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Mirroring

Mirroring

‘I love what you say as it mirrors closely my exact sentiments.’ he wrote.
‘p s why does he look so miserable?’ she wrote.
Both these comments are staying with me
Stirring the pot of my subconscious

I don’t know the writer of the first comment
He writes a blog I occasionally follow
I disagreed with something he wrote
He responded politely
Questioning a couple of words I’d used
Sadly
When I returned to the blog
He’d altered his response
Omitting any sense of question
His questioning helped me to understand
My words may have been better received
If I’d put more thought into them

His above comment
Part of a response to another
I sense is staying with me because
I feel the exact opposite
I ‘love what you say as it’
Challenges my preconceptions.

The second comment came from a friend
In response to a photo of one of my many bears
My friend and I discussed our reactions to
The bear with the very sad face
We found common ground
This bear is very special to me because
Sorrow is a normal part of life
Therefore there is a place
For sad faced Teddy Bears
They can be a valuable resource
To see our sorrow reflected
Can be comforting and validating

Mirror
Source of
Multifaceted
Reflections

Tricia 7/2013

20130730-175503.jpg

Something Different

I share the sorrowful moments because basically the purpose of this blog is to connect with those who grieve or struggle in some way, let them know they’re not alone. But sorrow and health issues are only a part of who I am. I’m lucky enough to have an aptitude for childlike joy, a susceptibility to silliness. The following is a glimpse into that area of my life. Also the new bed is ‘bloody marvellous’.

Guess Who Sleeps in My Bed?

I spoke to Big Ted about my new bed
“It’s paws up” he said then tilted his head
He smiled at me and I could tell
I was about to hear a Big Ted soft sell
“Don’t you think it would be fair
If the remote was shared with your favourite bear
We share the bed and lots of stuff
And bears get aches when times are tuff
It’s the massage button that appeals to me
I’d love to rumble and tumble ’till I go ‘squee’ “
He twisted and turned as he made his request
His cuteness impression a personal best
I picked him up and held him tight
Said if he was good then I just might
Allow him his rumble tumble play
On special occasions not every day
He snuggled in and whispered to me
“I’ll be the best bear you ever did see”

Tricia 6/2013

Fifty

FIFTY

 
Eccentricity has always appealed
Now at fifty I feel a freedom to be
Happy, sad, playful, joyful
All the things that are authentically me
I love teddy bears and yes I talk to them
They don’t answer me, which is just as well
There’s a line between eccentricity and neurosis
I’ve occasionally crossed it I’m not ashamed to tell
Over fifty years I have grown in wisdom
I don’t think I’ll be crossing that line again
Because I know myself and I like myself
I no longer feel any need to pretend
I walked down Chapel Street in a purple feather boa
Carrying my darling mate Ted E Bare
Some people smiled, others gave me a wide berth
But quite frankly I don’t care
What others think of me is no longer important
It’s how I see myself that brings me peace
I’m no stranger to sorrow and suffering
I walk side by side with grief
Yet within me lives a childlike joy
An appreciation for the beauty nature displays
By accepting and living each sensation that arises
I survive the sad and relish the joyful days
From this freedom to be who I am
Flows an acceptance for others to be
Authentically living in truth to themselves
We all have the right to be free
As I explore how I feel deep within
I find I love being fifty years old
I am who I am and that’s comfortably
Reubenesque, courageous and bold
Thoughtful, forthright, honest and open
Aware that I still have a lot to learn
I struggle with the concept of limitations
But I’ll get to that in its turn
Yes I’m fifty and slightly eccentric
Trying to contribute my bit to this world we all share
And ‘though fifty doesn’t look like twenty
My cupboard of beauty is far from bare
 
Tricia 12/2000
 
The above poem is almost 12 years old, but I’ve been having a wee debate with a journalist on the Huffington Post about women who play with dolls. This poem was my final retort.
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