I wrote this poem one glorious spring day in April 1979. At the time, I was young, and things seemed to be looking up for me. I had just won the Civil Rights case that guaranteed access to higher education for Californians with disabilities. I was full of excitement, energy and enthusiasm—and relief because my lawsuit had not been a sure thing. With a great sense of happiness and joy, I felt free, like a kid running in the sand on the beach. I wanted to spread my wings and fly like a butterfly. So I drove to beautiful Rancho Park, in Los Angeles, so I could be outside.

Along from my earlier trip alone to San Francisco, this was one of my first ventures into unfamiliar territory without my mother at my side. I was definitely spreading my wings and building my confidence.

This trip to Rancho Park was a continuation of my commitment to proving I could do things by myself and rejoicing, not only in taking action, but in saying I would do something, and then doing what I said. Even today, after a lifetime of achievements and doing things for myself, some people (I won’t say who) still doubt me and my abilities. But I can do for myself, and I do.

After arriving in Rancho Park, I put down my blanket, while watching all the delights of spring that the moment offered, like the gray stone and the moon drop that used to be there.

I took everything in, and was in the presence of my true self, listening, breathing, looking up and around, hearing all the sounds around me—children, running, screaming, joyously moving about, and the sights of mothers on the look-out, and couples hugging and kissing, sighing in romantic love.

Fully focused and engaged, I was fully there. It was not like being present when I think about what I’m going to write next in a story or poem. It was being in that moment, fully present, not thinking about anything else, except what was there surrounding me.

I inhaled the sweet, gentle breeze blowing through the sycamores. Seeing shades of light splattering through the powerful trees, the breath-taking beauty of being, I was awed and inspired by nature. And the flowers, the birds, the bees, and the butterfly wings springing up into the air, much to my delight.

Being free in that moment allowed me to feel my feelings deeper than ever before. And if I can do it, you can do it, too.

PS: News Flash: Jillian Day of 508assist.org has contributed another useful new article to this blog, “The Job Hunt with a Disability_ Real Tips, No Fluff.” And it’s the real deal. Don’t miss it, when it goes live next Wednesday, April 9^th.   

Splash

A splash of water
Sprinkles upon a gray stone
Like a soft moon drop!

You can order my poetry collection, including this poem, here: Reflections of My Heart.

Original text ©2025 by Karen Lynn-Chlup. All rights reserved. Image by Luna sin Estrella courtesy of Wikimedia Commons. 

One day in 1979, as feelings from my past reminded me of who and what I was, I wrote this poem. The day I wrote it was not ordinary, not like every other day. That day, for some reason, memory took me back to when I was eight years old, back to a troubling point in my life when I was more than uncomfortable.

Even now, after almost seven decades, I remember it as if today were sixty-six years ago. The thoughts and feelings of that day marked the juncture when I began to think seriously about myself. And the memory of it was so painful that I had to take breaks while putting my feelings into poetry.

I will always remember that day in the late 1950s. I was eight years old, a child old enough to be aware of my body, yet young enough for such an experience to leave a permanent imprint on my mind.

The school bus had picked up my mother and me, along with all the other children from my class, as well as some from other grades. Everyone wanted to go swimming, and the school did this for us only twice each summer, so it was a big treat. The school took us to Venice Beach because it had an Olympic-sized pool.

We all got off the bus and walked down the boardwalk. It was a glorious day, and at the pool, we swam to reach the other end. A few of the kids could go three-fourths of the way, but many could not do more than wade in the shallow end. I made it halfway, then turned back and stayed there playing, where the water was not too deep, and I felt safe.

Of course, there were teachers with us to make sure everyone had fun and stayed safe, but they were all busy, so I was on my own, and I did what I knew, practicing the techniques I had learned. And I didn’t have a care in the world until Mama got me out of the pool and helped me dress. That was when, out of nowhere, I became aware of a sound I had heard before, a sound I had barely noticed.

At first, I wondered what focused my interest on the sound, so I sharpened my concentration and honed in on what I heard, trying to both recall and gather information.

I stood there, dressed, leg brace on. Ready to go. Then I heard it again as I took a step forward—a CLINKING, a vibration.

It was me. It was the way I walked. I zoomed into that sound—my brace buckle. With each step, my left foot took, the buckle tapped the metal of the brace.

My limp was clear, pronounced. When walking without the brace, my left foot slapped down on the cement with every step. You would know it was me coming. Without the brace—the rattle.

Numb, flustered, I stared down at my foot and asked myself, “Why can’t I be normal?”

Keeping silent, not trying to answer, for the first time in my young life, I took mental notes about myself.

With my brace on, my foot did not slap. My steps made a completely different sound, the clang of my brace strap’s buckle, plus the dull thud of my hushed limp.

This realization shook me to my core. I didn’t want to be this way. Still, I knew I was. And I knew I had to give special regard to who I was.

This feeling made me uncomfortable, vulnerable, and unsteady emotionally. When I hear this sound today, I relive those moments and am immersed in them, and they show up spontaneously.

Throughout the years, even today, when I go for a walk, it’s with me. My constant companion, it’s by my side. The remembrance of those sounds is always with me, even though I have not worn a brace since childhood.

This makes me feel inferior, and brings back the doubts I used to suffer, even though I worked through those emotions years ago. I reel in the feelings and nurture my being, knowing I must come to terms with myself.

I say, “Accept honey, accept.”

Every time I hear that sound, it triggers this experience, but I immediately recognize what’s happening. I acknowledge my thoughts, redirect and change my thinking, and move forward with positive affirmations.

There is no hiding from my thoughts or feelings, or how I’d like to be. But I can rein them in. I make myself think only good thoughts—love, acceptance, and telling myself that I am beautiful just the way I am, affirming it over and over again until the hurtful thoughts disappear and I believe what I’m saying to myself.

During these moments, I gaze into the blue sky and visualize the ocean. I send peace and love to the disabled parts of my body and think about taking action, about giving myself whatever I need to heal. I have to be honest and accept my imperfections and my disabilities. I must give myself my own approval and recognition because I have to validate myself. No one else can. Only I can give this to myself, and complete healing will come when I have done all the work.

Not only do I need to nurture and care for myself unconditionally, but to surround myself with people who love me and tell me the truth. While turning to the power of love and forgiveness, I think about all the years of my life and all the letting go. I know, even more now, that I must dig deeper. I must gently recognize, release, grasp, and understand so I can let go more completely.

Thinking back, I gaze at that picture from a day long past.

Snapshot Of Long Ago

On that day,
That glorious day
Where I
Had not a care

I reminisce
And I remember
The warm water
Rinsing through my hair,
As I tried splashing and swimming
To reach the other side.

I remember
Dressing and
Looking down
At my heavy bars
That buckled my
Paralyzed left leg

And, I remember
Sitting near mother dear,
Singing songs
With a childish flair

On that summer’s day,
I remember
My syncopated rhythm
As I began prancing at play,

Those snapshots
Have come and gone,
As they ring through my soul,

Only now,
They drift back
My way,
As I gaze
Into that same
Peaceful pond
Upon where I stood,
Long time past,
Remembering the picture
That fills my memories
Of my life’s past!

You can order my poetry collection, including this poem, here: Reflections of My Heart.

Original text ©2025 by Karen Lynn-Chlup. All rights reserved. Image from Karen Lynn-Chlup’s personal collection and not to be reproduced without permission.

This poem was written in 2020, about a friend who disappeared from my life. It was during the COVID-19 pandemic, and I had fallen. Broke my wrist. The doctor could not set it in a cast. It was that serious a break. So, seven days later, I saw an orthopedist for surgery.

Weeks went by. I recovered. And within three months, I was pretty much back to myself. I got one phone call from my friend. He told me he was sorry. Days went by. Nothing. Not one word. So, in the fullness of time, I went on with my life. Five years have passed. Once a carefree friendship. Now, silence. An absence of sound. Muffled.

Your voice stayed with me through turbulent times. Presently, your voice has stilled. It’s in a state of being alone. Staying away from me. Yet, I hear you. I hear you with my sixth sense. I listen. Carefully. I hear all the sweet nothings. All the words that didn’t hold up. Then you told me you didn’t want to be part of my life.

Even after this, I bless you. I hold you up to the light, and I forgive. I know I’ll never hear from you again. Still, it would be nice to hear that you are all right. It would be nice to hear my friend’s kind voice—the way you used to be.

Silent Voice

As the days go by,
Your silent voice grows thicker,
Thick like a cumulus cloud
Ready to erupt.

Your once carefree soul
Now stands in the mist
Of turbulent thoughts,
Seeking silent stillness.

Day by day you retreat
Further into solitude.

Your muted murmur
Says not a word.
It has no sound.
It speaks without a voice.

Yet, I hear you anyway
With my subtle sixth sense.

I listen carefully and clearly.
You tell me with your own
Sweet sealed lips

That you are leaving my life.

You tell me
That you love me,
That you care about me,
And that you are concerned
About my happiness and me.

However, you urge me to go.
You urge me to move on with my life.
You urge me to be happy in my journey ahead.
And urge me to remember always,
Never to forget!

Yet, all I want
Is to hear your sweet, loving voice.

You can order my poetry collection, including this poem, here: Reflections of My Heart.

Original text ©2025 by Karen Lynn-Chlup. All rights reserved. Image by GerritR via Wikimedia.

In 1985, at the end of a long day, I wrote this poem as that long day settled into dusk.

I had been searching for calm and balance my whole life, and in the hours before me, I prayed and searched for balance. Something to remain upright and steady within me, where the elements are equal or in the correct proportions. A oneness. A harmony. A truth I could lean on, its stillness to quiet my hurt, to take away my emotional pain. I wanted to make peace with my anguish. I wanted to understand balance that cannot be forced.

The red rainfall keeps pouring, pounding down upon me. Yet, I keep my mind ajar. Patience. Looking for the light. Why? I ask with an open heart. Because I know I’m not on the other side yet.

I keep mindful, exploring, with a mindful attention. It hurts though. It hurts to be still and quiet and face all my unhealthy behaviors. But maybe, just maybe, I can do it a little at a time. Maybe I can do it gradually and piecemeal. Maybe I can breathe through it with a consciousness or an awareness while looking and moving forward toward the answer. Together, with the light. With a balance clearly from the divine.

Tonight, maybe I can dig deeper to accept more and let go of my haunting issues about the way my body responds to the foods I eat and its allergies.

I give myself the permission to heal with love and care.

Showers

In the hours before me,
I see no balance.
No sense of oneness.
No acceptance.
No stillness.

I see only extremes
In the afternoon’s
Crimson showers

They encompass my every thought
Its cerise rainfall fails to bring bright
Light even when I look that way
I keep looking for that lit sky,
Which others often find!

But I,
I keep searching and waiting
For that one special day
When balance will become mine!

I wrote this poem in the summer of 1983.

A few miles’ drive from my house, I sat down on a bench, alone. I needed time for myself.

Looking and wondering, I waited for a bit, surrounded by swings and grass for sweet children’s play, but near a barbecue pit where I could burn my writing. Not my poems. Other writing.

After a while, I walked back to my car and picked up my bag of personal writing, then returned to the park.

Standing outside the circle of stones, I said a prayer for myself and for all who ever suffered a broken heart. Then, bit by bit, I watched my hurt, my pain, burn as I stirred the flaming paper into dry ashes. All I needed was to stand there and let it all go.

My eyes followed the smoke up into the sky, moving about from star to star, from constellation to constellation. I don’t know what I was searching for, but there was a quiet seclusion all around me. It felt kind and gentle, tranquil.

I sat back on the bench and allowed myself to feel the power. A translucent light glowed, kindling something within me. It ignited a flame, a flame so bright it has never left. So bright, I could remove myself from the presence of negativity. So bright, I could stand alone in any storm. So bright, I could let the light of self-acceptance fill my being in sweet solitude.

No one could see me glowing, but I did.

Shimmering Solitude

The sapphire sky
Did not shine
Until I saw
Translucent lights
Glistening a silent glow.

It was dark.
Silently, staring into
The star’s night,
I found myself far
Removed from reality,
Looking at the light
Of sweet solitude.

It was the winter of 1983—the coldest one ever. Then spring and summer came and went. And through the seasons, extreme sadness gripped me. Life would not give me a break. It kept throwing curve balls. One after another, they never stopped.

Yet, once more, I knew that if I stayed the course, remained positive, and did what I had to do, I would see the blue skies in a new light.

Those sad months saddened me, moved me, and made me become a better human. I had no choice but to better myself. Through it all, I found ways to rebound, to recover, and to develop the resilience I needed to thrive. I had the willingness to face whatever I had to, and I am thankful I was blessed with the capacity to recover quickly.

Seasons

The ice melted in the depths of winter.
The flowers bloomed in the cool spring air.
And as the summer air crept along,
So did the gray azure mist.

It was thick with sorrow and despair
And the hopes that maybe, just maybe, the sky
Would soon clear!