Eventually, if we're truly lucky

By Mike Davis

Eventually,
If we’re truly lucky,
Our oft-repeated story about What Happens Next
Becomes boring, tiresome
Even to us.

We’ve come to feel like Being stuck in a pinball machine, A game called Broken Hopes
Hit by paddle after paddle
As if our pain
Might invoke the Machine to Care.

The losses,
The drama,
The illness,
What was wrong, How so little was right,
The constant state of pain,
The search for The Answer,
Or at least One Final,
Causal,
Explanation. That is our demand.
It is the price we demand
If we are to depart from the
Gates of Recrimination.

We live in a Desert.
No relief in sight,
Camped along an oasis,
Now dried and vacant. Surely, there’s a pill.
A surgery.
Some release from this story.

ANd, then, out of the Blue,
We see the truth
Our Off-told Story has no luster
in the first place. Still, piece by piece,
And for obvious reasons.
It became our plot,
Our story,
Our quest,
Our search.
We, being strung along.

Like a hym with only one refrain,
I can’t,
I tried that,
Yeah, I know about that,
You don’t understand.
I’m looking for the answer,
The real answer,
A pill for my Story.
But no one’s listening.
They can’t see me
And my story.
It’s a puzzle without answer.
There must be a different way.

Then, if we’re lucky,
At some unexpected time,
In some unexpected way,
Maybe while praying for release,
Or dragging ourselves to do
Some unwanted task,
This burden of the Undesirable Story
Sloughs away.
Maybe, in that moment,
We tire of it all.
We realize there will never be
The Magic Explanation.
There will - though - be some relief,
Seeing your pain and fragility,
As a defining part of you,
But not the Definition.

From that Desert Circle,
You will leave behind, A Monument to your pain,
Your sorrow, and your Grief.

There will be a touch.
It feels good. We’ve been seen without judgment, And, we been loved.
The Touch also burns with pain.
How long has my Oft-Told Story
And my search for the final Fix,
Held me in its paralysis?

How long have you waited for
A gentle coaxing
To come out and play
From someone who sees you
And respects when you’ve finished
For today?

These small things
Become a lifeline
Fragile and tender.
You hold them in moments,
Seconds,
Fearful they will break.
Sometimes, they do.
Will my brief moments of
Joy then diasppear?

But, the false promises of cures
That never arrive,
And start to dissolve.
You decide the False Hope,
Is No Hope at all.
It’s not enough.
The small moments,
The ones tinged with Blue,
And sun-dappled Golden hues,
And Greens.
Become the Momentous Moments.
These are enough.

Eventually,
If we’re truly lucky,
Our oft-repeated story about What Happens Next
Becomes boring, tiresome,
Even to us.
We settle into the vast beauty lying before us. What is possible When we release our white-knuckled grasp And step into what is possible When we’ve let go.

– Michael Davis (Note: I usually post my meditations right after I write them. This one comes from specific love for the people I’ve visited as a chaplain and known as friends. It also derives from my own life experiences. My hesitation related to my fear that reasders would feel their pain was minimized. I would never want to minimize your pain and your experience of it. We are all on a continual spectrum of change, growth, and acceptance.)