Cathy Lannae

ITS ABOUT TIME

So often,

things,

go on,

forever.

The dentist drilling on my tooth

Oh, will it EVER be over?

Blinding splats of rain

Can't I just DRIVE out of it?

Lightening popping all around me,

I 'm scared.

Will it ever stop?

The insomniac's endless darkness of night

Oh, if only the light would come.

An ice storm, the power is out

Oh, for the comfort of lights, and flushing,

the soothing sound of the furnace coming on.

Then, there's time.

Precious, sacred, fleeting.

Not enough.

Please stay, don't go.

I wanted to bake you a cake, I ran out of time.

I wanted to call you, I ran out of time.

I wanted to mop the floor, a short sweep will just have to do.

Beautiful music, I wish this piece would not end just yet.

I wanted to stay longer but I have to go.

I'm out of time. I'm out of time.

Cwl

2/10/04

THE DARKNESS

It’s 1:00 am. I went to bed quite tired. I have only slept 2 1/2 hours and I am now wide awake.

Awake in the tomb-like quiet of the night. Everyone else is sleeping peacefully. I am trying to be ever so quiet as to not disturb them. . . my husband and my grandchildren. I sit by the one small lamp in the parlor. My lap is loaded up with recipes, my vast collection in a loose-leaf binder, some clipped from the AJC, others from friends and relatives, and the instruction manual for my cell phone and a new historical novel I am wading through a chapter a night and a copy of Walden. Surely within all these pages something will dull me back to sleep, taking my mind off the slight pain of the tumor in my neck. I sip my green tea. It’s supposed to help, you know.

As I sit in this much loved room, filled with all my favorite things, I wonder about the others. Those before me and those with me now. Are they sitting alone in the semi darkness attempting to summon sleep? Searching to find a way to fill their minds with something other than their illness---their mortality. I wonder how many of us are sitting in the darkness, this very moment alone with only our thoughts. Wondering---just wondering. The stillness and the quiet permit all the scary thoughts to permeate our minds---the worries---the fears---the what-ifs. There is no one to encourage us back into the positive. We are alone with only our thoughts and the darkness.

How about a piece of candy, a cookie, even a piece of pie—Why not? I am sick---how many more pieces of great pie are left for me in my lifetime? Just one won’t hurt. But what would Oprah do? Really? And so I forgo the pie. The calories, you know. Perhaps I’ll find a great pie recipe in this heap of recipes, those carefully written, and then those on scraps of paper and the ones downloaded from the food network. Something I can try tomorrow. There’s pie crust in the freezer. I am good at baking. It’s fun—my creative outlet. Wouldn’t it be fun to share pie with the others---the others who are most likely wandering through this night, sharing this insomnia---wherever they are? Will we ever really know each other? Will we have an opportunity to compare our nocturnal habits? I wonder.

In a while, I‘ll crawl back in bed, a bit drowsier than now, cuddle up to my husband who doesn’t know I pulled myself from his tender caress to slip off into the parlor. Maybe some positive thoughts will have settled my mind. A new pie. Yes, that’s it. I’ll make it in the morning. I have all the ingredients on hand. Pie---that’s it. And then somehow I’ll find the others and share my pie with them. I wonder—the others--- how will I find them. I don’t know but seems like another way to fill a sleepless night. . .searching for the others. We need each other, you know.

11/11/05

cwl

THE DAWN

She awakened to a new dawn feeling more optimistic than in recent days.

The sun was peeking out from behind the clouds—the rain had softly slipped away.

The porch steps were covered with glistening puddles of water, but clearly the rain’s visit was over.

Today—a brand new day—full of promise—no more depression—so many possibilities and HOPE, yes, glorious HOPE.

Maybe she’ll talk with some friends—maybe go for a drive to the park—maybe take in a movie—something that at the end of this day will give her thought for reflection. A new experience.

These past few days have been too painful to contemplate—isolation—despondency—inability to concentrate or to accomplish anything.

She found it hard to understand—she, a usually resourceful and creative being. How had she just slipped so easily into this dank pool of quiet depression?

It always hovered somewhere above her, this depression did, but as she remembers its tormenting visit some many years ago, she fights to keep it at bay.

And on this lovely Saturday, once again, it is gone. It did not arrive on her door step often, but it was always puzzling when it did. She also knew that its visit would be brief. She would not permit it to stay long. Just long enough to remind her how rich is her life —so rich that this evil force will not be allowed to ruin her joyous existence.

And so—today—a day of thanksgiving—there is so such to consider. Let’s see—where will she start. Friends—they always wait—they are always there for her. Yes—dial up a friend—a great start!

And after that—who knows? It’s a new dawn, you know. She has escaped the evil force once again. She will be glad and rejoice.

2/4/06

cwl

THE BREATH

So telling, so life sustaining is the breath

and yet we often stop breathing in our haste.

In our anger, we huff and puff…

we barely acknowledge the life’s breath

and its sustaining value.

We excuse that we cannot take a long, full bodied breath,

Just don’t have the time, is it?

We ignore the value of those hearty lungs that keep us alive.

And then there comes the final day,

the day in which we watch moment to moment

as someone dear breathes life’s final breath,

softly gasping for that last breath.

And with each weak inhalation, we begin to hold our own breath,

watching in anticipation, praying,

so steadfastly, that the our beloved does not lose

in this precious battle for life,

all strung together by the sacred inhalation of breath.

9/2-/05

THE FIRST DAFFODILS

Each year

without fail

he brings them. .

the FIRST daffodils.

So yellow, so fresh, a symbol

of winter’s end,

of Spring, of hope, of renewal,

of sunshine and warm breezes.

Each year they come,

the FIRST daffodils,

in his hand, for me.

He picked them on the roadside,

a token of his sweet love,

for me.

2/14/04

cwl