[Warning: this is a long one, but well worth it, I believe!]
Today I’m sharing something I read on Facebook, written by John Roedel. What he wrote — especially the poem! — resonated on a very deep level for me. Memories of my own dark moments of despair surfaced, and I believe some healing happened through the powerful experience his writings invoked.
I’m sharing what he wrote in its entirety, then I’ll share more about my own experience tomorrow…
Recently, I woke up at 4 a.m. feeling crushed under the weight of my anxiety. Unpaid bills. Graying hair. Strained relationships. Health problems of a loved one. Struggling writing career. Relentless bouts of depression. Self-doubt. Anxiety. Regret.
It was all laying on my chest like a cannonball. I have never felt this type of despair before.
I crawled out of my bed and walked across the street to find a park bench to cry alone on. I didn’t want my family to see me like this. I didn’t want God to see me like this.
I was at the edge of all that I could handle.
I put my hands in my face and just let it all out. Everything I had been holding onto. All my grief. All my sorrow. All of my fear. All of my pain.
It all poured out of my eyes. I hadn’t cried like this in a decade. The guttural groaning coming from me probably scared a couple squirrels into believing a wolf had made its way into town to eat a fat-tailed rodent for a snack.
I cried and cried until the sun came up. With my face buried so deeply in my palms I could hear my thumping pulse against my cheek. I felt each tear squeeze their way through the gaps in my finger.
It was like I was melting right there on that park bench. I figured in a couple hours a jogger would have to jump over the middle-aged puddle of clothes and hair that I would soon become.
My inner muse whispered in my ear like she always does in these moments when I’m barely holding on.
She told me to “write something.”
That was her usual prescription for helping me through a panic attack like this.
“No,” I replied out loud.
The nearby squirrels looked ar me with concern in their pebble eyes as I argued with my invisible angels.
I didn’t want to put it all on paper -or in this case on my phone. I didn’t want to write about this unseen heartbreak I was going through. I didn’t want to read it. I just wanted to melt down into a drain. I was too tired to do anything else.
“Open your eyes, John,” my muse spoke softly.
“Why?”
“Because you’re about to miss it,” she said. I swear I could feel a pair of lips kiss my forehead.
I lifted my head. The sun was peeking. The darkness was the one that was melting away and I was still there – yet so was my anxiety.
“Miss what?” I asked.
My muse didn’t respond. She didn’t have to.
A lovely dragonfly was hovering about four feet away from me. She must have come to the bench to celebrate the coming day. We looked at each other. One of us was breaking and the other was honoring the breaking dawn.
“It’s all so beautiful,” my muse said through the sound of the dragonfly’s whisking wings.
“Yes, it is,” I admitted through my post-sob dry heaving.
The dragonfly danced for me. Up, down. Right. Left. It was just the two of us.
“Now…write…” my muse said.
I pulled out my phone and wrote this:
******
I wasn’t going to
write a poem today
then I worried that if I didn’t
that I might start to forget
how terrifying and beautiful
this whole experience is
I would love to quit writing
about the knots in my stomach
and the rivers of grace I often
find myself swimming naked in
but I think doing they would be
the first step in taking
the mystery of each of those
mystical riddles for granted
and I’d rather be mocked and made
to feel humiliated for my vulnerability
than to be bored
by the distinctive
music that the wings of
a dragonfly makes
when it joins the harmony
of the near-silent sobbing
I produce while sitting at a
park bench at sunup
the frequency of it’s outstretched wings
the tone of my sentimental tears
blend simultaneously to create
the song of sunrise
two unwitting poets
writing lyrics
together under the
crawling shadows of
first light
one writing with her furious
anisoptera form
the other with his trembling
hands
both poets unafraid
of remaining authentic
to the growing melody
that’s been playing
inside each of them
since they
first hatched
both poets unsure
that they will
survive this day
without being under
the boot of an enemy
we didn’t know we had
both poets
recognizing their fragile
role in the beautiful
play they have been
cast in
both poets
equally considered
grotesque or lovely
depending on which
set of eyes look upon
them
both poets taking
inventory and
writing their story
one blurry wing beat
and
one thirsty written line
at a time
a lemonade dragonfly hovering
a blueberry man considering
a pineapple horizon pouring
a pair of cracked coconut wings
a single fresh watermelon smile
a very sweet start
to a very new day
I wasn’t going to
write a poem today
but then I remembered
that I was already living
inside of one
~ john roedel
