Tonight I feel like lint flicked from a pocket on the breeze, or like a piece sky blue ribbon caught in a snarl of twigs, or like a small field mouse, ears transparent and patterned with intricate veins betraying a tiny fluttering pulse, curled into a nest of fuzz and scraps of cloth beneath the woodpile logs. Unraveled, scattered, tired. My heart beating in my temples. Trying to learn what recuperating means, as I realize that instead of rest I've been holding everyone else together these past few days. Doing too much. Hard not to. I haven't learned yet how to protect my energy without being selfish. How to take care of myself without hoarding my time. Is there a way to balance this, as a mother and as an artist? The filament feels so flimsy between me and the world tonight.
Things to Think
Think in ways youâ€™ve never thought before. If the phone rings, think of it as carrying a message Larger than anything youâ€™ve ever heard, Vaster than a hundred lines of Yeats.
Think that someone may bring a bear to your door, Maybe wounded and deranged; or think that a moose Has risen out of the lake, and heâ€™s carrying on his antlers A child of your own whom youâ€™ve never seen.
When someone knocks on the door, think that heâ€™s about To give you something large: tell you youâ€™re forgiven, Or that itâ€™s not necessary to work all the time, or that itâ€™s Been decided that if you lie down no one will die.
From Morning Poems by Robert Bly (Â© 1998 Robert Bly)