>From: DMBlinn@aol.com
>To: WILLTHON@email.msn.com
>Subject: Re: request for poem
>Date: Mon, 1 May 2000 22:35:30 EDT
>
>Bill asked for a copy of this piece so here it is
>
>COMPASS POINTS
>
>I know how to cook with cookbooks and without cookbooks.
>I know the intricacies of folding pastry for dim sum and pasta.
>I know how to carry 20 lb of dry food on my back and cook at a campfire.
>I know how to perfume a sauce with wine and present it Cordon Bleu style.
>
>     I don't know. . . why it's so hard to live the life that calls 
>me--real,
>material, natural.
>     I don't know. . . why it's so hard to get grounded--solid, textured, 
>in
>the present.
>     I don't know if it's because I was born in concrete canyons where 
>speed
>and one-upmanship ruled,
>I don't know if it's because learning about things green took place only on
>margins and in cracks.
>
>I know how to listen to children's untold stories, to read feelings hidden 
>in
>their eyes.
>I know how to take them places where they can dunk their toes in water and
>follow tadpole splashes.
>I know how to build a volcano from clay, lemon juice and baking soda that
>they ask to do again and again. I know how to help them chase down far away
>answers and take time to dream dreams.
>
>     I don't know when I first became afraid--afraid of what the world 
>might
>take from me.
>     I don't know when I became afraid of whether I could make it--all 
>alone.
>     I don't know when I first became afraid--afraid of the judgments those 
>I
>loved might make.
>     I don't know when I became afraid that I had nothing of value to say 
>or
>give.
>
>I once knew how to use my fingers to weave and loom, embroider texture onto
>fabric.
>I once knew how to use my fingers to colors a picture, capture an essence
>with a line.
>I once knew how to move my fingers up and down keys till their sounds 
>echoed
>my feelings.
>I once knew how to touch another with gentle, listening fingers--hand that
>heal.
>
>     I don't know how I gave up warm, confusing creatures for cold, clear
>abstractions.
>     I don't know when presenting cogent arguments began to alienate me 
>from
>others.
>     I don't know why turning from teaching to being an administrator 
>robbed
>me of  my confidence.
>     I don't know when I stopped listening to my own heart, stopped hearing 
>my
>own voice.
>
>I know that I have been lost, disconnected from my internal compass.
>I know it hurts when I am told I am not thin enough or organized enough.
>I know it hurts when I am told my words, ideas are strange, intimidating.
>I know I do not want either praise nor criticism from others anymore.
>
>     I don't know in when I got lost, nor in what land I have been lost.
>     I don't know why it is so hard to live the life that calls 
>me--textured,
>detailed, present.
>I don't know how I will gain the courage to dream the dreams that are mine
>alone.
>I don't know how I will gain the strength to not care when others disagree.
>
>In some other life, I knew the secrets of the herbs, to cure and color as
>well as cook.
>In some other life, I knew the trees--their leaves, veined and lobed, their
>fruits, shelled and sweet.
>In some other life,  I heard what was whispered on the wind and was one 
>with
>it..
>In some other life I knew how to find the tune in which to echo back an
>answer.
>
>I know now, there is nothing wrong with my judgment that practice will not
>cure.
>I know now, it's a waste of time to focus on defending my own perimeter.
>I know now, I cannot reckon my boat by the stars of another.
>I know now, I have been given an opportunity to regain what I have lost.
>
>I do not yet know how to be in the world in this new way.
>I know what gifts I bring and who I am;  soul of poet,
>Wit of philosopher, heart of priestess, hands of healer
>Ancient spirit of deepest woods, soft woman from still waters.
>
>By Diane-Marie

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