for everything flowers, from within, of self-blessing
—Galway Kinnell, “Saint Francis and the Sow”
Body that held the bloom of the child
as it grew inside, grew from one cell
to two trillion cells, body that stretched
and leaked and ached and tore, body
that was on board for a miracle, thank
you. Thank you for stooping, for chasing,
for bending and cuddling, for creating milk
and spilling tears and falling asleep as you must.
How empty the arms now, how slow the pulse,
how tight the throat, how strong this urge
to curl into what is not here. How hard it is
to open, to meet the world anew.
And yet every day, you turn to what is real
and, how is it possible, the heart, it blossoms.
Archive for February, 2022
Impossible Change
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged blossoming, body, loss, miracle, mother on February 9, 2022| 8 Comments »
Almost Imperceptible
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged change, current, flow, river on February 9, 2022| 6 Comments »
The winter river
flows beneath
the ice,
then enters
low below
my thoughts,
its song
so slow
I almost miss
its strains,
how all is current—
dying, living,
gaining, losing,
forgetting and
remembering—
how all is
stagnant,
all is
change.
Self-Talk on a Difficult Night
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged animal, grief, pangolin, self-talk on February 8, 2022| 12 Comments »
You are not a pangolin, and yet
here you are, curled in a ball on the couch,
as if tucking into yourself will help keep you safe.
Maybe you wish you had thick scales to protect you,
scales overlapping like artichoke leaves,
scales to shield you from sharp claws or teeth—
but sweet scared self, scales could never save you.
What you’re hiding from is your own raging heart,
feral with loss, savage with pain. Curling in won’t
lock the pain out. And is that what you would want?
It’s so human to wish it didn’t have to hurt.
So animal to want to defend against pain.
So of course, you find yourself in a ball.
Sometimes grief feels like an attack.
But even the pangolin doesn’t stay curled up forever.
And the heart, oh good self, the heart
was made to be vulnerable.
Parka
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged coat, grief, memory on February 6, 2022| 10 Comments »
Each time I go out now, I wear my son’s coat,
sleeves too long, the whole coat too big,
and I remember how the thin blue down
hung from his slender frame, too,
remember how he wore it to school,
when we skied, when we shoveled the drive,
when we skated on the pond.
To wear his coat is to remember he is gone.
To wear his coat is to remember he is here,
here in the way I carry him with me
everywhere I go—not in the coat,
but here in the fibers of my heart
where every conversation we ever had is woven.
Where every memory—even the times
when he said he hated me, even the times
when he pushed against rules, even
the time he told his sister about Santa—
every memory is threaded into my blood.
I know now what it is to meet the cold
without a coat. With my whole body,
I know what it is to meet the night.
To wear his coat is to feel him close.
To wear his coat is to feel how there is
another coat I wear on the inside: A coat I couldn’t
take off if I tried. A coat no one else can see.
A coat of love that fits
as if it were made for me.
The Teacher I Never Could Have Wished For
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged dance, grief, stillness, teacher on February 6, 2022| 6 Comments »
I am still learning how to dance with grief—
it leads me through strange sequences,
intricate steps I have yet to master.
Just as I think I have learned
what comes next, I stumble, I step
on my own feet, I trip, I fall. I never
ask myself if this is a dance I want to learn.
It’s the dance I’ve been invited to dance.
If asked, I might have said no. But
today, grief holds me tightly, as if
to keep me from falling. Then loosens
its grasp as I let myself be led.
I am a student in trust. And we glide,
and I’m spun, and sometimes
we just stand, this stillness
its own kind of dance
I am slow to learn.
Unlikely Inspiration
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged algae, play, thrive on February 5, 2022| 3 Comments »
We used to play with the scum
in the river’s slack water for hours—
sat there with our sticks pulling up
thick green layers from the water,
flinging it against the rocks where it stuck.
A simple game, perfect for a four-year-old boy
and his mother. Scoop and thwack,
scoop and thwack. Joy in the act.
Not once did I consider
the resilience of algae. How it floats free.
Not once did I admire how, despite its lack
of roots or stems or leaves, it still harvests sunlight,
still brings green and oxygen to the world.
Now, feeling rootless, feeling stemless, feeling bare,
I think of that algae, how it thrives.
How the Healing Comes
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged earthworm, healing, worm on February 3, 2022| 18 Comments »
Healing comes less like a falcon
with mighty wings,
and more like an earthworm
that slowly, slowly moves
beneath it all, tightening up,
then stretching out, tightening up
and stretching out, a simple
two-part rhythm. Some days,
that is all the body can do.
Contract. Expand. Contract. Expand.
In the meantime, through this
artless act, what is dense
becomes porous.
In the meantime, what is stuck
and clotted gets moved around.
What is dead passes through,
is processed by the grit inside.
There are tunnels now in the soil of me,
thin channels of recovery—
a blessed loosening,
a gradual renewal. It’s unhurried, but
I feel the air, the rain,
the life coming in.
Understanding the Self
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged lake, self on February 3, 2022| 2 Comments »
The lake is a good example, perhaps.
Though invasive plants grow
along the shore, though
it is adorned with new piers,
though boats float upon it
and fish swim in it,
the lake is not any of these things.
Whatever is lake is still lake.
Even if you pour dye into it
and it changes color.
Even if weeds grow from the bottom
or algae blooms on the top.
And though we might call it
by different names, those names
are just strings of syllables.
The lake is still the lake.
The self is like a lake.
Though we try to label it
baker or banker or mother or cop,
should any of these labels change
the self is still the self.
Though it wears brown boots
or flip flops or goes barefoot.
Though the hair grows long
or the nails are short.
Whether its days seem perfect
or full of mistakes.
The self is the self, unperturbable.
Like a lake.
All Is Water
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged grief, mother, river on February 1, 2022| 20 Comments »
One river gives
its journey to the next.
—Alberto Ríos, “When Giving Is All We Have”
I thought it was I giving the journey to you.
You gave your journey to me.
I thought I was the head waters,
but I have become your tributary.
Now I carry your turbulence. I carry your calm.
I carry the waters of my own breaking.
A river follows the same changing course,
but the water moving through is always new.
Let’s name this river the river of sorrows.
Let’s name it the river of love.
New, is it any wonder I am startled by this journey?
Old, is it any wonder I am still longing to give?
Traveling these shores, there are moments
when I feel every other wave that has ever passed and
feel every wave that will ever be, and know
myself a share of something greater, something
generous that is always giving, something
ever borrowing from the current of the world.
*Title is a quote from Thaleus of Miletus