Used to be

on opening the self, more or less

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

Used to be that people
would ask me how I was doing
and I'd rattle off a list
of the books I was reading.

Always more than a few.
I had to crowd out my reality,
the mundane things
that nettled and vexed.

I had to crowd out
myself in all my awkwardness,
in all my sloppy affections
splashing every which way.

I also felt the need
to read myself into heaven.
If I could just find the right godbook,
I'll master this religion thing

and my soul will start
humming along, all pistons
and cylinders, working
like a charm.

My Sustaining Power
had different ideas.
I found Her in community,
in precisely those 

ordinary things
I had tried so hard to avoid.
I found Her in the wonky
efforts at something new.

And yes, reading sometimes
did help. As did writing.
I found Grace at the Bee Hive,
the workshop where Miriam presided

twice weekly for two years.
I found Grace in Joanne's story,
in Heidi's and in Carol's,
in Charlie's, in my own. I found

resilience and humour
amid the grim and cumbrous.
I was learning stuff that Latin School
was not equipped to teach me.

I stopped hiding the light.
I sent out poems.
That journal in Nebraska
and kindly Dr Wunderlich:

she'd always accept one poem
from every batch of six I sent.
And then I'd try other places.
Some yeses, some nos.

But I was getting stuff out there.
And in life, I was learning
to make space for people
in my judgy-grudgy heart

the way Dr W made space
for my verses in Plainsongs.
I was learning to listen
with an ear to the good,

without correcting, without
'splaining or clapping back.
The door wasn't wide open just yet,
but light was getting in.