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Posts Tagged ‘shame’

For When I Am Hard on Myself

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , on August 4, 2025| 3 Comments »


 
If you can soften your body, your heart can settle, and if your heart can settle your mind can listen.
—Augusta Kantra
 
 
When you are full of self-regret and turn
your fists on your own heart, I hope you will
recall that summer afternoon when you
dove headlong in the pond and floated there
until your fingers pruned, until hard thoughts
were soft as milkweed down, until you were
a gentle thing without a thorn, until
you were the song of birds and frogs and dusk …
 
I know how shame and not-enoughness turn
us on ourselves. And that is why I plant
this seed of memory. When shame shows up,
remember, self, you float. Remember, you
can soften. Love, like water, gentles us.
Such gentleness is how we learn to listen.

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Freedom Night

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , on August 23, 2023| 4 Comments »

All those words
I was afraid to say,
I gave them wings—
dark ink black wings—
and watched them
fly away, watched them
dive and circle,
swoop and soar,
enchanted by their flight.
The cage of shame
I’d kept them in,
it disappeared,
till all that was left
in me was sky.


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One Cultivating Compassion

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , on December 11, 2020| 1 Comment »

meeting shame in a back alley

I decide to rename it

good teacher

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Not Your Everyday Joy Ride

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on January 24, 2018| Leave a Comment »

 

 

 

No, this time Shame suggests

you take the driver’s seat,

and though you’re nervous at first,

it’s so fun—your hands

on the wheel, your foot

heavy with bliss—you split

the scene so fast

that Shame begs you to pull over,

leaps from the car, then tries

to hitch a ride home.

Meanwhile you speed

toward the sunrise as it

crooks its long pink fingers

at you, tugging on the hood,

making the whole world

blush. Yeah, you think,

it’s nice this way.

Out the window, the birds

are just beginning to sing.

 

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In the Maze Again

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , on October 11, 2015| 2 Comments »

It’s not shame itself we want to lose

but the shame about our shame.

Shame itself is as innocent

as bliss or love or joy, only

we seldom want it to linger.

A woman walks through rows of corn

and knows her own shadow.

She does not lament its shape,

but uses it to guide her.

There is teacher in everything,

even the corn dried on the stalk. Even

the wanting to push shame away.

Even the arm that rises up

to embrace our own shadow,

impossible as it is.

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Again

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , on January 16, 2014| 1 Comment »

Dressed in a hat I knit him, shame
invites himself on my morning walk.
I do not attempt to ditch him.

Don’t exactly encourage him
to stroll along, either.
He is limping. He catches

me noticing, reminds me
that I kicked him in the shins. I don’t remind him
it was an accident. He had tripped me.

“I’m sure you didn’t mean to,” he says,
reading my mind as he always does.
He curls his hand around my shoulders.

Pulls me closer. Says, “You know I’m
the only one who will always be with you.
I’m the only one who really knows you.”

Now I do pick up the pace.
“You can’t outrun me, doll,” he says.
He knows I hate it when he calls me doll.

I stumble on a patch of ice and start to fall.
He hustles to catch me before I hit
the ground. I can’t help but notice

the limp is gone. Part of me wishes
he’d let me fall. I don’t want him around.
But the other part surrenders

as he holds me in his strong, familiar arms.
“Doesn’t it feel good,” he says. “You know
you want it, doll.”

I sputter, “Don’t …” and he kisses me
long and slow. I can taste the curl
in his lips. Shit. He knows how

I love it when he does that little
kissy hum, and he does it, and then
he lets me fall.

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How She Serves You

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , 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.

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Regarding Forgiveness

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , on July 22, 2012| 7 Comments »

I am not fit to tend that garden yet.
Though I walk by it every day. Though it
is on my property. Though there’s a thriving
patch of shoulds sprung up around the fence.

The gate is twined in bindweed, green and dense.
The rows are long-since overgrown with grass,
oregano gone viral, clover, spears
of mullein, dandelion rosettes. I’ve grown

familiar with neglect, at times forget
it’s mine to cultivate. But there it is.
Last week, I stepped inside the disarray,
took one long look at shamed disorder, tried

to see a place to start, and quickly left.
I am not ready for that garden yet.

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