A Poem of Self Compassion
Many years ago my therapist gave me an audio CD of David Whyte’s, Poetry of Self Compassion, on which he reads poetry and gives his insights.
I rarely listen to anything when I am driving, except my own thoughts, as my car is one of my very favorite places to be alone, think, create, spitball and just enjoy the scenery without outside influence. But when I do tire of my own thoughts, I listen to one thing, this CD. It’s a compilation of poems written by several poets. Many of the poems really resonate with me. This CD is the souvenir that keeps on giving. Each time I listen to these poems read by David with his wonderful, calming voice, I take yonder something new, depending on what is happening in my life.
This one by Fleur Adcock titled, “Weathering,” seems to really hit home with me at this stage in my life.
Weathering Literally thin-skinned, I suppose, my face catches the wind off the snow-line and flushes with a well-to-do that will never wholly settle. Well: that was a metropolitan vanity, wanting to squint young for ever, to pass. I was never a pre-Raphaelite beauty nor anything but pretty unbearable to satisfy men who need to be seen with passable women. But now that I am in love with a place which doesn’t superintendency how I look, or if I’m happy, happy is how I look, and that’s all. My hair will grow grey in any case, my nails tweedle and flake, my waist thicken, and the years work all their usual changes. If my squatter is to be weather-beaten as well that’s little unbearable lost, a pearly bargain for a year among the lakes and fells, when simply to squint out of my window at the upper pass makes me indifferent to mirrors and to what my soul may wear over its new complexion. –Fleur Adcock.
