Blessed Affliction

author’s note:

When I found the above cartoon recently, I wondered why I’d made that drawing years ago.

So I wrote a poem and discovered why.


BLESSED AFFLICTION

She didn’t see the cause
of her problems
until she dreamt that dream

in which she tried to rise
but fell over sideways
and then watched her long blue wing
flap helplessly against the ground
in puffs of dust.

When she awoke
our heroine could then see
her invisible reality:

on one side
she had a wing instead of an arm.
And on the other, no wing, just the arm.

No wonder she kept falling
when she tried to ascend.
No wonder the boxes
she tried to lift
often fell to the ground.

Now she knew why
some people fall into the dust
time after time after time
and struggle so much
when they try to carry boxes.

With such folk she’s now found a home.

Under that roof
they gather to grieve their plight.
But also encourage themselves
by sharing stories
of afflicted individuals
who never stopped trying to fly—
who never stopped trying
to lift boxes.
And so they continued to grow
until they grew
not only another wing
but another arm too.

Those stories have shown our heroine
the blessing inherent in her affliction:

if she didn’t have that one wing
she wouldn’t feel such a strong desire to fly
and if she had two arms, instead of just one
she wouldn’t want to lift boxes so badly.

Driven to lift
and driven to fly
she may eventually earn
another wing and another arm
and then carry boxes while in flight.

mythsteps · blessed affliction

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The Better Bell

author’s note:

In memory of my father.  I hope he’s now hearing his better bell.


THE BETTER BELL

When I saw
that long red-gold braid of hair
dangling down the tower wall
I imagined a lovely lass
at the other end above.

But when I shouted up at her
she did not respond.

So I decided to climb
a few feet up
and give that tail of hair
a little tug—
maybe she’d wake up.

But oh, what a chore—
trying to hook my fingertips
and toes
into the spaces between the stones.

Then
when I finally came within reach of it
the tail jumped up a bit
and so I missed
and nearly slipped and fell.

Though my better sense then said “no”
I hoisted myself a few feet more.

But as soon as I got within reach again
again the rope jumped.

Continuing in this way
I struggled up the tower wall—
whenever I came close to the braid
it again mocked my wish
and shot up a few more notches.
Apparently the damsel meant to tantalize me—
she’d make me earn her love.

Halfway up
I knew I should stop
but now
I wanted what I wanted
simply because I’d failed to get it.

I’d been told as a child:
success is always within reach
as long as you keep trying.
And now I didn’t want to unbelieve
a belief I’d always found so encouraging.

So even though my hands began
to ache and bleed
I kept following that cord
until it slipped over the gray stone ledge
to the other side of the wall.

Then with relief
I hoisted my tired body
over to the other side
and landed a patio of slab rock.

In the center I saw
a massive bell
set in a heavy wooden frame.
Red sunset sunlight shimmered
across the golden brass.

But where was my ravishing beauty?

At first, I felt so disappointed
when I did not find her
at the end of the braid—
apparently, my heroic efforts
would go unrewarded.

But at least when I reached
the rope now waited for me

and when I pulled it tight
the pulley turned
and that big bell awoke—
a power sound boomed out—
the vibration tremored my body.

And when I let the rope go slack
again the heavy clapper landed on thick metal.
Again my frame rang.
Again

great waves of sound
spread over—all over—
the broad countryside below

to bustle the red-gold trees on the hills

and rustle sun-tipped wheat
on fields ready for harvest

while riffling the straw
on humble thatch-roof cottages.

To any frustrated wall-climber
who’s read this far
I offer this moral to my story
hoping I may ease their pain
with a higher truth:

though we pursue a foolish dream
and fail in our pursuit…

through our courageous efforts
we may pull ourselves up
and eventually arrive at a bell much better
than the one we thought we wanted
when we first started to climb.

mythsteps · the better bell

33 1/3 New Fables & Myths
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That Wise Woman on Guitar

author’s note:

I don’t have the ability to play music.  But I do have the ability to listen to music.


THAT WISE WOMAN ON GUITAR

On a twilight evening
in a foreign town
the fog crept in so thick
I could not see
where to point my feet
as I walked a deserted bridge.

So when I heard
a deep piercing melody
coming from a guitar
I decided I should follow
its thread through the gray drift—
maybe the player could direct me.

And soon I found
a small clear space
walled all around with cloud—
a sheltering bower
a sanctuary.

In the center, stood
a white-haired woman
in a burlap gown.
Her feet in sandals on cobblestone.

With eyes closed
she made those perfect notes
with fingers both gentle and strong.

Though I hated to interrupt
in my desperation, I said a clumsy:
“Hello, can you help me?”

Without opening her eyes
or pausing her playing
she then answered in a weathered voice:
Close your eyes and listen
and you will find your way.

The watchdog in me suspected a trick.
But I’m also a hopeful fool
and in my need
I ignored the protest of reason:
I shuttered my eyes
I stood still
I listened

and as doubt and impatience
slowly relaxed
I began to feel
all those soft confident sounds
move down into my depths

until they found
the higher spirit
hidden in the shadow.

I remained in that peace
for a timeless time
before the hunter in me said:
now, go forward.

So I opened my eyes.
And in an instant, the music ended.
The woman had vanished.
But hey—so had the fog.

Now whenever I feel lost
I close my eyes and listen
until once again I hear
that wise woman on guitar.

mythsteps · that wise woman on guitar

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The Mystery Lurking in Our Lake

author’s note:

I say: if you’ve seen a lake monster, you’ve seen a lake monster.


THE MYSTERY LURKING IN OUR LAKE

Late that night
I parked by the lake
and unwrapped the monster costume
I’d bought to frighten some friends
who’d set up camp nearby.

But when the police cruised by
I tossed the outfit behind my back.
And as soon as it hit the lake
that costume sank.

An incident I decided not to mention
when those reports came in
the following week:

One said
a creature from the deep
had terrorized a fisherman.

Apparently
my suit of rubbery scales
had gotten caught for a moment
on a hook intended for catfish.

The other claim came
from two recreational canoers.

After hearing a tapping
on the bottom of their boat
they looked down to find
a big green reptile face glaring up at them—
just a glimpse before it slipped
back into the depths.

Apparently
their paddles had stirred
the water just enough
to lift the costume up.

So why didn’t I expose
those errors of perception?

Apparently, I’m a small man
who likes to hold secrets
because he then feels superior.

Nonetheless, I’m glad I kept my mouth shut:

Now people who want to believe
in the incredible
can look out over this lake
and imagine mystery lurking
beneath its sleepy surface.

I must admit I envied them at first:
I wanted to feel the same sense of wonder.

But then one night
I glimpsed a peculiar creature
lurking under my reflection.
Now in the evening I sometimes
peer into the mirror
to see what else might emerge
from my sleepy surface.

mythsteps · The Mystery Lurking in Our Lake

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