sweet memories Of trips taken Goals achieved Laughter with loved ones Looks forward with anticipation To explorations and activities ahead Before being Swept up in anxiety About future uncertainties And dangers Mostly My mind generates thoughts With very little Domesticated control
Photo source: Geralt on Pixabay
Ever experience road rage? That righteous anger that feels good because you know that other driver is an absolute, eff’ing moron behind the wheel? That rage?
Ever hear the quote, “holding grudges is like taking poison and hoping it kills the other person”?
Put “anger” in place of “grudges” and…same poison.
I recognized the truth of that quote one day at a familiar intersection, when a car pulled out in front of me.
“Stupid idiot,” I snapped, tapping my brakes. The stress hormones fired up. My face got red. I swore, flipped him the bird, and waved my arm. He was incompetent, deserving of my anger. Watching the driver speed up ahead of me, I dimly suspected they were oblivious to their stupidity and my anger. I envisioned them happily listening to music, enjoying their drive to work, while I would arrive at work surly.
This wasn’t my first angry outburst. I drove through this intersection five-times-a-week, regularly dealing with drivers trying to merge into 55-mile-per-hour traffic from their red-lighted stop. I predictably got mad, even in situations where there was no real threat or danger, just some judgmental belief I was “right” and they were “wrong.”
Only this day, I had a vague awareness my boiling blood was only hurting me. I wanted to turn the heat of my anger off. Or at least down. It wasn’t about wanting to be nice. It was about not wanting to experience the poison of my own anger.
I told myself, Just don’t get angry.
That’s a lot easier to say than do. I had gotten angry at that intersection for so long it had become a habit. Plus, there was a part of me that felt upright in my anger, certain the offending drivers were intentionally pushing their selfish wants in front of my simple needs.
The story I was reacting to—that they were jerks and my anger was deserved—was, in my mind, true and accurate and the only possible story.
But…what if.
What if they were on their way to the hospital, where a few extra seconds meant life or death?
What if it was my daughter turning, would I want to be swearing at her, or imagine someone else swearing at her?
I winced. My anger—imagining these alternative storylines—felt mean and unkind.
“But,” my righteous voice said, “they aren’t on their way to the hospital and it’s not your daughter.”
“How do you know,” another voice countered. “Besides, the story you’re telling yourself upsets you. You may believe it’s true, but you don’t know. Given you’re making up stories up anyway, why not make up a story that doesn’t piss you off?”
What the hell, I thought. What did I have to lose by giving it a try?
The next time I approached the intersection, I updated my stories about the drivers. The voice that wanted to feel anger would interject: “they’re not going to the hospital.” My body, well-versed in the habit of anger, would tense. I’d note the response, then work to let it go. When the thoughts and feelings came back—oh, and they did—I’d strive to counter them by again considering different stories about the drivers. Stories intended to produce less-angry energy.
In some ways, it felt like a silly trick. But I kept at it, because the emotional pain of my anger hurt. It upset my sense of serenity. It had certainly never prevented a car from turning in front of me. Over time—months—my anger was replaced with growing calm, patience, and compassion. My repeated practice of reacting differently eventually led to change. Not only at that intersection, but when life inevitably served up other opportunities to consume anger’s poison.
I haven’t eliminated anger. And don’t want to. But I have reduced its frequency, intensity and duration.
Photo source: Alexas_Fotos on Pixabay
A crack Small Through which tears Seep Held back From fear Of what might Pour forth
Photo source: WTG
What a beautiful being you are Aglow with kindness and compassion Generous in love Turning toward acceptance Tolerance Patience and forgiveness You lean into learning Expanding possibilities Not only for yourself But for your world Your explorations Generate growth Triggering delight Igniting more growth As you open yourself to The glow within You free it to spread And ripple out Your smile and laughter Radiate joy Gratitude Hope You are wise Wise enough to know When and how To share your wisdom You are loved Always Always And forever Loved
Phote source: WTG
I take some things for granted. Like knowing how to cook. I don’t mean just being able to follow a recipe, but knowing how to ferret through the fridge and create something out of anything.
“Let’s see what the refrigerator has for dinner tonight.”
I’ve read that a lot of people don’t know how to cook. I can’t imagine that. A grocery store would seem overwhelming, especially the produce department, with its weird-shaped fruits and vegetables. I get intimidated when a vegetable I’ve never seen shows up, but at least it’s surrounded by familiar friends.
If I didn’t know how to cook, ordering take-out or subscribing to a meal delivery service would be tempting, although those choices would butt up against my frugal gene: pay the premium price? Or go hungry…
There’s the option of learning how to cook, but trying to do that solo, with a busy life, and on an empty stomach, doesn’t sound like the best time to be handling sharp knives.
Mom made cooking familiar and approachable. Watching her taught me an organically oriented way to cook. I feel at ease in the kitchen. I don’t fear failure. Well, a little, maybe, sometimes, given the strong perfectionista persona that has an apartment in my head. But at least that persona is fine staying in and watching Wheel of Fortune when I’m cooking.
Recipe-free was mom’s style. She’d often start with a simple meal of chicken, green beans, potatoes, and salad. Anything not consumed—the notorious “leftovers”—became an ingredient for another meal. If that wasn’t completely consumed, it carried forward to the next one. It was impressive. Leftovers were her version of sourdough starter.
When mom prepared a leftover meal, she’d serve it with her standard phrase.
“If you like it, enjoy it, because you’ll never have it again. If you don’t like it, don’t worry, you’ll never have it again.”
We usually wanted it again.
Photo source: Alexas_Fotos on Pixabay
Walk the Goats 