WOULD YOU HOLD MY BALLOONS PLEASE?

“The heaviest thing you can carry is a grudge"

My request is simple, so it would seem.

Would you hold my balloons, please?

I have so many of them, I have lost count.

some I have earned, some I have not;

some I have collected, some picked up in passing;

some I embrace, some I have learned to endure their presence -

like some reminder of doom or failure.

There are those I lusted for and learned too late everything has a price.

and those thrust upon me, by fortune or fate;

they rest, embedded in my grasp: unsought and unwanted,

there nonetheless they are, they remain.

Some are old, some are new; some are pink, some are blue;

there’s white and grey, red and green; and some a colour I have not seen.

The grey are full of dull aching, ennui and pain;

the black ones soar high, full of arrogance and rage;

there are those of no discernible colour,

filled with the “could have”, “should have” and

“one day when we grow old together we will”.

Some are very old. handed to me at birth;

they seem to bespeak a taint of some obscure crime.

THE RESOLUTION PROCESS

“It's four in the morning, the end of December

I'm writing you now just to see if you're better

New York is cold, but I like where I'm living

There's music on Clinton Street all through the evening.

I hear that you're building your little house deep in the desert

You're living for nothing now, I hope you're keeping some kind of record.”

“Famous Blue Raincoat", Leonard Cohen

My problem is not purely of number! it is as much a challenge of perspective.

All my balloons have, over time accumulated and become entangled;

the strings have become twisted, entwined, tangled and knotted.

I cannot define one from another; which to hold, which to let go.

indecision leads to paralysis, nothing improves, it just gets worse.

Thus they have collectively become a burden. I know they are different,

from where I stand, they all look the same. Balloons belong in the sky,

not held in a grim, uncomprehending grip in my fist:

but here they are, day after day, year after year;

every day, every year, another balloon, another captive.

In the days of youth, or in times of stress they might have seemed to serve a purpose - a focus, a bizarre illusion of purpose. I am no longer young.

it is time to let some go: let them find their own space, their own peace - so I can find mine. Therein lies the challenge: how to choose?

My balloons and I are interconnected, interdependent: we define each other.

So, how do I let go, even temporarily?

DEFINING AN OUTCOME

“Oh the sisters of mercy, they are not departed or gone.

They were waiting for me when I thought that I just can't go on.

And they brought me their comfort and later they brought me this song.

Oh I hope you run into them, you who've been travelling so long.

Yes you who must leave everything that you cannot control.

It begins with your family, but soon it comes around to your soul.

Well I've been where you're hanging, I think I can see how you're pinned:

When you're not feeling holy, your loneliness says that you've sinned.”

Sisters of Mercy, Leonard Cohen

Would you hold my balloons, please?

I need to give them to someone I can trust,

step back and view them from afar, from this angle and that angle,

see them in a different way, a different perspective: 

thus to choose which to keep for a bit longer, which to set free.

I ask for your time, your patience and your understanding.

Some choices will not be easy, I may get confused, even downright belligerent.

Please do not be offended, I am scared, tired - and at the end of the process seeking

to re-discover my energy, my joy for living.

Should you hold my balloons, I would be grateful.

One day it would be my privilege were you to ask me to hold yours.

Les Bush (2012)