Say Who You Are and Where You’re Going

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I am the person who took every questionnaire in Glamour magazine to understand myself to no avail. When asked about favorite foods I could only answer what everyone else loved. I had no idea what I was hungry for. Maybe that’s because I was raised on the ridiculousness of Gilligan’s Island, the magic of I Dream of Jeannie & Bewitched and the wisdom of Mister Ed, the talking horse (of course). I remember the day that an argument was going on around me while I kept my eyes set on That Girl with Marlo Thomas. All I could think of was how perfect her smile and black flip were even in a catastrophe, while the world around me was not. But I was grateful for the company and there was much more of it. Lassie taught me how to cry. The Love Boat taught me how to love and The Addams Family taught me the complex art of family making. Church also played a part in my formative years, as both a refuge and a hammer, but I’ll save that story for another day.

I became a poet by accident when I got tired of all the TV words and decided to find my own. Writer’s write, and, to be more specific, poets write poems, and I have written a few hundred along with a handful of pretty lame songs. That doesn’t mean I’m a great poet or even a good one. Like beauty is in the eye of the beholder, the beauty of a poem is in the ear of the reader. But I had a captive audience of one, and so I wrote to hear what my voice sounded like. Over time reading and writing poetry became more comfortable than the other chatter. The thing I’ve loved most about poetry is I can now tell when a new poem wants to be born. Some small but significant moment will plant itself inside me and grow in the dark for a time before the waters break. I might be on a walk or in the bathtub or in the dead of night when suddenly the waters part and a fully formed poem presents itself. I learned if I didn’t somehow start recording immediately that it may be gone for good, but once it’s out it can be as sweet as a newborn. And, like a newborn, it needs to develop and grow and be tweaked in many ways to reach its full potential. But poetry became more than just better chatter. It became part of my bones and breath the way a new life fluttering inside you does. It gave birth to my voice, which sounds corny, but it was almost as much of a miracle as my sweet baby boy.

So, what do I know about life? I am a woman of a certain age, and both of those count for a lot. However, it took a long time before I realized it would take more than a twitch of my nose to change anything, or to know there were a lot more shocking things going on in the world than a white family of hillbillies trying to make it in Hollywood. In spite of all that, or, perhaps, because of the privilege afforded me on the couch, I survived that upbringing and was able to begin untangling a few of my own emotional rubber band balls. But that doesn't mean I can or need to do that for you. Even if I could I wouldn’t because what do I know about what you need? Maybe not much more than Mister Ed. You may be much further down that path than I am or on a completely different one. But you know, or you will figure it out. That’s why the forgiveness poem I wrote that starts with “Never let anyone tell you how to forgive…” applies here so well. In addition to that, never let anyone tell you how or when to heal or grow. You decide. But how nice for us all to have some real good company along the way.

Let’s make it so.

Check out the poem, Advice to Travelers by Walker Gibson (see“about”page).

You can find me at “A Tiny Light” (My Facebook Page).