Blog-Buddies, usually I wouldn’t do this to you regular readers. But today I came across a Christmas poem from ages ago, before I started blogging. This one was written about a zillion years ago, a.k.a. 2004.
Yet I’m going to make it live here, yes a second poem from me this year. (Still awaiting ones from the rest of you. And thanks for private emails appreciating my official Christmas Poem for this year, already posted.)
Around here, as with you perhaps, it’s a decorating, card-sending, winter-without-snow wonderland. Mostly I’m doing a lot of planning, dreaming, and hoping about the new year.
- Tinkering with the book I planned to publish, for sure, by January of 2015. Yes, 2015.
- Preparing new, improved versions of all existing workshops, plus planning The New One. Plus I’m sketching out teleseminars.
- Teaching my apprentices and RES professionals — this is very much on my mind, and I already have quite a surprise planned for our first Monthly RES Community Call of 2015.
- Householder Enlightenment is going to be a big theme for my Enlightenment Coaching in the new year, with more understanding about how this differs from what I’m now calling The Simplicity Model of Enlightenment.
- Clients continue to bring out the very best in me, with so much gentle co-creation happening in every session. For me there is wonder and surprise every time.
Anyway, it seems like an awfully busy time to brake for another poem. Especially one in my favorite meter, iambic pentameter. And one of the most personal things I’ve posted on this blog, ever.
Still, this forgotten poem stopped me in my tracks today. Here it is for you, just in case it is helpful to you.
Her Last Christmas Gift
Each year, Mother and I spoke less and less.
Distant, I sent all necessary gifts
and dutifully I visited each spring.
Until, once she moved on, I felt relief.
Her suffering would be done, her spirit free.
Since shes been gone, Ive come to know her more.
No haunting. It has been discoveries,
small thoughts of things she loved while still alive.
And here I thought that I had done with Mom
and she had finally taught me all she could.
Of all unlikely places to receive
another final blessing, would you guess
a parking lot? When rushed to get gifts sent
I tossed a bunch of new ones in the trunk,
prepared to go and finish my next chore,
when a new feeling flickered in my soul.
How Mom loved presents! What a fuss she made.
I hadnt been impressed since my teen years
at much that she had bought or cooked or said.
She had a deep-down goodness but such pain
I had to shut her out or not survive.
Besides, I thought things were unspiritual.
For years my path was stark simplicity.
I held contempt for things as if my God
were jealously demanding that I choose
Either its transient pleasures or its Me.
And now, after I hear that trunk slam shut
it makes no echo, yet I hear and feel
an opening within me. Fresh. As if,
for the first time since my disdainful teens,
and with my Mom beyond the reach of pain
(from her to me), now I could freely feel
how she picked out those presents. Every time,
delight was in her purchase, mixed with pride:
Shoppers delight in her gifts big or small,
even the ones she sent those last, poor years:
brown-paper wrapped, wool-tied, from the Dollar Store.
This was Sues greatest legacy to me:
wrapped secretly within each gift she bought
for birthdays, parties, anniversaries.
A new respect for things is born in me.
And starting now, both humbled and resolved,
Im going to give with wonder, like my Mom.