Too much. My mind is full. My heart is full.
Too much, I can not pry words from the logjam.
I am four again, and overwhelmed
in a world I do not understand, full of angers
and loves and needs and sadnesses
that are not even mine, but bleed none the less.
Too much. But I am not four.
I am sixty plus years past my childhood.
and even if my heart is a child,
the rest of me is not. I have learned to stand
in the storm, to take a pry bar to the logs,
to write when there are no words, aware
I can become as overwhelmed by love
as anger. Aware everything passes
and when it does, I will be standing still.
Too much. I am grateful for age.
For resurrections. For patience and persistence.
For the people who loved me when I did not
and still do. I am grateful for the habits grown
in broken times. for rhythm and music
and bad dad dancing in the early morning.
For the knowledge finally that despite the way it feels
too much is not actually too much.
About this poem
The details don’t matter. We’ve all been here.
I’ve written before of my slowness in processing feelings. Sometime it is a blessing. Sometimes a curse. Like most things, we learn to work around them. I am lucky. Therapy helps. Faith helps. Love helps. And I’ve had heaping helpings of all three.
It will be alright. The ultimate lesson.