“Of course, the light is blinding.
No one blames you for turning away.
At least nobody normal
Still gripping the edges of their countertops –
Or steering wheels
Bathroom door knobs.
Handles on kitchenware.
There are so many things a person can grab hold of –
And then forget to let go.
Each week, I spend my working hours
Asking people to soften
Their tightened fists and talon-like fingers
Around the things that keep them too busy, too distracted, sometimes too compulsive
To turn and face this fearsome, gorgeous Light.
But, of course, I am the same.
Lately, it’s a very gripping argument with my own image.
Wanting to find an acceptable version of myself in every corresponding community.
Channeling my own voice through a strangle of synthetic notes.
Sometimes clutching and coercing, other times polite –
There’s nothing creative in it, though
I’m undone by fear, and not by pride,
Neither dignity or manners.
My fear is such a driver,
Too many steps have been surrendered
Tangled up too long in things that have never worked.
And still, somehow, this new day and every other,
By some Grace; let’s call it that –
I find by noticing the dimming,
I am again looking toward that light.”