VERONICA LEE

I belong to everything, yet separated
by body and belief.
I belong to my children though life
would convey the opposite.
I don't mean to be a martyr - 
as mother is certainly more balanced.
I belong to everything, paradoxically
no thing.
I belong to the earth, gravity
reminding me of my place.
I belong to my pets as they
claim my lap, my time, my bed.
I belong to the stars and I strive
to remember their wisdom.
I belong to everything and
sometimes I resist that.
I belong to no mother now
that she has died.
I cannot belong to my father
since he barely claimed me at all.
I no longer belong to Eric
but I am lying to myself here.
Yes, I still belong to Eric,
his memory and love hold tight.
I belong to the IRS with each
monthly payment billionaires avoid.
I belong to everything - air, water and
energy creating the illusion of me.
I belong to my body and do my
best to nourish and care for her.
I belong to my thoughts, from fucked-up
to fabulous - they basically own me.
I belong to my truth and no matter
how I pretend, it's always me.
I belong to my power, and sometimes
that scares the shit out of me.
I belong to no one, as I am somehow
a sovereign being.
I belong to the universe and I hear
many claiming it has my back.
I belong to love and know it
makes up every aspect of my soul.
I belong to my house, though I've 
never wanted to be so trapped.
I belong to money and that's been an
interesting dance I'm trying to grace.
I belong to commercialism, capitalism and
all things programmed into me by society.
I belong to my lineage, as multi-diverse and
blended into homogeny as it's become.
I belong to my poetry, ever wanting
to express through me, unfiltered.
I belong to my words which run faster than
I can tame, and are supposed to be impeccable.
I belong to life, death and absolutely everything.

Returning home...
What does this even mean?

In the literal sense... I did.
Evacuation order lifted.
Gratitude. Grace.
The drive.

"Thank You Firefighters!"
welcomed me back to the 
Residents Only area.

Tears of relief.
My road, my driveway,
my sweet little home.
Messy, but unharmed.

My feet, hesitant from
leftover shock, carried me
inside, room to room.

Glances for things 
intact and mine.

But mine is an illusion, 
isn't it?

Are the drapes mine?
The couch? The dust?

I sweep away cobwebs.
Feather duster my way
from shelf to shelf.
Photos... too many to 
pack in an emergency.

But mine?

I wish to claim it all.
In that claim I grasp
at security, permanence. 

In this living room,
permanence stopped
breathing - twice.

In this home, I witnessed
uncertainty in plans,
lost dreams of being married
for fifty years.

But we did make it to 
twenty-five, celebrated
here in this home.

And more impermanence
as I held her hand, too.
Same living room, same
hospital bed, same hospice.
Just a different week, 
a different loved one.

Were they returning home?

Three years have passed
and there are still times I
dread returning home...
to the loss, the emptiness,
the dust, and even 
the pictures.

But it's the only home I have
and I want to claim it as mine,
although it isn't.
I can't sell it, or remodel,
or make major decisions.
But I can act as if it's 
mine, fill it with things
called mine, hold tight
to some kind of order,
cleanliness, style...
and experience a 
sense of home.

A home that had two 
parents, four children,
numerous pets and, 
at times, my beloved mother
each returning home
for the evening, for the 
holidays, for the summer.

But two have left,
transcended these living
rooms walls forever.

Two have grown and
moved to bigger places -
the real world, maybe.
And, yes, they do still
return home for visits.

And then there are the  
younger two, ready soon
to move on to adulthood
and find their ways through 
life, ever unfolding.

So the impermanence 
rises again...
again bringing me to the 
realization that home,
to me, is the most
sacred of words.

Regardless of growing children,
terminal illnesses, potential fires,
or the nuances of ownership, 
it is always my intention to welcome
myself back... returning home.

Right here, right now, I am centered.
It helps to be led by a soft invitation.

My head aches.
Smoke.
Tinged sky of smoke and ashes
bronze the room.
I am safe inside.
Separated by walls and a window,
relying on conditioned air,
though I don't think it is being cleansed.

There's heaviness in my lungs,
and breathing feels tight and shallow.

Yet... centered.
I am right here, right now.

My eyelids, too, feel heavy.
Sleep has been fleeting, as adrenal
gland warn my whole system to
stay alert.

Watch. Notice. Listen. Smell.
Right here, right now, centered,
yet alert.
Alertness unfolding to the next
moment - just in case.

My mind wanders to Wednesday,
the before moments, when going
to Costco felt necessary
but heavy.
I don't like crowds or shopping,
but it was a task we committed
to take.
And we left.

The dog, alone in the house, in 
the woods, in the dry summer of
fire season.

I only left her because I knew 
Kendall was right up the road 
and could get to her,
if necessary.

When has it really been necessary?

Yes, past scares, but never more
than minor... and far away.

"I smell smoke," she said when she
called me, "can you check?"

So, check - and a photo was posted
on our town page. Evidence.
Smoke rising from that bend - I
know that bend too well!

She headed home - a
four minute drive.
And by the time she got there,
the evacuation had been ordered.
"We're leaving," texted my neighbor.

Technology let us FaceTime her.
I drove, Delaney held the phone.
A forty minute drive home 
for us. 

The cat, the dog, Dad's ashes, 
that red file with our passports and 
documents, photo albums... 
What else?!

"Callie's barking and whining at me!"
Not her behavior...Did she sense Kendall's panic, or was
she warning of things unknown?

GET OUT!

Foot to pedal - forty minutes
of forever to get there!

Breathe. Stay calm.
She's only been driving a few months -
thank God she has a car!

Right here, right now, I'm feeling 
the surges spike again.
Heart rate, once more, elevated.
More shallow breathing.

Slow, deep breath.
Right here, right now.
Fill those achy lungs,
stay centered.

We are safe. We are protected.
At least for now.
Nothing is permanent, I know,
but - for now - we are okay.
Right here, right now.

Somehow, I keep forgetting my Divinity.
And my inherent Perfection.
In that way, and only in that way,
do I repeat the pattern of
believing in my unworthiness.

It's not true.
I shout it from the rooftops
of each article I write,
from the lowest chakra of
my foundational anchor in
this body. And, yet,
I forget - too - that there
is nothing I can do that
will make me anything less
than whole. Than holy.
​
And, so... subtle or gross,
the mistakes of forgetting
and then playing out that
forgetting cycle back at
me like fractured mirrors
begging me to find the
reflection of truth no matter
how tiny or shattered
life has made them.

1:11 AM
Angels
Or Mom…
Same.

Tonight is officially tomorrow.
Marking three years.
She was only 68.

It was about ‘68
when she discovered
Metaphysics.

Taught me about
Contemplation.
Visualization.
Manifestation.
​
I lay in my bed.
The place I dread
Contemplating
at 1:11 AM.

The way damage can be beautiful
rips open my heart with tender
hands; strong, calloused, skillful.

There must be a reason, as
reason assures the process.
"Hold still," it says.

I think it's called
Transformation.

The crowning head pressing
through the fabric of life,
ripping a centimeter of wholeness.
Soon to be stitched.
Healed with poultices of comfrey.

The irregular scar, twisted
in patterns of can't-be-forgotten
injury, demanding attention
and compassion for what was
and who is wearing it.
Distinguished.

The harsh words reminding me
that I am, in fact, sensitive and
loving, provoking me to call in
more conversation to clarify
and understand.
Planting feet on the foundation
of love.

My harsh words that want to cut
through the bullshit of life,
always showing up as other but
bringing me back to self,
inviting inner awareness.
Do I allow for healing?

Sitting beside the one you
love most, witnessing the
destruction of terminal illness
as breathing becomes
hauntingly raw.
The sacredness of the threshold
that only one of you enters.
​
Yet, we all must enter, and some
kind of damage will take us there.
We all must enter.
And I trust in the beauty of that.