Compression Socks

A poem about coming to "grips"

The Everyday Mystic shares poetry, reflections, and sacred stories to nourish the soul and awaken the divine within. Always free to read. If these words find a home in you, becoming a supporter helps them travel farther.

With open hands and a grateful heart—blessed be.

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One of my favorite poets on Substack is Sherman Alexie, a prolific writer and creator of the film Smoke Signals.

His poetry is like nothing I’ve witnessed. It doesn’t really rhyme, the stanzas are broken up kind of arbitrarily, but they use everyday occurrences - a basketball game, a trip to town- to tell tremendous stories, life lessons learned about truth, friendship, and spirituality learned growing up on the “Rez,” as he would put it.

His latest post inspired me to write a poem of my own — about a simple event in my life, and the thoughts that arose in that moment.

Please read it with an open heart.

Compression Sock - A Self-Portrait of Sorts

Compression Sock

I sat on the edge of
the king-size bed and
picked them up, those
long, black, vile things I

dreaded for so long but
at last I had to start wearing
them - partly because my veins
had swelled up like thin, red

ballons used to make animals
for children at the park, and
also my doctor said these things
only get worse or you can visit

a specialist but anyways I roll up
the skin-tight death traps
carefully and my Mary Hume
“Almost but not quite”

fully-healed thumb starts
throbbing with the pinching
and my mind zooms back to
that almost a year ago to

the day, “oh fuck” moment of
walking dogs in the park
when an invisible tripwire
sprang up out of nowhere

and down I went, plunging
to the hard concrete, my
left hand a blood mess sans
thumbnail, and aren’t we all

so fragile in these meat-suit
bodies that we wear like clothes,
putting so much care into and
get back only increasing pain

and inconvenience, all the while
dwindling back into dust and breath,
until we’ve had enough and let go,
and welcome spirit in with open

arms but finally my toes are
in and I can wiggle, stretch,
pull — over the heel and over
the calves, keeping just below

the knee, then getting up to go
make coffee and trying so hard
not to think about tomorrow
and how I’ll have to do it all over

again.

Please go read Sherman’s poems that inspired this post - and subscribe! His work is amazing!

Heavy Hands

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Thank you for reading. If this offering stirred something in you—a memory, a question, a quiet ache—I’d love to hear it. Feel free to share your reflections in the comments, or pass this along to someone who might need a gentle rhythm today.

This is a safe space—for all who hunger and thirst —

For the light of the Spirit.

With warmth,

Aaron