Mostly I am good.
Mostly I am good enough to savor the sun,
the tides, even the storms,
good enough to rail against the injustice
that hides at my oh so white doorstep,
good enough, even with a limp,
to stand up. To walk. To draw a bit
Mostly, I am good. The flesh and the spirit
are mostly healed. Scars visible but not
debilitating, no more than waystations
on a life lived, if not always well,
always the best I could with the wounds I bore.
Mostly, I am good. I have discovered grace
when I was at my worst. It has robbed me
of my tendency towards judgment.
It is wasted energy, judgment.
Knowing how little people know of my own journey,
I am aware
how little I know of theirs.
Sins and weakness are always forgivable
if we allow it.
I am still a little broken. I likely always will be.
I am a mess of healed and healing
hidden by a brightly colored shirt. I am
old enough that will likely always be the case.
I am accustomed to the broken places.
Mostly there are workarounds.
Always there is help when I am wise enough
to take it.
The broken pieces no longer define me.
They define the path I am on, a path
of overcoming just enough to find joy,
Mostly, I am good.
About this poem
It has been about nine months since my cancer surgery and people still ask me how I am doing. My answer is “Mostly, I am good.” But unbeknownst to them, I am generally being all philosophic and reflective when I answer, looking back through my life before I answer.
But no matter. The answer is the same.