Nothing to Do

Photo by Liz Koucky

Nothing to Do

Sometimes there’s nothing one can do.
I’m going to have to let that notion
sink all the way in.
For so long I took on far more than I should.
It wasn’t necessarily wrong at the time and
I learned a great deal in the trying.
There are things I know about me,
about life and healing,
that I may not have internalized
 any other way.
These recognitions are part of
a pivotal juncture in my life.
They came to me as I settled onto my island
and some winds began to bellow,
congesting the scene,
making my airways tighten.
They weren’t deeply threatening,
just stirred things up and pestered.
I tuned in for a bit and then realized I could
 take shelter with my boundaries strong,
allow for internal reorganization,
turn both away and to.
As I quieted I thought back
to the last night, 16 years ago,
when Barry and I were still us in the flesh.
We walked arm in arm around our neighborhood,
out for an evening stroll in the sweet spring air,
teenage children at home.
The next morning three of us raced off to school
and he, on vacation, met some friends
for a game of tennis.
And, then it happened.
He died.
With this habit of feeling
that there must be something I can do,
could have done,
I deeply internalized fault.
Did he try to tell me something on our walk?
How could I not have known?
What did I miss?
But he didn’t,
I couldn’t,
and I didn’t miss a thing.
There was nothing to do,
but be in the moments as we were,
cherish each other as we did,
and be in love.
Another radiant change –
acknowledging that
I didn’t make a mistake
because there really was
nothing to do.
Sometimes there just isn’t.

Sarah Carlson

May 29, 2018

Trek Across Maine

Trek Across Maine announced a major route change, starting with next year's Trek. This has brought up varied thoughts and emotions for me, and I'm guessing for many others. This isn't a complaint, just a statement of what is.
For me participating in the Trek for the past 12 years has been important in varied ways. One of those is that it has provided ample opportunities for me to connect with my brother, Geof, who was killed while biking on Martha's Vineyard in 1987 at the age of 33. Geof was also one of the very first Trekkers, riding in both 1985 and 86. I drove him to Bethel in 1985, silently wondering what in the world he was doing - especially since it was pouring rain. I will never forget seeing him off with the few hardy souls who rode that year and then passing him as I returned to Farmington with my two small children in the car. There was my big brother, lead rider of the first leg of the first Trek (they didn't have much in the way of route markers in those days), happily pedaling in the torrential rain, his extra layer of a garbage bag flapping in the wind, gigantic grin on his face as he gave all of us a big wave.
Twenty four years later, as I was making my way from Bethel to Rumford in my third Trek, I understood. The weather was remarkably similar in 2009, though there were almost 2,000 riders that year. As I watched the water shoot away from my tires, saw my reflection in the saturated road, took a moment to scrape the dirt from my glasses, I laughed out loud. I totally got why my brother was so happy that day. I was having a blast. There was no place else I wanted to be.
There have been other years in other parts of the Trek that I've felt him, as well. Often as we drop down towards Waterville, our home town, and make our way to Colby where we both spent many hours playing tennis, swimming, going to events. Sometimes going out of Waterville in the early morning as we pass by our old neighborhood and our high school.
I will miss all of that, along with hosting my team at my home in Farmington, and the wonderful experience of spanning our state - truly from the mountains to the sea. It just won't be the same. Change can be good, I know - radiant even... after all I did write a book with that title. But, I just don't know about this one.
As I pondered all this over the past days, I remembered the poem I wrote after participating in my first Trek. And I realized I had never posted it to my blog. So here it is:

Trek Across Maine
(Through the Eyes, Ears, and Heart of a Neophyte)

Heart pumping, stomach churning,
gasping for breath –
and I hadn’t even started yet.
Soaking in the moment,
knowing I was embarking on the ride
with the quiet support of our son,
the companionship of our daughter,
 the memories of my husband
and my big brother in my heart.
Off we went,
my AWESOME friends and I.
Off to join the river of bikers
ebbing, flowing, coursing
from the mountains to the sea.
An incredible journey unfolded
as we melded into the current.
Powered by our unique human spirits
and the stretching of personal limits.
Giving and receiving support
to and from people we knew
and others we had yet to meet.
Pedaling past a multitude of scenes
that represent Maine at its finest –
rolling fields, green hills,
distant mountains,
sparkling rivers and streams
weaving their way around
the solidity of the rocky earth.
Serenaded by chirping birds, croaking frogs,
and the cheers of smiling
green shirted volunteers.
Blue skies overhead,
 interrupted only occasionally
by friendly clouds wafting by.
Up and down hills,
feeling the contentment of reaching a peak
and the exhilaration of cruising
down the other side.
Early mornings, flat tires, broken spokes,
aching muscles, more miles
than we had ever ridden.
We did it all.
And I finished hand in hand
with our daughter, his niece.
A sense of accomplishment
unmatched by anything
I had ever done before.
Personal,
 multi-faceted victories
for us all.
A memorable Trek that I hope
is the first of many more to come.

Sarah Carlson

June 19, 2007

Sweet Little Island

Sweet Little Island

A quiet island sits
surrounded by reflective waters,
evening sky slowly slipping
into darkness.
I, on the edge of the road,
feel drawn to the scene
and so pause to take it in.
Days later I remember,
and realize why I stopped.
More and more I have the
sense of being on my own island
in both the clarity
 and uncertainty of life.
This is actually growth
 as I’ve worked to
adjust to losing the one with whom
I felt safe navigating
varied currents and inevitable obstacles.
My island is part of a whole
and I am included in the
tender loving support of the Divine.
I know that.
There are moments when I
have to draw in to
protect my shoreline
and interior landscape
as I continue to internalize that
I don’t have to be a repository
for the hurts and sorrows of others.
This is not easy for one with a caring heart,
inquisitive mind,
 sensitive soul.
It is, however, vital to healing.
I’m going to need more time
to fully unlearn a habit that
was so deeply in place.
If I need to pull up,
take shelter on the sweet little island
that is me –
so be it.
Though loneliness does visit,
it’s a pretty wonderful place to be,
safe in the knowledge
that I am loved.

Sarah Carlson

May 20, 2018

Water Over a Dam

Water Over a Dam

Having gone there,
with time spent in varied and intricate
nooks and crannies,
there’s the discovery of an amazing energy
that is both novel and familiar.
It has a wildness and yet it’s tame,
a fierceness partnered with empathy.
It contains an astonishing gusto
paired with sensations of serenity
that swirl throughout the stream.
Internal exploration
provides for opportunities
to let go, let flow
and produces this
wonderfully eclectic energy.
Healing is a process,
not a singular event.
At times there is a jettison
that is liberating,
feels so very good.
At other times there is confusion,
when what was once regarded as right
transmutes to wrong,
and vice versa.
Like water over a dam
trappings and notions plunge away,
debris carried to places unknown,
while residual vapors hover
to be reintegrated
or let go when the time is right.
Discombobulating,
transforming
invigorating,
reorienting,
liberating.
Water over a dam.

Sarah Carlson

May 17, 2018

Oh, How I Miss...

As I celebrated the fact that The Radiance of Change is now for sale in Rangeley, Maine at a delightfully named bookstore - Books, Lines and Thinkers - this picture dropped into my mind. It was taken on Dallas Hill in Rangeley at the home of some good friends at the time. Barry and I had stopped by to let them know we had decided to get married. It was late May of 1979 and we were married a month later.

Oh, How I Miss…

Oh, how I miss those arms, those eyes,
that heart.
Wonderfully lanky arms,
so often draped over my shoulder
or linked in mine
as we walked and talked
in harmony and peace.
Beautiful blue eyes,
filled with such tenderness and acceptance,
seeing me as I had never been seen before.
I saw you seeing me and knew that
you saw me seeing you.
Deeply caring heart
so in love with me
and the glories and challenges
of marriage and parenthood shared.
The heart that knew the moment we met
that you and I would be us.
And a wonderful us we were,
still are.
Even in moments of stress or misunderstanding
the promise of
reconciliation and restoration,
no grudges to be held,
remained true.
In my healing I’ve learned to embrace it all –
the triumphs and sorrows,
the connection and loneliness,
the love and longing.
And, oh how I miss those arms, those eyes,
 that heart.

Sarah Carlson

May 15, 2018