Our best medicine is our “original medicine:” the spark you came into this life with that is yours and yours alone. When you live from this soul-space, you thrive, even if the external circumstances are momentarily difficult.
My clients often want to know how to find this original soul-spark, how to know when it’s real.
Each of us knows, deep inside, who we are. But this sense of self can get buried beneath who we think we are supposed to be. Over a lifetime, some of us will have many manifestations of the same essential self.
Check out this poem I wrote fifteen years ago when I was teaching poetry to kids in Harlem. Can you see my essential self poking her head out?
Can you look back at your life and see the golden thread that runs from then ‘til now and into your bright future?
It might be subtle: my thread is made of mint and lavender, roses and writing and shooting stars.
Look for yours. I guarantee it’s there, just waiting to be rediscovered.
Behind my house the yard is cramped
with old foundations and crabgrass.
Laundry blows in the diesel fumes
and stray cats scatter kibble
amongst the mismatched bowls
on Mrs. Gringle’s porch.
I’ve learned to love small scale:
planted mint and lavender,
and trimmed the ancient rose
that used to own all ten
square feet of garden.
You came big
with fields and flowers and stretches of open sky.
Your fingers smelled of persimmons
and when you laughed
brooks drowned out the traffic noise
and the crisp smell of rain
the lingering scent of last week’s garbage.
I thought that I would know you at sixty…
thought those were the years it would take to explore those fields
and know their wild contours.
In far less time you were gone, slipping
between the morning asters, not understanding why
I chose to stay with laundry lines and pigeon shit.
I thought those fields were yours to take,
thought you’d roll them like a rug
and tuck the sky into your make-up case.
But as days and weeks have passed
I’ve been surprised to find
stretches of open field blowing
between the sheets and blouses
on the line, patches
of turquoise sky tangled
in the rose’s thorns, and
stashed beneath the crabgrass,
of shooting stars.