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

Turbulence and calm... together

I had an experience recently which helped me understand that my analytical, metaphor seeking mind has been working overtime for quite a while. It will take some practice, I believe, to not strive for understanding so much of the time. I'm getting better at noticing things of this nature, a by-product of this process for which I am very grateful.

Here are two poems that I wrote that again have a water focus. The first one was written when I was in the thick of delving into the sadness of loss. The second came as I was working my way back out the other side - a direct result of one of those metaphoric connections that I experienced right after a polarity treatment. I remember biking by the outlet of Great Pond in Belgrade Lakes and watching the water pouring into Long Pond. It was loud and powerful, but then I noticed beyond the turbulent water there was a lovely moment of settling - and beyond that was stillness and peace. Both there together with everything in between... ever-changing...:)

Whitewater

Thunderous waves
crashing over rocks, fallen trees.
Powerful currents
going wherever they please.
Everything changes
when floodwaters roar through,
making it difficult to know
what to do.
Boundaries alter,
creating unrest and despair
and the need to reach out
to people who care.
It’s important to think, but
acknowledging what is felt
is the key to getting
the ice to melt.
Yes, in order to move
the water must flow,
and it always knows
the way to go.
Stagnation doesn’t work
in this dynamic world,
so feel the power, ride the waves,
let your self be unfurled.

Sarah Carlson

Feb. 6, 2008

Turbulence

Boiling, churning, scouring -
wihitewater ravages as it flows.
Bedrock tumbles, soil loosens,
roots become exposed.
Surging waters alter the
landscape and that place
is never again quite the same.
But the torrent
eventually settles,
provides relief for
saturated banks weakened
by the barrage.
As the raging subsides
the way opens and the
flow continues anew.
There can be beauty in both
turbulence and calm,
but still waters after a storm
reflect whatever goodness
that enfolds them.
Vigorous trees, tranquil hills,
silver lined clouds in
a radiant sky illuminated by
a gently setting sun.
A pristine world ready to be
treasured and enjoyed,
free from the
relentless turbulence
of what was.

Sarah Carlson

June 22, 2009

Quiet presence

I was a presenter at a hospice training this past weekend - again on the topic of rituals and good byes. I read several of my poems and it felt good and right. I'm going to post two that I read and another that I just found in my notebook. That Morning was written at a Hospice Education Day in 2008 and is about a moment I had the morning of the day Barry died. In My Dreams came a during a time when I had several dreams about him. That Morning, Too is about another visit with what happened, with what was.
I think I feel drawn to posting these tonight because I just miss him. I've said good bye to what was and hello to a new way to be. I'm fine - I simply miss the man I shared so much with and who was such a good listener. I need to talk... so here they are.

That Morning

I can see it, hear it, feel it
so clearly -
that morning.
Warm sunlight
streamed in the window
as the cool breeze
stirred the curtains
next to where you lay.
I paused,
took in the moment,
listened to your
sweet, contented breath
and felt your easy presence,
your love.
That moment, that memory
that morning
sustains me
as I greet new days
on my own.

Sarah Carlson

August 13, 2008

written at the Hospice Education Day

In My Dreams

I keep seeing you
in my dreams.
I feel your quiet presence
in the wee hours of the morning.
You come,
but you are always leaving
and it seems okay.
I can feel that you are content
wherever it is that you’ve gone.
I keep wanting to go with you,
but you make it clear that I cannot.
The last time you were carrying
a pack and I had the sense
that you wanted to take away my hurts
and other things I no longer need.
Thank you, my love.
Thank you for the wonderful years
we shared here in this life.
Thank you for your wisdom, your grace,
and your love.
Thank you for helping me through
this transition as you send
sweet and caring messages
in my dreams.

Sarah Carlson

October 23, 2008

That Morning, Too

I used to feel guilty
that I was not with you when you died.
But my whole heart and my settled mind
know, that in truth, I was.
That morning was so beautiful with
gentle breezes stirring leaves
newly opened after winter’s sleep,
blue sky and warm spring sun
illuminating a world bursting with life.
We were in different places,
me in my classroom,
you on the court,
but we were together.
I know that now.
That morning my attention was drawn out,
away from my self and my surroundings.
I stood by the window several times
and stared, but I saw nothing.
Something was calling me,
and now I know it was you.
Later, as I turned up the hospital drive,
you came to me.
You left us that morning,
but before you went you made sure
I felt the strength of our love.
It washed over me,
flowed through me,
bolstered me for what was to come.
And now as I put words to this,
I feel a renewed sense of joy and gratitude.
In tandem for 27 years
we were together that morning, too.

Sarah Carlson

March 2, 2009

In and Out

In July of 2008 I attended a week long conference on poetry and teaching at the Frost Place in New Hampshire. When I was there among those 'learned poets' I felt somewhat limited in my writing ability at times. But there was also a part of me that understood that my words, written in my own style really did (and do) possess true worth. I remember standing in the the barn that had been turned into a conference center - right there at the home where Robert Frost had written many of his incredible poems - reading my own work in front of the group. As always, there were many different currents flowing through my being and it was a very empowering, somewhat humbling, experience. So much has happened since then. I've opened further, found my voice even more, cried many tears, experienced joy without reservation, and discovered the peace of my self settling into this one and only me.

Today I have felt an old, familiar energy that usually meant a poem was surfacing. I miss writing them - haven't written one since last August. I wonder if maybe they will come differently and I need to be mindful of what else might be there within. But then I had the idea of opening my notebook to see what might be calling out to be posted and I found these three. In was written during the conference. Unfurling and Enfolding were written in the weeks just after I returned. It has been lovely to revisit them...

In

Through the keyhole
wafting among elastic,
eager minds
eclectic energy
ebbs, flows,
sparkles, sifts, settles -
channeling the energy within
as the joy of shared discovery
permeates the room.

Sarah Carlson

July 3, 2008

In the barn of the Frost Place

Unfurling

The layers unravel and reveal
innate beauty, her core.
Stretching, testing,
the rapture of her truth
buoys her and...
suddenly she feels exposed,
vulnerable, unsafe.
Curling back upon herself
she thinks she is wrong, again.
The lure of her truth,
newly freed,
pulls at her and she
relaxes and unfurls once more.
Ahhh there it is,
ecstasy, energy and love -
the ability to trust,
to be just as she is.
She feels it, thinks she is there
and once again the old patterns
cause her to wither and curl.
But this time as she does,
she recognizes that something
is leaving, vaporizing into
the Universe and she
understands her process
as a slow, gentle
unfurling as she learns to
simply be herself
in the moments of
her life.

Sarah Carlson

July 11, 2008

Enfolding

Like a rose she opens
to her world
anew.
Like a day lily
she curls in
at night.
Opening and closing she
tests, tries, tarries a while
when it feels
right.
Her eyes see things she
didn’t recognize
before.
Her mind functions
more in tandem with
her heart.
She wraps her arms
around all that is
hers,
beautiful body,
open heart,
active mind,
loving soul.
Embracing all that is
within and without,
she knows that her gifts
are hers
to honor and share.
Enfolding - going in
to all that is good,
instead of going
away.

Sarah Carlson

July 20, 2008

Healing my broken heart

These speak for themselves - two heartfelt pieces that shed light on profound movement from a deeply broken heart to one that is fully open to appreciate love that was, immerse in love that is, and... be expectant of love that will be.

A Heart Reborn

As I find my voice and learn
to trust in living my truth,
my good and caring heart
is beginning to dance.
There is an excitement,
an exuberance,
that has long
been hovering on my fringes.
I can feel it moving as my center
quivers with an energy
that is new to me.
As it awakens
my heart stretches and tests,
fills the once hidden crannies,
and turns somersaults
in my core.
Open, ready, whole -
a heart reborn.

Sarah Carlson

June 4, 2008

Peace in My Heart

I more clearly understand the shroud of
fear I have carried for so long.
I view it as a heavy, dark, red cape
with many folds that curl back on
one another providing nooks
where unknown fears have long
hidden in the shadows.
Yet now I can also picture it
as it cascades away from me,
gently curling aside and
encircling me at my feet,
layer upon layer upon layer.
For now I know that I don’t
have to understand everything
that is in those folds,
I simply have to let it fall
as it will.
That it once feigned protection,
but now is beautiful as it unwinds.
That it contains heartache,
but also much that helped
me tap the well of my own true core.
That as it falls my once
broken heart not only fully
heals, but becomes free and expansive.
I believe the dust is finally settling
from the battles that
this spunky warrior has waged,
taking on much more than
she ever could have imagined,
and now it is time
to not only know peace,
but feel it in my heart, as well.

Sarah Carlson

August 7, 2009

Perseverance - in need of a little love

The above pictures were taken one lovely spring evening in 2008 - May 28th to be exact. I often go down to my special spot by Barker Brook at that time of year. As I've related before it is always very healing and settling to be there. This particular evening I was sitting on the rocky beach letting my dog swim and play in the water - and all of a sudden I heard peeping. I looked up to see this little guy bobbing along in the flow of the brook. He noticed me and started to come my way, but Sophie (my dog) wanted to frolic in the water with him - and he wanted nothing to do with that. Sophie excitedly swam toward him and he somehow got away and went into the woods on the other side. I think it helped a bit that I was screaming at her to leave him alone...:) I looked around to see if there was a mother duck (at this point I assumed it was a duckling) anywhere around, but I didn't see or hear one at all. This intrepid little bird went through the woods and crossed the brook at a shallow area and made his way right for my feet! I just couldn't believe it. He just peeped and peeped - and anytime I moved he came with me. By this time Sophie had accepted my clear message that he was off limits for play OR for consumption. So there I stood with a little bird between my feet, no mother in sight, and nighttime coming on. I really wanted to help the little guy, but wasn't quite sure what to do. I thought that perhaps if I left him alone that his mother would come back so I reluctantly headed up the trail to home. He, however, had other ideas and followed me up a steep bank, along the trail, and up the road to my front lawn - peeping incessantly all the while! Right then and there I named him Persy - short for Perseverance.

There's much more to the story, including a Game Warden instructing me over the phone how to rock him to sleep so I could take him back where I found him in the hopes that his mother would MAYBE come back to him. By this time it was dark and, with the help of a neighbor, we were able to find someone who raised him at her home. It turned out that he was a Canadian gosling. Late in the summer he was released with a flock of geese that was living in the town park in Rangeley. I often wonder how he made out - and I will never forget how amazing it was to be sought out by a creature of the wild who needed love, care and help - and knew how to get it.

Perseverance

Baby bird, abandoned,
rides the flow of the brook.
Peeping his fear and
loneliness
he sees a chance for help.
Making his way to shore
he is challenged and threatened
by a creature larger than
himself.
He eludes the danger and
makes his way to the other side
to hide.
Knowing he cannot make it alone he
takes a chance and crosses the shallows -
drawn to the being he
somehow knows understands his needs.
He follows her,
tripping over rocks and roots,
instinctively trusting her worth.
She finds a way to help and,
in time,
he gains strength,
finds his voice,
fills out his body,
stretches his wings
and is released to enjoy
the wild and
wonderful world.

Sarah Carlson

August 24, 2008
inspired by Persy,
a Canadian gosling
who followed me home from
Barker Brook
on May 28, 2008

Good sorrow

Letting them flow led to this piece - one of my favorites in many ways.

Good Sorrow

I never thought that sorrow
could be a good thing,
but, truthfully,
when it is felt for the purpose of release,
when it is honored and not judged
it is a very good thing.
Experiencing sorrow means
that you care about
what was and, as importantly,
about what is.
It provides the outlet
for true grief to happen
as it should.
In going into the goodness
of sorrow
one can find meaning
and solace,
and love.
So I wish good sorrow
to all who have lost something
or someone.
Let it come,
let it go,
let it heal,
let it flow.
Good sorrow.

Sarah Carlson
June 24, 2008

Learning to allow them to flow

I've known that this post needed to happen because tears are so very important, but I wasn't sure just when. Today, though, I've had some gentle tears flowing and so it seems right. I think and feel that today's tears have partially been about this blog in some ways, but I'm not exactly sure. As I've said before it's been interesting to revisit all these words that came to the surface as I explored sorrow and grief. At times it's still hard to know if I'm on the right track putting all this out there. But then I have an experience like I did last night when someone approaches me and lets me know how helpful it is for them to read my words. Responses like that fortify me for sure. So today I think the tears were a very sublime mix that I really don't need to analyze or explain any further. They were just there, washed some things away, and led to my putting this post together. It's all about understanding that, contrary to what society tells us and what many of us learn, at times it IS necessary and healing to cry. These three poems represent how that extremely critical realization worked its way into my being.

True Tears of Grief

I thought I had already cried
tears of grief,
but I hadn’t really
let them flow.
Even when my
molten core erupted,
I judged.
I didn't intend to,
I just hadn’t quite fully internalized
that I belong,
I deserve, I am not wrong.
As I unravel the layers,
peel away the attachments,
and re-examine my pieces
the blankness is filling
with a deeper understanding of
my essence.
And as it does
I can finally grieve
without reservation.
I can cry gentle tears of yearning
and surrender.
I can cry cleansing tears of
purity and release.
I can cry true
tears of grief.

Sarah Carlson

March 12, 2008

Integrated Tears

And so they flow,
old tears and new.
Her tears, my tears, ours.
I can feel little girl sadness
bubbling to the surface
even before they come.
My body lets me know
with pains that are clearly
begging for an outlet.
I’m not afraid of them anymore,
understanding the need
for expression and release of
old fears, deep despair,
and multiple origins of grief.
And so they flow,
not as often,
but so very strongly when
they come.
Integrated tears that have
the power to fully
wash away unwanted debris
and make room
for experiencing the
joys and the wonders
of me.

Sarah Carlson

March 24, 2008

Rainbow Tears

The floodgates have opened
all the way
and I’m crying rainbow tears.
A multi-hued mixture
of fury, gratitude,
despair, joy, frustration
and things I cannot define.
But mostly these
beautiful and necessary droplets
are tears of grief
for what was and is now gone,
for what was not and
can never be,
for time lost living
the misperceptions I internalized.
Gently or with gusto
they come and they go -
unencumbered by judgment
or fear,
washing away anguish,
detoxifying my being
and making room for further
acknowledgment of the goodness
in me and in my world.
Rainbow tears
of honor and release.

Sarah Carlson

May 31, 2008

Letting joy in and out

I think this might be a good place to revisit that as one learns to acknowledge sadness and despair with the intent of letting go there becomes more and more room to experience other emotions ... like joy. I alluded to this earlier in the post titled Moments of Joy, but as I continued on I remember more distinctly feeling the tandem nature of letting go and being able to let other things, good things, in. I noticed this several times out in the natural world as I explored my shadow, which would sort of creep into my consciousness as a more free and playful side of me. Two of those times made their way into this poem.

I've also noticed lately that once you feel more comfortable with feeling joyful within it more naturally flows outwardly, as well.

Me and My Shadow

Hello wonderful shadow.
I’ve enjoyed your playful presence
lately.
Moon shadow, sun shadow -
my joyful side
coming to life,
testing, teasing,
no longer feeling the need
to fully hide.
Walking by the river
by the light of a full moon,
there you were
frolicking along the glowing
riverbank on the other side.
Cruising down a mountain
under a perfectly blue sky,
not a cloud in sight,
you came up from behind
and took over the run.
I felt your sheer exuberance
and joy
as we danced down the trail
with power and grace.
Welcome, shadow,
come whenever you like.
Welcome.

Sarah Carlson

February 27, 2008

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