“Wholeness.”

I was coming back from the poutine place this evening, when I had the following conversation (edited lightly for clarity)…

He: “You weren’t injured in the field, by any chance?”

I: “No.” Beat. “I have spastic cerebral palsy…”

He: “Oh, I totally understand! If I were 100%, I could help you.”

I *grinning*: “I don’t need your help, but thank you.”

A few minutes later, I sat down, listened to R.E.M., and wrote this.

—

Wholeness

My wounds are not from theatres of war,

From blood and shrapnel tearing through the night;

The pains I feel come from my ancient core,

From leftward limbs more stable than my right.

My back aches, and I feel the hollowness,

The aching gaps, that span my scoured soul.

My arm will twitch. Its spasms will confess

The tremors that sheer will cannot control…

And yet, in constant movement, I still live

To sing the song that’s sitting within me;

Sometimes, my weakness shames me, but I give

Stark, vivid proofs of great Eternity.

My lengthy, dusty mirror helps me see

That I am whole, even with holes in me.