Soul Sunday

Good morning, dear friends and readers! My regular readers know that Sundays are devoted to poetry here at Adulting – Second Half. I either write a poem or I share a poem that has moved me, written by someone else. I consider this spot to be a little informal poetry workshop café. You have your coffee, I have mine. I share my poem, I hope that you feel comfortable to share yours in my Comments section. Poetry is rule-less, lawless, interesting and fun. I was feeling kind of quirky when I wrote the poem below. That’s what I like about poetry. It lets the moods flow, without explanations or apologies.

Longfellow Light

There was a little girl, who had a little curl

Right in the middle of her forehead,

And when she was good, she was very, very good

(Good to other people, they liked her being very good,

Very, very good at people pleasing, she was.)

And when she was bad, she was horrid.

(This is usually when she became completely fed-up with everyone else,

and their shit, and she then had a tendency to lose her own shit.

And by then, she was horrid. She became absolutely horrid.

Very horrid, really. Very horrid states it mildly.

Honestly, it wasn’t good for her, or for anyone else – it was just horrid.)

Then, one very fine day, the little girl got a brush,

And in a wee blink (and a lot of prayer and therapy),

She turned that little glossy curl,

That one little curl in the middle of her forehead,

Into her beautiful third eye, which was gorgeously

highlighted by very, very long, lovely, curly eyelashes.

And then, when the little girl was being very, very good,

she remembered to be good to herself, too. Very good.

And so when she was good, she was very, very good.

(Good to herself and good to others – very.)

And when she was bad,

She just had a little bit of fun.

And nobody got hurt.

In fact, it wasn’t all that horrid, at all.

And in the end, she just ended up just being,

very, very, very, very, very much

Herself.

Soul Sunday

Good morning, my beloved friends and readers. My regular readers know that Sundays are devoted to poetry here at Adulting – Second Half. Please write a poem today. I would love it if you would share your poem in my Comments section, but even if you just share it with yourself, you will feel such movement and release in your heart. Poetry is the song of the soul. Here is my poem for today:

The White Rose

I noticed you huddled on the shores.

We had anchored the boat and we were quietly floating,

So softly, it was like we had melted into the rhythm,

Of the steady wind and lapping waves and passing clouds.

He was fishing, my own thoughts were meandering,

As I sat silently and deliberately,

Watching all of you as an uninvited and un-noticed observer.

You embraced each other.

Some of you kept your heads hung,

Too heavy to lift,

From your hurting hearts.

Some of you seemed eager to leave,

Uncomfortable with the feelings, brimming in the moment.

Yet others were obviously lingering,

Feet solidly sunk into the slushy sand,

Not wanting to say good-bye.

After a while, the shore was emptied and slowly flowing to the boat,

Came a parade of beautiful, brightly colored roses.

Celebrations of a life, colorful collaborations,

Streaming easily on the surface of the lapping water.

I picked up a white rose that floated right next to the boat.

It felt uncomfortable, like perhaps a desecration.

But I wanted to feel the essence of, and to honor the soul,

That had so easily come my way, inviting me into the ceremony.

I thanked you for the love which you had so obviously,

Created and shared and multiplied, into this world.

You were clearly missed. You were totally loved.

Next, I slowly and deliberately, placed each white petal,

Back into the sea. One by one, by one, by one. . . .

Tears for a beautiful life that merged with the water,

And softly floated towards the light of the horizon.

Soul Sunday

Good morning, friends and readers. My regular readers know that I devote Sundays to poetry. I consider Sundays to be a poetry workshop of sorts. I share a poem that I have written or someone else has written, and I strongly encourage you to share your poems in my Comments section. On an aside, last night, during Halloween, we put our candy bowl out on a table, at the end of the driveway, but my husband and I sat up in chairs by our garage doors. We love to see the kids in costumes. I overheard one little boy say, “Wow, why are so many people giving out the big candy bars this year?” That warmed my heart. People are mostly kind-hearted, and we all want the best for each other. Most particularly, we want the best for our little children, the future of humanity. That collective desire for these children to grow up in a beautiful, thriving world is what makes me know that no matter what befalls us, we are all going to be okay. That collective desire and vision and hope for the future generations is an incredibly vital and strong force. It won’t be stopped. Here is my poem for today:

Just an Hour

Preparing and cooking an excellent, nourishing meal.

Giddily getting ready for a night out on the town.

A much anticipated episode of a favorite television show.

An invigorating, healing exercise class.

Staying in bed and sleeping in, with the comfort of pillows and peace.

A hopeful church service or a long, peaceful meditation.

A fun, relaxing lunch break from strenuous, meticulous work.

A long, luxurious massage and facial treatment.

A couple of chapters read in an excellent book.

A hearty walk with our beloved dogs, tiring everyone out.

A long phone call, catching each other up on our individual lives’ events.

All of these things take about an hour of time.

The gift of an extra hour in the day is magnificent.

It is truly striking what an hour of life can contain.

Do we realize it?

Soul Sunday

Hi friends. My regular readers know that Sunday is devoted to poetry. On Sundays, I write a poem or a share a poem written by another poet. I strongly encourage you to share your poems in my Comments section. I will never allow negative comments. I consider Sundays to be a safe, creative, full of release, poetry workshop here at Adulting – Second Half. Poetry is the song of the soul. Today I am sharing a poem written by Louise Glück, our a Pulitzer prize winning poet, who recently won the 2020 Nobel Prize for Literature. This poem is from her acclaimed book of poetry, AVERNO.

Soul Sunday

Good morning, my treasured readers. Regular readers know that I devote Sundays to poetry. I either write a poem or a share a poem written by someone else. Today’s poem has been written by me, this morning. I strongly encourage you to write a poem today (it’s cathartic) and if you would like, please share it in my Comments section. My blog is a safe and loving space, I assure you. Have a lovely Sunday.

The Turtle

Last night’s dream was so magical and intriguing.

It involved an ancient home which had been restored to greatness.

Most every room was purely white, marbled marble,

And you had to take a ride to view the house’s mysterious interiors,

Filled with towering towers and statuesque stairways,

But my favorite part of the ride is when I got to you,

the part which everyone seemed to know that I would love.

The whiteness stopped and there was a huge, golden, flowing pond.

And your enormous, moss covered shell rose to the surface.

It was breathtaking to see the largest turtle I have ever seen, anywhere.

I wasn’t afraid. I was in awe. You were incredible. You were shockingly amazing.

I don’t often remember my dreams, so this morning, it felt important

And necessary to understand your meaning to me,

The Dream Dictionary, told me this:

“Seeing a giant turtle, in your dream is a good sign, denoting that, you are protected by your friends and family and thus, no need to get worried about anything in life.”

“Thank you for the reminder, gorgeous turtle,” I whispered, with a sheepish smile.

“Thank yourself. Your dreams come from you.” you replied. “And so do I.”

And then, you plunged down to the deepest depths again,

Leaving the surface of my mind in a still and tranquil state,

As I began another day, assured and hopeful and loved and protected,

Knowing that my shell of loved ones, always keeps me safeguarded and secure.

Soul Sunday

Hi friends. As my regular readers know, Sundays are devoted to poetry here at Adulting – Second Half. On Sundays, I share a poem that I have written or someone else has written. Please share your poems in the Comments section. This is a sacred space for us to share the words which seep from the deepest corners of our hearts.

“Poetry is ordinary language raised to the Nth power. Poetry is boned with ideas, nerved and blooded with emotions, all held together by the delicate, tough skin of words.” — Paul Engle

Here is my poem that I wrote for today:

THE PURPOSE OF WELLS

Once there was a woman who was just walking along,

and she unexpectedly fell into a deep, dark, pitted well.

This had happened before in her journeys,

But somehow she always managed to forget

how scary, and dark, and lonely, and helpless she felt,

at the bottom of her cavernous well.

At first, she panicked. She screamed and she wailed,

and she tried angrily to claw her way out of the well,

but the clawing only gave her more injuries, and exhaustion,

And made her feel weaker than she already was.

More rocks and debris fell on to her, as she mightily struggled,

And the jagged stones opened ancient, unhealed wounds,

And these fresh, new gashes bled out all of her strength.

And she was filled with fear and despair.

She fell dejectedly to the bottom of her well and she whimpered.

It started raining. It was pouring and storming and bleak.

And those who love her, and those whom she loves and adores,

Called to her, from afar, from the top of the deep, deep well,

Promising to stay with her and to help her.

But, she intuitively understood that this rescue,

Would be something that mostly,

She would have to do for herself.

She also knew that some of her own deep loves,

Had fallen into their own deep wells, at the same time,

And she panicked and she flailed,

And she tried to gain control,

of everyone and of everything.

Mostly, she wanted to save all of those loved ones,

She wanted to pull them out of their own frightening wells,

Even more than she cared to escape her own lonely cell,

But there was really nothing she could do,

At the bottom of her own caged pit.

The woman stewed in fear, and in anxiety and in sadness and in despair.

But then . . . . when she got really quiet, she listened and she heard.

“Rest”, someone whispered, adding a hint of light into the darkness.

“Let’s just rest. Let’s just let it be.”

“Surrender. Trust. Let it go.”

And the woman felt the words swirling and beating into her heart,

The words were coming from someone sitting right next to her,

Someone peaceful and kind, holding the woman’s hand, assuredly.

It was her beautiful, serene, shining Guardian, adding light into the darkness.

“There is a purpose for your well.”

“There is a purpose for all wells,”

her Guardian soothed, and the glorious spirit held the frightened woman,

Enveloping her in soft, downy, yet mighty wings.

“Everyone else’s Guardians are with them right now, too.”

And she beckoned for the woman to look upwards.

And the woman looked up at the top of her well,

And she saw everyone whom she loved being held by their Guardians.

There was a beautiful, shining, overwhelmingly bounteous army of Guardians,

Surrounding and shielding and protecting everyone she loves,

Too many Guardians to count, forming a unified glorious light,

A light that was so luminous that it almost hurt the woman’s eyes to see it,

And then at that precise moment, the woman clearly understood,

That even people who had fallen into other deep, dark, isolating wells,

Were also being held and and were also being soothed,

And were also being loved into their own hallowed healing,

by their own sacred Guardians,

Hurting people were being held and nestled,

In their own cozy, safe, private holes of protection,

By their own fearless, loving Guardians,

Each Guardian carefully nestling their charges to wholeness, once again.

These Guardians had been assigned to their people by the Eternal One,

And then the woman realized in perfect awe, that the Guardians,

Had never left any of their people, ever at all.

And the woman relaxed into this peaceful, calming Knowing

And she slept. And she rested. And she trusted. And she let it all go.

And she healed.

And when the woman woke, after what felt like an eternity of sleep,

she felt light, and she felt energized and right before her

Stood a beautiful, solid, ornate stairway, that was easy for her to climb.

And she came back up from her deepest, darkest depths,

and she rubbed her eyes and she looked around,

and she remembered how utterly beautiful it is,

At the safe, solid landing at the everlasting top of the well.

Everything she felt and everything that she saw,

Seemed even more miraculously lovely than it ever had before.

And as she held her Guardian’s hand, she thought that perhaps,

this is what her Guardian meant.

Perhaps it is this renewal,

Perhaps it is this constant rebirth of hope,

Perhaps it is this process that happens,

in the hidden, wrapped cocoons before any crucial changes,

That is the entire purpose of falling into,

and then later, being able to climb out of,

the inky, dark, fearsome wells along our paths.

And then, stepping on to the beautiful, soft landing, at the the top of the well,

the woman took fresh, assured, confident steps forward,

Into the lightness of a beautiful, sun-filled day.

She was filled with a knowing that she is always, always surrounded and bathed,

In endless, bottomless, all encompassing Light and Love,

Even when she temporarily falls into the scattered, very deep wells,

and sometimes forgets about the eternal, impenetrable Beauty and Light,

The light which forms the everlasting well-spring,

Which nourishes and replenishes and heals every single soul,

The woman is reminded that the Light has never left her, nor will ever leave her,

Along the varied pathways and the thrilling adventures,

which make up the very essence of living one glorious human life.

We are not alone. We are never alone. We can walk in peace.

This I know.

Soul Sunday

Hi! Sending love to all of my readers and friends. For new readers, Sundays are devoted to poetry. On Sunday, I shared a poem which I have written, or a poem written by a poet that has moved me, often to my core. I ask you to share your poems in my Comments section. Poetry is the bared soul. Poetry is about as real as it gets, and that is why it typically pulls at our strings, even the strings we didn’t know that we have which are daintily and hungrily, hanging from our hearts.

Today’s poem is a rough one. It doesn’t necessarily go with my typical peaceful, glowy, hopeful-toned poems, which I typically post. This poem was not written by me. It was written by Charles Bukowski, who was known to write about the darker and edgier sides of life, in a “nothing left out”, raw, “say it like it is” style. Still, this poem deeply, and completely spoke to me. It took me most of my life to get to this point, which the speaker of the poem is talking about. It took me almost all of my life to lose all of the pretensions, and the suppositions, and the fears and the shames, and “the rules”, and “the shoulds” to just put it all out there. “I had to lose it all, to gain myself,” as the saying the goes.

Friends, whatever your passions are, whatever your craft is, whatever burns the way to the same found path in your life, no matter how much you try to veer from it, that is your purpose. It doesn’t have to mean anything, it doesn’t have to give you fame or attention or money, or even have to be understood by anybody else. That passion, that fire that just won’t be put out, was put inside of you for a reason, so honor it, follow it, and just do it. We don’t have the views that God has, but it is God/Universe/Spirit who is weaving and has already woven what is, and what will always be. The big picture of Love and Life is the beautiful woven tapestry which is already made and perfected, in all of its glory. The sparks which we have inside of each of us, which incline us to do and to be, are our own individual parts, in the shimmering, perfect creation. Don’t live a formula. Live that which bursts forth from you. Live for what resonates within you. Don’t question it. Don’t judge it. Just know it. That which bubbles inside of you, that which is just dying to get out into living motion, is your true essence. That is your real beauty. That is your gift, your spark, the much needed, and co-created addition to the perfect, eternal tapestry of Life. Do what you can do, to take off all of the covers and shades and boxes, and just let that light inside of you, shine, in all of its glory. You, and the world, will be blessed for your actions. And the true tapestry will be closer to being revealed. Remember, You Shine. (and that is an order)

so you want to be a writer?

Charles Bukowski – 1920-1994

if it doesn’t come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don’t do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it for money or
fame,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don’t do it.
if it’s hard work just thinking about doing it,
don’t do it.
if you’re trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.

if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you’re not ready.

don’t be like so many writers,
don’t be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don’t be dull and boring and
pretentious, don’t be consumed with self-
love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don’t add to that.
don’t do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don’t do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don’t do it.

when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.

Soul Sunday

Good morning. Welcome to Soul Sunday. Sundays are all about poetry here at Adulting-Second Half. Sometimes I write a poem and share it. Other times I share a poem by someone else that has moved me. I strongly encourage you to add your poems to my Comments section. Poetry is such a fluid, interesting, untethered use of words. Try it. You’ll like it. I found today’s poem as I was going through some piles of paper on my desk. It is a beautiful poem by the poet Ingrid Goff-Maidoff. Since our homes have been our keepers and our comforters throughout the pandemic, I thought that her words were particularly meaningful.

House Blessing by Ingrid Goff-Maidoff

This house is Love’s house.

It is a sanctuary, a garden,

a safe haven.

May it be delightful.

May it be a home that encourages

creativity and peace,

togetherness and private time.

May it be an environment

that celebrates life, untidy and ever flowing.

May simplicity be honored in this house,

valuing love above all else.

May daily chores and small moments

all be approached with reverence and with love.

Mistakes may be seen as lessons learned.

Kindness, forgiveness, laughter, joy,

and calm enthusiasm

will nourish all who enter through its doors.

May all who visit leave refreshed.

May all who live in this house

live in contentment and harmony,

dreaming many beautiful dreams,

rejoicing in the way things are.

Soul Sunday

Hi readers! Sunday is devoted to poetry here at Adulting – Second Half. I consider Sundays to be a word play workshop in which you just start writing the words and get delighted or confused or fascinated, by where they take you. Please add your poetry to my Comments section. Here is my poem for today:

Last Night’s Storm

Sometimes storms brew in the far distance,

Where they seem exciting and thrilling and intriguing.

They are a fireworks show, without the terror of proximity.

But other times, storms sit right over top of you,

In the ultimate power play, daring you to breathe normally.

Like a indignant bully, sitting hard on your chest.

Last night contained one of those hair’s breadth storms,

That had me seriously wondering about my fate.

Would I make it to see the bright, beautiful morning,

Or would my lover and I turn into small flecks of charred ruin?

Wrapped up in each other’s arms, shielding and comforting each other,

From the anger and rage which nature sometimes righteously inflicts.

Sometimes storms brew in the far distance,

But sometimes storms choose to confront you,

With their awe striking power, and random, “nothing personal” blows,

In order to shake you to your very core, just because they can.

Frenemy

I’m challenging myself to try new things, so I wrote a poem, using this writing prompt:

Writing Prompt
Write a 5-7-5 poem on any subject. The only rule is to follow the 5-7-5 syllable count (first line has five syllables, second line has seven, third line has five again).

Here is my 5-7-5 poem:

FRENEMY

I have a new friend.
She’s an unrelenting bitch.
Hypochondria.

Texting with my friends, it appears that Hypochondria’s friend circle has expanded quite a bit, lately. Why is she so tantalizing? Why do I spend so much time with Hypochondria? What really is the allure? She loves to create drama and fear. Hypochondria (let’s just call her Connie from here on out) loves to make something out of nothing, all of the time. She’s really in her prime right now. Connie has SO many followers, and her fan base keeps growing exponentially, every day, it seems. She’s always stirring the pot, and the media (mainstream and social) help her to do it. Every. Single. Day. The media is Connie’s flock of flying monkeys. The thing about Connie is that she tricks you into believing that worry is actually effective. Connie paralyzes a lot of other people, while in the meantime, she expends tons of her own energy, finding countless articles and websites and experts to make her worst case scenarios, seem utterly and entirely plausible, and on the brink of happening, all of the time. Connie sounds so awful and horrible and evil, when you take a step back, to see how she treats people, yet she’s really hard to let go, for so many of her intimate acquaintances. Why is that?

Others who have let go of Connie’s toxic hold over them, suggest these steps to get away from her:

Learning stress management and relaxation techniques
Avoiding online searches for the possible meanings behind your symptoms
Focusing on outside activities such as a hobby you enjoy or volunteer work you feel passionate about
Avoiding alcohol and recreational drugs, which can increase anxiety

Working to recognize that the physical signs you experience are not a symptom of something ominous, but are actually normal bodily sensations
Setting up a schedule for regular appointments with your primary care doctor to discuss your health concerns. Work with them to set a realistic limit on medical tests and specialist referrals. (The Center for Treatment for Anxiety and Mood Disorders)

In short, in order to get out of Connie’s evil clutches: breathe, take a walk, don’t go to her doctor – the infamous “Dr. Google”, find an all-encompassing interest or hobby, don’t go to a bar or brewery or break open a bottle of wine with Connie, remember that you know your own body better than anybody – certainly better than Connie knows it, and finally, go to a doctor who you can trust, a doctor who will help you to limit your exposure to Connie.

Connie is an emotional vampire. She zaps you of your strength and your practical reasoning skills. Connie does NOT deserve any of your time nor your energy. You need to protect yourself from Connie, during this difficult period in history. Do NOT succumb to her seduction. Connie will steal your time, and your peace and your sanity. She is the real enemy of your health (physical and mental) and of your immune system. It is time to say good-bye to Connie. Connie is toxic. She does not deserve any of our mind space nor attention. Connie’s a mean girl, and mean girls are not good friend material.

funny quotes about hypochondriac | hypochondriac. #medicalhumor ...