Ladies and Gentlemen...Mr. Walt Whitman

I nearly had a panic attack the other day thinking about my future. My near future that is. You see, I have all these plans. I have timelines. And then something happens and I start to doubt that my plans and timelines will not be met. I panic. But, But... And I try to talk myself down. Trust the process Dancer. You're plan may not be THE plan. But things will work out. Just be in the now. Trust. - Honestly, I'm hanging on by threads here. But if there is one thing about me...I don't give up easily. I will hang.

I have a huge book on American Poetry. Sometimes, right before bed usually, I open the big book and most often than not, there is a poem that is meant for me. Here I give you pieces of last nights poem. (Feel free to absorb it and take it to heart. My gift to you in your own ebb and flow.)

As I Ebb'd with the Ocean of Life

As I wend to the shores I know not,
As I list to the dirge, the voices of men and women wreck'd,
As I inhale the impalpable breezes that set in upon me,
As the ocean so mysterious rolls toward me closer and closer,
I too but signify at the utmost a little wash'd-up drift,
A few sands and dead leaves to gather,
Gather, and merge myself as part of the sands and drift.

Tufts or straw, sands, fragments,
Buoy'd hither from many moods, one contradicting another,
From the storm, the long calm, the darkness, the swell,
Musing, pondering, a breath, a briny tear, a dab of liquid or soil,
Up just as much out of fathomless workings fermented and thrown,
A limp blossom or two, torn, just as much over waves floating, drifted at random,
Just as much for us that sobbing dirge of Nature,
Just as much whence we come that blare of the cloud-trumpets,
We, capricious, brought hither we know not whence, spread out before you
You up there walking or sitting,
Whoever you are, we too lie in drifts at your feet.
- Walt Whitman