There is so much bad news. I’ve not commented on much of it because frankly I’ve been suffering from a case of can’t-stomach-it-head-in-sandness. I’ve been feeling a bit over-sensitive lately, I’m not totally sure why – overtired? Hormonal? Seasonally Affected (bloody Tassie winters)? Bad news burnout? All of the above?
I know – poor me, call the waaaambulance. First world problems.
I decided, when I teared up while watching The Bachelor last week, that it was time to pop my head out of the sand, smack it around a bit and start paying attention. I was hopeful it might snap me out of my precious phase via a great wallop of appreciation and gratitude for what I have (and the nasties I haven’t).
It has, it’s made me hug my children more, be in my moments and feel thankful. But my heart is still heavy and I feel that sort of grateful-lucky-guilt. By some random lottery I am here beside my warm fire with a cup of milo while others are scared or cold or lost of sick or wounded or hungry or dead. Or worse, full of hatred.
I will report my findings to you in the next few days but in the midst of it I felt compelled to write a melancholy little poem. Sorry to spread my mood, I am immersed in ebola and war and rioting. Tomorrow the sun will be shining and I will do something more useful about it all – in some ocean droppish way. But for now, I am compelled to write this:
I know where the socks go –
They’re in the fitted sheets.
I know where all the good men are –
They’re out checking the sheep.
I know how to hide veggies in the bolognaise
I know how to cut ribbon so it will never fray.
I know how it feels to wish
For something you can’t have,
A perfect nose, a Porsche, a first
Class seat, a Prada bag.
I know the pain of traffic jams when you are really late.
Or when you have a pimple, a cracked heel, an awkward date.
I know how it feels when your
Kids won’t eat their greens
Or when you shrink your cardie,
Dent cars or split your jeans.
I know how it is to hate your hair or bang your head,
And the total utter horror of a spider in your bed.
But I don’t know, I don’t know
What to do for you
I don’t know how to make you safe
And I cannot undo
The pain, the loss, the hatred,
Or how to stop the wars,
I only know these little things
That are no use at all.
Categories: Stories & Poems