VERONICA LEE

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.

"Is this slow enough for you?" hit a soul cord,
touching the vibration of stretching myself
insignificant.

Alone,
in this world of illusions, or of
only me.

"I am God. You are God. We are all our own God,"
she taught me.

As my human-spiritual self was developing
gross awareness, the fear - horror - made
me wonder, "I caused all this? The wars? The suffering?"

It was meant to be empowering, but
it was daunting, guilt-provoking.
Too much power to carry on a young girl's
shoulders.

But I could visualize, manifest, use magic.

And...
isolation.

"You are going to hell," other children
would tell me, as I did not go to church.

Separation from peers, separation from
Christian standards, separation from 
the vibrational norms of density and
forgetfulness.

Oh, how easily we forget!
But what did I remember?
How to survive, I suppose.

Slow, slow, slow the intensity,
forget what they forgot,
pretend not to know,
play out learning.

"Life is about lessons. Whatever we don't learn
in this life, we come back to learn next time,"
she taught.

I was not interested in school - elementary,
earthly or etheric. It felt all so...
bullshit.

Separation from teachers, from knowing...
lessons all day, and spilling into my home life.

I rejected homework. And she didn't force 
me; she believed in natural consequences.
And I cared nothing for a grade.

So, I was deemed "bright, but lazy."

Lazy washed over me with proof.
My mom must have been lazy, too, 
as evidenced by our house.
But she did like to read and learn.
What did I like to learn?

I liked to teach.

The teacher who softens her vibration
so people can hear her, take in her lessons.
Although there is really nothing to learn;
simply remember.

And decades passed.

Permission granted by the mystic who
saw me, recognized my soul, taking me
back to witness the child who needed
to fit in, encouraging me to be as awake
as I came in.

"They're not burning people at the stake anymore,"
she assured me.

But I wonder sometimes...
perhaps after all these years I've bound myself
to the stake of acceptance, righteousness and 
living into my true
vibration.

Sizzle. Sizzle. Pop.
The scent is unmistakable.
Even the dog waits hopefully.
She always does.
She knows a treat will 
     encourage her to sit obediently,
     offer a paw of accordance,
     and gently take - or sometimes
     snap from the air - the piece
     of bacon.

When my daughter asked if
I wanted any, she mentioned 
it in code: B-A-C-O-N.
As if the aroma wouldn't soon
give away our secret.

She cooks in her swimsuit;
t-shirt and shorts covering up the 
intention for our afternoon.

We are going to the R-I-V-E-R.
But, like the treat, our Callie girl
will pick up clues.
     The water sandals,
     the stack of towels - she always
     claims the driest one, eventually
     marking each one with wetness, 
     mud and sand.
     The beach chairs
     and, of course, snack bag.
All of which she feels entitled to.

Today she will tolerate a new
contraption. The twins bought her
a lifevest. She already gave a look
of embarrassment when they exictedly
tried it on her. A floating coat for a water dog - 
a dog whose ancestry saved humans
from water catastrophes. 

But she is a 21st century dog,
     with traveling water bowls of her own
     and rolls of poop bags that fit so
     conveniently into her latest harness.

All this equipment will pile into
     the car around her foam bed
     that lives in the back space.
No, we won't W-A-L-K there;
     we have too much stuff.

Adding a W-A-L-K on the same day
     we go to the R-I-V-E-R
     right after she eats B-A-C-O-N
     would simply be too much excitement
     for one day.

But, I suppose we could even it out 
a bit by giving her a B-A-T-H
when we return.
Though she pretends not to like them,
and will pace and avoid for a good
four minutes in mental preparation,
inevitably she really enjoys the 
     pampering and
     afterglow of shampoo and
     coconut oil to soften her coat.

Her joy is evident when she jumps onto her
     blanket on the couch,
     rolls around to finish drying off,
​     and plays with her T-O-Y. 

Decisions not made...
or aren't they?

The mind chooses like an
arrow slicing through the air
at an intended receptor,
be it a bull's eye, or game.
The skills likely determining
its effectiveness.

So must each decision be as
pointed and direct?
There are too many to track.

I wander through the forest
finding misdelivered arrows.
Arrows of forgotten hopes
and intentions.

But I have not starved thus far.
No, I can easily change course
and hop into my car.
The meats are plenty at my
grocery stores, and I prefer variety,
vegetables and convenience.

But maybe my hunting - my
arrow-shooting - was merely
for entertainment.
Isn't each choice an adventurous
direction in our earthly life?

Some choices, my mind believes,
are crucial. More than crucial -
life dependent.
Am I truly that powerful?

The decisions are too vast to track.
What should I write next?
Is my hand keeping up with the
stream of somewhat-coherent
thoughts and intentions?
And where are they streaming from?
My muse? Divine inspiration?

And when I'm in such flow,
what are my choice points?
Left? Right? Relax? Navigate -
or pretend to navigate - in a
river of possibilities?

So I hesitate at the next line...
my mind foggy from unfinished sleep.

But I made a choice. I urged myself
out of bed. Arms wrinkled from
forceful sheets that begged me to
roll over once in a while.

Exhaustion reigned over all decisions
to fight time and stay wakeful for
the sake of not having a bed time.

I am an adult. No one can tell me
when to go to sleep. It is my choice,
completely.
A tiny corner of my world where I
want to demand my power -
angrily, defiantly away from
structure and should.
Yet no one watches or cares
about such self-navigation -
even my dog rides this one
out with me.
Somehow she trusts in my navigation.

I admire her for that.
The innocence of following her master.

Who is my master?, I wonder.
Is it a choice to take the reigns
more compassionately?
To use gentleness in the pull?

As I pause, I want to find a sweet,
delicate answer... to find something
profound and permanent to bring
peace of mind to my many confusions
on choice, decisions and whether
or not I am good at making them.

Or if not making decisions is kindly
acceptable or even possible.

It's July 3rd.
Three years ago it was three weeks
until your death.
We knew it was coming but when, exactly?

But July 3rd meant fireworks in our town.
A silly tradition that I found both
embarrassing and convenient.
What town celebrates the 3rd of July?
A redneck, backwards one?
One with a struggling budget seeking
low prices on fireworks masters?
Yet, it did make for a prolonged
Independence Day celebration,
sort of like Christmas Eve, I guess.

But this was a different 3rd of July.
This one had you bound to a
hospital bed in our living room.
A breathing machine's mask
strapped to your face.
Its beeps and warnings reminding
us of the fragility of your being.

As night approached some of
your dad-friends offered to come
sit with you - to monitor the machine,
adjust the mask, watch over you
with laughter and conversation.

I demonstrated the intricacies
of the cough machine.
This was slightly more daunting -
had to be done in balance
with the breathing machine.
Two machines to do for you
what was becoming too difficult
for you to do on your own.

Hesitantly, yet needingly, the girls
and I left for the town festivities.

We wandered through crowds
seeking fun... maybe familiar faces...
a chance to be outside the house
and away from all that machinery
and caregiving.

No one knew. People laughed
and shopped at booths and
bought ice cream.
Excitement grew for the
upcoming sky show.

I wavered between trying to
grasp a semblance of joy and
witnessing my inner numbness.
Normalcy would be gone forever.

With very few dining choices,
we happily landed in the line of
Cafe Luna - a place, like you,
that is now gone.
And we sat on the curb and ate.
Filling our bellies with real food,
something you could no longer enjoy.

So there it was - that night - with
you at home being tended to while
the girls and I embarked on
strained celebration.
​
And here it is - this day - three
years later with you now gone and
the girls and I contemplating
whether or not to go watch
fireworks on the 3rd of July.

All the things that felt given
were possibly not.
Taken?
Did I take too much?

Poured out from the belly of
a far too young mom,
married only to escape the 
chaos of her home,

We knew poverty.
Even with Dad, but
struggle was the only known.
That, and survival.

But the poverty was not
just in money, but in fathers.

Each abandoned the 
feminine of us, leaving 
behind broken hearts,
broken homes and 
more survival.

Thankfully, Mom landed
in the mailing room of
buddy Silicon Valley.
Times were against 
young, single moms,
but not her tenacity.

Yet the woundedness from
her own childhood trauma -
parental kidnapping, 
abandonment, orphanages,
foster homes and, when
there was no more room
and age betrayed her,
juvinelle hall and even a
mental hospital - encapsulated
her heart for preservation.

It was only meant for me,
her one adored child.

But relationships were not
so fortunate.
For her and her sisters - 
also teen moms.

We were a pod of
doing-our-bests, within
the matriarchal arms 
of my determined mom;
oldest, wisest and - 
in her eyes - absolutely
responsible for all.

Our home a haven for
children and moms in need.

What was given?
I can't see given.

But I still had a vision
of better, of family,
of fairytale, I suppose.

But I only knew abandonment
and dysfunction, so what
I found matched the
woundedness
of my story.

Who was I to have a love 
each wanted but only
arrived as pain?

Was I waiting for the gift
of a foundation that had
not been walked? Or 
did I have to build it?
With what?

I had to rearrange the
fencing around my heart,
face the patterning 
I inherited.

So perhaps that's what was 
given? The vision to see,
to heal, and to allow love in?
Or did I take opportunities
that challenged me to grow?

I still wish for given, still
hope and hold my arms 
wide open for given.
As I often wonder if 
taking is an old pattern of
​survival, still waiting to heal.

Inspired from a line in a poem by Afaa Michael Weaver: "all the things that felt given"

​

Most days I still feel joy.
Subtle, inward, almost unnameable. 
But the relief - it's still there. 

This week, joy has been so soft,
so quiet, that I've almost forgotten her.
I sense she's needed a respite;
to dive gracefully beneath the surface
of ordinary.

So ordinary is all I can see, and the 
plainness of her is unnerving,
sad even.
I feel sorry for ordinary, yet I can't 
seem to face her directly.
There's something in her presence that
frightens me.
Her eyes peer too deeply into 
my soul.
Where I hope she finds substance.

What if ordinary rejects me,
as I often do her?
What does that say of us?
Of the tension between us?

Oh, I must find joy!
I feel so much safer when
she's in the room.
It makes everything - well - 
lighter.
I somehow find value in her eyes.

Sorrow, you ask?
Who mentioned sorrow?!
I don't necessarily want to 
speak of her, as conjuring up
her name is far too risky.

Call me superstitious, but I was
always taught that we draw to us
that which we focus on, so I would rather
not give a line or more to sorrow.

Oh, but I see you've invited her.
So I will respectfully give 
her space... as long as she doesn't
intrude on mine.

Her name is so soft, you may not 
believe her to be so forceful.
But I've watched her - noticed how
she moves. Quietly, sometimes
sidling up to ordinary - or even joy - 
and steals the spotlight.
She knows she is far more pitiful
than ordinary; her eyes deeper, darker.
You can certainly get lost in them
if you gaze too long.

Oh, just look how many lines sorrow
has swallowed!

I search, desperately, for joy or
avoidance or anything that gives
me comfort.

And, then I spot her... she is across
the room, staring tenderly into 
my eyes. Her gaze too strong to
break. And, of course, she is nestled
right there, confidently between 
joy and sorrow.
I accept her presence, her gift of 
certainty, as her eyes caress the
luster of my soul.
And I feel gratitude.

Inspired from a line in a poem by Marie Reynolds: "most days I still feel joy"

Unconscious, perhaps,
but last night the thought
to call you seemed as normal 
as a weekend night of your
bay area stays.

It was the first time.
Brief, odd. Though it didn't hurt
as much as I had thought it would,
it did catch me by haunting surprise.

Wow. It finally happened.
Almost three years late.

When Jay committed suicide
the aftershock was horror.
Did I have the urge to call him,
or was it the waking up the
next morning that reminded me
of its finality - that it had
actually happened?

I don't know - don't remember - 
as it's been fifteen years and 
I could simply be absorbing the
violent aftershock meant for his mom,
my forever-changed aunt.

I've endured other shocking deaths,
like Brian. Another suicide. He was
our first "practice child" - he and
his sister. But we didn't see them 
anymore, too many years and miles
had grown between us. Was it
the same kind of "he's gone" shock 
and forgetting? I don't think there
were urges to call, just sadness.
And horror. 
Another cousin down.
Another too young lost to forever.

So when you were diagnosed with
this-is-still-too-young-to-die, I guess
I had many months to remember 
it was real.

Caring for you, feeding you soup, 
lifting your arms onto pillows,
hoisting you down into that chair 
with as much expertise as an
unexpectant widow-to-be
anchored our reality into my bones
while yours lost the support of your 
atrophying muscles.

I was sure I would wake up to,
"Did he really die?" on Thursday,
two days after you left us.
Wednesday was a rollover of
your leaving; making things safe
and okay, and hosting friends 
to view your body at our home.
Giving our kids and myself more
time to be with you.
There were things to do,
no time for forgetting.

But Thursday was open, new.
Your body had been taken, 
reverently by gloved strangers;
the living room now empty
of your hospital bed.
Only flowers and incense remained.
And our girls.

We thought we'd walk down 
to the river.
Instead, a phone call rerouted us
to the hospital to bring 
my mom home for round two.

Hospice, round two.
More morphine in small, 
undesired doses.
The remembrance to stay
in my body to next walk her
to her sacred threshold.
Which we did, just ten days
after your journey to 'notherland.

Days, months, years have gone 
by, cloaked in shades of grief.
But I never forgot.

Sure there were times - too
many to name - that I'd stop
in disrupted storyline, so
confused that it had been
revised so drastically. 
Without my consent.

But last night, the forgetting
was so real it took me to
genuine, "I'm going to call Eric"
in that assured split-second.
It felt like a time you were
working in the bay area,
gone for just the week,
our touchstone between
weekends, voice to voice.

But the instant of forgetting
ended with an exclamation point
of, "there it is!" As if my practical
mind had been wondering if
I'd ever forget you actually died,
since that forgetting seemed
natural, vitally shocking the 
system back to the necessity
of purging grief.

As much as I had dreaded it,
the forgetting, the urge to call you, 
was more tender with me
than I anticipated.
Soft, almost sacred - a warm
and painful embrace of our love.
Your heart calling to check in
through the vastness of 
our separation.
​

In the harbor of my longing
is a long and solitary pier,
jetting out to an ocean
of the unknown.

Do I dare dip my feet in?
Practicality tells me my only
option is to dive.

But I am afraid.
What if the ocean sweeps
me away with her courage?

The imagination goes first.
The water is cold and deep
but the weightlessness
of imagination doesn't sink too far.

"Let me experience this,"
I offer the timid resistance.

What is it that I am resisting,
exactly?
An imaginary dive?
And why must the waters be so
cold?

Ah! I'm a California girl and
our ocean beckons only the
brave and thick-skinned.

But - alas - my imagination
carries me to clean, tropical
waters.
And I float in joy.

The harbor, giving room to meet
me exactly where I am, 
waits patiently without
expectation.

The longing becomes irrelevant.
It is only me and the sea
and the warmth of life
cradling me in safe
emotion.

Bliss, wonder, contentedness
and expansion glance 
at the assurance of the 
harbor.
I know I can reach it if
and when I desire.
The longing cleansed by the 
courage of the dive.

My imagination knows how
to swim, effortlessly,
like the sea goddess of 
other realms.
The remembrance tucked away
in misunderstood DNA.
Generations of life and love
and universes beyond
my comprehension buoy
me, enable me to filter the
oxygen from the water, and
dance gracefully on the
waves below.

My mind wonders the value of
such an imagination, but
the sea dancer twirls
joyfully deeper into
clarity and presence.

"You don't even like water that
much," my mind calls out,
"and you're a terrible swimmer!"

Irrelevant!

The dance continues, merging ocean
with air, life with forgetting,
courage with wisdom,
and the wherewithal to dive
​beyond the harbor of my longing.

Inspired from Mary Oliver's poem Mornings at Blackwater Pond 

How long have I been waiting
for something to arrive?

Eagerness for that first solitary step?
Independence from my mother's breastmilk?

Tomorrow would be better.
I simply knew.

Was he coming this time?
Separation from the family triad.
Now two.
Mom and me,
no more breastmilk.
Now toddling.
But what about Dad?

My memories are thin 
and lonely.
The heart strings may have
been cut too soon.

At first, along the journey 
of severing, I lived with my dad.
Hundreds of miles from my 
oh-so-young teenaged mom.
He, himself, in his early twenties.

What did they know about parenthood?
Or the trauma of abandonment
or no more breastmilk?
What?

In the stretch of time living
with my dad, I'm sure I was
waiting for my mom to arrive.

To reunite the bond of
safety and souls.

And she did, but the 
memories are lost.
Only a semblance of
empathy remains.

The shaken triad.

And more waiting.
But Dad would not arrive.
The weekend visits 
tapered off like music
from a passing car.
A car that forgot to stop
to let me in.

So perhaps the waiting 
grew more anxious, 
more intent on a future
painted perfectly in my mind.

Tomorrow, most certainly,
would be better.
I could control tomorrow,
couldn't I?
To shed the helplessness and
loneliness of youth for
dreams manifested.

She told me I could create
anything I wanted.

Magic. At my heart's fingertips.

Vision. Intention. Create.
Seal it all in, sacredly infused
onto the pages of my journal.

My Perfect Guy, right?
He would be the focus of 
my waiting.
Together we could create
our own triad, or more.

Even after we met 
there was more waiting.

The arrival of our wedding day.
The arrival of our first born.
Our second... and the unexpected
arrival of our twins.

But where, exactly, was the landing 
point for peace and joy?
Heartache and suffering weren't part 
of my dreams, were never focused on
for my magical manifestation rituals.

Instead, I practiced waiting for those
hardships to be over.

And then his death. Kids grown.
Love, expectation, dreams, joy,
challenges, all tangled in the 
yesterday of all that waiting.

Now, I find myself waiting for 
my grief to end and the 
​arrival of true contentedness. 

Inspired from a line in a poem by Jane Wong: "waiting for something to arrive"

Let's begin with worthiness.

What isn't worthy?
A human, a thought,
a dangerous act?
My mind divides, justifies
unworthiness with harsh
righteousness.

A murderer... an abuser...
a horrible deed and 
all the crazy thoughts that
lead to acts of violence, 
betrayal, and the 
shadows of humanity.

I want, desperately, to
define, cut, divide with
a noble Michaelic sword.

I feel it in my hands,
but my heart is overcome
by its power.

Righteousness, I insist!
But no - 
my heart emboldens
with courage.
A courage of
unconditional love...
and forgiveness.

Really? 
I almost despise 
that word: forgiveness.

Who am I to fore-give?
Give acceptance before any - 
and all? - acts are done?

I'm not really that strong.

But the courage infiltrates 
my being, and there is a
comprehension beyond
my critical mind.

No, I may not be able to 
follow through with actions
of absolute forgiveness - 
not for my injustices.
But I can experience, 
somewhere in the illuminated
aura of my soul,
the truth of absolute worthiness.

For every. Single. Being.

Undeniably.

So that brings us to honor.

If we are each wholly, undeniably
worthy, then it becomes
evident that we are each
worthy of honor.

Me. You. The planet. My dog.
Your asshole of a neighbor.
The pieces of trash that
may or may not find their
way to the landfills.

No, I do not want to honor 
assholes or landfills.
I cry to see trash that
randomly litters a 
corner of the planet that
I care about.
The woods, the rivers...
my woods, my rivers.

I try not to shrink in overwhelm.

I soften to rediscover the
courage of the sword.
Perhaps it's a sword of discernment.
Perhaps it will help me make
small, yet significant, courageous
decisions on how to best act.

With this sword of light and discernment
I can choose just how I demonstrate
that all of life is
worthy of honor,
including my righteousness,
confusion and desire for
​a harmonious existence.

 

She walks, hesitantly.
Are they ready?
Do they remember their wholeness?
 
It’s a life journey, yes… for most.
And, the new ones are starlight incarnated.
 
We all were, but our remembrance was
locked away in a tighter knot.
Not for them…
but still, she wants to be sure.
 
The fear of remembering,
disconnecting from illusions
that keep us oh-so human,
and grounded.
Safe.
 
It’s a mother’s job.
Her most sacred promise,
and desire.
Her work.
Preserving the starlight,
protecting the being.
Leading them with trust
and conviction.
Absolutely no rope.

She was not able to
leave her soul hidden.
Even when she
wished to let go
of anything that
reflected the
loneliness of being
The One.

Ever flawed.
Ever sensitive,
yet so afraid of
the depth of her heart.

Would her children
own their souls?

She held their hands,
nursed them with love,
encouragement
and the liquid gold
from her breasts.
Into the starlights.
 
For so many moons,
and decades.
Probably lifetimes.
As they are all
her children.
All aspects of
The One.
 
And now…
Now.

Integrating.
walking,
she behind them.
Finally trusting.
that now she
can embody
Heaven on Earth
knowing they
are there, too.
 
Because she now
sees they never left
their starlight.

Move your body, dear woman.
Move slowly, gently as you awaken her senses.
Breathe in the fragrance of curiosity.
What does Life want you to accept?

Breathe again, allowing the subtle notes
of spring to tickle your nostrils.

And sway.
Feel the dance of the tress, the grass,
as the wind guides time toward the unknown.
Close your eyes in surrender.
You do not need to be a witness,
merely an instrument of forgetting.

Sway and circle.
Small tendrils of ecstasy 
spiraling from the nape of your neck.
Around, slowly, with willing release.
There is nothing to hold here.
No need for posture or tight jaws 
or intention.

Lean into the curves of your womanness
with large sensuous waves.
Those hands - oh, the life they have touched! 
Let them travel softly onto thighs, hips,
hugging your belly with 
compassion and forgiveness.

Soften, dear beauty.
Soften into your truth,
your vulnerability,
your power.

Move your body with surrendered sweetness,
opening and closing, lifting and lowering,
swaying into whatever form
beckons you next.

This is your body, your power,
longing to emerge from 
your sacred core.
The witness is within, eyes inward,
as the world evaporates into
only air and music and vibration.

Move your body, dear soul,
and allow your story to be
​experienced by the universe.

An invitation.
I just received an invitation to write a letter to Death.
I assume it's a capital "D" 
but I am not sure about the address.
Where, exactly, does Death reside?
​And I wonder if Death will respond?

Dear Death,
Where do I begin? In rage, despair, fear or some kind of pleading? No, let me begin again...

I honestly don't know what to say to you, as I hone in on the words, merely noting the range of emotions, questions and negotiations that hover, wanting to infiltrate accusingly. But I am trying to stay neutral, to open my heart at this moment of purposeful communication. So, Death, I guess I will start with a question: What are you, and what is your purpose for being? Okay, I guess that's two questions. My mind seeks clarity... understanding.

Religions, philosophers and perhaps even science have tried to define you, your purpose. In a very practical way it seems to be about impermanence and cycles, but I want to hear your words, your directness of identity and, I assume, value.

I am doing my best to be earnest, even curious, but this letter might convey my own defensiveness.

See, Death, I am recently wounded by you... or an aspect of you. I know we all meet you eventually, so it seems strange - victim-y - to label any transition to you as a wound. At least for those of us who've not yet met you. For those who've lost our loves ones to you. 

Again, I am trying to express and speak my truth with as much honesty and neutrality as possible, but I am human, after all.

Perhaps if I were more like you - a source of some kind, a field that every living thing meets - I would feel less vulnerable?

I'm wanting, in this moment, to proclaim that I don't fear you, but I do notice all the conditions I've attached.

Let me just be clear... I don't need an answer, or definition, or understanding of you, really. I think I just need to express how confused I am right now, how hurt I still feel; the grief. And, though I don't actually blame you, I do feel it was important to write this letter. Just to be hear.

Sincerely,
​Veronica

For all the ways love remembers us...
Us. 
Is it two, or six?
Me and you, or the whole of us, including our children?
It must be six,
as they represent four of the ways love remembers us.
In their hearts, in their actions,
the curves of their faces.
You, me... our creations.

What is way number one?
Our first date? The first "I love you"?
Are the ways even countable
like drops in a sea?
Evaporation, rain, even the storms that build
adding pressure and tension.
Should I count the storms as love?
Or perhaps it was our endurance of them?

Our children aren't merely a product of love,
they are beings all their own,
carrying DNA, bad habits, humor
and interesting characteristics.
I so often tell them, "just like Dad," with
longing, love and pride.

We all want to conjure you back to our present.
This, I know, is a way love remembers us.
Even as it pierces with unavoidable pain.

What, exactly, does love remembering us 
feel like?
Joy? Sorrow? Life living itself through our
mortal actions?

And when I am gone, too, will the 
memories fade?
Even our children can't conjure up -
in words, stories, or emotion - 
the exactness of our love.
And now that you aren't here, I'm not sure
I am doing any justice in trying.

Photos, things, stories... all inadequate
reflections of you, but I grasp.
Even in tapestry.

I started a new embroidery project.
A photo of you and Kendall fishing.
An iconic photo.
Your smile, her eagerness, the fishing
line with a mark of something at the 
surface of the river.

Stitch by stitch, I am doing my best to do
it justice.
The strands of gray at your temple,
your form and strength and pride.
I know it is just a rough depiction 
of that tender, yet vibrant, moment.
I know my stitches are hopeful,
verging on the bank of perfectionism.

But that's me. My memories,
my heart, my artistry wanting to convey
just one solid way of how 
love remembers us.

Inspired by a line in a poem by Alison Luterman: "how love remembers us."

Do I spend too much time in evaluation?
"How is your life?," I wonder.

"I'm alive," is my first thought.
But, really, how is my life?
Is there a gauge of usefulness,
of joy, of value?

Aloneness is often the theme,
though that may not address the how.
I am literally not alone
and rarely in my life have been.

An only child certainly has her
blankets of aloneness,
wrapping peacefully the moments
only she can savor.
Or not quite fitting around her
growing, awkward body as the
years of wear tatter its
comfort-ability.

In my sense of humanness
the aloneness felt more vast
than that.

I knew - experienced - an
All That Is, as an extension of me...
or was it in spite of me?
And/or it somehow was me.

Only me.
As self, as God, as Universe
with all else reflections in a
fun house of actions and choices.

So, yeah... that seems to be the
nucleus of the how.

Me. My life.

Now on an illusionary adventure of
ego and self and humanness
ever unfolding in paradox.
As if I don't know or remember the truth.
But, alas, I fool myself that
truth is real... or matters.

So I write. I explore.
I ask, "How is your life?"

And I find the emptiness of answers
and feel into my heart.
Joy.
Simple, unobtrusive,
finely woven into the
fabric of my being.

It misses no-thing. But I experience
it best in my heart.
Where pain also resides.

But the two are actually one, if I
allow the joy to blanket
that pain, with all her fullness
and quiet wisdom.

She will never tatter, not if I
remember to notice.
Witnessing restores her
luster and fullness.
​
Maybe that's the answer to,
"How is your life?"...
a witnessing that restores
luster and fullness.

Dog hair scattered across my yoga mat.
Should I be irritated
or grateful for Callie's presence?

She leans on me.
My back solid on the mat,
knees bent.
I'm reminded to breathe.

The screen is much smaller 
than I need
but I know the cues.
Here.
Outside of the yoga classroom.

Is is more important to 
do the asana correctly,
or to allow my
affectionate dog to offer
and request touch?
With her whole body?!

I know there are plenty of
dog hairs on my back.
And as I pet her, more fall.

I breathe, as instructed,
and lift into bridge.

Just as there are hairs,
there are plenty of distractions.
The room is comfortably quiet - 
sacred, even - but the thoughts.

Plenty of thoughts.
More than enough.
Always willing to rush in
with each exhale.

I curl down from bridge.
Still solid on my mat.
Along with Callie.

Why this moment?
Why does she want this 
moment in the plenty of
moments I spend with her?

I breathe again and
remember there is
plenty of time for yoga.
This class and 
others to come.

I am not sure what to do
with plenty.
Is this a cause for gratitude?

Gratitude and plenty
seem to be intertwined. 
That somehow I must
have the former bow down
to the latter.

But what if the plenty is
scattered dog hairs
on my yoga mat that must
be cleaned thoroughly later?

Or the plenty scatters 
beyond the mat onto 
the floor to be vacuumed
or swept? 

I certainly know there is
always plenty of work.
And plenty of opinions
urging gratitude for 
whatever plenty is offered.

With some firm caresses
and finally a nudge, I once
again have my mat to myself.
For yoga.

Bridge pose is over and 
we are on to the next.
Always reminded to breathe
with conscious awareness.

The sense of plenty and 
gratitude fill my body as 
it stretches around the 
aches and stiffness.
I am grateful for yoga.
I am grateful for Callie.
I am not sure how grateful 
I am for plenty, as it so
depends on what that 
plenty actually is.

I suppose I have plenty of
​time to contemplate that.

My body is an extension of you.
Birthed from your young, teenaged womb.
Tiny, unprepared, barely protected -
your womb, you, me.

Sometimes I wonder why I came
a month early.
Was it to find you a more compatible zodiac
sign, or my impatience to incarnate?
What if it was simply to mark your first
wedding anniversary, somehow sanctifying
a marriage that was destined to dissolve?

And the singleness of you.
Always independent. Ever fierce.
Your red hair making its claim to righteousness
and war.
Sometimes I find red strands in my own
blanket of brown.

I once had it colored, accidentally way too
much red... too much like you in my mirror.
I rejected it.

And, I know, as horrid as it is, I
often rejected you.
Your too much-ness invaded my blossoming.
Or so I believed.

And, as teens do, I began my withdrawal
and rejection to find and forge self.
My body. My mind. My being.

Yet ever an extension of you.

And the pride swells. It swells in my
eyes with sentimental tears. It swells
in my voice as stories of you unfold
with great animation.

And from our bodies, our lineage,
came your grandchildren.

All reflections of you. That fire, that
strength, that ability to dream
the impossible dream!

They remember you with fondness.
You were - and are - their third parent,
more than just a grandmother.

In my body - our body - a tightness
takes hold, emphatically keeping the
grief at bay.

I know I cry your tears, too, as that
was never comfortable for you.
Vulnerability was not welcome in
your body, so you secluded to the
practicality of your mind.

But your heart created my heart and I
feel it beating on our behalf. Your
love was - is - always so palpable.

I breathe. Soften my jaw.
We don't need to clench anymore.

I am discovering safety in my body, hoping
to heal generational trauma.

It is not always easy.

Being an extension of you - in my body -
is not always easy.

But it is beautiful.
​
So, like you, I adorn it. Clothing
that comforts, flatters and expresses
me. My style. All my own, yet
a sweet reflection of you.

For many, the restrictions of the pandemic have forced us to examine our lives. Whether we have been shut out of our in-person jobs, shut in with our families underfoot, or have had to disconnect from our normal activities, this time of “isolation” has offered us a thought-provoking mirror. Most notably, the reflection of how we spend our time - which paves our life direction - is staring accusingly at us with, "Well, is this working for you? Is this what you truly want?"
 
Regardless of pandemic restrictions, it is helpful to face these questions with willingness and wonder. Use the opportunity to think of possibilities, have conversations with loved ones, imagine where you'd rather be, what your life would look like in ten years from now. Ask yourself, “What will my life FEEL like if I keep doing exactly what I am doing for the next five years? Am I living in joy? Is my life fulfilling and aligned with my soul?”
 
Provoked by our collective predicament, our souls are longing for us to reconnect with meaning and joy, and take the steps to create the life we really want.
 
Yet we often meet these soul stirrings with hesitation, concern, and a plethora of “good reasons” to keep our status quo, even if we are miserable. The biggest obstacles we face, when contemplating significant life changes are:

• Practicality – the need to be "stable" and keep everything in place
• Fear – of the unknown, change, wrong decisions, and oh my!
• Uncertainty – lack of clarity about what to do, need for assurances
• Lack of Confidence - Who, me? I can't do that, can I?
• Lack of Support – little or no encouragement or guidance, not enough-ness
• Concern of Hurting Others – If I make this change, how will it affect them?
• Belief in Permission – waiting for a green light from the universe or others
• Disconnection from Soul Purpose – uncertainty of self, purpose or direction, loss of joy

 
Let’s take a look at each one and, in doing so, perhaps do a bit of inner reflection.
 
Practicality
Many highly practical people box themselves in to mediocre contentment that feels comfortable to the mind but lacks heart-luster. Oftentimes they build for safety, and eventually hit the wall of boredom or dissatisfaction. Then guilt (and worry) arises when they think of venturing out. Why rock the boat?, they insist, and tighten the anchor.
 
Examine your need to stay within the confines of practicality. Likely you are far safer than you recognize; you’ve got security blankets galore and can probably cut some up to make that quilt you’ve always envisioned.
 
Fear
Fear is a biggie and can keep one spinning for decades, finding different concerns and scenarios along the way. There is always something to fear. And, for the most part, our fears are simply fears. We meet life’s challenges and usually survive them. Sometimes we emerge wounded and need healing, but - as they say - stronger than our fear.
 
Whether it’s “False Evidence Appearing Real” inciting you to “Forget Everything And Run” or you believe “For Everything A Reason” and choose to “Face Everything and Rise,” the choices in perspective and action are always yours. How would your life change if you faced your fears instead succumbing to them?
 
Uncertainty
The human condition appreciates, even thrives on, certainty. Sleep patterns, the seasons, our daily routines are some areas where predictability and consistency hold us tenderly. Uncertainties feel uncomfortable. We don’t like things being too different from our comfort zone, especially the unexpected. Though we can make conscientious decisions and plan well, there are always uncertainties that hover in the ethers and may even materialize.
 
But even with life’s regularities, there can be sleepless nights, summer storms and startling events. And more often than not, we cope and adjust. We’re resilient that way. Think about your own resilience, especially over this last year’s pandemic.
 
Lack of Confidence
Confidence spans a spectrum for many people, depending on the area. One who is confident at work can be insecure in relationships, for example. Confidence corresponds to our experience, practice, success, and our insecurities. Unless we are forced to do something, sometimes our lack of confidence obstructs action, even if that action offers positive results.
 
As toddlers, we learned to walk. We fell, we tried, we got up and continuously practiced until we became confident walkers. Your confidence can grow, but you need to try things (and fail) and practice repeatedly in order to develop.
 
Lack of Support
Unfortunately, not everyone has a good support system. Parents, spouses and friends may have good intentions and still not be able to support you appropriately. And, even money challenges can make you feel unsupported by life or our system. Not feeling supported can trigger primal fears, insecurities and feelings of unworthiness.
 
Yet, if we feel the earth under our feet, we know the planet literally supports us. Additionally, we can find ways to gain support from spiritual or community groups, mentors, therapists, and more. Learning to ask for and accept support is also important. You are absolutely worth it!
 
Concern of Hurting Others
When we grow and change, we sometimes discover that we fall out of sync with those around us – or worry about it. We believe that changing “too much” will result in loss and hurt, and our fear of abandonment or leaving someone behind can keep us put.
 
A powerful mantra to affirm is, “When I do what is in my highest good, it is ultimately in the highest good of all concerned.” Living this affirmation frees you from holding yourself back in sacrifice of those you love.  
 
Belief in Permission
Do you recognize the subtle ways in which “lack of permission” may hinder you? People who are rule followers or pride themselves on being “good” often wait for “permission” to take major steps, even if that permission is from “The Universe.” Whether permission is direct (getting a promotion from a boss) or perceived (waiting for a series of life’s green lights to proceed), hesitation and holding oneself back because of an underlying belief in permission can be an unconscious roadblock.
 
Notice if you are waiting for permission. Awareness of our patterns is a huge part of shifting them. You do not need permission to be who you incarnated to be or live the life you envision.

​Our life... and its forgetting.
I'm forgetting. Are you?
And the kids?

The forgetting is keeping me anchored,
here and now, I suppose.
Helping me miss you less.
Or, if not, maybe it's bandaging unhealed
wounds prematurely.
Wounds that can never truly heal.
At least not while I'm in a body.
This body. This heart. This wound.

So the forgetting.

What songs did we love together?
That's my latest grasping.
We both loved music and there are
many songs that sing "us."
But my memory can't find them all,
and my heart so desperately wants to.
To string together our story - our kaleidoscope
of stories - into a continuum of remembrance.
But there are gaps on the string.
As there were gaps in our life.

The life I envisioned anyway.

And some of the songs are heavy
with those shattered times.
And those are the memories
I'm not sure how to remember.

I only want to remember
the joy and perfection, bu the
chaos splatters across the images.

The forgetting, I guess, is not just
human, but seems to be my
coping mechanism. A habit
I incorporated early.

Your memories of your childhood were
always so crisp, corporeal and
brought with them the aroma of
homemade cookies. I remember your
stories as if they were my own.

But our own thirty-one years together are
fading, sometimes in chunks.
And it scares me.

Will I have the courage and
wherewithal to capture it in writing?

I once tried. I wanted to honor
you so, yet the pain of telling
our story was too great, my grief
too raw, all of it much too fresh.

So I look at that canvas. Of all
of us. I remember the bittersweet
day it was taken. A fundraiser
for you.

You couldn't button your own
pants that day. I did it for you.
You also recognized the challenge it
would be to get around using just
a walker. So, on a moment's notice,
a friend rounded up a wheelchair
from a thrift store and you were
held.

Held safely by a wheelchair, by a strong
community, by me and the kids.

And, as much as the day
remains in my heart, the
pockets of forgetfulness seem
to be growing.
And I don't know exactly
what to fill them with.

Inspired from a line in a poem by Li-Young Lee: "our life, and its forgetting"

​The sidewalk is cracked. Imperfect,
even in its first few days.
Oh, and printed mischievously
with the paws of our cat.

It needed to be made.
The step was becoming
too great for his wheelchair.
Thankful we already had a ramp
to the front door.

But the step.

So our landlord mixed and formed
the cement. An interesting slope
met the carport floor and the
edge of the house.
But slope, blend and form, he did.
And the cat, of course,
offering her influence.

She was perfect for the part
as she was born behind our home;
a litter of ferals caught
and domesticated.
She is the only of the four
that we still have.

The bulky electric wheelchair
sits empty in the carport, unused
for almost three years now.

The sidewalk, the only strip of
anything on our property that
could hold such a name,
reminds us of the support
we needed and received
during those critical months.
​
From upright muscular strength,
to using the railing on weakening legs,
to being pushed in a thrift-store wheelchair,
to surrendered navigation in the
custom-fit contraption that held
every limb in place,
my husband - once a carpenter
and contractor - should have
been the one to create that
sidewalk to our house.

I felt it in my soul. They knew.
They were singing about awakening.
The words revealing their knowing, 
offering me hope that I wan't the only one 
who "got it."

It was the early eighties, and I in my teens.
A somewhat mystical life, but confined to 
the sanctity of my family.
Early on I learned I could not talk about 
such things. That not every family 
recognized the mystical. That, in fact, 
most were afraid.

Lifetimes of separation. Fear.
Being misunderstood. Misplaced, likely.

But laying on my bed, heart open, the song -
its imperfect grooves casting out the rawness
of the record - illuminated my longing.

The words, with poetic clarity, written on the 
album sleeve,  thumb-tacked to my bedroom wall.
And the lamplight of the hermit,
reminding me I was not alone.

I am now a we, with two offspring still in my home.
They, nearly twenty, are older than I was when 
the song anchored in my being.
It is early morning as we get into my Subaru.
They are not yet drivers, so I dutifully taxi
them to work. A half-hour, one way.

Music is our air. We fill the car with a selection of
the passenger-seat's choosing.
And there is began. The familiar tune...
the beckoning flute, and it calls.

I am clear that I am the lady who's sure
​all that glitters is gold.
And I sing. And remember. The teen, 
the old soul confined to limitation.
My girls carefully applying makeup as I drive.

I remember the journey thus far. The belief
in magic, the denial of my wisdom, the real
life struggles of marriage, parenthood and loss.
Losing my husband and mom too early.

But I still sing and know that if we
listen very hard, the tune will
come to us at last. That I must continue to 
be a rock and not to roll away from who I am
and what I know to be true
as we collectively walk our stairway to heaven.

What have I shaped into, I don't exactly know.
I desire form, substance, understanding.
Understanding of self... yes.
To pinpoint "me."
In this way, perhaps there would be
a revelation, a profound "ah-ha!"
Or, an identity so certain of herself
that wondering ceases.

The shape, as she stands -
well, let's admit she is sitting -
is often harshly judged.
Too short, too wide,
too loud, too intense.

But why the "too"?
Is there even a shape that is
too much of anything?
How could that be, really?

This earth is large enough that
no-thing has been too anything
to loosen her orbit.
So why, then, do I assume "too"?

Shape indicates form and sometimes
I prefer the formlessness.
The expanse of space and
infinity and dreams.
Ever-unfolding.

So perhaps I shapeshift?
Indeed, I do.
I must.
As the confines of this body,
this life are far too limiting
for the bigness of my being.

The shape dances and bends
and knows and weaves and
does her best to open her heart.

The shape nurtures and cares
and is sometimes a bit self-sacrificing,
molding her form around
the needs of her children.

What I have shaped into is a
fifty-something mother of
four young adult children...
all of whom cradled
in these arms,
each nursing from the love of
tired, misshapened breasts.

There is no more milk.
Am I depleted?

Not really.
Worn, perhaps,
and often wondering
about what is forming next.

Is it possible to reshape a form
that has been set in identity
for half one's life?

I imagine a small ball of clay.
I see the impurities.
I wonder about my skill.
The ball is small, solid,
and full of potential.
I press my thumb into its center,
whatever a center might be in a ball,
and feel the suppleness.

Hesitance. Hope.
I slowly form with the assistance
of careful fingers.
I try not to judge.
Find the balance between
intention and allowing.
What shape is calling
to be formed next?

Inspired from a line of a Lucille Clifton poem: "what have I shaped into."

A single bird would rip it like a silk,
and it does.
The sky, or what I thought was the sky,
now open.
Tattered along the edges of this tear.
Not so big, but alarming nonetheless.

Where is that bird, and why did she
rip into the fabric of my reality?
My bubble of what was?

Imperfect under its shelter,
it was - is - still my reality.
Predictable, even.
A me. A you.
A life understood.

But now I cannot see anything
but the tear... that opening.
I feel the beyond and its
forced fracturing of my what is.

That damned bird!
I am no seamstress
but I have learned to mend.
As imperfect, ragged
as my skills may show.

I want the bird.
I want her to return the piece she's taken,
as I'm not sure how well
I can stitch the gap without it.

There is something comforting
in the sanctity of what was.

I can already feel the impossibility
of forgetting the existence
beyond the bubble.
Denial feels safe.

My mending skills may not be capable
of shutting out a new reality.
May not be able to protect me
from the inevitable.

I guess, on some level, I knew
the sky fabric was not meant to remain
forever in tact.
Yet I didn't realize its fragility either.
One little bird.
One.
​
And now me.
Standing beneath a fraying sky of what was,
uncertain - yet now curious -
of what's beyond.
Now recognizing my choices.
Bird chasing, sewing up the sky,
waiting for full dissolution, or
perhaps seeking and making myself willing
to discover what's beyond that
I never knew existed.

Inspired from a line in a poem by Ellen Bass: "a single bird would rip it like a silk."