Heart Happy (cathy_edgett) wrote,
Heart Happy

Anchor in the Breath!

This morning did not begin as one of my best.  I am worried the cough and cold will keep me from chemo, and delay this process I am decidedly sick of.  My eyes are red, so I am wearing my glasses, which keep fogging up as I rush around, and right, as I’m ready to call Jane, Mandu throws up under and behind my desk, past the vent, in a place that will be challenging to reach.  Grrrrr, I rumble to Jane.  I am not going to write “How do I love thee?  Let me count the ways.”   I am going to write, “How lousy can one person feel?  Let me count the ways.” 

Well, as soon as I began, I think of what would be really lousy, concentration camps, and prisoner of war camps, and how those people who did get through it, did, and I am certainly not comparing this to that, but I realized we always have the breath.  The breath is always there for us, as anchor, and mooring.   That reminded me of a poem I wrote five and a half years ago, when I sat by my mother’s bedside in intensive care.  I felt she was dying.  I place the poem here.

Reading that poem, took me to a time when I was thirteen, or fourteen, and my family, my mother, father, brother and I were boating and camping at the Salton Sea.  A storm came up, and we were blessed to survive, and I believe we knew it.  I felt no fear.  My dad and I loved the wind.  My mother and brother huddled underneath in the cabin of the boat.  I exulted in that day-night, as we rode the wind and the waves.  Perhaps, I see it differently now, and perhaps, not.  The anchor is always the breath, the wind, the spirit, breathing in and out.  The answer, the support is there.   I will “ride this out,” and I am well.  Now, if only, it weren’t so difficult to breathe.  I am definitely shoveling a load of snow, rocks, and dirt with each breath.  

(Emma, I have full contribution for your project now.  Let me know when you want a delivery.)


                             A Miniature Masterpiece



Today to eat a spinach leaf would be like eating an acreage –

                A lettuce leaf – a seven course meal –


                   Why ?


   Because I feel myself counting my mother’s breaths –

            Counting her last as she did my first,



                                                word –

       The preciousness of each one, flowing in and out –

                    The miracle I never really saw –


       I exult now in each and every one of her breaths,

                            as she did my first,

             And I do it over and over again,  caught

                             in the exquisite beauty of each One –


                    Crystalline flakes of snow

                              paint our lungs –

                              melt there –

                                       in a pool

                             of steps – forward and back – in and out –


                 We are caught on the breath of parents,  and children -

                                                          all children - 

                                        forward and back - in and out -


                                                                   Breath -


                                                           Handle,  with care -





Anchor in the Breath

So, just that, enough,
feeling the breath
in the tears.
Find the mooring ,
the anchor.
Years ago, we were in a storm in the
Salton Sea.
Even my father was worried.
We lifted the anchor and rode it out.
I think now of those words - cliché, really,
          “rode it out,”
like a stallion, dancing in the wind,
   until it was time to come in.
         The waves paused,
                 dropping us
                    like ducklings
                             on the shore
                                     to feed







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