Wednesday Night Musings

13 Jul

She is displaced. Not in her home by the field where the corn used to grow. Not in the yellow house. Not under the trees that were planted there, rooted there by her sons, long since moved away. Her husband, long since gone. Her sister, gone though not too long since. She grew there. She truly lived there. She mowed the lawns. Tended the cows. Taught thousands of children down the road at the school while living in her house. Held reunions. Cooked  Sunday chickens and pies and birthday cakes and holiday cookies. Watched her children’s children grow. She is displaced. In a home that doesn’t look like hers. Not filled with old knickknacks or dear things. Old books that smell like musty memories that were read by real readers a century ago. No plush green carpet. No farm town touches. No trash barrel in the back with trash to be burned or cereal boxes repurposed for something else since she still lives as if the Depression hadn’t gone away. She eats meals at specific times. Talks to people who don’t know her. Can’t watch her old TV from the couch in the den. Can only imagine the off-key piano played once a year when family comes. Can’t feed the stray cats that all come around. Can’t wonder about the neighbors or drive into town. Not for now at least. She gets better. She heals in a place where she has constant care. It’s not her place, but it is a place.


He is displaced. He never found the roots he wanted. He wanders, waiting for someone to notice. He has family. They worry and hope he comes back, but he doesn’t seem to stay very long. They don’t know him. He won’t let them. He is restless like drifting wood, floating down a lazy river. Stopping until he gets what he needs, then moves on to something bigger and better. Always some promise in the distance that will come with time. Is it real? Is it imagined? What would it be if he stayed for dinner? What would it be if he stopped running and told his version of the truth? Or let people in. When did it get so scary to let people in? Is his cloak so dark that he won’t allow them to see? He drifts, displaced.


I am displaced. My soul wrestles. My heart waits. I am like a gangly bodied teenager, looking fully grown but still growing. Will I learn to breathe where I am? Take the time to see? Notice the little truths and beauties around me? Will worry win the war or just the battle? My body out of sorts is coming back to being whole. My voice is healing. I would long to be alone to think. Sacred moments to myself. How do I steal away? How do I write what I know? It’s only so long until I return to the words. Always the words. They guide me, poke me, know how to dwell within me until they burst forth. I remember what it is like to question everything. Analyze it all to death. Giving people advice about life seems to be my specialty lately. And can I, from this displaced place, stop pretending I don’t have anything to say and just say it?


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