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Kelly Irvin

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Years teach perspective on poetry, aging, disability . . . even elections

Home » Blog » Years teach perspective on poetry, aging, disability . . . even elections
November 10, 2016 by Kelly Irvin

“I don’t know who you are.

You stoop a little as pain creeps into your joints

Like a burglar stealing the precious jewels

Of swift, free movement,

Leaving you seated in life’s chair.”

 

 

Walking with a cane
Talking a walk with my husband during recovery from major back surgery meant accepting a cane as part of my new life.

These lines are from a poem I wrote about eighteen years ago called “Twenty-Twenty Vision.” It’s my only published piece, having been included in the local newspaper’s poetry corner not long after I wrote it. I came across it this week in a folder of poems written over the years. The poem offers me a bittersweet dish of hindsight. It reminds me of my long-ago perspective on aging and my physical decline as I began my fortieth decade on earth. It paints a picture of the joys of diving for the ball in a hard-fought game of softball, of pushing a double stroller, legs pumping, muscles jumping, as I lean into the joyful burden. It reminds me of the hours I spent kicking and punching my way to strong muscles and a flat stomach with Billy Blanks’ tae bo all through my thirties.

At the time I thought this poem was a eulogy for my youth. Now I read it as a celebration of those active, vibrant days. I celebrate the time when I had a body capable of running, jumping, twisting and turning. I celebrate that time when I could do jumping jacks and toe touches and sit-ups. I could walk with my kiddoes. I could play basketball and volleyball with them. It’s a love letter to my younger self and learning how much living costs.

The last two years of my life have given me perspective. What I have learned has been hard. I’ve learned from the inside out what it means to live with a physical disability caused by a chronic degenerative disease. I’ve always thought of myself as an empathetic person. But the truth is we don’t truly understand what people are going through without going there ourselves. That phrase “walk a mile in his shoes?” It’s dead-on. I walk with a cane, but

sneakers
Walk a mile in the other guy’s shoes. How does it feel not to be able to bend over and tie them?

the day may come when I need a walker, then a wheelchair. What must it be like to move a chair from a car, get into it, get across the parking lot, into a building, to an appointment, then do it all again, when it’s time to get back to the car. Every time. To take a shower, to get into bed, to accomplish simple tasks. I have trouble tying my own shoes. I’m not asking for sympathy or pity on behalf of myself or anyone else. I’m suggesting we all use our imaginations. Be that person for one moment.

I thought about this recently when a woman posted a rant on Facebook in which she complained because someone with a handicap placard had parked in a non-handicap spot. “If we can’t park in their spots, how come they came park in ours?” she fumed.

When did it become an us and a them? When did we become so immune to the difficulties of others that all we can see is our own inconvenience? When did it have to become our disability for us to truly see and feel what our fellow human beings live with each day?

For every Facebook ranter out there, I run into a half dozen kind, smiling folks who hold the door for me at the post office or the library, who help me put on my jacket or carry a bag for me into church, or simply ask me if there’s anything they can do to help. There’s the lady who picked up my tissue for me when I dropped it while I stood an hour in line to vote. She said, “that’s okay, sweetheart.” Those people make my heart swell with the possibility of a world worthy of leaving to my grandchildren.

Youngsters batting.
My son playing baseball as a kid. I loved playing catch with him and shooting baskets in the driveway. That’s the good stuff.

In the last few weeks (or year it seems) when

there’s been a swell of ugliness and vitriol on social media, I’ve sought beauty and solace in words, in poetry, in stories. And I found this poem I wrote years ago in which I thought I was seeing me old and I was lamenting what I’d lost. Now, in this day, I have perspective. What I had then was good. Very good. It was the natural aging process. I was gaining gray hairs, but also wisdom. What can I learn from this shift in perspective years later? That what we’re going through now will look differently ten years from now. Or twenty years from now. We’ll have learned from it. We’ll have grown. Our children will too. Our world will look differently. Life will go on. We won’t fold. The sky won’t fall because I can’t skip, jump or hop anymore. I can watch my grandchildren do it and for that I am supremely grateful. The world won’t fall because x y or z was elected or wasn’t elected to office. God is still in charge and He is still good. He can use this for our good. He promises He will.

Hindsight is twenty-twenty vision, my friends. Joy and peace. Feel free to share your thoughts!

Here’s the poem in its entirety for anyone who’s interested . . .

 

Twenty-twenty Vision

On a whim, I stick my hand through the mirror,

Casting about like a blind woman

Frantically feels the walls in a strange room.

I touch someone. There. No, wait. There.

 

Her long ponytail gallops after her

As she flings herself forward, glove outstretched,

Victorious as she captures the softball.

 

I don’t know who you are.

Silver threads are woven into your long hair.

Lines that intersect around your faded blue eyes

create a road map to your past.

 

I long to find that other woman.

I see her striding uphill, pushing a double stroller.

Legs pump, muscles jump as she leans

Into the burden, enjoying the stretch.

 

I don’t know who you are.

You stoop a little as pain creeps into your joints

Like a burglar stealing the precious jewels

Of swift, free movement,

Leaving you seated in life’s chair.

 

I see her. There. No, wait. There.

She kicks a leg high,

Delivering a decisive blow in the air.

Forward, then back. A fierce daily warrior

In the battle against a sagging behind,

a battle already lost.

 

I don’t know who you are.

Reflected in my mind’s eye,

I still have twenty-twenty vision

held captive in a forty-something body.

 

Category: BlogTag: disability, elections, handicap, perspective, poems, poetry
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Comments

  1. Raquel M Martinez

    November 14, 2016 at 10:37 am

    That is absolutely lovely. Poignant.

    Reply
    • Kelly Irvin

      November 14, 2016 at 10:56 am

      Thank you, Raquel!

      Reply
    • Kelly Irvin

      November 14, 2016 at 10:58 am

      I used to worry continually about my grades. You’re right, those were great days. You described this new normal so well, Natalie. We will keep fighting and living. Bless you!

      Reply
  2. Natalie Kreitzman, Ed.D

    November 14, 2016 at 10:47 am

    At one time all I worried about was getting an A on a term paper. I would submit a theme to a college professor and go home and worry until I got my grade. Those were really great days. Now? Go backwards to 1986–14 days in the hospital with herniated disks. Fast forward to 1989–fractured patella and 8 months out of work and then we have July 15, 2016–the day that my right leg met its destruction on a bus in Mexico. I wake up every single day and instead of dreaming about holiday shopping–I dream that I will need somebody to push me in a wheelchair to avoid the crowds and the hustle and bustle. When did I get old and disabled? When? I don’t have a handicap placard yet–and I park where I can. I am amazed that I can walk 15 steps without falling on my face. Well this is my new normal. The normal of waking up to go to physical therapy. The normal that I can’t jump into the shower without using a bath chair. The normal that I have to make sure I don’t trip over my cat or an errant wire or a squeeze toy. I have become more attuned to people in general. Despite a labored gait, I open doors. I greet people with a cheery smile and I am grateful that I can ambulate at all. I am walking on my own. I am driving on my own and I am living on my own. I will be fine and so will you Miss Kelly. May you have a blessed day–keep fighting the good fight. Natalie

    Reply
  3. Stacy T Simmons

    November 14, 2016 at 12:41 pm

    Beautifully written Kelly. I hope today finds you well. Have a good day.

    Reply
    • Kelly Irvin

      November 14, 2016 at 3:22 pm

      Thanks, Stacy. You too!

      Reply
  4. Linda Stanislawski

    November 15, 2016 at 9:58 am

    It makes me smile, thinking of the energy and activities we could participate in our younger days. Two of our children are in their early 40’s and one in her later 30’s…..and we were there just a little while ago…. How amazing the cycle of life is. Our parents are nearing the very end of this life’s journey, and we are becoming the old ones….how does that happen?
    My husband and I just returned from a prayer time with the pastors and a couple elders of our church. They prayed for my healing and my husbands encouragement as he walks this journey with me. We came away with such peace and comfort.
    How wonderful it is to belong to the body of Christ and to be loved and have so many to love. We are a people blessed.
    Transitions. Stages of life. God is faithful through them all.
    One day, we will have new bodies that won’t wear out. I think we are going to have a lot of joyful adventures forever. I look forward to going on a long hike , over unbelievably beautiful terrain with you, in our new bodies 😎.
    And in the meantime, we have so much to be thankful for, one day at a time. Blessings to you and prayers for strength and health. God is so good.

    Reply
    • Kelly Irvin

      November 15, 2016 at 11:59 am

      Well said, Linda. I’m looking forward to doing the two-step and walking in that new body. What a lovely thought! Take care. You’re in my prayers!

      Reply

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