Over

In a workshop I attended recently, each participant

was asked to select a bit of metal from a bowl, 

bits with words embossed on them, 

to choose by heart, 

to choose without looking, 

and then to tell a story from your own life 

that sprang from the word.

My word was

© 2011 Meri Arnett-Kremian

I told of relationships being over

before I was willing to release them; 
of marriages torn asunder;  

of three infant sons, born years apart,

each premature, whose lives were over

within days or weeks of their births

because. . . . well, just because.

I told of wanting to hold on to what was gone,
 of raging against reality.

Of coming altogether-too-slowly to Ashe-E-Tah, 

surrender, acceptance of what is.


Times of having to learn the meaning of
kindness from the inside out
and applying it most gently to myself.

© 2011 Meri Arnett-Kremian

I could have told of times when I declared things

over before their time, times when I was too young

to have lived the cycles 

in which love and desire ebbs and flows, 

in which embers suddenly pop and spark 

and just the smallest bit of tinder brings forth new flame.

Too young to realize that if you abandon

a relationship that hasn’t fulfilled its reason for being,

hasn’t taught you the lessons,

then you’re bound to get smacked upside the head

somewhere down the line.

Too young to understand

that when that inevitable smack made contact,

it was going to pack a potent punch.

I told of learning that when things are over, 

there are no shortcuts,

no getting around the pain of loss,

the sense of failure, 

the yip of unfairness.

The only way to get over “over” is to sit with it, 

to listen to your inner wisdom and let it guide you through, 

through to the lesson.

© 2011 Meri Arnett-Kremian

I told of finding in “overness” 

a new space where possibility dwells, 

even if it is merely a seed lying dormant

in the dark waiting for the ground to soften 

and grow moist, waiting for me

to risk being vulnerable again, 

waiting for hope to triumph over sadness.

© 2009 Meri Arnett-Kremian

What story do you hold of OVER?