Claustrophobia

A bee flies into the kitchen

buzzes frantically, panics,

thrashes against the glass;

outward display of fear

just like the one she

held inside herself for years.

She would berate herself,

pathetic weakness;

now her heart bleeds

compassion for them both.

She softly guides this

frightened soul towards freedom.

It’s okay to admit you’re scared.

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The “Bee”!!

Hi everyone,

I decided to post a photograph of myself as a bee at our recent Halloween party, one reason being for fun, as a few people have asked to see this “splendid” sight. But another reason is to lighten the mood a little after my last poem.

In order to manage this condition of MS, I often use practices which are Buddhist inspired. One such practice is to liken our emotions to the weather in its ever changing states, and simply allow ourselves to feel rather than fight the feelings, acknowledging that they are impermanent and will change.

I am a great follower of Thich Nhat Hanh, a Zen Buddhist monk, author, poet and peace activist. His book Peace Is Every Step has helped me enormously since my diagnosis, to come to terms with subsequent physical limitations and the accompanying roller coaster of emotions.

“Feelings come and go like clouds in a windy sky. Conscious breathing is my anchor.”

Thích Nhất Hạnh, Stepping into Freedom: Rules of Monastic Practice for Novices

Image

 

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

Wendy L. Macdonald

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