My heart knows

Okay, so as I occasionally re-read some of what I've posted it again reminds me what a non-linear process grieving truly is - with SO many meanders. I sometimes wonder if people who read this might be thinking - didn't she already go there, say that? But, in truth, sometimes when I wrote a poem I would have the same feeling and then realize that it was deeper, different and represented forward momentum. I was in a new place, with more to go. In some ways it will always be that way, though much more gentle and peaceful. I do believe that life is about being where you are while remaining open to fresh ways to think, to feel, and to be.

I went to a workshop at the Waterville Hospice this past Monday. It was in the same room where, five years earlier I had been in a widow's group. It had taken me 3 1/2 years to actually get to that point - yes, in some ways I'm a late bloomer! But as I sat there and listened to people say what had brought them to the workshop I had this wonderful feeling that was a combination of accomplishment, peace and joy. It was just lovely to have that wash over me there it that very spot where I had come at the beginning of my process and that had been one of few places I learned it was okay to use my voice, speak my truth, let the emotions come... and go.

I was having trouble deciding what to post this time and I found a series of three poems that I wrote all in one day! I remember that day as one in which I just cried and cried and cried. I had finally learned that it actually was okay to do so and I happened to have the time and the space to just let the tears come. Interestingly this was about a week after I wrote After the Storm and I guess that at that time my 'flowing' involved the purging of lots of varied emotion.

I was going to skip these poems - they were written before the poems in my previous post, but now they seem important. Perhaps it's because of the experience I had last Monday. Remembering back to how much physical pain I felt as I held on so tightly to my grief and how very crucial the knowledge I have gained from polarity and hypnotherapy experiences, along with the work I did at the Hospice House, has been to my being able to feel that sensation I described above. Sometimes I think I should skip pieces that are not as hopeful maybe, but well... it's all important. But as I revisited these to get them ready to post I truly can feel how far I have come. I did have to let Barry go all the way before I could have the sense of merging and of carrying all that we were together in my heart as I continually move forward into newness.

Molten Core

It all seems to be coming today,
whatever is left of the deep pain in my core.
I felt it physically during polarity two days ago.
From my belly through to my lower back,
from my heart to my shoulder blades,
hip to hip and shoulder to shoulder.
My molten core-
magma ready to erupt.
Although it has lessened in intensity
over the past year
it amazed me to realize how deep
and valid it still is.
And so today the tears have come.
I can’t seem to stem the flow,
don’t really even want to.
I just want it out of me,
want to set it all down for good.
The tears of this deep pain are very different,
coming in waves of varied strength,
they flow down my face like lava from a volcano.
At times I moan and wail and feel so alone.
A once stoic mountain in the distance,
now coming alive with release.
My heart knows what I need today.
I need to cry,
to let it all out and not judge.
My molten core will not be denied
any longer.

Sarah Carlson

November 11, 2007

My Grip

I think these tears of deep pain
are finally able to come
because I let Barry go.
I pried my hands off and
released my grip on both the good
and the bad of what was.
I had to let go all the way
in order to move on,
to recognize that it is no longer
as it was,
and it will never be.
But I’m not sure I know
what to grab onto now.
I’m right here still,
but I don’t quite know
where I am.
Independent for the first time
I don’t know if I know
how to be.
My mind is full of questions
and confusion.
My hands are itching
to find a handhold
as I feel suspended between
what was and what will be.

Sarah Carlson

November 11, 2007

My Heart Knows

My heart has the answers
to the questions of my mind.
Even when it was broken
it knew how to keep going.
It’s my heart that feels
the connections
the universe provides,
takes them in without question
or judgment.
Messages from
creatures of the wild,
from the wind, water and sky.
My heart takes in love from
people who appreciate
the me that I am.
In those moments I get it, feel it,
know that I belong.
Now that my heart is newly open
it’s my head that makes me
feel so vulnerable
as old patterns persist.
But my heart knows I deserve
to be cradled and loved,
that it’s okay to trust my inner rhythm
and join in the dance,
knows my head is like any other
head in the world –
home to a brain filled with
infinite ideas and possibilities.
My head gets in my way still,
but my heart knows the way,
has always known.
I’m weary of the battle
between the two.
My heart knows
what to grab hold of now,
knows where I am,
knows how to be.
I just need to get my head to listen
because my heart does know.

Sarah Carlson

November 11, 2007

There, but gone

I have decided to post a series of four poems, all having to do with adjusting to the physical loss of the man I loved - shifting to understanding that he IS with me, just in a very different way. So often people like to remind you, as a way of trying to be helpful, something to the effect that your loved one is still with you. Early on, though I wanted to believe that, I found it a little hard to comprehend. I think it simply takes a while to fully understand what that means in the context of your own life and how to wrap your arms and your heart around the fact that your loved one is there, but not. Or rather that your loved one is NOT there, but IS.

I want to let these poems mostly speak for themselves, but I thought I would give a brief chronology of how they emerged as best I can remember. Merging came directly from a polarity experience that I had during the time when we were tearing the house apart. I Saw You and Empty Suitcoat were written on the same day. I Saw You was from a dream I had the night before. Every so often (though not frequently) I have what I call 'Barry dreams' that are very profound and provide much clarity. He doesn't ever talk much, but something usually happens in the dream that allows me to work my own way to that clarity. Empty Suitcoat came as a result of putting the house back together and was a revisit to a lovely memory of a day not long before he died when we had a wonderful day of togetherness. Barry's Dead is about a moment I had while bicycling with friends. We were going up a long hill and all of a sudden tears came and I said out loud to myself, "Barry's dead." I pedaled for a bit, let the tears come and then said aloud, "But I'm not." It was so very different from saying or thinking that Barry died. Somehow that meant that maybe I could do something about that or that I SHOULD have been able to do something, but when it shifted to the fact that he is dead it was somehow freeing. I realized that it is something that happened to him and I had no choice in that, but I did have a choice in how to move forward. I'm not sure I've adequately expressed the shift, but it was liberating and felt quite amazing as I shared it with my friends.

Okay, that was much more than I intended to say and so here are the poems:

Merging

I see now that
we are both moving forward -
apart, yet together.
We were so connected
and when you left so suddenly
I just didn’t know what to do.
I kept going as I always have
through it all.
but something in my core froze
and my essence became murky
with worry and despair.
Now as my mind clears
and my spirit finds a new freedom
I see how we are merging
and flowing together
as never before.
You are somewhere else,
I know not where,
but you are here with
me and our children, too.
I am ready to let you go
and I finally understand
that I can move on without
guilt or fear or remorse.
I can put one foot in front of
the other and carry
all that we shared in my heart,
I can celebrate what you saw in me
for myself.
I can repack the satchel
with all that is good and pure and real
about me.

Sarah Carlson
December 21, 2007

I Saw You

I saw you
in my new space.
I was afraid
you would think I
had erased you
as I took things apart
and sorted through me.
My love, our love,
is still strong,
but it’s different now.
I can’t touch you,
hold you, process things
with you.
I miss you,
but I had to make this place
mine.
And then there you were
sitting back, relaxing
and smiling your wonderful smile.
Reassuring, approving,
supporting,
just there in the space
as I need you to be.

Sarah Carlson
February 22, 2008

Empty Suitcoat

I was sorting through clothes
as I put the pieces back together.
And there it was -
the suitcoat you wore
just a few weeks before
you died.
As I felt its silky surface
I could remember standing
arm in arm with you,
together as one.
People came and went,
we talked and listened,
but for some reason
we knew to
soak in those moments,
bask in our love,
be with each other.
I can still feel the small
of your back,
your beautiful hand
resting on my shoulder.
The empty suitcoat
brought that to the surface,
powerful in its emptiness
and its fullness.

Sarah Carlson
February 22, 2008

Barry’s Dead

I’ve long understood that
my husband died.
After all, it’s been more than
six years.
Recently I had the
sudden realization that, in truth,
he’s dead.
Yes, Barry’s dead.
I felt the familiar sorrow
of his absence as I uttered
those words aloud
for my own ears to hear.
Yet, I was strangely calm and sensed
a release of some kind
as I went on to say,
but I am very much alive.
I’m here, right here, in me.
I wonder sometimes if he would
know this new me,
or if this is the me he saw all along.
I’m not sure, but I do know that
the memory of our love and
gratitude for all that we were together is
safely ensconced in my heart.
It feels good to finally
be able to give myself permission
to go on and
enjoy the rest of my life as it unfolds.
Barry’s dead,
but I am free to do the living
I have left to do.

Sarah Carlson
October 23, 2008

Comic relief

I just love snow days. I find them to be so relaxing, a gift of time amidst the busy days of my work life. It's not that I don't like regular days, I just enjoy the very different nature of this type of day. Of course, it does help that I like snow...:)

But I do remember a snow day three years ago that I really didn't enjoy very much. It was the only time I have ever hoped that it didn't snow. This happened just after we had torn the whole main level of the house apart so that my son and his girlfriend/ business partner could redo the floors and the kitchen, as mentioned in a previous post titled MY House. There I was with only subfloors left, sheetrock torn out, a few pieces of furniture to use on the main floor, and everything I owned stuffed in any space I could find in the rest of the house. I had a place to sleep in the upstairs (on several mattresses stacked on each other) and a place to sit in the basement. The bathroom was untouched, but the kitchen was pretty much totally gone! I wasn't quite sure what to do with myself that day.

I can still picture my daughter coming home from college and being rather shocked at how I was living. (Later on I did move in with friends for a while.) At one point in the process we had to move the butcher block table out of the kitchen to make way for the floor to go in - and the only place to put it was in the bathroom. My daughter helped me carry it in and we looked down to see a bowl of bananas still on the table. She smiled and said, "Bananas in the bathroom, Mom, there must be a poem in that!" And here it is - a little comic relief that was part of the journey...:)

By the way, the result of all the work is just beautiful - it was more than worth it!

Bananas in the Bathroom

Bananas in the bathroom,
can’t find my shoe
in this home that we decided
it was time to redo.
Sawdust settles
everywhere that we look,
over belongings stuffed
in each cranny and nook.
Scattered pillows
on the new maple floor
make places to rest
when we come in the door.
Lights strung on curtain hooks
our only Christmas display,
this little house is in
complete disarray.
But beautiful cherry cabinets
hang ready for glassware and goods,
lights, ceilings, walls
starting to look as they should.
No more popcorn ceilings
and carpeting full of dust,
the linoleum will be gone
and I am willing to trust
in the promise of our homespace
rdefined and redone
by an amazing contractor
I am proud to call my son.

Sarah Carlson

December 30, 2007

After the storm

This poem came after a visit to my special spot by Barker Brook in November of 2007. It's one I almost skipped over, but as I reread it today I remembered how important these feelings were and what a turning point this was. I was down by the brook today and could truly feel the peace of the natural scene around me coupled with a sense of peace within. It was a nice sensation...

After the Storm

I went to my temple by the brook
and, as always, it had much to say.
Free flowing water was
moving surely and swiftly by,

sunlight sparkled on the surface
shining down from the newly blue sky.
Yesterday’s storm produced
this flow that was so beautiful to see.
In places there were eddies
where the brook turned back on itself to rest
and make sure it was ready to go on.
An obstacle made the water change course,
but it danced on the backside of the rock
climbing, clinging, searching for answers
before it rejoined the flow.
Most of the leaves are down now
so the sunlight made it all the way through -
illuminating trunks, branches
and the blanket of dead leaves
making ready to feed the roots.
The water made such a soothing sound,
no rumbling to be heard.
The level had risen,
and it moved along its course with a gentle gusto
to the drop that leads to a meander.
Whitewater on the opposite bank
played in low branches
as it flowed around the bend to find the river.
And it occurred to me that
perhaps my storm can be over
if I let it,
if I know that eddies, obstacles,
and meanders will surely be there,
but that it’s the recognition of the storm,
the lessons learned,
the courage I’ve shown in facing it
that actually make it time
for me to flow.
Thank you brook.
I think I get it.
It is my time now -
after the storm.

Sarah Carlson

November 4, 2007

MY house

(Disclaimer... - the above picture is not of MY house, but is an example of the work that my son and his girlfriend/business partner do so capably - in fact it is a part of THEIR home that they are now building.)

This poem has been on my mind all day and I'm finally finding time to get to this post. It's been a snow day after all and I had to go out and play!

This piece was written during a time when I was very unsure if I wanted to stay in the house where we had raised our family, had lived in for over 20 years at that point. It was also just before my amazing son had come to me to propose that he wanted to redo the kitchen and the floors to make it a new and more liveable place for me to be. Along the way, however, I had discovered that the really important place is within. And it felt nice today that I was just so content to be here - yes, still in the same house (though it has been beautifully redone as mentioned above) we had all shared for so many years and now where I spend much time on my own. I still don't quite know if I want to stay here, but today it felt good as it has for some time now...:) And it's been a nice way to end the day revisiting the part of the journey that led to this poem and to celebrate how now it means something different even to me.

MY House

Four strong walls hold me in.
Solid, sure, plumb.
Pegged at the corners with truth,
braced where needed by love.
Interrupted only by
cystal clear windows
that frame majestic, distant mountains
caressed by a multi-colored sky
and rolling hills in the foreground
through which purposeful streams
flow to the beloved river
near my door.
The wooden floors beneath my feet
have varied grains that show
growth and endurance.
A soft, inviting chair begs to be used
as a place to relax, think, read, wonder.
The fire in the stone fireplace crackles
with energy and warmth
at the center of my home.
A simple, well-worn desk
sits near a window and
leads me to record images
and feelings that come from
this process, this journey.
This is MY house,
my inner sanctuary
where I work to find
meaning in the many facets of life.
A place where I am learning
that I have control
of what and who to let in
and where I don’t have to
entertain worn out thoughts, emotions,
patterns, perceptions
that no longer serve me.
This is MY house.

Sarah Carlson

October 21, 2007

Vital

I've been waiting to see what poem would surface for my first post of the new year. As has happened before I was somewhat in linear mode, but then I decided to take a meander and skip ahead to this piece. I clearly remember writing it and feeling so strong and good and right. That's a feeling that stayed in my being even as I dug in and processed more of the sorrow and hurt. And it's still with me as I move more surely into the newness of my life now.

And... about the picture above...:) I don't usually post pictures of me, but this one is just the right one for this poem. It was taken at the top of Burnt Mountain near Sugarloaf. I hiked it alone in September of 2009. Well, not really alone - my dog Sophie was with me. It was a hike I had never done and it felt so wonderful to summit that day. I did truly feel vital AND I also figured out how to use the timer on my camera. I was truly the only human being up there!

Vital

I am vital.
I feel energy flowing
through me,
the currents of my being
melding together and
making me whole.
I am vital.
I have given selflessly
for so long
and now I know that it
is not selfish to include me
in my giving.
I am vital.
I have gifts that are mine
to share
and I make a difference in
those whose lives
I touch.
I am vital.
I belong here in my place
and I finally
deeply understand
that it is safe to
be me as I am.
I am vital.
My body is strong,
my life force flowing,
my being free.
I need not be
perfect because
I am vital just as I am.

Sarah Carlson

October 29, 2008