you fight and resist, ignoring the deepest parts that want to hold on, remain in control, predict the outcome
but I tell you this— although it may not feel like it 'til then there is no better space to find yourself in than beyond what you can do
arriving at the moment where you can finally say “if You don’t come through —then I’ve got nothing”
this is the place of miracles unlocking your heart to the Father who smiles and says “ah, this is where i wanted you
all along. now i will part the waters push back the sea, rid you of the enemies that pursue threatening.
because i am here and i am good i’ve got this situation in impossibly capable hands and you will have my peace”
heather pound 2025
Photo by Hannah Bates
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if they had told me what it was really like, those days and days of endless routine
the wiping of noses, the frequent tears feeding, bouncing, bathing, toileting not enough sleep endless dishes and washing of clothes repeat upon repeat
if they had explained that i would spend hours just sitting, child on lap feeding, comforting, entertaining tired
that my body would never be the same and really my mind as well, since you are never too far from my thoughts hardwired
i might have thought twice perhaps —but it wouldn’t have mattered as i met you one by precious one.
i did the math and i spent three full years of my life uncomfortable with child to gain the four of you
nevertheless, i would do it all again, no hesitation to marvel at, to cherish, adore to watch grow the treasures that you are.
you are my second chance. you sometimes catch me staring adoring, amazed you probably think i’m a little bit strange
but for a heart that was bruised, undernourished cast aside, you are an anchor, a safe haven a place of trust, of peace a well that runs deep
i catch your eyes in private moments, not quite so open as mine, but deep, utter, abandoned joy—reciprocated. all the more precious because you chose to let me in. always present, but not so carelessly strewn about like mine
second chances are rare, sparkling precious like the sea in the afternoon sun never, ever unguarded not from fear, but worth we know the value of what we have
heather pound 2025
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did you wake today with pile of burdens pressing down heavy even before your feet reached the cold floor?
(you are not alone in this for i have felt it too.)
do you know the psalmist once metaphorically said that the Source of Love collects each tear in a bottle records them in his book?
as i read this recent i observed that it never said only the tears that were worthy, somehow selflessly shed.
these are not the perfect tears in the bottle, holy crystal clear
no, these are all your tears every single one because the Giver of Life understands your pain
he sees, he cares about the depths of your ache and longs to wipe every tear away
and one day he’s promised he will
the frost will melt the dawn will come hold on for this marvellous day
heather pound 2025
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the rubber covers dropped off the wheels of my khaki-coloured bag multiple years ago, and people turn to look when they hear me approach as i tow it clanking along
but while my bag is noisy and even a little bit tattered, a small tear here, a stain or two there, it conjures up recollections of far of places i’ve been, experiences lived, stories to tell—
i pulled it past ladies in colourful saris down grubby calcutta lanes as its wheels turned faithful--containing every single thing i brought to make a new home.
it has trundled past women, as black burkas flowed in the desert city of dubai on the trip where we rode the elevator up, up, up the tallest building in the world.
it travelled to viti levu in the exotic fijian isles. the place i lived for many years before the bag became mine, and it picked up sparkling grains of sand and listened to tropical song.
and maybe it remembers the bahaman honeymoon after this former widow wed, and observed daily as we arranged sun-filled adventures there.
so, while in this airport i see other bags glide smoothly along, hard-sided wonders that need no holding up at all, i know my bag’s every cranny and nook and just how much weight it will hold.
so, go ahead and acquire your spiffy new luggage, but i will keep mine as long as vintage wheels turn and zippers attach, for this bag holds memories as well.
---ode to a very good suitcase
heather pound 2025
I’m not usually very sentimental about material things–but sometimes things take us right back to the memories that they’re connected to. Don’t they?
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my indian rope plant that my mother-in-law gave mere months before she left, gifted us this autumn with its third round of balls of pink since the start of spring
i have no idea why it did this since some years this particular hoya never delivers these water-filled blossoms at all
so multiple times a day, i lift the vine and pause, soaking the beauty in close, a daylight garden galaxy of ruby-hearted mauve
and i marvel and muse at how spectacular nature consistently, honestly is--and smile that right here beside my kitchen sink, my husband’s big-hearted mum encourages me still
(and i would hugely suspect that she is completely delighted too)
--when they linger in our memory
heather pound 2025
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there is a part of me that grips on knuckles white (and maybe there’s one living in you too) that says “we must always hope”
we must, we must--because if we don’t even for one day then all will probably be lost (at least that what it says)
and this part can battle so long and strong for optimists like me
as the pieces that need to simply be sad in order to heal, disintegrate gathering sludge and gunk at the bottom of our personal well of sadness, stagnant
since the surface sad overflows at times but the rest is never tended to long enough to impact what lies beneath
but, (as with anything we feel) sadness has things to say wisdom we will miss if we never let her speak
this is why i have learned (am learning--and always, i think will be) to welcome all emotions, allow them their rightful place to balance my mind as was always intended
so be sad, she is painfully uncomfortable--but safe. and is not the destroyer of hope that some of us think
because in the end there is simply no other way to heal then to support her in her work and to walk her cleansing flame
and hope is the bulb perennial always blooming once again in spring
Heather Pound 