THE ORPHANAGE OF MY HEART
The orphanage of my heart holds many children, children of my past. They gaze at me, fixed in an attempt to draw me near their needs. I scurry, often my head down, eyes averted, not knowing how to offer comfort or consideration to these hapless souls. Fearing the largesse of the poverty, I decline to open my small purse. What could I tender other than a tease? Nearly barren in my heart-broken, disconsolate, inconsolable state, I rarely even obligate myself to extending my hand. This is the pit of my idiocy. These wee ones have the world of hope and strength to give. I am their offertory. I am the place where their gold resides. They live inside me to fill me and bind me to life and light. I flee them in the height of misunderstanding. Disconnected from these inner spirits, I am impoverished and far too weak to grasp their help. Too fogged to see the world within, I starve in the world without.
Incubate an idea.
What happens when you finally get what you want,
what you barely dared to dream?
What happens when you can hardly do more
than drip tears down from smiling eyes?
Where do you go with a future filled with proposed joy?
Heaven is an option if only you believed,
but hell has been such a perennial destination
it’s hard to realize there will be no return trip this year
or possibly ever again.
The work required to change
from an attitude of longing to one of satisfaction
is as real as all the work needed thus far.
Tending love is a host of disciplines
I want to step to, like I have done it all my life,
like I was born to do it
and I was,
Still growth is accompanied
by its own pain and awkwardness
and who am I to deny this treat.
Any new life worth living
is worth the pain to bear it.
You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault