I shelved my insecurities

a poem about living

Photo by Eilis Garvey on Unsplash

I shelved my insecurities, by genre, then by height, so that I could peruse them in my absence. First the biographies, the stories of great men I’ll never become, the knowing smirks and the piercing eyes that judge me for what I am not. Then the travels, white sand beaches and gold spires that I’ll never walk upon, followed by the crafts and skills that don’t flow through my fingertips, great literature I haven’t written (some I haven’t even read), the great scientific theories — those beautiful ideas that inspired our modern lives that I haven’t discovered. Finally the great spiritual traditions that I don’t love, no matter how deeply I long to. I shelved them in order — to be admired, to be remembered, because they were me.

I opened the spigot and let the words come rushing out. An arm and an eye landed under God. Quasars got lost in the Taj Mahal. Anachronisms tottered again and again, perfectly synchronized with the ticking timepiece. A theory here, the Tao there, as I breathed in the rotting ruins of what I had built. I swirled in the chaos, picking at the pieces of my memory, of my pride, of my dreams.

I set down my spade and my trowel. The dreams, the words, the ghosts — those I couldn’t rebuild. They would return alone, dragged by the chained spirit of those insecurities. They would replace themselves, tallest to shortest, returning to great men and great places and great possibilities. Great stories. Great love. Even great loss. I thought of their return; (I thought of their triumphant marching). I willed it to be so, prayed my insecurities would return. Pray for me.

Today the thoughts let go of me, and the insecurities with them. I drop my shoulders and theories loosen their grip. My heartbeat slows, my voice softens, and the gold spires tarnish, then crumble, and return to ashes. I don’t will, don’t pray, don’t do anything. But in the nothing — I am.