Tuesday, March 3, 2020

sorrows lie hidden

Fergus and Me

Why do I need to come to the mountains by myself?
to sit by the creek in the dark,
and listen,
and follow whatever in me
needs to be thought, to be felt,
without people all around me 
to pull and push me hither and thither,

to let out the sorrows that underlie
all of the webs of connection I live with my life: 
the price of empathy,
the price of pulling back the curtain
and feeling what lies beneath,
what Yeats had Fergus feel,
as the Druid’s gift opened up more to deal with
than the human had strength to hold,

I love to do, to help, to connect,
to be true to my heart,
I need also to let go,
to shake off obligation,
to open myself to a world where I am as nothing,
a passive visitor where the emptiness 
of what the world needs from me
allows me to empty myself of obligation for a spell,
and meet myself anew, refreshed,
more able to feel invigorated than burdened,
by the challenges for which I seem to have been born.

by Henry H. Walker
March 1, ‘20

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