When all my plans have changed
and changed again, and then again,
I notice the stubborn part of me who
rails against change, who wishes plans
could go as planned. And I judge her—
judge her like I’m a ruler-smacking teacher
who shames children in front of class.
You should be more resilient, I chastise her.
You should know after fifty-some years
you will need to adjust. And these changes
are small stuff. What is wrong with you?
And I feel the animal of myself contract.
If one of my friends were upset about change,
I’d murmur, Oh, darling, that sounds rough.
And with no effort, my voice
would unspool in silken thread.
Could I speak to myself like a darling, a friend?
Darlin’, I start, but it comes out a thick sneer,
and I add, Oh, so you’re gonna fail
compassionate self-talk, too … darlin’?
Begin again. Deep breath. Hey, darling,
are you in there? And I follow the breath
into a softening, my whole body
tuning more open, sincere. Yeah, darling,
my voice is naked now. Change is hard. I’m here.
Archive for December, 2021
Starting Place
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged change, self-compassion, self-talk on December 12, 2021| 7 Comments »
When the Mother of Another Lost Son Hugs Me Tonight, I Realize
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged dark, grief, light on December 11, 2021| 8 Comments »
Don’t even try to be strong.
—Salli Russell
There are some who, when
they turn toward the light
become the light. But we know,
too, the power of turning
toward despair, toward
heartache, toward grief,
toward loss, toward defenselessness,
a journey in a minor key,
and this, too, is an invitation
to lean in and open until,
informed by the darkness,
we find ourselves shining,
luminous from within.
If I Can’t Have You In Person, Then
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged cat, grief, love, mother, son on December 11, 2021| 10 Comments »
Tonight your absence
is a long-haired cat—
circling me, nudging me,
curling in my lap
and deciding to stay.
Is it strange to say
I love the presence
of your absence—
not the fact you are gone,
but the way it reminds me
I have made a life
of loving you—a choice
I will again and again make.
This is what I want:
To be awed by how
you still teach me
to love;
to be inspired
by how you still insist
I meet life as it is,
not life the way
I wish it would be.
I want to hold out my arms
and lean into the spaces
you’ve left behind.
I want to be as close
to your memory
as this cat in my lap—
how it molds to my shape,
how it makes of my body
a home.
Ode to the Saltine Cracker
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged food, grief, mother, son, tears on December 9, 2021| 12 Comments »
Oh, salty square,
oh, bite that turns
to savory paste,
oh, flaky wafers
stacked in long
white plastic sleeves,
you fed the boy
who could never
eat enough,
attended him
through online school,
travelled with him
in his book-laden backpack,
fueled him as he
researched twin-
turbocharged V-8 engines
and fawned over
Italian luxury cars.
Finding you today
out of place
on the shelf beside
my thesaurus,
an unopened box,
I crumpled,
longing for the boy
who would have opened you.
I’d love to clean
your stupid crumbs
from the couch.
All afternoon, I taste it,
this daily salt
that falls to my lips.
Still Learning
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged aging, butterfly, learning, story on December 9, 2021| 9 Comments »
Tonight when I see a photo
of myself from almost thirty years ago,
I stare at the woman in white lace
the way a butterfly might stare
at that strange nibbling larva—
curious. It doesn’t occur to me
to tell her about what will happen.
I flit by as she stays on the wall.
She’ll learn soon enough. I breathe
into my wings. She’ll learn.
Growing Trust
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged armor, in love with life, trust, vulnerability on December 8, 2021| 10 Comments »
Now since I’ve tasted trust in life
why would I ever
slip again into armor?
The armor of an insincere smile
sometimes as dangerous
as the armor of a sword.
Why would I ever try to know
what to say, how to act,
how to plan, when,
with zero effort of my own,
life itself will move through me,
will rise up in me to meet itself?
Of course, like the child I am,
I forget this trust.
I slip back into habit,
believe I need protection,
fear I am isolated.
But I have fallen in love with life
at a time when that might seem impossible,
and this strange fact alone
seems enough to remind me
to ditch the armor,
to cast wide my arms,
to unsheath my heart
and say yes, life,
I trust you, I serve you.
Why would I not trust life?
It would be like a seed
evading the rain,
like a sunflower
just unfurling
trying to avoid the sun.
Showing Up at Each Other’s Doors: Poetry Thoughtshop on Compassion Dec. 13 5 p.m.
Posted in Uncategorized on December 6, 2021| 2 Comments »
Arriving at Each Other’s Doors: A Poetry Thoughtshop on Compassion with Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer
Monday, Dec. 13
5:00-5:40 p.m. MST
Via Zoom
Bring your open heart, your closed heart, your hope and your pen to this virtual playground, where poems will serve as invitations to change the way we meet the day and each other (whether we choose to pick up that pen or not). As our lives rush by, how do we choose to be more open to love? How do we choose to build bridges—or not? And how might poetry help us celebrate and explore our shared humanity?
In this 40-minute poetry thoughtshop, poet Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer will share poems about compassion, connection and how it is we come together. She’ll also offer a host of writing prompts to help you write your own poems that explore how you choose to meet the world. This event is hosted by SHYFT at Mile High whose mission is to provide all people, regardless of ability to pay, with classes and programs proven to reduce stress, move through trauma, and create connection.
This is a donation-based class. Choose between $5, $10, or $15 to attend.
To register, visit here.
Two Days After I Left the Museum of Modern Art
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged death, ekphrasis, klimt, life on December 6, 2021| 8 Comments »
after Hope II by Gustav Klimt
I am still thinking of the pregnant woman
on the fifth floor in room five hundred four
in a gold and jewel-toned Byzantine gown
with her eyes closed and her head bowed
down toward her swollen belly. Has she
glimpsed the gray skull attached to her womb?
Is this why her eyes are closed? Did she
somehow guess at what I now know—
that to say yes to a birth is to also say yes
to the death of that child—how the end
is in every one of us from the beginning.
It is right the soon-to-be mother
is nearly naked. This is what birth
and death do to us—no matter how
rich our clothes, we are utterly exposed—
not a damn thing to protect us
from our impermanence. I have fallen
in love with her, this mother to be—
in love with the curl of her fingers,
in love with the flex of her wrist,
in love with her flat and ornate robe,
in love with her delicate face,
and in love with her ripening shape—
this is how the human story goes.
Death hides in all our robes.
It’s the only way to live.
One Night on Broadway
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged city, love, strangers on December 4, 2021| 6 Comments »
walking the crowded street—
how many thousands of invitations
to fall in love
Walking 5th Avenue
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged daughter, father, grief, memory, New York on December 4, 2021| 8 Comments »
I am again fifteen
with my father,
my first trip to New York,
and he is not yet
in life-changing pain,
and we stare
in store windows,
eat street pretzels
and look for sales racks.
I don’t know yet
how he will hurt
too much to walk,
how even standing
will become impossible.
No, in this memory
we are walking
and laughing
as if we will forever,
as if there won’t
be a morning
when I wake in New York
almost four decades later
and reach to call him
and thank him
for that long ago trip,
only to remember
he can no longer
answer the phone.
All day, I hear his laughter
as I walk. All day,
I feel his hand
reaching for mine.
While Sitting in 28B
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged airplane, firework, loss, love on December 3, 2021| 4 Comments »
flying toward New York City,
I think of how every person
in this speeding vessel
has lost or will lose
someone they love.
And as we fly over Omaha,
Chicago, Michigan,
I feel how many we are—
a whole hurtling planet filled
with those who ache with loss.
I think of how much love
has been beaming
continuously toward
the prism of my heart,
as if the brightest red laser
has been shining into me,
lighting up every facet,
and my heart, radiant, luminous,
has begun to shudder and rattle
with the charge of so much love.
I always knew it wasn’t
mine to keep—
knew it was all love to share.
This is the poem in which
my heart is a firework
exploding with red seeds of light.
They’re for you, if you’ll have them,
to plant in the darkness
like the million lights that sparkle
outside the plane window.
If I could, I would place
this love in your hand.
I know it’s awkward,
you don’t even know me.
Still, I would whisper,
Here—it’s for you.
Remembering
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged alone, death, father, love, sea on December 2, 2021| 8 Comments »
In the moments after
my father died
I slid next to him on the bed,
and though I held
the anchor of his body,
still warm, I felt untethered
from above and below—
felt the loss of my father
and the loss of my son—
and knew myself adrift alone.
For a long time, I lie there,
too loose, too free,
alone, alone, alone,
and a tender voice
I have heard before
said, Oh sweetheart,
did you forget?
I knew what it meant—
did I forget love would meet me
anywhere I am? And love
showed me in that moment
an infinite sea and said,
Sweetheart, it’s true,
you’re alone. It’s always been true.
And the only thing
that will ever ground you
is not the object of love,
but love itself.
And there in those infinite waters
love baptized me as its own.
No horizon in sight.
And I am not alone.
Universal Origin Story
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged big bang, blank, book, potential, singularity on December 1, 2021| 14 Comments »
It helps me to think
of the singularity
not as a point per se,
but as a book
that contained
everything that is
and everything
that ever was
and everything
that ever will be—
a book in which
the makings
of spiral galaxies
and nebulae and
triceratops and
Tchaikovsky
and you and ticks
and a bullet and
Google were
all nestled together
in the pages,
and if we could
go back and read
that big bang of a book
I believe we’d find
that in the beginning
was not the word
but a volume
of unfilled folios,
a blank with infinite
potential, an empty
space so generous
that everything
might emerge.
Even planets.
Even fireflies.
Even forgiveness.
Turn the page.
Even peace.