Maybe the end of it.

The concussion thing is finally running thin.  Physical therapy has me walking without wobbling, no mysterious pains in the chest and I think I can go back to sandwiches on rolls–no longer depending on the thinness of bread–and not experience jaw ache.  Periods of depression and anger are also back to pre-concussion frequency levels, and I’m not saying as many outright stupid things as during the last 6 weeks.  And, yes (sigh), I’m working and riding the bike.

Thanks to all who wrote in concern.  There is a “comments” tab at the end of this entry.  Should you want to comment and want it accessable to others beside me, feel free to use it.  So much of what I’ve received privately really deserved to be shared, but, as always, it’s your choice.

Here are some poems that appeared during the recovery period.

POST-CONCUSSION WRITING

Life so rich

so joyful,

pain and anger

sadness so deep:

why do I still

look for clues

in words?

* * *

Smooth and easy

this post-concussion world

Depression, my friend and teacher

wears a flowered summer dress

and smiles softly.

* * *

Why do I hurry?

Like spring or midnight or even death

I cannot be late.

* * *

This great time of healing continues

family, friends, work, the train

strange body, strange mind

even depression smells of love.

Yesterday the richness of rain

of work, friendship and strangers–

even a sandwich I’d never tasted before.

This morning my first ever drug dream.

* * *

Plastic teeth and lenses

metal stents and aches wherever,

too many memories to recall

and grandchildren!

Still old age avoids me.

* * *

Wherever I am

it’s me.

My curiosity

my discomfort

my lust

my peace

my foolishness

my anger

my taste in shirts

in music

in companions

my list of accomplishments

my list of regrets

my transience.

But sometimes

in my quiet

I disappear

Then (and only then)

I emerge.

* * *

When I take off my clothes

you see my body

When I drop my bullshit

you see my self.

Naked each night

I nestle in the arms of my beloved

No longer me

But us.

* * *

How do I escape this me

I’ve so carefully, completely constructed?

How do I free myself

from my very own (so real, so true)

beliefs, wants and fears?

This grace, this blessing

It only happens without my wish or my work

An instant beyond awareness

Known only in retrospect–

Otherwise it would-again-be just me.

* * *

In meditation (sometimes)

I give up being me (sort of,

for a minute, kind of)

to observe me.

Sometimes it works.

* * *

6/14/07



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Published in: on June 14, 2007 at 10:42 am  Leave a Comment  
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