Prolonged Solitude

Jumping straight into the poetry, followed by a personal note.

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Prolonged Solitude

by Regan Smith

• • •

Prolonged Solitude is the only one
who has created such a space to where
my claustrophobic subconscious can 
finally take a deep breath, reach out and 
pen itself to paper. 

Prolonged Solitude has given me 
revelations and understandings of myself 
in ways I’ve never known before; 
she’s honest and kind and has 
kept me accountable. 

Her silent words have shown me 
myself in raw and uncomfortable ways; 
where I realize that I’ve been storing
shattered glass in my side–only 
now my eyes aren’t too busy to 
see it, my hands aren’t too busy to help, 
and where I can alleviate and heal. 

I’ve mistaken her before, long ago
when we weren’t well acquainted. 
I mistook her as an enemy–
and thought I responded with 
purposeful neglect, but when I numbed
her out, it was because I was screaming, 
trying to fill the void which would 
only leave me with a sore throat and 
a messy mind. I inaccurately 
attributed that character to her. 

For while she’s a quiet friend–
one who says few words–
those few words are pure wisdom, 
always bringing me back to myself, 
to still my self, to slow my thoughts; 
and for that, I thank you, 
Prolonged Solitude. 

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While I still work during the week remotely and spend a lot of time with Ricky, this pandemic has brought on a great deal of solitude, as I’m sure many others are experiencing. As an introvert, I adore being alone–I truly get so much energy out of it. But there’s a point to where I exceed my introversion tanks and start retreating inward. I go deep, deep into my thoughts and truly get lost. I start to lose touch with reality for I’ve ventured so deeply into this secret land that only I can see. I begin to take every thought with a thousand tons of gravity, chasing it back to origin, and can’t find my way back. It’s such an interesting concept to share but truly I become so distracted with my thoughts that I have a difficult time focusing on really anything. I start feeling anxious since I don’t feel grounded.

To counteract, I’ve been spending more time in meditation and prayer, writing and setting myself a structured schedule to continue to write and create. This has been a true blessing these past few weeks. 

During these efforts, I partook in a guided writing exercise to help bring forth my subconscious to paper. To simply see it and allow more clarity in my mind. The activity was to write a letter to someone. I chose to write a letter to my present-day self. To be even more vulnerable, I found that through this exercise, I have been harboring hate subconsciously against myself. The letter was so incredibly encouraging and uplifting–speaking against the inadequacy that I had felt. 

I didn’t realize until after the ink dried that I had been in an ongoing struggle with feeling inadequate, a slave to growth, an imposter to all. 

While I can’t control this terrible circumstance that we’re all in, I’m so incredibly thankful for this season of solitude. I’m not sure how much longer I would have gone before I recognized the hurt that I was holding. I don’t have many answers to this, but I know what the truth says about me. 

I know that I am empowered, and out of the abundance of that is my growth. 
I know that I am strong, and out of the abundance of that is the encouragement I give. 
I know that I am fully loved, and out of the abundance of that I’m able to love others. 
I know that I am on the right track, for when I’m not, I’m always guided back.

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Empty Spaces

In this guest post, Edward brings us a short prose piece relating to the current social climate. Take a read, take care, and know that we’ll be together again soon. Thank you, Edward, for sharing these beautiful words.

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Empty Spaces

by Edward Ahern

• • •

We define ourselves by the spaces we fill, by our closeness, one to another, to another. The surging floods of faces and bodies reassure us that we’re a snugly fitting part of a larger whole. When our outsides are vacated and we’re boxed away or hidden behind masks, we can’t help but worry.

We’re pack animals with strong loves for group and territory. When both are withheld, we suffer from social vertigo. And worry, not just about today, but tomorrow as well. How will friendship and work companionship be deformed, or worse go missing? Can we return to touching shoulders with strangers in stadiums? Can we still find someone special when the social places, shuttered now, may be changed to dancing six feet apart?

The empty parking lots we drive by on our way to buy food and medicine mean gapingly empty parts of our lives. Can we begin to recover that?

We shouldn’t have to measure closeness with caution, but will for some time to come. And then eventually, as we create tolerance of a new disease, we’ll resume old ways. And the empty spaces will be filled by our needed sense of place, of closeness, one to another, to another.

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Ed Ahern resumed writing after forty odd years in foreign intelligence and international sales. He’s had over two hundred fifty stories and poems published so far, and six books. Ed works the other side of writing at Bewildering Stories, where he sits on the review board and manages a posse of six review editors.

Strong Woman

This is the last poem of the Sister Series, the series of celebrating individual women and sharing their beauty through poetry. After I started writing poems, I felt a draw to write a collective poem for the women in my life. This poem is Strong Woman–for even though I may not know you, this poem was also written about you.

I drew some women that are especially prominent in this season of my life, while there are also many others not pictured. I hope that you enjoyed this series, and felt closer to the women that are within your life. Send them a note, a string of text, or a physical embrace.

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Strong Woman

by Regan Smith

• • •

I admire how she boldly 
explores the mysteries, 
extending herself into the unknown 
taking on an endeavor to learn, 
forever a student. 

I see how she takes the circumstances 
of stone and spins them to gold; 
this treasure of wisdom and truth
is not held with clenched hands–oh 
how she shares her wealth of wisdom with joy. 
I know, because I’ve been on the receiving 
end of her great generosity. 

With these same unclenched hands, 
she pulls handfuls of hope directly from the heavens–
her intentionality surpassing this realm.

Not a day goes by where her 
presence is not felt; for her impact is
breathed in and out, and recycled again– 
giving strength and life to brittle lungs; 
caring for even the trees, she’s always
morphing and shaping to meet the needs of 
of others, of herself. 

She is the night bird, singing praises 
of the day’s promise, even when it’s still dark, 
sharing words of joy through her tongue, her pen, her song. 

For she knows, that to be meek and gentle 
is to be strong and courageous.

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Rachel W.

I have the honor of knowing several Rachels, all unique in different ways. Rachel W. is no exception–and I’m thrilled to share this poem with you. This poem that’s a part of the Sister Series, a series of celebrating individual women and sharing their beauty through poetry.

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Rachel W.

by Regan Smith

• • •

The earth laughs in flowers, 
a sweet script of poetry 
Ralph Waldo Emerson once wrote. 

If the earth laughs in flowers, 
then she must surely be the 
heavens smiling; created with the 
colored lens of joy, kindness; 
a great gift to the earth. 

And with her ivy green eyes, 
she fully embodies the stature of 
Yarrow flower–for her warmth, 
soft smile, and laughter can heal
even the deepest wounds.

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Rachel B.

This is poem that’s a part of the Sister Series, a series of celebrating individual women and sharing their beauty through poetry; this poem is written to my sweet sister-in-law, Rachel.

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Rachel B.

by Regan Smith

• • •

Her heart is clear blue water–
where sunlight dances on the surface, 
translucent and trusted. 

Tied to all other bodies of water, 
she notices and feels each ripple, 
each wave, tsunami, and storm; 
she absorbs the waves and tides, 
offering herself as solace, and 
shares in their joy when the waves
are quiet and calm. 

And still, a drink is needed, 
fields are thirsty and land is drying up;
for even in the places where 
she can’t reach, she’ll offer herself as rain.

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Joni

This is poem that’s a part of the Sister Series, a series of celebrating individual women and sharing their beauty through poetry. Joni is an incredible soul, always pushing to extend her exposure, always pushing towards growth.

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joni

by Regan Smith

• • •

Walking along a path in the forest, 
her carefree heart makes me remember how 
the flowers don’t have to worry about their petals; 
she is this scripture, a psalm, a field of poppies, personified. 

She stops to sit on a tree that has fallen, and begins to write poetry;
sparrows sing, for when such inspiration is penned to paper, 
it is a glorious creation. She pulls her pen up from the paper 
to admire the wildflowers. They share the same honesty–
inherently full of lively flourish, overflowing with joy, love. 

But just as the wildflower started as a seedling, 
her carefree cheer has effloresced,
through her ever-growing courage.

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