That Day

Very late August 118

The feeling you can’t explain
when everything seems just right
and nothing could be wrong,
even though you have a list
as long as your arm
of things you would want to change.

But not on that day
when the bee dived headlong
into an unknown depth,
stayed for unconscionable time,
then emerged intoxicated,
head to toe in smudges,
powdery white – hint of blush.

And when birds sang from the
very tops of swaying trees,
because praise calls out to be sung
from the highest point.
So where else would they go
to sing their own precious song

that filled me with so much joy
on a very special day,
special only because it simply was,
and made all the more precious
because I knew only too well that
like most things in this world
it was going to end,
not in a blaze of glory way
as is often the case,
but softly handing itself over
into a comforting, slowly darkening
in-between space.

Very late August 123

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Update and a poem – A Wheelchair Called Wilmer

I have just returned from a trip to Ireland; it has taken me over a year to do it.
Until now I simply haven’t had the emotional strength to accomplish it, as the
only way it was possible was with the aid of a wheelchair.
As I “grow into” managing chronic illness, I am re-learning the process of
acceptance with all its complexities. The biggest thing I have learned so far
is to have compassion for myself. The numerous hurdles will be cleared
when it is their time; I have ceased berating myself for taking “too long” to
accomplish the next thing. One of these next things is to actually own a
wheelchair rather than hire one. This may or may not happen soon.
I just need to keep chipping away at my part of the process.

The following poem was written in Ireland after my first long wheelchair “trek”.

A Wheelchair Called Wilmer

It was definitely on its last wheels,
heavily weighed down with ghost scars,
years of invisible struggles piled,
precarious, on an old sagging seat.
If I hadn’t been so heavily reliant,
I would have jumped off and
helped it into the lift.

Then a waitress on the ferry
knocked it as she passed.
It quivered like a frightened dog
and I felt sad.
A strange feeling of empathy
washed over me and I reached out
and touched it, gave it a name.
I told her not to fret and said
this time she could travel light.
There would be no scars left by me;
this was going to be a good trip.

Wendy L. Macdonald

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