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Benediction

The whole World is sick in mind, body, spirit, and heart. Our heads ache, our insides churn, our chests pound, our lungs burn, and our b...

Wednesday, August 07, 2019

“and go ‘Round and ‘Round and ‘Round in the Circle Game.”


(with thanks to Joni Mitchell)


I feel as if my whole life has been a labyrinth leading into a maze; going back and forth from childhood to adult, innocence to reality, silliness to sophistication like a sailing ship on a peculiar tack.

One never knows when the next turn will come or what direction life will go; 
head the wrong way, and you might come to a wall, take the right path, and you might stumble. There will always be unexpected obstacles; starts, stops, bridges, or subways impeding your forward momentum.

We are all children, all ages; we go forth expecting joy, play, protection, security, and summer vacations full of long days under blue skies with the promise of frozen treats to come. No matter how old we grow, we react to the bell of the ice cream truck, the scent of roasting marshmallows, the feel of sun and wind in our hair.
We forget that we are older, with responsibilities, with creaks and groans in our joints instead of from the swing-set, squinting to read instead of from the sun, our skinned knees from tripping and falling down instead of falling off a bike.
One day we look at the night sky and wonder where the stars went; the constant twilight of neon signs and streetlights have stolen the constellations and shooting stars; there is no longer a meteor to wish upon, only the niggling fear that the rock will hit with deadly force.
One day we become aware that the trees under which we played, climbed upon, within its canopies, where we hid to read, or beneath where we collected acorns, leaves, and cones, have started to die turning yellow not from autumn but from climate change.
One day the buds and spring flowers enthral us with the hope of growth, but the next, we wake up to the news and the loss of another life; the ruin of a day of potential wonder.
I walk my path through the turns and switchbacks, focusing on the steps ahead while remembering those I’ve already trod. I use my remembrance of things past to colour my way forward; tingeing the memories like a hand-coloured photograph of my more naive thoughts, plans, and dreams.
I still have my dreams, but my plans have changed against my will. The winding circle of intention has turned into the prickly maze of adulthood, where each movable, blocked pathway was the means to an opportunity to reach my goals.
I am once more stuck in a clearing, with no map, but only a bench and my memories.

Ronda R. Scott-Marak
© 7 August 2019

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