four

The other night I realized I had mistyped myself on the Enneagram. This, after I just linked to the “One” description in my previous blog post, indicating that I identified as such. This lead me to read this description, extensive, and written by scholars of the Enneagram Institute, and I could not see myself in it. Only a shadow of who I was trying to be or how I thought others saw me.

This is a poem I wrote about this process. It’s unclear, but I guess that’s a nod to this whole self-discovery thing… or whatever. Also because Type Fours are said to be the most complex number on the Enneagram. Go figure.

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Find this here.

 

“four”

 

I’ve been drinking copious amounts of coffee these days

I blame it on the peppermint taste

and the nights up late

laundry sits unfolded but clean

and I come up for air in between

between the kids’ naps and those loads and our arrivals and his departures and contacts on this reject-phone

I do, I do

I do see beauty in this mess

but I recognize my tendency to be

thoroughly drenched in tragedy

swinging back and forth, yes, in between again

in between the lines of these pages with a borrowed pen

but in between the delirious highs and the moody lows

there is a deep-seeded part of my heart that knows

I have been hiding from who I’ve always been

and pushing past and away from the people who knew me when

It’s easier and far more beautiful

to stand behind a well-written metaphor

but each time I hear a song I once knew by heart

my eyes fill with rain and I play my old part

the one listed in dusty playbills, burned cds, and poetry written on gum wrappers found in worn coat pockets in my childhood closet…

what is it? I can’t make out this role…

it’s my soul

I don’t chew gum anymore, or act on stage

but poetry cuts in deep during this “melancholic” rage

maybe I am hiding behind this extended metaphor

maybe my heart needs to break to be sure

this, here, this mess upon my sleeve is proof

of what I’m not sure, but it feels like truth

I’ve been drinking copious amounts of water these days

gulping down tears for fears (and the cure, and alkaline…)

I don’t believe I’ve ever really been one to pretend that I’m fine.

didn’t have time

I had words caught like flies

The fear, a web thick in my spider’s throat

My child brain fooling my age

that I’d have some time

–always another opportunity

to be.

But human frailty is an ugly thing

That I thought I could ignore it in icy indifference

(I am not capable of such)

You see,

this heart of mine is warm and dripping with emotion and un-numbed pain

It crashes over my frame in blood-waves,

guilty of still being here and alive…

While you, my friend, no longer are.

O’ how I regret as I never have before

Mortality has never felt so close

Not even at “mid-life”

and yet a crisis of a heart-wreck

a train of tears besmeared my gown

My daughter, like the maid, keeps straightening and primping

with Kleenex.

As if wiping away the evidence that I feel

would change the fact that your death

has stopped my inner world.

Outer keeps spinning.

Altogether.

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I never got to say a proper goodbye

On the phone, you rushed off to go use the bathroom.

The package you sent never came, but if it does, I will likely loose

it.

–cue Kleenex yet again–

Oh my dear,

Could I claim that I loved you “best of all”?

I wish I had loved you better.

I thought I had time.

I didn’t.