I was thinking this morning about Sylvia Plath, about what makes the difference between those who encounter pain too great to be borne, who end their lives, and those who somehow, against all hope, hang on until a better day. Is it inborne, having a resilient outlook as opposed to a despairing one? Is it having people depending on them that they cant abandon, or having someone in their life who believes in them?
I was writing the poem below and thinking about a particular pond in town, when I decided to make the Ultimate Sacrifice, layered up, left my hot pumpkin spice tea behind (a cup sits steaming beside me right now) and went to get some pictures for you, to illustrate the poem.
The slough of despond
is lined with
dead bullrushes
and cattails,
broken stalks
poking through
the ice
that covers
the pond,
thick frost
etching
every leaf
does every heart visit it
in winter
to look
with the same
deadened eyes
upon a vista of
nothing living?
how does it remember,
in those times,
that spring will come
again,
when no birds sing
and chirp
in the winter garden?
Traveler,
you have choices:
one can trudge
right through,
sinking into the sludge
with mud-filled boots
that get caught fast
and will
never rise again,
or one can go around
by the
marked pathways
where others have trodden,
signposts pointing the way,
to wait for
a better day.
one can visit briefly,
then turn one's back
and search for a sunnier slope.
what makes the difference
between the one who puts
her head in the oven
and the one who hangs
grimly on
to hope?
whatever it is,
please believe me
when I tell you
that despond
is a temporary
station
take the next turning
you come to
and believe,
for winter is short
in duration.
Weary Traveler,
take the path
we've left
behind
for you.
There lies
a beautiful valley
on the other side
of the slough.
