Three Characters in Search of Me

In recent months, I've spent a lot of time writing about change and about who I am becoming, both as a result of the blood and marrow transplant and meeting the emotional and spiritual challenges of grappling with Graft vs Host Disease, sudden changes in my condition, and learning to live one day at a time. Throughout those journals of my journey, I ponder and reflect upon that search.

I was put in mind of the three characters or faces of us all: The one we show others, our true character or face, and the one we believe is our true face. I wondered, if I am searching for the real me, which of these characters can help me in my search? It started out as a bit of fun, but brought me to a serious question: Should our three faces be in harmony with each other, and would that mean the face you see really be me?

Mick


Three Characters in Search of Me

Meticulously made, the mask you see,
It's pattern so familiar to my friends --
So difficult to tell where the mask ends,
And where begins the rest of the real me.
How can this character help me find me?

Beneath the public mask, my private face,
A visage carefully long set apart,
And dancing to the music of my heart,
Without concern for vanity or grace.
Can this character help me in my chase?

Behind them all, an aspect, I believe
Exists as one true face that plays no role,
The one that tells the story of my soul,
A face my soaring spirit would conceive.
What can this character help me retrieve?

I'm faced now with this trichotomy:
The countenances may be a disguise,
When viewed by a variety of eyes,
And yet if they were all in harmony --
Would not the face you see be the real me?

Mick McKellar
May 2011

Glances

Beginning with the gift of life from my brother Kevin, I began sharing my journey through the blood and marrow transplant process. A mailing list given over to sharing my poems, suddenly became a daily journal of challenges, victories, set backs, and lots of memories rushing in to fill the long hours spent waiting, praying, fighting, crying, and shivering against a burning rash. It was not an easy decision to share so much, both because the content could not be more personal and because I feared none would care about such a personal journey into the past, mixed with the daily challenges of the BMT process.

Imagine my surprise when my friends and family asked me to continue! I nearly ran and hid away in my erratic attic -- my dusty, musty mind. However, poking about in there has proven both useful and surprising for me, and sharing some of what I have found has helped clarify my responses to daily challenges and changes. Viewed through the new eyes of a soul that takes each new day as a gift from God, each new breath as a gift from my brother, and each moment as a treasure to be shared -- those bags of dusty old memories and those many mirrors in my mind demand I consider sharing them. This poem, my first in many long months, describes my decision to share.

Mick

Glances

I ran among the mirrors in my mind,
And fearing any inadvertent glance
Would touch my eye, or else that I should find,
Another presence watching me by chance,
So suddenly suspicious and afraid,
Blind panic robbed my reason and my wit;
Until by dusty bags of thoughts delayed,
I chose a smaller one and sat on it...

While sitting on the bag, as still as stone,
I calmed myself down, as I knew I must.
I'd always felt as though I were alone,
When shuffling among cobwebs and dust,
When peeking into mirrors old and new,
When sorting through my musty memories,
When seeking shadows, hoping for a view
Down into why they grow like a disease.

I pondered in the hazy, silent gloom,
What caused me both to startle, and to run
Around within my ancient storage room:
The feeling that a new change had begun!
It happened when I opened up a door,
And shared the contents of my dusty bags.
Then opening some windows, I shared more,
By dusting off my mirrors with old rags.

As I discover memories long sought,
And search among them with a focus small,
Assessing if the recollections caught
Within them should be shared with one and all;
Then having shared so many recently,
Among my family and many friends,
I'll share whatever cleans up decently --
And hope and pray the sharing never ends.

Mick McKellar
May 2011

Rain World

Funny how something as simple as rain can bring you out of yourself and refocus your view on the basic beauty of water in motion. I stared out my window at a gray. rainy, chilly afternoon and my first thought was: "Is the sky weeping for me?" Although I suppose one can be forgiven for some self-centeredness when ill, it really was a silly question. Then I remembered to remove my self-pity filters from my eye's lens, and focus on the beauty at hand.

Falling rain twists the world into fantastic shapes and changes the rhythm of everything it touches. It defies gravity and loves to dance on window panes. For a time, I simply stared, lost in the liquid grace of wind-driven rain, stepped out of time and away from my broken (but healing) self, to see and hear the wonder of an early spring rain.

Mick


Rain World

Is the sky weeping for death of winter,
Or is it weeping for me?
Must every gray slash of rainfall splinter,
Images I want to see?
Great gray gusts of rain-filled air twist and dance,
Lively on my window pane;
Then tiniest knife-edged rivulets prance,
Pirouette, and fall again.
Wind-driven sheets form to laugh and splatter,
Pixie drops that drip and splash,
Grandfather drops, with so much wet matter
They burst with a gasp and crash.
Past the glass, I see black tree limbs quiver,
Quicksilver in the wind's sway.
I swear I can see the tall trees shiver,
Wind-blown on a chilly day.
The road and sidewalks all shiny and wet,
Reflect each walker's quick tread.
The car and the truck lights shine bright, and yet
Streak and smear as past they sped.
Drowsy and silent I watched it unfurled,
Wind dance and liquid light.
My own whimsical, water-colored world --
Outside my window tonight.

Mick McKellar
March 2011

Rude Awakening

Asthma is a simple seven-letter word which seems almost impossible to define. I looked it up on ten different sites and they all varied on its source, its diagnosis, its symptoms, and its meaning: Is it all physical, or is it partially psychosomatic? Does the fear of the attack make the attack worse? Does it really feel like drowning? Is there pain? Yes.

A recent treatment left my lungs irritated and me coughing more than usual. During that treatment I experienced an asthma attack. For me, the worst times were waking up at night when an attack was already underway. It is truly a living a nightmare. My poem tonight attempts to describe one of many such nightmares from my asthma days. Dark and shocking, I believe it introduces the shock of waking in the dark, unable to breathe. Why it surfaced now, is anyone's guess, perhaps merely an echo of a warning in the dark...

Mick



Rude Awakening

Footfalls falling faster, right behind me,
I race on piercing the night with my fear.
Pivot right, as heel digs deeply, madly
Twisting and slapping as dark limbs draw near.
Airborne, a ravine opens at my feet,
My arms and legs propeller through the air,
Till thrashing body and forest floor meet.
Hands and feet grasp for purchase with despair,
And scrabbling upward, clawing root and stone,
With muscles screaming, back arched, and in pain,
I demand more from mortal blood and bone --
I leap the rim and blindly run again.
Into an alder thicket, dense I breach --
To hang suspended, air just out of reach.

Mick McKellar
March 2011

Not Yet

The Bible tells me all I must do is ask, and then, I will receive all that I need. I don't have to do an impossible task, and I don't have to accomplish an epic deed. No quest is necessary, merely a question or plea for a better world, a better life, a better me. As I pray through my list each night, and try to balance at least a few thank yous with all the pleading, I have to wonder if I truly follow up on my petitions, or try to listen for an answer other than: Did it happen, or did it not happen? Is it arrogance on my part to set the parameters for a response from the Almighty? Yup.

In recent months, the format of my prayers has changed from supplicant to Supplier of the Universe, to a child both telling happy and sad tales, and making requests of his Father. Sometimes, the answer is in my mind before I finish the plea, as I realize it is vain, or hurtful, or sublimely ridiculous (may I have the lottery numbers please?). Sometimes, especially when asking for guidance, a small voice, barely discernible unless I am truly listening, whispers a word or two of wisdom. Sometimes the power of prayer glows forth in blessings on those for whom I pray, and sometimes there is no glow. Mostly, I have learned to trust that an answer is coming, though it may not be the one I want, and that often as not, "No," means "Not yet."

Mick

Not Yet

My prayer list grows longer with each new day:
More questions and answers I want to know.
Though I feel better when I've had my say,
Tell me, what do I do, when God says, "No?"
He said He would always answer my questions,
Though it might take a while for me to know;
And I'm always filled with "good" suggestions,
Tell me, what do I do when God says, "No?"
Yet, I seldom ask for trivial things,
Money, possessions and things that I know
Would harm someone else from my requestings,
And yet, what do I do when God says, "No?"
I hold to one hope, for it's my best bet,
That His "No" may truly mean, "Not just yet."


Mick McKellar
March 2011

Extra Ordinary

How does one describe a life? Is it a movie or a map? Is it a huge pile of accumulated goods and treasures, or simply an enormous ball of string? Is it a book or a bank account? For many long years, I considered my life to be like a book, with one page following another...perhaps a loose-leaf binder, with high hopes that I could always buy more filler paper on which to write. I think the whole binder/book thing may be what lead me to writing a daily journal...a journal that no one would ever read, un-indexed, sans-cross-references, and little or no annotations.

However, recent events have given me a different perspective on life and how it should be described. I saw some very beautiful quilts that represented portions of a person's life -- perhaps a marriage or the birth and growth of a child. I thought, maybe my life is a quilt -- a crazy quilt of every design and color imaginable, to represent the fullness of a life, lived one day at a time -- each panel representing the violence or peace, sadness or happiness, anger or love, fear or solace in that day. Viewed from above one might take in the wholeness of a life, and yet see patterns that have dominated sections. In my own quilt, I want the fringe, the part yet to come to contain extra ordinary days, filled with warmth and sunshine, conversation and smiles, love and blessings.

Mick

Extra Ordinary

My life has grown into a massive quilt;
Stretched, a continental-sized mosaic.
Each day became a square from which it's built,
Designs from peculiar to prosaic.
Colors range from black to sunshine yellow,
But blues and deep browns tend to dominate.
Sections of the quilt are truly mellow,
And others clash and battle...filled with hate.
The areas of shadowed gray and brown,
Will often border plots of purest white.
With thread of gold each patch is tightly sown,
And silver buttons hold each junction tight.
As each new one is revealed, I chary,
Pray for patches extra ordinary.


Mick McKellar
March 2011

Ashes

We have all seen it -- the towering cloud of smoke and ash that signal a major fire. A garage, a house, an apartment building, a business, or even a beloved forest or field is in flames. Whenever the crimson beast is unleashed, people’s lives change. Occasionally, they even end. Anyone who has been close to an uncontrolled fire knows that feeling that the fire is alive, insatiable, and unpredictable. A night fire is the scariest, with the billowing cloud lit from below, all crimson and shadow.

Up in that cloud fly tiny bits of oxidized matter, remnants of the buildings, personal effects, and even the once alive victims of the red beast. Ashes, of course, are the last bits of any such material and signify the death of that entity or the loss of a cherished possession. When they fall to Earth, the ashes become part of the Earth again, often bringing additional life to the soil. If enough ash falls from fire, the ground below will be covered a uniform gray, perhaps an appropriate tribute to loss.

Not all ash is from tragedy, some bonfires simply celebrate light and warmth on a cold night. Some ash is but residue from risky human behavior.Whatever its source, just remember that ash is always a sign of change, and a reminder (to me) that all things must pass.

Mick

Ashes
Bits of ash soar high upon the night air,
Expatriates of flame and hell on Earth;
Oblivious of just when or just where
Their fragile existence was given birth.
Though few will observe their delicate dance,
Violently driven to heights aloft,
Aglow with the crimson light of their chance,
And are borne on the cool night currents soft.
Soon crimson trim becomes black or dark gray,
Ephemeral shadows upon dark sky,
Driven by hot dark winds up and away,
Seek the Earth and a peaceful place to lie.
Soundlessly falling, this black snow or rain,
Silently screams of someone’s loss and pain.

Mick McKellar
March 2011