"Everything is temporary." This is a thought I cling to these days. I haven't written in several months. I write in my head, composing all types of essays about my life, and the emotions that rush through my veins and heart and make my fingertips tingle. Loss. That is what I have faced over and over and over and over this year. Loss. Just one loss. Followed by another. Not a greater loss. Just another one. A motorcycle crash. A suicide. And elderly woman's light finally fades out. My son leaves to go live with his dad. Then, a brutal beating, rape and murder of a 9 year old girl, who's older brother is my student. Some days my  heart feels like it is in a vice grip, twisting, turning, trying to escape the chest that contains it.  I listen to the same songs over and over again. Usher's "Numb." For a while, I think I"m listening to it because I like the  melody. After about the 7th viewing, I realize the images in the video reflect my year. Then, I hear myself singing the lyrics, and they touch a part of me that even I don't know exists. Numb. Is he telling me that I need to become numb to things that hurt me? The line about " I only trust in the things I feel, some may say that is strange. You better recognize what is real, because forever is a long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long time. Somethings never change, here we go again. Feel like I'm losing my mind, shake it off, let it go, I don't care anymore, just go numb." I have wanted to be numb. Then, I realized that part of me was numb. And I was glad, because that was what needed to happen. My evenings are long now. Interacting with one child instead of two or three, is not a change, it is an explosion of space. First I imploded. Everything I thought I was shifted. I'm not herding, or prodding, or coaching, or pushing or pulling, or stopping, or lifting like I used to. I can let my arms get weaker, that is what is supposed to happen now. The focus on the lens changed, I moved around to get clearer picture, but it stayed fuzzy. Parts of the picture are still out of focus, and I'm okay with a blurry picture right now.  The small part I see is this: Everything is important. I have recognized what is real, because now is forever, and forever is a long, long, long, long, long, long, long time.

What can I say?

I walk outside, the crisp air hits my face
the yellow leaves wave and some fall down
in a nice soft cascade
to cover the green carpet.

I sit in my cozy chair
But something pushes me up and out
and I end up walking back in the house

I love the fall, this air, the colors
Why am I inside?
I want to be outside
But I don't want to be outside.

It's such a beautiful day,
a beautiful moment
God's beauty all around me.
It fills me with hope and inspiration

But today, there is a GLARING
empty seat beside me.
I tell myself that I don't care anymore
That I am perfectly fine
living life as a single person.
I tell myself that
I am content this way.
And most of the time I am.

But today, I am not.
So I stay inside.

The quiet weekends

When my kids are gone.
I have to make myself shower.
It's like I'm in a dark, damp world
when my house is empty.
And I think my mind pushes me
to find that place in the physical world.
Water washes off that darkness
And then I feel like I've betrayed
my real self.


Single parenthood

Handmade Dolls

Hands Up-by Kathy T. Camp

Hands around my neck
I gasp for air.
My arms are free, but
I don’t seem to know how to use them.
I wave them up and down like
a baby bird, hoping to take flight
from the heavy stone tied to my ankles.

As I begin to growl in an attempt
to cry out, “I can’t breathe!”
Words on a wrinkled paper, written in bold black marker
hover in front of me,
suspended by an invisible energy.

“Hands up. Turn around.”
Two messages soak into my head
As my body begins to fall limp
in desperation, I throw my hands up
surrrendering all, and spin away from the
thing in front of me.

I take a step in the opposite direction
cool air floods into my lungs.
I begin to jog, then run
with my hands still in the air
as a runner does when taking a
victory lap after winning the race.

I have won, but I’m not at the end of the race
I have won the chance to start the race.
Full of life, full of air
I run, hair flowing behind me.

Birds of many types escort me.
I run towards the river and dive in.
Cool water covers me and washes
away years of grime and pain
and fear.
I emerge, spin around with
arms outstretched, reaching towards
the sun.
Smiling.

Maybe

“Maybe one day”, is too far away.

A certain answer, yes or no,

Is the remedy.

And if you can’t say yes,

Then the answer is no.

Maybe used to mean
A place of possibility

Then it soon turned into
‘just wait.’

Now 'maybe' is a no.

I will face it now.

Alone.

Standing with my hands in the air.

I will reach up to my God

Who will deliver me

From the pain

And anguish

Of losing something

That I never really had

After all.

The leaves floated by.

I grasped the air

For a crunchiness

To feel in my palms

Because at least it was feeling something.

I looked off in the distance

And saw the young trees

Believing that the tiny pieces that

Flew out of my hands

Would land on fertile soil

And would take root.

But I didn’t look close enough to

What was in my  hands.

The brown dried leaves

Contained no seeds.

And dead leaves produce nothing.

I thought I felt a seed in my palm

But maybe it was only a thorn

From the dried stem.

Or maybe it was a seed

But was barren on the inside

Full of air, nothing else

The dried leaves on the ground, though,

Aren’t for nothing

They cover the wet soil.

They will make darkness for someone

Else’s seeds.

I will still reach up, grasping for dried leaves

And I will rub them between my hands.

Next time, though, I will look carefully at what is

Laying in my palms

Before casting the leaves to the wind.

Because 'maybes' don't always have seeds.

It's Soft Colors

The wind blows the small flower
within my grasp
I reach out
Hold it softly
and touch the long, slender petals

I never noticed the tiny filaments
that cover the entire stem and petals.
If touched too harshly, they bend and break.
It is soft, so soft.
And I simply cradle it between two weak fingers
that planted the seed for this flower
years ago

I've watched it closely, maybe too closely
Stepping back, I can see that this flower
Is amongst a field of vibrant colors
Greens, blues, yellows, orange

I lay the flower down,
admiring its beauty
Understanding that it needs to
stay out in the sun
That it will get stronger
as it lives through rain, and wind, even
sleet and snow.
Keeping it in the shelter
Will not be living

Just as I have stepped off my front porch
to explore the high peaks and the valley below
The flowers must blossom where they are
and give beauty to the earth.