stagnation – saara

on patience and potential

Monarch butterfly. Image source: http://www.inquisitr.com/388618/southwest-airlines-flies-late-blooming-monarch-butterfly-to-texas/

Said the lover to the beloved, who was consumed by fear of stagnating, of not fulfilling her potential, of wasting her precious time in life:

Look around you!

The apple could not have been picked sooner. The cocoon could not have opened earlier. But neither is sitting still, doing nothing. Both need time to grow.

You are the apple of my eye

and the butterfly of my heart.

I cannot wait until you feel for yourself the wings you are going to grow,

and see how beautiful you are.

At times, we may come to feel trapped within the paths we once chose, or that were chosen for us. We may come to feel that we are idly allowing the mystery, beauty and potential life offers, to pass us by.

This piece takes some words of wisdom that we have all been fortunate to receive at some point in our lives, and adapts them into a brief story.

eulogy

when i think of her, i remember that:

my happiness, was her happiness

that she never wanted to stagnate,
but she tried not to control things too much

when inspiration came, she flowed with it,
and allowed it to flow into her

and when it didn’t appear,
she didn’t worry about chasing it

she tried her best to have faith in the little things,
and the big,

and to remember that her life,
was not the end.

How often do we think about how we want to be remembered once we are gone? What kind of people do we aspire to be, and who are we, when all is said and done? This is an unedited response to a “create your eulogy” exercise that I was fortunate enough to participate in, presented by a colleague and friend.

taking in small sips all the time

Oil lamps. Image source: http://www.ishafoundation.org/blog/lifestyle/this-holiday-season-bring-an-oil-lamp-into-your-home/

This piece was inspired after attending a musical performance.

taking in small sips all the time

most days we trudge along, faces sunken,
the light behind our eyes, unlit

and then what comes along on the wings of a sweet melody
but the calling of something with which to cure our extinguishment

we strap ourselves in for the ride

what a thing it is to simply sit and be taken
to a place that exists only once in a while

fully saturated however,
we take up where we left off,
heavy and hardened, in pain

we were so close to becoming beautiful
but we surpassed ourselves in our glut

there can be a such thing as too much
heaven, too much light;
the flame rapidly fuelled is quick to die away

to stay free we must bend and turn,
dust off our delicate soul-wings,
and sleep;
eat only a little of the light,
and drink what has been given,
taking in small sips all the time.

dissolving further all the time (2014)

Somewhere along Balmy Beach, Toronto, ON. © Saara Punjani 2013. — Somewhere along Balmy Beach, Toronto, ON.
© Saara Punjani 2013.

each time we turned
to rise above this illusion of the finite,
we were met with a ceiling – not yet, not yet

we made steady ablutions
and we kept a hopeful heart
and still, we were not crowned to go on

a kite without a string
would be blown every which way on the ground;

a kite with a string
rises high in finite direction

yet, without the string
we could not have come
as far as we already have

how far must we rise before the string can be cut;
before we are unbound from the direction of our path?

how far must we rise before we are taken into the skies,
mere specks, dissolving further all the time?

on this day, listen, to the quiet,
as clearly, some things are being said

whether we move,
upward,
inward,
outward or forward,
we cannot begin to say

the tides pull us away,
that we forget you;

the tides push us so far
that we fall right in

here we have always been, unmoving in the movement,
immersed in the truth of your most impressive signs

let us dig deeper, look farther, stay awake longer;
let us continue searching for you

let us be so obviously engrossed,
mere specks, dissolving further all the time

the crispness of this season (2014)

Autumn, somewhere near Mont-Tremblant, QC. © Asif Virani, 2014. — Autumn, somewhere near Mont-Tremblant, QC.
© Asif Virani, 2014.

the crispness of this season
asks to know both who we were
and who we are

the maple, the oak, watch over themselves with silent grace
as the leaves they laboured to produce,
and that kept them alive,
dry out and fall steadily away

what remains of our victories and defeats,
of our convictions and our epiphanies?

we have been able to keep nothing
material from our endeavours

who can say whether we leave the past
or if it leaves us;

whether we ourselves walked paths
or if they grew up beneath our feet?

we have had nothing
and nothing has been ours

and yet, we are not who we remember.

the colours of our progression (2014)

The colours of our progression, somewhere outside Montreal. © Saara Punjani 2014. — The colours of our progression, somewhere outside Montreal, QC. © Saara Punjani 2014.

they say time waits for no one

never has there been enough time
to cultivate a sense of fearlessness;

always too much time
to make idols of inspiration

we have remained too young
to say that we live our lives with any grace;
too old to say, this is the end of our allotment

after all the hands have been shaken,
all the pages turned, the bellies filled

after all the smiles are spent
and all the comforts acquired,

we sit by the window to watch the colours of our progression

some things live out their course
and pass on and away in the height of their glory

but some of us are always green

we wait our turn;
we wait, to turn,
to mature into our very own shade of sienna

they say, time waits for no one

but for some, it never comes at all

the time of our rose (2014)

the time of our rose has passed us,
and we become more bitter by the day

reach out your hand and pluck us, love;
remove us from the misery of these days

this is not our season;
this place is not our stage

linger though we might,
we are so much less dazzling
though we recall how beautiful
we’ve once been

the blossom that grew us
from the seed of our names
robed us in a quality,
innate

have we been asleep,
or have we been afraid
to let go, to move on,
come what may?

there is no telling
what we will be
the moment after the one
where we are

what fruit may we bear,
if we trust in ourselves,
if we let ourselves be,
who we are?

our bitterness weighs
on the very branch that nurtured us,
and we wilt and we droop in our pain

our poison spreads

we see it,
but we don’t stop it,
and that makes us very afraid.