Another conversation

These two poems are another 'conversation' that I had with Barry. The first came before the two poems in the previous post and his 'answer' came after them.

I Can Feel You

As the years slip by it becomes
harder to see your face,
hear your voice.
But I can feel you.
Traveling deeper into
the workings of me
I continue to make fresh discoveries.
One is that my most lucid memories of you
are all the subtle, sublime
nuances of our connectedness.
In experiencing the ups and downs
of marriage, raising children,
living,
our bond remained strong and steady,
anchoring us to each other.
I feel it when I slow down
and stay with the softness
of those sensations.
I feel it when I’m with our
children, now grown.
In their humor and empathy,
in their busy minds and caring hearts,
in their energy and their beings.
I feel it as I learn to love, value and
cherish my self
on my own.
I miss you so very much,
but I know you are still there, here,
because I can feel you.

Sarah Carlson

July 31, 2009

I Can Feel You, Too

Sweet, brave, lovely Sarah –
I can feel you, too.
I can feel your despair as you fully grieve
the many losses in your life,
your angst as you finally
know you must disengage,
your loneliness as you forge
ahead in your newness.
But there’s so much more.
I can feel your contentment as you watch our
children widen into their own lives.
I can feel your depth of character as you
gently spread compassion to those
who do share your life now,
I can feel your genuine, rightful wisdom that
emanates from your delightfully
expanding heart.
I can feel the quivering, radiant ebullience that
courses through you during
the times when you are able to let your self flow.
Although I can not be in the physicality
of your life now, your energy
and mine are still linked
in whatever ways you need them to be.
You must trust that and, as you make
room in your heart, know
it is safe and right to
experience, to feel new joys.
Yes, my love,
I can feel you, too.
It’s a glorious feeling
because you are a brilliant being,
so go ahead and shine.

Sarah Carlson

August 20, 2009

Taking the helm

(Photo by Emma Carlson)

In the summer of 2009 I was wide open, having worked very hard to go right straight through that core of darkness that I've described before - the grief, the sorrow, the hurt. I was all the way in and was quite vulnerable. In looking back I remember knowing I had made it in and that I didn't want to stay very long. I knew it was right to have done the work, but it was somewhat difficult to go through this particular phase. So I have been reluctant to share these poems, but at the same time I think they are important. I think it's time to share them because I clearly know that I am not there anymore and the difficulties that I experienced do not fully define me, they are just a part of my life and I did the very best I could all along the way. I didn't do anything wrong, I just did the best I could - and I do believe now that my best was, for the most part, pretty darn good.
So... big gulp... here are two that show how disorienting some of this all was, but again how each and every time I wrote hope somehow wove it's way into my words.

Inner Compass

The disrobing happened,
the shroud dispersed
in soft folds near my feet.
I’m here in my skin,
heart peacefully beating.
but now I am exposed.
I’ve tested the waters of
newness before,
even set sail for a bit,
yet I’ve never been quite
able to trust my inner compass
to truly show me the way.
Now the person that he saw all along,
is becoming visible to me
as I twist the lens on my self.
I feel his knowing
in my growing,
in my own deep recognition of me.
My inner compass has served me
well in many ways,
but there are further adjustments needed
that only I can make.
The sense of having traveled far,
of coming home again,
is very present.
I’m slightly disoriented,
and will still need some help,
but I know I will get my bearings
as I wrap myself in the
light and airy
tapestry of discovery and realization
and take the helm
of this vessel that is me.

Sarah Carlson

August 7, 2009

Dead in the Water

Okay, so I’ve taken the helm,
but I can’t seem to actually steer.
I hear the wind blowing,
see the sun in the
omnipresent blue sky.
Yet, today I’m dead in the water,
becalmed
once again by grief and loneliness.
I have a destination in mind,
but I can’t seem to move in that direction.
The tears are flowing,
my very own tears,
because I want to share with someone.
Is that wrong?
I don’t know, I really don’t know.
I paddle, pedal, eat, walk, contemplate
so often by myself.
I know I am able,
but I’m tired of being alone,
of wondering if my phone
might ring so I can hear
a human voice and interact
with someone who cares
about me.
I have worked hard to
understand that I fit in me as I am,
but I still feel vulnerable,
dead in the water,
though I have taken the helm.
I can’t help but wonder,
Now what?
Where do I go now?
Why, at times, do I still feel so alone?

Sarah Carlson

August 8, 2009

A place to fit

This poem came to mind recently and I was surprised to discover that I hadn't posted it. It's been important to me lately because I realized that I'm still moving in to this dwelling that is me...:)

A Place to Fit

I keep trying to find a way,
a place
to fit.
For so long I’ve searched
and pondered and wondered.
The years of my marriage were
a partnership of caring, understanding
and love.
We fit together and made each other
complete.
Yet, as I look back I know I still
felt unease within.
As I’ve traveled to many places
in this journey of sorrow and grief,
on this quest for healing,
the question remains -
Where do I fit?
As I clear out the last of the clutter
I think I finally understand that
the elusive place I’ve been looking for
is right inside
of me.
It is simply time to move into
the glorious space that is
my self -
a promising place to
fit right in.

Sarah Carlson

August 24, 2008

Hello readers!
I just want to say that I do know that most of my pictures have disappeared. I'm not sure how or why that happened, but it did. I have really enjoyed pairing my photography with my poems and was quite pleased with how this blog has been coming together. And then came the missing photography mystery. I am working on reposting the pictures, but it will probably take some time. For now the words to many of my pieces will have to stand alone.
Thank you for taking time to read my work.
Gratefully,
Sarah Carlson

Soft around the edges

(Photo by Emma Carlson)

Yesterday I was at Saddleback Mountain volunteering with Maine Handicapped Skiing. I had a wondrous day in many ways. I had the pleasure and honor of being on a team working with a visually impaired skier. He and the rest of the people on the team had never skied at Saddleback and, because it used to be my home, I was the 'mountain guide'. The sky was a lovely blue, the temperature cold enough to keep the snow from becoming heavy, and the sun full of spring warmth - an unusual combination that also included incredible views of the many lakes of the Rangeley area and snow covered Mt. Washington in the distance.

In the afternoon I was asked to be the lead and there I was cruising down one of my favorite places on earth with the participant right on my tails. I felt strong and sure, confident and caring, rhythmic and right. One thing I didn't feel was sadness. That's quite something because in the past when I went to Saddleback sorrow was quite strong, missing Barry a large part of the experience. And though it has diminished over time, yesterday it just wasn't there.

This morning, though, I had a bit of a grief burst. Emotion surfaced and I started to judge - an old pattern of, "But I've done all this work, why am I sad again?" But then I recognized it for what it was and just let it go. I realized that for most all of yesterday I had simply been in the moments as they happened and that the brief tears this morning were just a delayed reaction, a very minute part of the truly wonderful experience that I shared with my participant, my team, my daughter and good friends. It was a very soft sadness that made me think of this poem. Another piece that meant one thing when I wrote it, but means something different to me now.

Soft Around the Edges

In letting go, breaking away
I’m feeling hazy.
Not lost in the fog -
just nebulous, murky, vague.
Like the morning mist that
sometimes hovers over my
beloved river
waiting for the early morning
light to gently warm the vapors
left behind by the coolness
of the night.
Soft around the edges,
muffled and serene,
it lets go in wisps
that curl away,
seeming to disappear,
yet part of an ongoing cycle.
Water attracted to water,
a haze layered over the flow.
Not threatening, or even definable,
simply there for a time.
But as always the river
knows where to go.
It doesn’t question.
It just takes whatever comes
and continues along its way.
Another lesson to be learned.
I don’t always need to know,
only to allow my self to flow.

Sarah Carlson

July 21, 2009