Duality Times Two

I am one who dreams of morphing
into at least four of me:
One, the me who feathers my nest with memories;
feeds my family and friends laughter and love
and lots of soup.
Two, the me who watches Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy
with my lonely mother;
fries skillet-size corncakes for her
and slathers them with butter.
Three, the me who throws myself with vim and vigor
(probably more vim than vigor)
into political action—
marches, carries signs, maybe even gets arrested
with a dozen other grandmothers—
for peace, equal rights, and justice.
Four, the me who writes poems and stories,
letters and essays and songs,
and aspires to perform, to sing,
and (one of these days) to piece together a book
from my heaping scrap pile of strung together words.
I am one who strides forth with confidence (sometimes)
and good intentions (always),
giving as much of my one true self as I know how to give
to whomever or whatever calls my name
at any given moment.
My fantasy (duality times two) hovers near my left ear,
whispers affirmations, reminds me
of possibilities and limitations,
teaches me about balance:  the complementary strengths
of dark and light, male and female,
earth tones, sky tones, and the bare bones
of the one me that is wrapped up in the duality
of what it means to be a human being.

I Breathe and Pray

      I plant my feet on spongey soil between knobby roots of Grandmother Sycamore.  I plant my hands on spongey moss-covered bark. I breathe, breathe, breathe.

      I breathe my legs, my feet, my toes into forest floor—stretch, reach, burrow them down, down to the deep, vast aquafer below.  I breathe my body into the trunk of the tree, as thick and solid as twenty of me, my heart into throbbing heartwood, my blood into life-giving sap.

      I grow tall and call to the spirit of all living things as I breathe my arms, hands, and fingers into touching-sky branches.  Liquid sky.  Living sky.  I feel the blue as fragile and silky as butterfly wings between my fingertips.

      I breathe my prayers, my cares, my fears and tears, my carefree play and earthborn-sacred up through ice-cold-water-sucking toes to my sky-dipped, blue-tipped fingers.  I rest my forehead against moss and cry saltwater tears.

      My breathing, praying, singing draws all that I love and cherish—hummingbirds, human beings and humpbacked whales; ground-hugging violets and redwood giants; my red-blooded, blue-blooded, green-blooded family—up through my soles, in through my lips, down through my fingertips and into my soul.

Into my soul.
Out to the world.
Into my soul.
Out to the world.
I breathe and pray.
Breathe and pray.
Breathe and pray again.

Glenda Breeden for The Poplar Grove Muse