My Room

My writer's group was tasked with
writing about what each one didn't
want to change in the new year. I didn't
technically obey, but this is what I
came up with, and I think
they'll be okay with that.

I have changed so much,
arranged and rearranged
the furniture inside the room
of who I am, bought pillows
I don't like and paintings for
the walls I think are dreadful
and appalling, to accommodate
those who demand the seat
beside the window
so they catch the morning light,

the rocking chair that lets
them sink down like a warm embrace,
the couch because it's easier to
watch tv but leave behind their
crumbs for me to sweep. You see,
I've moved from here to there
and back again when others
felt it best to suit their whims,
not mine, because I wanted
to be helpful.
And I wanted to be kind.

I thought that it was right, somehow,
instead of just enabling them to
follow plans in which I'm just a part,
a tiny part, a speck of dust.
Adept at making these adjustments,
minor, major, sometimes laughable,
and sometimes sad so that the
people all around me were as comfy
as could be, but never satisfied,
nor grateful as I grunted,
working up a sweat around them
while they watched.

I want to be the plan itself, important,
cherished as a room inviting
someone special to come in.

So no more change, unless I choose.
The next time that I hang a picture,
buy a chair, put flowers there or
throw away an ugly heirloom, I won't
care what anybody thinks.
"You hate the rug?"
I'll shrug and tell them their own
room could use attention, leave
me to the space I've carved out for
myself in colors glorious, a windchime
singing from the window, fresh air
blowing, filling up my lungs at last.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2016

Philosophical Sunday

www.funnyjunk.com

I would
be understood
by one or two or maybe four
but it would be,
you see,
a challenging and futile chore
to try and change the minds
of all those kinds
of different thinkers, and what for?
Those who respect,
love, and connect
with me have little need of explanations
for my thoughts, while grudging
affirmations
from the lot
who never got
me in the first place will not likely be
forthcoming just because they don't agree
with who i am
or whose
or where
or when
or why.





(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

No Pattern

It isn't every day you learn
a new thing, get fresh insights
of yourself. Today
I did, the place unlikely for
epiphanies. A ladies' room,
tri-color tile the focal point,
and while I'm sitting there,
my eyes start searching for a pattern
where no pattern is, and I'm
thinking that I might go mad
if I had need to sit there long and
stare at tiles-without-meaning.
Why? What masochistic
tile man teases you
with almost-patterns:
one-three-two, one-three-one..one?
Don't all tile men know you
lay them out before
you spread cement,
design a pattern that is
pleasing to the eye?
But why do I assume
he did not do exactly that?
What's pleasing to one set
of eyes may not be pleasing
to the next, and I am just
a customer these wall tiles
were not laid to please.
A silly thing of no importance,
but I think I see a pattern
deeper down that's not a pretty
picture of my soul. How many
times do I resist or judge or
criticize because my eyes are
looking for what pleases me,
when mine are clearly not the
eyes that always matter.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Simple Question But

If you ask her how she's doing,

Ancient Greek vase

you can count on this: No,

really! Count it out, although

I wouldn't recommend you say

it where she'll hear you - that would

be a little crass. But silently, wait

one, two, three...

in seconds she'll stop telling you about

her life, her heart, and start to tell you how 

her husband is, the kids, and did I tell 

you what my grandson did last week

in school? At least for years it was that way

exclusively,  so wrapped up in

the lives of others that she almost

lost herself, but lately, she will catch herself,

and roll her eyes and grin, and maybe

make a face to show she knows what

she has done. 

"I'm great," she'll say, regardless

of the circumstances all around her,

and it's true. She is. She always was.

But now she knows it. 

And it took awhile

before she saw it, saw herself removed

from anyone or anything, just her,

just who she is. But she had help

(one almost always must have help).

"And how are you?"

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014