Note: For a period of about a dozen years beginning in 1991, I took a dilettante’s run at poetry. Today, as I was going through some old files, I came upon a folder containing some of those orphan scratches. At my age, senility may not be too far away (if it hasn’t taken a nip at my brain cells already), so I was struck by the theme of the following piece penned in 2002, when maybe more of those cells were functioning.

For most of my life,
I worried about it,
I feared it,
I tried to control it,
I fought it,
I abused it.

I vexed in trepidation that it was
Not good enough,
Not big enough,
Not bright enough.

Sometimes, I used it too much,
Many times, I used it not nearly enough.
I lived in it,
I thrashed around in it,
I slept in it,
It never seemed to fit.

Then this morning, as though the sun had
Broken through a layer of ominous clouds,
I became
Grateful for my mind,
Grateful for where it has
Taken me,
Grateful for where it
May lead me.


One thought on “Mindful

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