There's been a change of plans, but for a very good reason. In my previous post, I mentioned I would speak to the point of why it's easier to remember the bad than the good. I will write about that, but I will do so next week. I tend to hold my plans with a gentle grasp rather than a death grip to keep me flexible and receptive to life's interventions.
In my ABOUT ME page I mention my journey through psychosomatic issues that recently culminated in the chief thoracic surgeon at an esteemed hospital telling me my thyroid needed to be removed. I took a different course of action, and my efforts have paid off! In the time since that diagnosis, I have plunged into understanding my habits and behaviors with a Somatic Experiencing Practitioner. I have worked with a Traditional Chinese Medicine practitioner and continued my insight meditation practices on weeklong, silent retreats and at home. I've made a commitment to stream-of-conscious journaling and have demanded that I actually write when a burst of creativity catches me off-guard. Last but certainly not least...I finally set out to achieve my dream of being a writer by carving out time to write the book that's been swirling around in my mind for several years. At the center of all my practices has been this commitment to nurturing my voice, my life.
I finished "A Subway Sprite" in the early hours of this morning. A handful of hours later, I received the results of my blood work. My doctor told me my thyroid is in great shape, and I can stop taking my medication. I will, of course, be retested in 3-4 months but to go from where I was to where I am has been quite the affirming adventure! I believe we each have an inner wisdom that glows within us all. I'd like to think it was she who guided my hand as I wrote the last stanza. I have a sneaking suspicion she already knew what the results would be.
A Subway Sprite
by Lauren Taub Cohen
The dank and dreary
subway station
offers a temporary
reprieve from the
rapacious wind.
A woman at the far end
of the station is stroking
her guitar and singing
unabashedly without
concern for perfection.
Her voice is trampled upon
by the oppressive roar
of express trains charging
and the stretched screech of
an uptown, local train
lugging itself into the station.
But still she sings
entirely unperturbed.
I’ve had nightmares
where my life depends
on my ability to
scream, “HELP!”
But I’m incapable of
screaming or murmuring
the slightest of sounds.
Terror bleeds from
inside out and
panic punches me awake.
I am seized by a gasp
and seared by a revelation -
I never knew my voice
was lost
until it was
too late.
The downtown, local train
drags it scraggly self
into the station and
I step into the crowded space.
The foul-tempered,
sliding doors slam
with an aggressive thump,
and the train lurches forward
into the motion of my day.
The haunting honesty
of her voice recedes
and a heartfelt prayer
is whispered into
my scarf’s reassuring hug –
“May this be the year
I find my voice
and claim my right
to be.”
