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| 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.
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
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