is it what you know
or what they see
in street carnivals
on ferris wheels
the face-painted gypsy
pre-caffeinated sidelong glances
are they universal confections
pondering & kisses
sunlit skies over near misses
clarity loves authenticity
you are your own true identity
poet’s note: i wrote that poem several months ago after stumbling upon a fellow blogger’s site and reading one of her posts. the universal truths contained in her writing and the way that she presents them have inspired so much imagery in myself and others.
it became a regular necessity to write something after reading one of her pieces. i felt like she was filtering & reflecting back many of my own feelings through the journey of self-discovery i was on.
i am humbled and honored to be able to present, as a guest post today, the words she wrote that inspired the poem you see above.
I am Thinkingtoohard
The moments that truly connect us as humans seem fleeting, rare. But if you look closer, squint into the sun, a surprise could be waiting for you.
A chance meeting while running errands. Or the guy at the coffee shop, who never fails to give you a sidelong glance. Or something contrived, where you hope to run into someone else. Whatever it is, it penetrates your consciousness. (Hey, now.)
This man has the softest lips I’ve ever felt. Velvety, gentle. He wraps his arms around me and I am lifted off my feet. He’ll deny it, but it feels as though he’s drowning and I am the raft. I love a quiet desperation.
He’s beautiful. His intellect rivals my own. And he has the saddest eyes I’ve ever seen. I think we are made of the same stuff. Tonight, we are blades of grass, drying up in the sun. We’re waiting to be plucked by the little boy, put into his pocket and taken home. Before someone steps on us again.
Stephen Elliot said the problem isn’t being lovable, but being capable of love. I can’t disagree. I wonder how many decades it takes to let go of the chains. We think we’re trapped, but it’s really us holding too tight. All we have to do is let go, and we can’t – or don’t.
For once, I’m being a realist. I’m not ready for him. For anyone. I’m not yet self-sufficient. I promised myself that my husband would be the last man I ever relied on in this street carnival. And the promises we make to ourselves are the most sacred.
I’m pondering him – and a great, broken wish for self-reliance – walking through the parking lot with my youngest. I lean down and whisper, “I love it when you hold my hand. It makes me feel special.” He flashes a 7-year-old toothless grin and kisses my palm.
I smile at the sky. My heart is full. My identity no longer a secret.
by Rebecca T. Dickson aka @thinking2hard13