The Path ~ by Sherrie Robins ~

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 The Path

A Pondersome Poem

~ by Sherrie Robins ~

 

There is a path that I must choose,

Sometimes it isn’t win or lose,

A spider’s web I must walk through,

Shoulder’s back, I’m pressing to

Reach the other side of grief,

Of loss or sorrow,

Prolonged or brief.

A muddled brain

Wipe clean the slate,

I must press on,

Not hesitate.

Not always sure of right or wrong,

But love remaining true and strong,

It pulls us to where we belong,

Past sorrow’s downward gait.

I keep my eyes on forward prize,

Not warm distractions here,

Of comforts by the fireside,

Or giving in to fear.

No, I must choose for betterment,

For myself, and others too,

If I but keep my shoulder’s back,

I know I can press through.

And then, at darkest moments when,

I’m empty, can’t press forward then,

I look to you, my kindest friend,

To hold me, as you do.

For you know well of what you speak,

Of love’s great cost, and no retreat,

You know me well, Achilles’s heal

No stranger to your eyes.

It may not be of right or wrong,

But only love, it’s own sweet song,

That pulls me to where I belong,

The truth unveiled, my friend.

 

 

 

Hold On…

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Original artwork, Sherrie Robins

It was just another Tuesday.

Just another day to fall short of my goals. To fall into the negative patterned sometimes words in my head, vile and self-berating; an unfortunate family trait.

I plodded through the city streets, absently looking at the black zig-zagged patterns which had been sprayed on an old brick wall. Some would call it graffiti, I thought it looked more like dark side of the inner workings of my mind, and it repelled me.

You see, I wasn’t one of the uppers. One of the cream, who floated to the top. Someone, after-all, had to clean up after everyone else.

I worked at a hospital and among my tasks was to pick up the broken pieces, parts which had to be disposed of.  I carted them down the basement corridor to their final resting place; the incinerator. I wondered at the day when I might end up there, whole, and turned into ashes.

But something in me fought the ugly and the blackness that continually tried to snuff out anything good I had inside. There was a duality, which sometimes I cherished, and sometimes was just an irritation.

Though negativity threatened to douse the light, I held on tight and searched frantically at the end of the tunnel. A little voice inside my head just wouldn’t shut up. “Hold on!” For the life of me I couldn’t figure out where it had come from. My family was nothing but soot and sludge and mud on my boots. It hadn’t come from them.

My eyes had always seen the one flower struggling to grow on the side of the cliff. They had spied out the reflection of the sky in a broken window.

My ears had learned to hear a note and a song, above the traffic below on the city streets. Sirens would blare, horns would honk and the hum of brakes and motors would buzz on all night long. But I would hear that single voice or song as the car with the open window passed by.

Even though the smell of sulfur emanated from the factory and hovered over our neighborhood like a dark cloud, my nose would yearn for the bakery, remembering the incense of freshly baked bread.

All day, my hands touched the untouchable. Uncomfortable gloves closed off the air and made me itch. But they longed for the soft, blanket-like fur of my cat, who loved me more than I loved myself.

The air of my neighborhood was not fresh, but chemical laden. The hospital smelled of antiseptic and rot and all things foul. I couldn’t eat when I was at work. I brought a can of chocolate flavored artificial vitamins and plugged my nose and gulped, trying not to wretch. But oh, the food that awaited me when I came home! My neighbor lady, downstairs was always cooking up a storm. She was European and smelled of onions, and gardens, and foreign salty seas. Every night she had a container of food waiting and kindly handed it to me when I walked in the door.

“Hold on!” said the voice, through her homemade perogies.

“Hold on!” said my purring fluff of fur.

“Hold on!” said the bread and the sky’s reflection and the flower on the cliff.

Deep inside I knew that Spring followed winter and sun followed cloud. That the light of just one candle would break through the empty darkness of the long, long night.

And so I fought that darkness that was within, though hope despaired.

“Hold on!” cried the candle and the voice and the lives spared inside the corridors of antiseptic and pain.

And so, I did…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What do you see?

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What is it you see?

Is this an abstract painting? Or perhaps a photo? Maybe a mural or an up close fairy garden?

What it is to me, is a beginning.

It’s a place of my Father’s childhood. An image. A gorge. A hike, a family, a brother who played a tune by the fireside, along nighttime cliffs; his dog by his side.

It’s a beginning for a family once devastated by a tornado, putting down new roots in another community. It’s six of seven kids corralled by a tired Mom and an underpaid Dad. A place of adventure at the children’s doorsteps a nightmare and blessing both, for the Parents.

Here a brother, an Uncle I never met, danced with the fireflies, entertained fairy sparks and had an imagination which could have just as easily taken him to the -flung regions of the kingdom of Siam or the mysteries of China.

My Father, who had been warned not to venture down the cliffs, at his tender age, once went with the big boys, swimming in his briefs. He stuck them soaking wet into his pocket. Later, he came to realize  that His Mother must have figured out what he had done, while she was doing his laundry. But she never said a word. That was so like my Grandmother.

This was the same young man who was run over by a Model T at eighteen months, breaking a couple of ribs. The Doctor held him in his arms on the way to his office, thinking he wouldn’t make it in time. He did. Only to be run over again as a toddler while riding his tricycle underneath the belly of the beast, emerging with merely a few scratches.

So, forged out of devastation, missing an early departure, yearning for adventure, and hopeful in adversity; this man muscled his meager frame forward becoming a Pastor then partaking in entrepreneurship, via the media.

Yet this is my story.

But each of our stories thread into our predecessors and those who follow, not to mention those we meet along the way.

Mine followed a bulldog.

Not on his own. For that brother of his, the Peter Pan on the cliffs? He followed his dreams right into the foreign shores of WWII and a hero’s death on the battlefield. His Parents, my Grandparents touched my life personally during the years we lived together. Other family members, immediate and extended, each have stories of their own.

But this is where I came from. The cliffs of Elora, Ontario, Canada. No, not my home, but my Father’s.

And before? From the Scottish Ancestors. The Pennsylvania Dutch. New Jersey, (and ardent supporters of the American Revolution) and at the opposite end of the spectrum, a founding family of Hamilton, Ontario (who received a good verbal thrashing from George Washington for abandoning his army).

And my Mother’s side is a history of another kind. Equally enthralling. While many of my Father’s people were fleeing or supporting armies, my Mother’s were people of peace. People of the field. Mennonites. Emigrants of the Ukraine, Ellis Island, Kansas, eventually homesteading in Northern Alberta, required to farm uncooperative and stubborn gumbo mud.

Europe. The United States. Canada. The fighting Scots. Oliver Cromwell of England. Pacifists who believed Catherine the Great only to be let down by the Czar who followed and betrayed their good will…to have it happen again by good old Uncle Sam.

There are stories to tell. I may share some I remember of their stories passed down, or found through family member’s research. And I believe I will.

But most of my stories and poems are created in my imagination, heart and through a camera or paint brush. Emerging from ancient firesides and childhood parking lots. Watered by a Mother telling her little girl stories of the frozen prairies with her own worn childish doll from the olden days as a prop. “Tell me another, Mommy!”

So what do you see? Is it a painting or a memory? A photo or some dots of paint thrown on a canvas?

What is your story? Who are you? Are you aware of your emergence or do you feel your story began at birth?

Feel free to write a paragraph or two in the comments to share how you added up to yourself, at this point of your journey.

Whatever your story, I pray it will be ever upward, noble and brave. I pray your spirit will grow and develop into a canvas full of joy and love. And the story you pass on to those you meet send ripples of amazement and inspiration.

Be well my friends.

Sherrie

The Journey Begins

Creation is only a thought-beat away…

What a joy to have you come along with me on this journey… wherever it may take us. Where that is, I can’t say.

But we will walk together down the streets of Rome, by a quiet babbling stream, or stand next to the waters edge as the great Niagara plummets o’er the precipice.

We may find ourselves stepping along a babble of beauty or a bustling of perspective. It may be effervesced with spurts of words or photo-presented.

We will be sure to throw in a poem or a short story… or painting or travel path.

Spirit breathed from above and within, organic, adventuresome or merely a quiet thoughtful moment; these are the musings I hold before a blank palette.

Please feel free to share your own word-bursts in the comments…(life-giving, Spirit empowering, joy-filled, heart-felt. A non-controversial, safe-space as we dip our brushes into colors unknown, painting joy and mystery in a virtual space).

With peaceful expectations,
Sherrie