There has never been a day
I felt fully up to the task of being alive.
Enough feels like a mirage—
shimmering, almost within reach—
then gone,
the moment I think I’ve grasped its edge.

First there was the Church,
then the long descent into depth psychology,
arriving on the heels of an emergent spirituality—
always seeking,
always longing for a container vast enough
to hold what moved through me.
Too much, too little,
never quite enough.

I ask now: where did this begin?
Perhaps among the tall, blonde women
of the 1960s, when Twiggy was the It Girl
and I was too curvy to belong.
My thinking was odd,
but not odd enough
for the artsy ones.
My rhythm true, my voice sure—
but not quite good enough
for the Madrigals,
and anyway, I was far too unsure.
I felt everything and everyone,
and none of it seemed to fit.
I was always searching for a reflection
of the self still forming,
still half-hidden beneath the noise.

When I became a mother by default—
birth control having failed me twice—
and could not bring myself
to silence a life
that had somehow chosen me,
I said yes,
heart brimming with love to give.
But when my girls grew past babyhood,
they began to want
more than I could offer.
My own container
had never been built or filled.
Never enough.
Not for me,
not for my parents,
and as I watch the world turn,
I see it everywhere—
this quiet ache of inadequacy
woven through us all.

Feminism, too, held its promise—
liberation compared to my mother’s day—
yet it asked that we do all,
be all,
to everyone
but ourselves.

Time and tide smooth even the craggiest cliffs,
patient across the ages—
and yet we grant ourselves so little time,
so little mercy.

What if we are already sufficient
for the day that greets us,
each dawn painted in its riot of color?
What if the task was never to be enough,
but only—
ever—
to be here?

Happy Mask, Hilton resort, HI ~ 2017 bj