for Paul Fericano and so many others
I turn first to the chapter
on techniques for broken wings.
I learn of contour splints and anchor tape
and reasons why most broken wings
should not be completely immobilized.
I am not so unlike an injured bird.
Struck down by grief, I too, am unable to fly.
Even walking, I find I’m off balance.
I’m best treated without an audience.
I heal best with absolute calm.
I was unsure at first why my friend
would have sent me—along with tea,
chocolate, crackers and sweet biscuits—
a book on “kitchen healing:”
how to treat injured wildlife at home.
But there beneath the image
of a simple wing break, I read,
a sentence like a prophecy:
“Nature starts the healing process
almost as soon as the injury occurs.”
And I feel, to my surprise,
the tender places where the bones
of my wings no longer protrude.
And though my joints are rigid,
with supports, I’m recovering.
And I am thankful for all the hands of friends—
unskilled, untrained, yet willing to try.
Hands that send letters and blankets
and feathers and books. Calm hands
that help heal these fractures until I can fly.
*Quote from Care of the Wild Feathered & Furred: A Guide to Wildlife Handling & Care by Mae Hickman and Maxine Guy (Unity Press, 1973)
Posts Tagged ‘healing’
How the Healing Happens
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged bird, book, friendship, gift, grief, healing on October 16, 2021| 6 Comments »
Stubborn
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged brain, healing, heart, path, stubbornness on October 13, 2020| 4 Comments »
When the brain is separated from the heart, it is capable of doing terrible things to each other and the planet.
—Jane Goodall
And so I try to tend the path each day
between brain and heart.
Whatever smallnesses I trip on,
I try to remember to bow as I remove them.
Whatever weeds try to overrun it—
weeds of should and shame—
I try to yank them out, knowing full well
I never get the whole root.
The more I travel the path,
the easier it is—
though steep sometimes,
and the effort to go on
makes me weep.
And sometimes, it feels unfamiliar,
though I’m sure I’ve travelled this way before.
Frightened, lost, tired, exposed—
yet I try to find and preserve the path.
Because the stakes are too high
when the path is gone.
Because the healing is so great
when I honor the path
step by stubborn step.
The Burn
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged burn, healing, love on October 8, 2020| Leave a Comment »
I keep a bag of frozen peas
for nights like tonight when
I am clumsy and burn my skin.
I press the cold bag against
the angry red welt and always
I marvel how quickly it helps—
until the bag is taken away.
I would like to be your frozen peas,
want to be what you reach for
when the world burns.
When you wince with hurt,
I would make it feel better,
if only you hold me,
if only you don’t let go.
So Far Away and Not Allowed In
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged dad, daughter, healing, hospital, separation, touch on May 13, 2020| 12 Comments »
Because I cannot be there to hold my father’s hand,
I walk into my children’s room and hold my daughter and son—
as if love in one room emits a wave strong enough
to be felt many states away. Because I am afraid,
I don’t try to pretend I am not. Tears run hot
down my face and I don’t dam them.
When they dry, I let them dry.
Because I am helpless to fix my father’s kidneys,
I tell him I love him, as if words could help
filter his blood before returning it to his heart,
his tender heart.
Because the helicopter is flying him to Miami,
the blades of my worry begin to spin.
Because I can’t stop them, I turn them
into a giant wing that carries prayers
into the rooms where I’m not allowed to go.
And though I’m not there, I hold his hand,
imagine it heavy in my own. Because maybe
he can feel it. Because I don’t want him to be alone.
Other Shoes
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged Corona Virus, friendship, healing, identity on May 5, 2020| 8 Comments »
We all belong to the same galactic oneness.
—Carlos Santana, Master Class
I could be the doctor who, overwhelmed
in the ER, went home and killed herself.
I could be the sixteen-year-old boy
who had to cover his father with a white sheet
before the coroner arrived.
I could be the white sheet.
I could be the lawmaker unable to sleep,
or her pillow that hears her cry out in fear
when at last the sleep arrives.
I could be the rhythmic hissing of the ventilator
or the wail of the wife, or the weary hum
of the custodian beneath her mask
as she wipes the surfaces clean.
It could be me, the eleventh death
in the town next door to mine.
It could be me, the one who
unknowingly makes you sick
because I don’t know I carry
something deadly inside my breath.
And so I don’t hug you when I see you
across the post office lobby,
though my heart leaps up to hold you.
Because you could be the flat line
on the EKG.
Because you could be number twelve.
Pneumonia
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged body, breath, breathing, friendship, healing on April 28, 2020| 4 Comments »
—for A
And if I could, I would breathe for you.
I would inhale and exhale and hold
your breath for you. For you I would
sigh and rant, I would hack and pant,
I would be your lungs if I could. I would
ease this ache, I would carry this pain,
I would take away fear, I would be
the wind, the wild mesa wind,
the late April wind that blows change
into all we thought we knew
and rearranges the meaning of here.
No one could ever speak for you.
But I would breathe for you, friend.
Please, breathe, please keep breathing.
I need you to breathe for you, breathe
for me, please, friend. I wish I could
breathe for you, breathe for you.
Olfactory
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged change, february, friendship, healing, Kyra Kopestonksky, perfume, scent, spring on February 26, 2020| Leave a Comment »
for Kyra
February ends with the fragrance of change—
not quite the fresh earthy scent of rain,
but no longer the white sterility of winter.
It’s the damp aroma of long dead grass
and the must of soil as it starts to unfreeze,
the bright tang of Gemini distilled from the sky
and the hint that someday there will be green.
This is the perfume I imagine you wearing today
as you move from the darkest hours of fear
into the chapter of healing. Yes, I smell it
as I hug you, the scent of making room for the world,
the scent of resilience, of beauty yet to come.
Docetaxel
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged cancer, friendship, healing, paradox, tree on January 28, 2020| 2 Comments »
The yew can live to be over two thousand years old—
a sacred tree that grows large enough for forty people
to stand inside it. Today, its ancient power fits
in a clear plastic bag the size of two fists and it drips
through a clear plastic tube into the chest of my friend.
In three days, she will not want to move. She will not
want to eat. She will wonder if it’s all worth it.
It will last a week. So strange that a plant
that causes death when consumed will help
to save her life. Her hair has been gone for weeks.
But today, on her last day of chemo, I marvel
at how she is being infused with evergreen
in the hopes that she will transmogrify, carry
in her the mystery that grows in the bark of the tree.
When a yew branch touches the ground, it takes root.
Sprouts again. Let her body know this secret. Amen.
As the Chemo Begins
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged chemo, friendship, hair, healing, poem, poetry on December 12, 2019| 5 Comments »
Most of her hair was gone already,
but I guided the electric razor across her scalp,
brown tufts falling into my fingers.
We listened to music, drank wine,
toasted to vulnerability. She made jokes
about not needing to buy shampoo.
I sang along with the songs we had chosen—
choked on the lyrics to “Life is Wonderful,”
hummed when I couldn’t sing.
There are days when wonderful
is so far from what we might have chosen,
but wonderful it was, my hands
smoothing across the new naked landscape
of her head, delighting in the feel of the fuzz,
marveling at the gift of sharing loss and fear.
There are days when we lean into each other
and cry. And such a terrible wonderful it is,
letting the tears come. Weeping them together.
There, In the Cupboards at the Cancer Center
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged cancer, healing, kindness, knitting, poem, poetry, strangers on November 21, 2019| 4 Comments »
Someone has crocheted a half dozen blankets—
one dark purple, another camo green, another
with stripes in every possible color.
There are half a dozen quilts with bright squares.
And someone has knit a dozen hats—
and a basket on the shelf overflows with handmade scarves.
My friend chooses a pink cotton pillow
that someone has sewn in the shape of a heart
and a long creamy scarf, impossibly soft.
She would rather be anywhere but here,
but look at that smile as she dons the scarf,
as if its stitches are keeping her from falling away.