Open My Eyes – A Meditation

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Breathe in.     Slowly.

Trace it

to the core

of my spirit.

So tired.

Shadows

aren’t meant

to be sharp.

Why did I stop

gathering life’s

simple flowers,

closing my eyes

to their beauty,

letting them slip

through my hands

to the ground?

Flowers need sun

to shine.

What happened

to their joyful faces?

Something is keeping me

from singing,

from dancing,

the blossoms from following the light.

Breathe deep,

once more.

Breathing is seeing.

Breathe in.

Follow it

to the cradle of my soul

with its blanket of peace.

Start over.

Open my eyes,

let them see,

let them find.

Find the beginning.

The good that was lost.

Open my hands. Let them touch,

let them feel,

let them take hold

of the sunflower yellows

with their burnished and petaled heads.

Notice how they stand tall

in rows and untarnished rows,

tipping their bright faces,

waving their halos of sun.

Breathe in.

Breathe deep.

Close my eyes

to the walls,

to the dark,

to the past.

Not

to the light.

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Written by invitation for the 2011 Poetry Writing Program of the Touchstone (Litchfield, CT) residential treatment program serving girls between 12 and 18 who are committed to the Department of Children and Families. Photos and text by Mary O’Connor © 2011

Finding joy is an ongoing journey. Find out more about the steps along the way in my book, Life Is Full of Sweet Spots.

Bones of Memory

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In the beginning—time still untarnished

by tongues of friends telling tales

of unrequited passion and by knowledge

yet to be understood—pockets and purses

held the roots of recollection:

tickets torn to their stubs, clovers plucked

for their leaves of luck, valentines pasted

with tinseled love, prized dance cards,

dutifully, if not lovingly, signed by Curt,

by Joe and Jay, also by John,

catch of the class, and by Richard,

who wasn’t, but with whom I danced.

Frayed now, and fragmented, frosted

by the season of winter, still these scraps

survive, bones of yesterday.

Adding to them, I haul out my notebook,

my pad of yellow stickies, indelible marker,

preserving names of people just met,

conversations heard, things I must do,

before I forget.

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Poem and photo by Mary O’Connor © 2014

 

 

“In my garden there is a large place for sentiment.

Clamitia005 (2)“My garden of flowers is also my garden of thoughts and dreams. The thoughts grow as freely as the flowers, and the dreams are as beautiful.” — Abram L. Urban

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Photo credit: Jan Logozzo © 2014

“Success in life is founded upon attention to the small things…

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rather than to the large things; to the every day things nearest to us rather than to the things that are remote and uncommon.” — Booker T. Washington

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Handcrafted bead jewelry is found throughout Tanzanian towns and villages. Photo by Mary O’Connor © 2011