there was a time when it felt as if someone else wrote the story that was your very own life and created with harsh words cruel pictures of who you were
indicating the flaws that were theirs were actually yours, and you knew this was unfair, untrue but these words, they were frequent and slowly began to seep beneath your skin, regardless
and even through you resisted so hard, at times they made their way right through your beating heart.
this image that someone else penned has lingered and in your most vulnerable of moments you still carry the taint of hurtful, projected words
but let me tell you this, you were not the one who held the pen. you were never the one who formed those dreadful phrases or wrote distorted words.
you were simply there targeted.
and now what you can do is to pick up the pen and write anything at all that you choose. a story that’s yours and absolutely should have been yours all along
i look at you and my heart is sore since i know you’re doing your level best and have come this far already
but i see the struggle the grief, the hurt, the frequent pain the moments of despair.
i wish i could bear this for you, but i will cheer you on listen to your thoughts hold space for you to weep.
if you don’t believe it yourself—i do (i always have and i always will)
that you will make it up this mountain, summit that lofty peak. you will plant your flag victorious, and triumphantly proclaim “i have done it, this is mine.”
and while i’ll celebrate with joy, dance freely in the street, i won’t be surprised at all because i always believed you would.
on the very last visit, (the one before the call and the rush to her bedside to wait)
she said, “why don’t you just take it,’ and pointed to the teeny golden shape behind glass on a shelf that she knew i eventually wanted.
(she must have somehow known her time was near)
an elephant, one of many gifted to her over the years by those who knew she had lived in a village in rural south asia
and loved these gentle giants back when they would amble through the village, and one must be aware that tigers still roamed free.
yet this pachyderm was made in a different exotic place, formed with the shells of bullets from a despot’s terrible reign.
it was repurposed and brought by her son (who later became my husband) and treasured ever since —a reminder that love always, always conquers hate.
and now it sits near my bedside, next to the photo of us mere minutes after he got down on one knee to propose to this widow in south asia, but in an urban place
where we later lived and rubbed shoulders with women inexcusably harmed and were honoured to watch them remember that love conquers hate every time.
—tapestry of life
heather pound 2025
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i hope there’s a heaven for cats like you. the ones who arrived when needed most, and stayed a friend through thick and thin.
who made her laugh by day and slept by her side at night (even though at times you’d wake and find a mouse to bring inside, crashing around her room)
who welcomed her home, a safe haven, a furry little friend with so much conversation for a cat. the way you always loved her most.
and since you’re gone (and four years is far too few) i hope there is a heaven for cats like the one next door who has taken it upon itself to comfort my grown-up girl, bolting in her door, asking for affection, making her smile through tears.
maybe someday in that heaven you’ll meet and remember her.
heather pound 2025
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peace is not crafted in marbled halls of power. it’s not the purview of the wise, nor the product of a boardroom strategically drafted.
peace is a candle, just a humble flame that sparks one-by-one by one within the hearts and minds of those who seek the quiet and clear the mess, who focus on what’s better, provide the space—and wait.
it is the gift of a heart that listens, a mind with intention, a scaffolding of love.
and i have heard the desperate-hearted say that while joy would be amazing, they could contentedly live long if they simply had peace.
today is filled with wind and rain in a season meant for sun. but yesterday i spent some time communing with trees trying to recall if they were maple, oak or elm and was pleased when i identified birch by its trunk.
and when the path went through native new zealand bush, there were two feathered tails, chirping and flicking their fans from branch to branch as if i wasn’t there, and a tui perched unbothered not a meter from my face black with iridescent blue flashing in the sun.
but even on this stormy day, i looked out my kitchen window and saw a single sunflower peeking bravely over the fence from my neighbour’s garden and he doesn’t even know i adore their golden rays.
Heather Pound 