It’s been a while yet again. I’m not sure what’s going to happen with this blog after I head off overseas next month. I’d like to try to keep it alive, even if the gaps between posts is a little long. For those curious, after a brief ski trip in New Zealand, I’ll be heading off to Thailand to earn a CELTA qualification, which will enable me to teach English in foreign countries (or at home, if I end up back here). This isn’t exactly the life I imagined for myself (because believe me, I NEVER in a million years expected to become a teacher. In fact, I promised myself I wouldn’t), but lo and behold, look where I’ve ended up. So while everyone else I know is taking off in their high-flying corporate careers, settling in a comfortable lifestyle or heading in that general direction, I am once again embarking on a turbulent path that may or may not lead anywhere, which leads me to the topic of today’s poetry: the late bloomer.
I never thought I was a late bloomer, but in every aspect of life, I find I am. And it’s pretty miserable because you don’t feel like a late bloomer; you just feel like a screw-up most of the time. I read this somewhere recently: “On the road to great achievement, the late bloomer will resemble a failure” (from this article written last year: http://www.smh.com.au/executive-style/management/finding-success-later-in-life-20110711-1hady.html – a good read if you have some time). This really struck a chord with me, because I do look like a failure at this point in my life, and I’ve certainly been feeling like one for a while. Everyone who’s followed my blog for a while likely knows I abhor societal expectations, and yet I find I’ve been sucked into it all the same. It’s hard to go the other way when everyone else you know is moving with the current. There is somewhere I should be at this stage of my life, but after accepting I may just be a late bloomer, I think it’s okay that I’m not. I’m still fighting against feelings of self-doubt and self-loathing, but my timeline is just a little different from others and I have to trust I’ll end up where I’m supposed to be sooner or (more likely) later.
The Last Chrysalis
It seems she will never grow her wings
And feel the joy that flying brings
Life seemed okay and then it stopped
Now she can’t see what lies on top
She’s still like winter bleeding snow
She’s lay through seasons others won’t know
And yet it seems she can’t break free
She’s stuck in her own history
Her friends took off so long ago
She stays behind, still going slow
They’re flying places she ought to be
And talk about all that they’ve seen
She knows that soon they’ll disappear
They can’t wait for her, year after year
And she’ll be left alone in the cold
Trapped inside this strangling mould
With wings that struggle to be grown
How can she make it on her own?
All that’s left, all that remains
Is flickering hope that burns through pain
Yet she doesn’t want to hope for change
She’s always been a little strange
For hoping brought her down before
Now she won’t dare wish for more
Perhaps today is forever for her
Eternity is as she were
All she can do is wait for next spring
And maybe this time, she’ll see those wings.
© Lily K. Lynn 2012