I am supposed to write a poem for my therapy appointment tomorrow. I forgot the date of my appointment, and can’t remember the specific topic assigned for the poem, but I will try to write one. I guess I was really scattered that day.
On another topic, I have just picked up my “healing stone” again. I tried carrying it around in my pockets, and putting it on a chain, but it ended up nestled in my bra most of the time. Near my heart, I thought. It’s been in my dainties drawer for several months now, because I thought the nature of our relationship had run it’s course.
Silly me — It’s in my bra as I write. Things are rarely linear, right? It will assist my convalescing heart for many more cycles, I predict. If you want to read that first post about the stone, search for, “Powers of the Healing Stone.” As I wrote about a year ago, real or imagined, I’ll take any healing it generates, in any way it generates it.
The draft poem:
After 24 Years, Now.
Some of my hibernating ideas are
waking up. I tease a few
forward, but mess up their
implementation. Quite a lot. Now.
It’s very satisfying, however. So
satisfying, that the outcomes are
irrelevant. The relevance is in the
waking up and the acting out. Now.
I don’t drink Starbucks. I don’t
eat Chinese take out, or bagels, or
matzo brei. I don’t keep the cat
indoors, or even off the counter. Now.
I pick mushrooms for pizza. I keep
the heat down. I roam around all
weekend, and I’ve got more smiles. Sly
ones. Toothy ones. Devilish ones. Now.