the river is wide

my life is not what i had thought it might be...it is also everything i thought it would be...


how i was, in a rowboat in the midst of the ocean in a storm with one oar. waiting, muscles trembling, rowing and pulling, only to go around in circles, sloshing water being tossed around head hurts back aches nose runs
 
back and forth

back and forth

back and forth
 
i find my rhythm. eventually the back and forth becomes rocking. the steady, predictable, comforting rhythm of my life. eventually the other oar appears, (and not because someone crawled into the boat to help me row, to ease the work, to calm the storm, to ford the waves).
 
finding the rhythm myself has resulted in the spiritual equivalent of the blue walls which lull me to sleep. her breath in the next room. the wood creaking with neighbour's footsteps above me. the endless joy and complete satisfaction that the faces of the students give me. the gifts of the mundane. the dark 1912 wooden wainscotting that envelopes me at night, the perfect plum in the refrigerator, the words from a friend i sat beside in grade four. the tree that turns red from the outermost branches. the brief glitter far out on the ocean when a small wave captures the sun. i go to sleep content. wake up. content.
 
and yet
 
a friend hands me his wallet and keys to put into my handbag, gentle hand on the small of me back i am remembering are you o.k.?

details become gestures of intimacy. taking me to the place where the oh resides. cracking open the door that has been shut tight to keep the light out. i watch him carry my daughter to the car, small arms curled around his neck, sleepy on his shoulder, checks her seatbelt and i think
 
i'm only resting.