from going away
I guess those are the questions.
I guess that is the work.
all the love,
Drowsy I walk into the restroom
Stumbling towards the shower
Four hours of sleep have left me wanting more
My chest feels constricted, heavy, tight
I glance up at the mirror
The mirror always there
The reflection of my body
My empty stare
Then a freeing thought
A liberation of sorts
It calmly says “You have to let that shit go.”
A deep breath turns into a sigh
I walk into the water
Warm and generous
Awakening and cleansing
The thought’s presence palpable
Liberation set in motion
Softly letting that shit go
All the love,
Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew.
It’s the same when love comes to an end,
or the marriage fails and people say
they knew it was a mistake, that everybody
said it would never work. That she was
old enough to know better. But anything
worth doing is worth doing badly.
Like being there by that summer ocean
on the other side of the island while
love was fading out of her, the stars
burning so extravagantly those nights that
anyone could tell you they would never last.
Every morning she was asleep in my bed
like a visitation, the gentleness in her
like antelope standing in the dawn mist.
Each afternoon I watched her coming back
through the hot stony field after swimming,
the sea light behind her and the huge sky
on the other side of that. Listened to her
while we ate lunch. How can they say
the marriage failed? Like the people who
came back from Provence (when it was Provence)
and said it was pretty but the food was greasy.
I believe Icarus was not failing as he fell,
but just coming to the end of his triumph.
Jack Gilbert, “Failing and Flying” from Refusing Heaven. Copyright © 2005 by Jack Gilbert. All rights reserved.
Life is short, though I keep this from my children.
Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine
in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,
a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways
I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least
fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative
estimate, though I keep this from my children.
For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.
For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,
sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world
is at least half terrible, and for every kind
stranger, there is one who would break you,
though I keep this from my children. I am trying
to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,
walking you through a real shithole, chirps on
about good bones: This place could be beautiful,
right? You could make this place beautiful.
Maggie Smith, “Good Bones” from Waxwing. Copyright © 2016 by Maggie Smith. You can find her on insta @maggiesmithpoet
And with that, a new world opened
it’s like wearing augmented reality glasses,
All you need
And so she began showing up early for
So I started thinking about what I’d overlooked
A remote-controlled vibrator.
I kept going.
Do it until it becomes
until you can’t remember what it was
All the love,
*Blackout poem from Editor’s Note of Entrepreneur Magazine October 2018 Issue*
*insert big sigh*
Just yesterday I wasn’t dizzy
Just yesterday I took not dizzy for granted
I took walking freely for granted
I took shaking my body, my version of dancing, yoga, shopping, laughing
I had plans!
To ride my bike
To read a book
To take the kids to Disney
Dizzy halts Disney
If I stand too fast
Or sit too quick
If I move my head without second thought
If I turn around without impersonating a robot
If I move, if I read, if I tinkle
Light, Sound, Vibrations
Make my head pound
And my brain jiggle
I’m pretty sure my brain jiggles!
Migraines and dizzy
Oh the things that I learn
Like “headache free migraines”
Where you only feel dizzy
and other sweet terms
A week goes by
Dizzy goes away
Migraine pain almost on its way
Not sure when they’ll return
But I am def not taking not dizzy for granted again
And then coincidentally
Like everything coincidental
Not coincidental at all
I’m at an event
We play pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey type game
I am blind folded and spun
I shriek in delight
I remember dizzy in another light
I remember twirling in the dress my grandmother made me
I remember the puffy princess dress my grandmother made me
I twirled in the sun until I was intoxicated
All the love,
*photo of beautiful oil painting by Diana Augustine, check her out on insta @dianaaugustineart*
I love carbohydrates and gluten
But they make my belly bloat and ache
Discomfort brought by my dietary choices
Ordinary choices so very mundane
…Yet so hard to change
Off to work, same roads, passing the same exits
Everything seems identical to yesterday
Some songs still remind me of 7th grade
…Yet I am so different: so much has changed
I am okay, so very okay, even still and all heartbroken
Coming to terms with another multifarious reality
Or is it all the same?
Wonderful memories, terrible memories, disappointments, regrets, laughs, forgiveness
and so many words left unsaid
…Yet nothing other to say
I, vow, to feel every feeling, pink, blue or yellow
to write, honestly, generously, lovingly
to honor myself and my experience
to not turn away disappointed, rather, embrace myself tenderly
to give the present moment space, and breath, or at least try
I, vow, to hold every feeling as truth
to remember no singular feeling is the entirety of who I am, or who I will become
I, vow, to cry and laugh accordingly and interchangeably
to call my friends, my soul sisters
to use the strength of my tribe as my own, knowing one day I will repay the loan
I, vow, to remember I will love again, that I have always loved again
to remember that we are on this planet to experience love;
to eventually forget that love can break my heart.
Can you hear me?
Are you there?
I only feel more lonely-
when I see your icy stare
I’m with you
But you’re not there
And what exactly do I do-
with that blank stare
Running, Hiding, Fighting
None of it comes thru
It’s like throwing pebbles at a castle wall
It’s like showing up too late for study hall
Beautiful portrait- Sheyla Baykal Asleep Backstage, Palm Casino Revue, 1974, The Peter Hujar Archive
In reading Yoga Journal’s August 2018 issue I came upon the article “Soul Asylum” where the author Sally Kempton talks about refuge and finding a place that gives our soul shelter. She writes “On a bad day, your place of shelter can restore your soul.”
And so I think of the rough past few weeks, of the sadness I feel, and of the refuge I have found. No doubt this refuge has helped me endure, keep hope and remember things known to me within the depths of my being. My refuge is composed by: my children’s affection, the mala on my wrist reminding me of beautiful moments of growth during teacher training closing ceremony and a song which upon starting on Spotify almost made me cry “Mere Gurudev” by Krishna Das.
As KD sings about flowers, offerings, and not having much but dedicating it all. I am soothed not only by the lyrics and the violin but also by the offering and feeling. Wherever you are today I hope you find something that reminds you of your truth and gives you solace if even for a moment in time because these moments let us continue.
All the love,
More of me showing up every time
A little more color, a little more rhyme
More reason with the seasons
More freckles with the sun
Some hairs turn gold, some the color of snow
In the mirror more wrinkles around my eyes
Prescription glasses pulled out more of the time
My skin still a mix of ivory and yellow
…the color of cream pie
My mind vivacious- the dreams more clear-
My words more free, more gentle, more kind
More me showing up with time
The marks on my skin beautiful aging, beautiful lines
All the love,
***Beautiful art work by Stefanía Pinsone on Instagram @stefaniapinsone