When you are old

WHEN you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim Soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars. 

Today I remembered my last day in xela, you offered to take me to the station and I accepted. We went and grabbed a smoothie at our favourite French restaurant, for old times sake. I remember riding down to parque central on your motorbike, the sun beaming, no helmet, feeling safe. I recall freeze framing the moment knowing I’d never get it back. I was present and happy; there had been no past and there would be no future, just that moment. I was free for a second. You were in my arms, looking forward, taking control as I preferred. I was behind embracing you, grounded yet moving, my eyes closed, full of possibility with the wind washing over my face cleaning my soul. 

Ironically having freeze-framed that moment I hadn’t thought about it for a long time; the image of leaving you at the bus stop has always dominated my recollection of that day. It brought a smile to my face today thinking about that moment again.  Now it’s time to focus on more recent happenings.

Note to the reader, I wrote this to help me sort out my thoughts in an attempt to move on from past events, which it has. My writing has a lot of to be desired but for the first time in my life I'm working to improve it. Try not to read too much into it or judge my overly dramatic writing too harshly for it's merely a writing exercise.

The battle appears to be ending. There is no outright winner just a reluctant acceptance of stalemate as an overwhelming feeling of hopelessness creeps in from the shadows of an untold past. Bad decisions were made by all involved, and with all the will in the world the past cannot be rewritten. If only bygones could be bygones.

After such an unnecessarily long battle how can victory ever taste sweet? ‘The bitter taste in my mouth would never allow it’ you once said- how those words resonate with me now.

The irony of this battle is that I was thrown into it unknowingly. I would never have chosen such a path yet my preferences were never part of the equation; it appears that no one considered asking the opponent. Realisation brought resentment, which closed in around me like fog over the riverbank on a cold winter's night covering so heavily I could no longer see the path ahead.

Some would say I am weak for it was I who pronounced defeat at the first hurdle when all the cards were finally laid out in front of me. The odds had not been dealt in my favour this time. The illusion of my naive youthful optimism guarded for so long shattered in an instant to expose the truth in alls its painful entirety. We are not always the masters of our fate I learned. 

I stepped aside as gracefully as the defeated party can in such a situation. Acquiescent is a fitting word. Respect was due to those brave enough to leap into uncharted territories to chase dreams filled with higher aspirations, brimming with intellect and egos to match. Courage and refrain were conjured, a last ditch attempt to finish with poise as I embraced the new hand destiny had dealt me. I let the victorious march on to their much-anticipated future and I could finally shut the door on what felt like an eternity of half-truths and unanswered questions.

Relief flooded in. I started out on my journey to a new beginning, not caring to consider those that had already jumped ship. To say my path was without its difficulties would be a lie but from an unexplained strength I never turned around to watch the course that others had taken. I don’t think I have ever exercised such self-control in my entire life.

We all know the facts that unexpectedly changed the course of this story. The tower card was my only clue but even this had not been an adequate warning to predict this outcome.

Months later, in a moment of distraction I unknowingly wandered back to the battleground, back to the door I had closed so long ago. It flung open so easily I didn’t realise the enormity of what I had done. 

How quickly ignorance can be replaced with unwanted comprehension. How quickly awareness can consume your entire being. Thought streams unraveled like the rope of an anchor plummeting towards the bottom of the ocean. Soon everything would be underwater. The identity of a stranger seeped into my life like an insipid gas filling every space, ever present yet not quite pernicious enough to kill.

This presence isn’t acknowledged nonetheless it exists and continues to pull me down. How can I free myself from something that binds me invisibly? The chains of the devil I recall on the tarot card weigh heavy on my mind. I go on chasing the shadows of an untold past as a delusional obsession consumes me. The beat of the drum sounds in the distance, a voice urges me on, ‘begin begin’.

And this was the story of how I found myself here, foolishly retracing my steps back towards to the battleground, a place that never should have been revisited. Had I forgotten the battle was already over? 

Wearily I sit down to avoid being swept away by the next tide of doubt.

I wait for clarity to come to my rescue.

We can be an island apart from a ceaseless war on our heart
Harbored in a fortress insurmountable
Taller than affliction, safe wherever we are
Erasing horror and disgust
Rewinding the sorrow and the rust
Before our suffering’s suffering, hadn’t we suffered enough?
.....

And I can feel the difference when the day begins
Like all I know is, "This year will be the year we win."
We smoke the paper from the banner from our past parades
And start again, before the memory of the mess we've made

But wait for me,
Keep for me your sweetness.
I will give you too
A rose. 

I wanted to be a wife and create a beautiful home to keep my man happy, but there was more in life than being a diligent maid with a permanent pussy.

For A Traveler

I only have a moment so let me tell you the shortest story,

about arriving at a long loved place, the house of friends in Maine,

their lawn of wildflowers, their grandfather clock and candid

portraits, their gabled attic rooms, and woodstove in the kitchen,

all accessories of the genuine summer years before, when I was

their son’s girlfriend and tied an apron behind my neck, beneath

my braids, and took from their garden the harvest for a dinner

I would make alone and serve at their big table with the gladness

of the found, and loved. The eggplant shone like polished wood,

the tomatoes smelled like their furred collars, the dozen zucchini

lined up on the counter like placid troops with the onions, their

minions, and I even remember the garlic, each clove from its airmail

envelope brought to the cutting board, ready for my instruction.

And in this very slight story, a decade later, I came by myself,

having been dropped by the airport cab, and waited for the family

to arrive home from work. I walked into the lawn, waist-high

in the swaying, purple lupines, the subject of   June’s afternoon light

as I had never been addressed — a displaced young woman with

cropped hair, no place to which I wished to return, and no one

to gather me in his arms. That day the lupines received me,

and I was in love with them, because they were all I had left,

and in that same manner I have loved much of the world since then,

and who is to say there is more of a reason, or more to love?

Source: Poetry (May 2014).

So teach us to number our days that we may get a heart of wisdom.

Teach us to realize the brevity of life, so that we may grow in wisdom.

Plasm 90:12

Vus saw me as the fresh of his youthful dream. I would bring him the vitality of jazz and the endurance of a people who had survived over three hundred and fifty five years of slavery. With me in his bed he would challenge the loneliness of exile. With my courage added to his own he would challenge the ignominious white rule in South Africa to an end. If I didn't already have the qualities he needed, then I would just develop them. Infatuation made me believe in my ability to create myself into my lover's desire. That would be nothing for a stepper.

The Heart of a Woman
Maya Angelou

assiduous

Constant in application or attention; diligent: an assiduous worker who strove for perfection. 

Unceasing; persistent: assiduous research.

Invictus

Out of the night that covers me,

      Black as the pit from pole to pole,

I thank whatever gods may be

      For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance

      I have not winced nor cried aloud.

Under the bludgeonings of chance

      My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears

      Looms but the Horror of the shade,

And yet the menace of the years

      Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,

      How charged with punishments the scroll,

I am the master of my fate,

      I am the captain of my soul.

WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY

Quoted in I know why the Caged Bird sings

I hoped the memory  of that morning would never leave me. Sunlight was itself still young, and the day had none of the insistence maturity would bring it in a few hours.

What a beautiful piece of writing - full of soul and emotion and enigmatic too. Maya Angelou was yet another touchstone of our family life and also representative of a set of beliefs and world perspectives with which you and Lottie were imbued. I can not describe how proud I am of both of you and what you have become. It is important to me in this era of shallowness and transience to hold on to fundamental groundings because that is what stops us just drifting with each new idea or trend and to establish out own identity. I love the way in which your piece uses the capital letters for Him and Her which juxtaposes the notion of equal significance and value - and reference?

Well done darling. Keep writing as you really have a talent to write about those things which are important to you and about which you have an understanding. Writing also helps us  make sense of who we are and what is of value to us - it helps define us.

There was a replay on Radio Four of an interview with Maya Angelou at the Hay Festival broadcast on Saturday night about 11.30 pm which you might catch on Bbc Iplayer. It was typical of her irreverence, joy, insight and humour - and of course that wonderful voice. Also an account in Saturdays Guardian Review of a recent encounter with her.

I would like to send a copy of you email to Yvonne, if you are in agreement, as she would be so pleased to see how important Maggie was in helping to form your views and values.

Take care Simone, and always remember that you are loved for exactly what and who you are. WhenI read an email like that Imthinkmthat I've not done too bad a job as a parent.

Lots of,love

Dad xx

The old woman felt sorry for herself
and angry at herself at the same time
many betrayals had afflicted her
she carried grudges
in her throat
that paralyzed speech
and prevented forgiveness

Unlike you who fear betrayal
I live my whole lifetime
in the open air and in the azure present moment
like a butterfly or gnat or horse
said the red tulip
I burden myself with no expectations
therefore I can never be betrayed

A dedication to Maya Angelou

With your parting I took another step away from the dawn of my beginnings and the sun that brought me into this world. I walked further away from the blocks that lovingly laid out my path teaching me empathy, humility and kindness; the foundations by which I try to live my life. Today those blocks toppled down again, like a stack of carefully constructed playing cards blown over in the lightest of breezes, just as we did in the days following Her anticipated yet unexpected departure. That fateful day the wind fleetingly changed directions, whisking Her effortlessly away like a bird taken by the current of the wind or the seeds of a dandelion globe launched into the sky when blown. We were left on the ground chasing the dandelion seeds floating up into the sky, as children would grasp at balloons escaping out of arms’ reach, never to be reunited.

It was She who taught me about You, Maya; Your strength, your story, your poetic wisdom. I read and reread your poems to inspire my own in an effort to make sense of the nonsensical. No one told it better than you and this She knew. It was Your words that we recited at the alter that day; not the Lord’s as should be expected. We all celebrated in this small act of defiance.  Like You, we rose, heads held high, refusing to drown in the tears and sadness that hung in the church like raindrops on a humid day right before the storm breaks. I praised Her that day, not him. I gave thanks for Her sacrifice, Her teachings, Her character. I gave thanks for leading me to You. I still do.

You, Maya, taught me the rebellious delight that comes with using words the way we please. Gallivanting away from rules and tradition to celebrate our own individuality, sexuality, and of course our differences. You celebrated your people. I watched you break free from the confines of poetic rules imposed by yet another foreign system of control. I had never seen such power rise up in a one-woman rebellion from a peppered page of prose. You reclaimed your voice through writing, stamping out a space to tell your story, and by doing so you permitted so many to tell theirs. You shamed our people to read in lines -rather than between them- the rawness of a not-too-distance past. You eloquently described the horror of injustice and inequality that did and does occur. We squirmed under the unrelenting light that you pointed on the truths of America’s past, recreated in such vivid detail through your own story. What literary brilliance.

Your written art has kept on inspiring me through my years, as it will in the years to come. And, acknowledging this, if the wind were to bring the vision that passes through my dreams to settle in the present, that illusion, my new dawn would be named Maya. For Maya is the name that represents a story; a story of two phenomenal women, a story of a civilisation of people still rising, and my story of a new beginning.

Enigmatic
Difficult to interpret or understand; mysterious.