Remaining Memories

Wisps of soft air bathed me melting any hint of moistness from my skin.  A cool delight overcame my senses in spite of sweltering heat that hovered in midair.  I lay on grandmother’s quilted masterpiece, a pallet of pleasure spread upon a grey, covered porch.  Awakening, I lifted my head from its prone snooze to gaze upon the source of this peace, the whirring delight of an oscillating fan. All was well within my toddler soul.

This is my earliest memory.  I long for others to awaken old neurons, renewing the uncomplicated pleasures of early childhood.  But they remain silent overwhelmed by reams of data and thrown away like unlabeled floppy disks.

I had basked in cool fantasies of childhood amidst the heat of a warring world. Free of its gaping wounds, I would remain cradled in a cocoon of silk.  A chrysalis shielded my innocence with massive walls and rock-strong ramparts. Now mere wisps of an aromatic childhood seep out only to quickly disappear in the polluted air of reality.  Yet I drool from the ephemeral savor of those that remain.


Why are the early years of our bountiful nurture rarely remembered?  The joy we brought with a moon shaped smile, the gaga sounds we screeched to everyone’s delight, the unabashed trust in our own lush Eden.  What galactic dark hole has sucked these light rays from our view and sound waves beyond our hearing?  Whose data bank crashed erasing our photos of joy, our sound clips of cheer?

Why are dark moments displayed in permanent view like footprints in the drying goop of cement?  Many of us have been there. The swing of an errant baseball bat to the harsh disapproval of a high-decibel coach, the laser-glares piercing a girl under-dressed for the prom, the disappointing look of a parent when a C appears on a tear drenched report card.  

Why do deep scars rarely heal?  How could schoolyard bullies give us names adopted for life?  Why may short stature leave us shy of the mark or obesity weigh down slim hopes?  What mountains remain unclimbed with insecure crampons, talents hidden beneath massive boulders, New Worlds undiscovered by incorrect maps, and seas uncharted by broken sails? Shattered hopes and spoiled dreams like a dance card unpunched, a motion tabled, molded bread in a nailed-shut cupboard.

Adulthood does not protect us from such travail.  Shattered dreams are giant threads in the tapestry of our loom.  Broken promises are not mere wisps of dark cloud made radiant by a rising sun. They often coalesce, overcasting our skies and hiding any radiant orb from warming our maturing soul. 

Yet there is hope even now-eternal hope.  Hang on.  For within you lies an ever-golden dream awaiting release from the chains that bind.  Break them and stand tall!       
GW Yeatman                                      

                                                                 
                                                 

This Mortal Soul

This Mortal Soul

Reflections on James 1:4-5  

What soul doth stir within this mortal frame,

 a weathered shell in which a child remains,

 who with abandon sprang to conquer every foe,

 with but a righteous cloak of self, to show

 with pomp and pride the gain which he did view  
 as that of toil and merit now come due?

Scant prayer for wisdom ere he began  
 to march the wide, worn trails of greedy man. 

Then laden ships of spoils succumbed

 to raging squalls that had become

 a tempest in the turmoiled tide,

 crushed by gales of stormy pride,  

 afloat except for saving grace 

 in tumult of a turmoiled place. 

Now calmed are once tormented seas.

Solemn stills once urgent pleas.

From placid shores flotillas embark

 on pacific routes from the Master's chart

I pray that God may always be,

 my compass on vast and troubled seas.

                                         GW Yeatman