green grass way

they blind me

We all have patterns we live on repeat, right? Obvious choices and paths that we take and make countless times over, even when the outcome is almost assuredly defeat. Some of us recognize these patterns and some of us don’t (or, perhaps more accurately, won’t?). I see my patterns, I do. They blind me. They frustrate me. Sadly, they often excite me. But even with that brutally honest self-awareness, I still continue along the same well-worn trails. They’re familiar and trustworthy, and the comfort in that is what makes them so damn dangerous.

Personally, I believe these patterns are so hard to break because we’ve lived them, time and time again, for many lifetimes. Breaking them means breaking a self-made curse that keeps us trapped, and I imagine the freedom that lies on the other side is priceless. I’ve tasted it, but can never manage to hold onto it for long. It’s actually in the air around me right now, smelling sweet, if only I can keep my head clear and my resolve strong. Because truly, I hope to do better this time.

I wrote this poem back in April when I was pretty sure that Suds Me Up, Scotty! was on its way out (the handcrafted soap business my husband and I started). But letting go of something that I poured heart and soul into was hard, and had to be done in a slow and steady kind of fashion. It gave my heart time to catch up with what my head already knew. But let it go I did. And once more, I've extricated myself from a relentless and repeating pattern. Hence the refreshing scent of freedom.

Of course, one could argue (and rightfully so) that blogging is another of my unbreakable patterns, so I’m still not sure if this blog is meant to stay or to also go the way of Suds Me—only time will tell. In the meantime, here’s my poem that birthed the transition from Suds Me Up, Scott! to Green Grass Way. The ending is optimistic, but I shall remain such unless proven wrong. After all, that's another pattern of mine, but perhaps one worth keeping ♥

GREEN GRASS WAY

Endless thoughts tumble & scramble

masquerading as progress

yet doing little to solve the riddle of what my life should could be.

Incessant & disruptive

forever in motion

this inner noise breeds upon itself,

dangerously skilled at the art of birthing a life

            -my life-

that proudly bears the sign:

98% recycled content.

But how

(pray tell)

does one break free from ancient wounds

that spin a soul in circles of dizzy repetition?

That distract & distance from the perfection

that already spills abundantly from here & now?

The head-chatter hypnotizes me,

persistently blinding me with a “new” & shiny mountain to climb.

A mountain that shimmers in its enormity.

Dazzles in its complexity.

A mountain which surely (surely) holds the secret

to my satisfaction & contentment.

To my happiness.

To my destiny.

Is it possible, I wonder, to ignore so great a temptation?

So strong of a fevered pull towards self-made success?

Truly an irrelevant question,

for the shine of the mountains is so delightfully blinding

that I do nothing to resist.

Instead,

(& this is far more fun)

I plan & I ponder.

I dream dreams so big & so wild as to be laughable,

yet do nothing to constrain or contain them.

(But how sure am I that I even want them?)

Hopelessly swept up in the thrill of this new adventure,

I can think of little but what I should pack for the trip.

The inner noise is as disruptive as ever,

but now there is structure within the chaos

& I embrace it all with wide-open arms

like the love-struck optimist that I am.

Because

(& I’m certain of it)

all that glitters is most assuredly gold.

The chatter gains momentum until,

-inevitably-

the spine-tingling day arrives when I take that first deliberate step

of what is sure to be an arduous climb.

Full of hope & optimism, I bravely set off. Again.

Once. Twice. A hundred times.

But what if I were to only pause

(longer)

(longer still)

& gently scratch the surface

of this sparkling mountain-top temptation?

Would it reveal a truly novel pursuit?

Or simply the same old & tired story staring back at me?

As ever, it's most cleverly hidden beneath a fresh coat of paint & delusion,

but these ploys do little to mask the malodorous reek

of mothballs, mildew & decay.

Impossible, reason tells me, for a thing so “new”

to stink of defeat so soon upon conception.

Yet swept up in a tsunami of child-like enthusiasm,

I mistake

            mildew for hope,

            mothballs for victory,

            & decay for triumphant success.

Ignorantly, I accept the challenge in spite of the stench.

And the wisdom I so desperately seek is averted. Again.

Once. Twice. A hundred times.

Do I know what a fresh start would even look like?

Feel like?

Am I capable of severing the invisible threads & stitches

that hold me in a series of yesterdays that I’ve outgrown?

I mistake the familiarity for comfort even as,

            like the silent stealth of bittersweet,

those worn-out dreams girdle me with pressure steady & slow.

They clinch.

The bind.

They slowly bleed me of hope,

even as I continue to stoically climb.

Until gasping

            -short of breath & short of joy-

I crest the summit.

But where is my much-anticipated victory?

My rewards?

My laurel wreath?

The gold medal that I have surely earned?

Scanning the limitless skies of promise & possibility

I spy nothing but disappointment-laced clouds.

Straining to listen over the lonely howl of the wind,

I hear nothing but my own voice

echoing back to me over the open space.

There is little to show for my dauntless efforts

save the hastily scrawled message on the rocky face:

THIS WAY DOWN.

Back to where I began.

Self-created & self-destructive,

the realization slowly dawns that all I’ve created

is but another climb to descend from. Again.

Once. Twice. A hundred times.

Halfway through the marathon of my life

                                                (presumably)

& I’m weary of living life on repeat.

My feet ache, begging me to stop & forcing me to wonder

if they’re screaming because they know of another way.

A better way.

A way strewn with less rocks & more flowers.

With less altitude & more grass.

(because it’s easier on the feet)

(& also on the heart)

If I can be brave enough,

will these tired feet lead me into

the original content of a new tomorrow?

But do I dare?

Dare to blindly trust in a grassy, flower-strewn way

that can’t be seen from where I stand here on my desolate peak?

Fear not, I reassure myself,

for it is a question I need not entertain.

No leap of faith will be necessary

because before I even take the first weary steps down,

I can already hear the familiar call of another peak.

Another mountain.

Another climb.

Just beyond the clouds of my present failure,

it begins to steadily reel me in.

Whispering.

Sweet talking.

Seducing me with promises it won’t keep.

Despite my feeble (so feeble) protests,

it manages to fan an ember of my early & reluctant interest.

It doesn’t offer me the silence & simplicity that my weary soul seeks,

only another lonely climb to nowhere.

But the challenge…

the challenge…

the challenge…

My breath quickens

(more)

(more still)

as I contemplate the irresistible offer.

It rolls around in my mouth, sweet as candy.

It rolls around in my mind, comforting as a prayer.

Maybe this time will be different…

(says the fool)

Again.

Once. Twice. A hundred times.

Paused on the precipice of Mount Expectations Not Met,

the winds blow me first one way

            & then another.

Indecisive (as always)

& considering where my next step ought to be,

the clouds part.

Gently.

Softly.

Silently.

So unlike the demands of my mountains.

Not much, but just enough,

they shift to let a lone ray of sunshine peek through.

As if in answer to a plea my lips hadn’t thought to form,

this ray illuminates a path heretofore unseen.

Straining to see,

my heart gives a leap.

Tentatively.

Jubilantly.

Could it be?

Is that my green grass way?

Because it isn’t at all where I thought it would be.

It isn’t at all where I would have looked.

I spy it not far above among the clouds

            but far, far below among the trees.

Embarking on this way calls for a different kind of courage

& a different set of tools,

but I sense the air is easier to breath down there.

A flash of pink flowers,

of leaves unfurling

            & birds awhirling

awakens something in me that has long been aslumber.

This green grass way whispers a covenant all its own,

but are they promises it can keep?

There is only one way to know.

Turning my back on the relentless call of the distant peak,

I leap.

(falling)

(falling)

(falling)

Just once.

April 2026

Much love and many thanks for reading,

Melinda