You know those situations. A period of time passes and a loss of contact occurs. I discovered some time ago one of my dearest friends whom I admire very much has disappeared from my radar screen. My paranoia has whispered to me that I may have ended the relationship unkindly. Of course that may be a false memory. The problem with paranoia is that there may be some truth involved, and then the whole thing becomes regenerative.
I bring this up because my friend suffers similarly from paranoia but I think she has superior intelligence and if we are at odds then it is probably my fault. I was reminded of her because I was thinking about a poem I wrote a little over two years ago in February of 2015. The poem was inspired by a photo she took and posted that showed footprints in a dusting of snow outside a shelter in New York City where she worked.
I called her telephone a few minutes ago to reconnect. She is precious to me; more than my behavior seems to indicate. I was a co-facilitator at a training workshop at Shirley Medium Prison in Massachusetts. She was a participant taking the workshop to advance to becoming an apprentice facilitator. That is where we met and after that we stayed in touch for about three years after which we lost touch. I’m not clear what happened. My call to her went to message so I told her in twenty five words or less just what I’ve written here. I hope she responds. I am a much better person because of her. My gift to her is that I showed her how to throw a split-fingered fast ball.
So, without her excellent photo to show you I have replaced it with another from the internet. I hope you like this poem.
FOOTPRINTS IN THE SNOW
At the Shelter
A pallet of chill
On a cement world,
Overspread with snow,
Fresh as a morning breeze,
That lowers the core
Temperature toward zero.
People shuffle, trudge along
Toward a gateway for heat,
Small steps, small hopes,
Edging away or toward,
Unsure, candles within
Struggle against desperation.
A story written with soles,
Prints in the snow,
One by one by two and three,
All mingle and mask to share,
Their presence on record to
Pronounce our ignorance.
Where do they go and
Why do we let them?
Hold out the gift to these
Who press their signatures,
Hold them close and then
Closer.
G.M. Goodwin
10 February 2015
Playing Fair and Being Kind 