Holding Mysteries

In my earliest days, I studied

like the joker in the watchtower:

there must be some way outta here,

too much confusion, I can’t get no relief.”

Piano scales soothed me, even at age four:

diligently creating music and order

in the chaos I called home.

I was the optimist

learning astrology, tarot,

gardening, cosmetology,

philosophy, nutrition,

childhood development,

trying to find a way to see things clearly,

to answer all the burning questions.

And every time I said, I know this,

I fell asleep, sucked back into the confusion.

Now in the second half of my life

— and yes, I fully expect to reach 100,

I study the questions that cannot be answered,

and the answers that cannot be questioned.

I don’t know you

and I can’t ever know you,

so surprise me and say anything.

I study now

the inner space, as wide

as the night sky deep

in primitive wilderness;

the wild genius;

the doors of the heart,

what makes them clang shut,


what makes them spring open.

I study the connections between us,

how I can tune into you,

into the angst of your long-dead great grandmother.

I study mysteries with no intention

of ever arriving at the dead

place of I know.

I look intently at pain

and dark places,

with a childlike wonder,

the joy of asking what is this,

and why?

Inspired by The Daily Word Prompt: study