Today's poem is for my young friend Liam. Liam is 19, in his first year of community college, a kindred spirit that I befriended at my neighborhood gym. It's not a traditional gym - it's the rec center of a private high school that also serves as a community gym. Many of us in the neighborhood walk or ride our bikes there to give our bodies some extra physical care - to walk around the indoor track, shoot hoops on the basketball court, play pickleball, or lift weights in the small weight room.
On this particular day, I was suffering, a one foot in front of the other day. It was a grueling season in my life and I was facing several alarming losses.
Exercise has been a constant in my life, something that soothes and enlivens my nervous system. So that night I went to the gym to move a bit and saw my friend Liam. He excitedly told me about the history class he'd just finished, and I smiled as his story leaked into my bones. Bit by bit, I began to feel better.
On the outside, some might say I was helping Liam by listening to him. But he was helping me.
Yesterday I saw Liam's mom and told her about the poem he'd inspired. I handed her a paper copy, dotted with the olive oil from the dinner I'd cooked. She unfolded the paper and read it, tears leaking out of the corners of her eyes. You nailed it, she said.
Let me introduce you to my friend Liam. I hope his story feeds you, too.
On A Day When You Don't Feel Enough
For Liam
Some say we save ourselves, others
say we save each other. Perhaps both
are true. This morning you woke,
swallowed by a familiar despair. Sharp
knives say there's no way out, a hollow
ache says I don't matter. Rage claws
inward and attacks yourself. But then
you meet your old friend, the young man
who comes to the gym with his mom. Light
pouring out of his eyes, he tells you about
the history class he finished, the B he got
on his last test. He smiles sheepishly and says,
I probably shouldn't say this, then gleefully
tells you about his final grade, a C+. He doesn't
want to brag but you feel his pride seeping out
of his skin, mixing with his sweat as he flexes
his ten pound bicep curls. You high five
each other, your hands joined in celebration,
and watch his light pour into your fingertips.
Later, when you tell him I had no doubt
you could do it you realize you're also talking
about yourself. You try and remember the last
time you felt his innocent pride, the last time
you whispered, I probably shouldn't say this,
but can I tell you about this amazing thing
I did? But you also know you carry his light
inside you now. You walk home four inches
taller, muscles of possibility stretched by
his pride, the glory in his miraculous C+. You
feel his strength, a living thing, breathing you
back into wholeness, and exhale a sigh.
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With a grateful heart, Karly