I am again in a small blue room
with the bedroom windows open wide
and the breeze is alive in the thin
white curtains and the boy in the crib
doesn’t cry as he lies on his back
and my eyes are closed as I try
to be boring so he will sleep.
The music on the radio is smooth
and full, soothing and warm.
I had never heard slack key before.
Eighteen years later, it is easy
to feel the sweetness of those shaded
hours in a way I couldn’t then.
But I do not chastise that younger self
for not perceiving beauty. She was
tired. And hurting. A gaping wound.
I don’t lecture her about how
she should be better. I just hum
to the music now familiar and love her.
The notes shimmer like forgiveness in the air.
Posts Tagged ‘self love’
When I Listen Tonight to Slack Key Guitar
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged memory, mothering, self love, self-forgiveness on February 1, 2025| 10 Comments »
Curvaceous
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged body, body image, change, self love, transition on June 10, 2024| 8 Comments »
Once, I was a twig of a thing,
a scrawny, scrappy slender being.
A sapling. A stalk. A vine.
My body rhymed with the y-axis,
with flagpole and street lamp and pine.
Perhaps I thought it would never change,
confusing my self for my form.
Perhaps I was afraid it would change,
my ideas of loving myself so small.
And now, look at me, a tree-ripened pear.
A cumulous cloud. A peony.
My body rhymes with river bends
and nautilus, helix, anemone.
And I am more me than I’ve
ever been—as lush on the inside
as I am to the eye, rounded
and softened and carved.
How sweet these hours when
I love what is here—
which is to say when I love
the change itself,
these hours when I wade
into the mystery, not clinging
to the way things used to be,
these amorous hours
when I revel in my curves
with eyes as forward as a new lover’s hands,
astonished by my own becoming.
Necessary Respite
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged exhaustion, love, self love on February 23, 2020| 7 Comments »
Just today I did not fall in love with the long hallway,
or the faithful radiator or the steadfast brick.
I did not fall in love with a calculator or
with lavender soap. I certainly
did not fall for a loyal wooden ladder,
not for a mirror, not for the underappreciated spider,
not for a door, no matter how open it was.
So many chances, lost. So many invitations unanswered.
There are days when the heart forgets its work—
not out of maliciousness, more perhaps, because
it is tired. These are the days when I hope
that I will remember to sit quietly until
once again the heart finds the energy to love itself.
Then it is only a matter of time before it loves again
the red thread, the socks, the chipped blue cup.
Communion
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged gardening, poem, poetry, potatoes, self love on September 10, 2019| 3 Comments »
At midday, I dug beneath damp straw
and gently ran my fingers through dirt,
and, there, in the kingdom of earth worms,
found dozens of beautiful ruby-skinned potatoes,
each one of them precious in my hands.
God knows I have longed to be found this way—
pulled out from my darkness and cradled,
held up to the light with an oooh and an ahh
and a laugh of joy, though I’m slightly misshapen,
though I’m bumpy and imperfect.
There are days when I see through it so easily,
the longing to be loved, and I simply feel the love
that always exists, the love that grows in darkness,
that is utterly unconcerned with worthiness,
that feels no need for discovery.
There are moments when I can’t imagine
I ever thought I was lost, like today,
kneeling in the dirt, marveling at the beauty
of potatoes, mud-smudged and lumpy,
knowing myself as another who belongs to the earth.
To the Death
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged love, poem, poetry, self love on March 26, 2019| 6 Comments »
And so it is that Love
threw at my feet her glove,
a long white one, perhaps,
but nonetheless a glove.
I took it up because
I knew the rules, and Love
looked me right in the eyes
and speared me with her words:
“It’s easy to fall in love
with spring, but can you care
for everything—the dross,
the dreck, the scum, the muck,
the loss, the wreck, the grime,
the dust? And can you find them
in you, too? And can
you fall in love with you?
One Eventually
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged dark, light, poem, poetry, self love on May 21, 2018| 2 Comments »
arriving in the dark
at my own doorstep
learning at last
to leave the light on
for myself
Gift
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged poem, self love on December 3, 2015| 2 Comments »
with thanks to Rebecca Mullen
Here, she said, her pockets
stuffed with forgiveness,
borrow some of mine.
I take it between my fingers
like a coin and hold it up
to see how it shines,
but I hide it quick,
almost embarrassed
to be seen with it.
All day, I touch my pocket
to be sure it’s still there.
All day, I dream of ways
to spend it.
Who Knows What’s Inside the Seeds?
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged love, poem, poetry, self love on July 16, 2014| 2 Comments »
after knocking on so many doors,
beggar’s bowl in hand, I put down
the empty bowl, and my hands
lost their desire to knock
and began to plant a garden instead
Your Presence Is Requested
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged acceptance, body image, poem, poetry, self love on March 2, 2014| 2 Comments »
Again the invitation
to love the body
this very moment.
Not the way it was once,
all limber and lean,
all smooth and able.
Not the way it might
be someday in the future
if only, if only. The invitation
to love it now. No
exceptions. No rain date.
No directions how to get there.
No box for maybe.
The invitation arrives
as it always does,
without an envelope.
Without a return address.
No RSVP. No name on it
but your own. No trumpets.
No angels singing about
how all flesh is holy. No
clowns telling jokes.
No balloons.
It arrives so quiet,
but so sincere, right beside
the impulse to crumple
it up. Now what to do.
The rising urge to run.
The rising urge to bow.
How She Serves You
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged acceptance, allowing, poem, poetry, self love, shame on April 21, 2013| 1 Comment »
This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.
—Rumi, trans. Coleman Barks
Shame brings you coffee
to wake you. She has laced
it with cinnamon and chicory.
She sits on the edge of your bed,
offers you the warm cup.
This is not what you expected.
For two years, you’ve kept
the door locked
so she couldn’t come in.
Perhaps you thought
she would smell
like rancid sardines.
Perhaps you imagined
she would grasp you
with hideous, deformed
claws and not let you go
or sit on you until you
deflated. Instead, she loves you.
She tells you so. She smiles
at you with such sincerity
that there is no way
to not meet her eyes.
She does not bring up
anything you have or have not done.
You do that yourself.
Good Morning, she says.
You choose to believe her.
To your surprise, almost
as if you are watching yourself
and in yourself at the same time,
you hug this unlikely friend.
And then—is it because you
leaned toward her instead
of hiding under the covers again—
she leaves. Just like that.
You almost want her back.
The cup, though bitter,
is easier to drink than
you thought
it would be.
You drink it until
there is nothing left.
God, you feel awake.
As if you could walk
to Wyoming from here.
As if you could rip off
the door lock with your bare hands.
As if you could meet anyone,
even yourself.