I’ve never writen anything about being dyslexic. I have only started acknowledging it over the last 7-10 years. I will try to keep anything I write about dyslexia as simple and informative that a child or adult of any age could read and try to understand, which might be a challenge, since I myself never understood why I had such a high IQ and mechanical abilities and I could not do any thing with writing and arithmatic without overwelming struggles. That is until I learned how to develop all my checks and balances then rechecks in one continual circle. Never quite feeling pleased with my work. There will be mistakes; I can’t write like I use to. So I write as I can now. It is very difficult to see what is wrong. Then I simply don’t comprehend it as a mistake. SO, I am always on the allert.
Where I live in Northern Arizona there are many pine trees, snow and a multitude of other storms. Our electricity went out on one of those nights, the logs were on the fire, so I lit my oil lamp, one of many, also a few extra candles. With my feet propped, pencil in hand I began to write. After watching in awe the lights dancing and cracking within a quarter of a mile, below is what I ended up with. Since following a link to the dyslexia site, I wondering if anyone would mind if I wrote of my having dyslexia from grade school until now and the many hurdles involved over the span of time that I call a blink of an eye.
Throughout our minds, our attention wonders, through
timeless space and
Gushed forth, impending our memories, forever etched with
mountings of blazing
Untrusting this world that lashes out, tumbles and
unfolding before you.
Pounding with the force of a gale, without direction,
yet responds with calm
and crispness of the morning dew.
Thunder, lighting infiltrating beyond our reach, carried
currents, next to extend, direction never knowing.
Wondering in amazement, hypnotized by inflamed visions
to follow, soon shall
explode unleashing it’s glowing.
Compassion for the earth that must endure, endless
wonders of nature
plundering, raging, lashing and gouging endless scars
before us laid down.
Lie in wait, exhausted to exhale massive fields, wilting
in innocence’s of
wonder, ashes crying of brown.
Laden before us smoldering heaps of timber, no fear,
calm is near, nature
welcomes, each a blunder, each new coming of season.
Wild lilies, fields of spring clover roll in
anticipation, all wildlife
returning, lumbering down the paths well trodden with nor a
rhyme or reason.
Forage a plenty, in it’s own timing, freshness
bouncing endlessly with
anticipation of each delicate flower, grass for hiding
bunny or yearling.
Eagles, ospreys, owls, birds of marvelous colors,
gliding forth looping
suspended on currents of invisible winds of curling.
No more, as time comes of marvelous visions, hidden
beneath, scars of
passage, yet to be forgotten by warnings of the surviving
Cycles of life begins, sprouting from ashes, watered
from Mothers tears,
stretching for warmth of mornings light and reaching forth
Shall we timidly allow, amaze our minds with wonders,
would be yet to touch,
to embrace the furnace, the sting of twirling ambers
Scars laid forth, our minds racing, traumatic yet
euphoric, to be engulfed in
hypnotic visions, haunting, suspended in etheral
senselessness, as a clock
pounding it’s ticking, ticking, ticking.