a poem a day in the month of may
day 6: survival
Survival.
I am tempted to ask if survival
happens more in our bodies
or in our brains.
My mind tries to undersatnd
the world around me,
attempts to make sense of
what’s hurt and harmed me,
how I’ve hurt and harmed.
My body does much the same,
but survival is best earned
when I am totally out of my head
and into my heart, living.
Survival, at least for now,
is about sitting here
and staring at these flowers
on the table.
Survival is about
watching the dogs run in the yard,
eating a meal that nourishes me,
listening to an audio book,
taking a deep breath,
letting out the bad energy,
thanking God for everything,
whispering goodnight to Grandmother Moon,
drinking peach-flavored iced tea,
wearing a favorite robe in the morning,
getting off social media,
remembering the people who need me,
remembering that I need people.
Survival exists in the very mundane,
and actually, ironically enough,
prepares us for survival out there,
where the world meets us
and tells us we have to survive.
Lines on a page
Words on a screen
Paint on a brush
Yarn on a book
Hands in the earth
Headphones in my ears
Potatoes in the oven
Finches in the birdbath
Sunlight on the cottonwoods
—as necessary as air, as water, as love.
Survival
Sometimes survival is receiving a medical diagnosis
Navigating your way across the rivers of medical jargon and procedures
And emerging on the other side.
Sometimes survival is experiencing the death of a loved one
Plodding through the longest days and darkest nights
And learning how to live again.
And sometimes survival is lying down at night
At the end of an ordinary difficult day
And whispering to noone in particular
I’m still here.
Karri Temple Brackett
May 6, 2023