I love my dog. There is no other way to put it: my dog is the best possible thing that could have happened to me right now. Knowing that I have him to come home to, being able to cuddle with him, walk with him, talk to him makes all the difference in my life. He is, truly, my best friend.
One of the aspects of dog ownership I didn’t entirely think about was the fact that having a dog helps you to meet people. Walking with a dog seems to invite people to come up and talk to you, whereas walking alone barely warrants a nod or a hello. I have a hard time knowing what to say to people sometimes, particularly people I don’t know, so having a dog has allowed me to meet many of my neighbors—particularly neighbors with dogs.
There is a certain etiquette to meeting dogs that Marshall and I seem to struggle with. I’m not entirely sure if it’s me or my neighbors that make it awkward, but I have learned this: meeting dogs is complex business.
First, the dogs have to check each other out. We all know what this means, and really, as a dog owner, who doesn’t think it’s awkward to stand next to someone you don’t know while your dogs smell each others’ butts? Then, there is the matter of dominance, and it comes down to this: my dog is the wussy dog. Always. He is the dog that sees a dog, smells his butt, and rolls over on the ground, showing his belly and looking up at you with the whites of his eyes showing. He grew up with 5 Chihuahuas and, even though he was bigger by far, I think it gave him some sort of “complex” in addition to his sensitive and gentle temperament.
There is also the issue of meeting people. Marshall would rather meet people than other dogs—I think he might think he’s part human and, in all honesty, who am I to say he’s not? The submissiveness carries over a bit to meeting people in that Marshall is also “that dog” that I swore I would never have. He is…another Buster.
When I was a kid, my sisters and I would go over to my neighbor’s house to play. We had a driveway that was about half a mile long, and these neighbors lived down the street and up the hill, so it was quite a hike to get there. Upon arriving at their home, we would ring the doorbell, take off our shoes on the porch, and be invited inside, where we would say hello to our neighbors, their parents, and Buster. Buster, a golden retriever, was always VERY excited to see us. So excited, in fact, that he always—and I mean always—peed on our socks. My neighbors would yell to their mother: “Moooooooooooooooom! Buster christened Laura’s socks!” Every single time, they would act surprised and so apologetic, and insist that I go upstairs to the bathroom and wash my feet in the bathtub. We always went home with our socks in a bag. It was a long , cold walk home in the winter when you were carrying your socks.
Marshall is smaller, so he doesn’t QUITE get people’s socks, but he is still a Buster. I like to think he just gets SO EXCITED he can’t contain himself…but when little kids look at me with disgust because he peed on their hopscotch board, I don’t quite know what to say.
Then there is the breed issue. Plain and simple, Marshall is a mutt. A gorgeous, lovable, smart and sensitive mutt. He’s been mistaken for many things: a poodle, a lahsa apso, a yorkie and, most recently, a shih-tzu.
“Ohhhhh!” said the man who lives next to me as he walked down the stairs. He is a very sweet man, but he’s pretty awkward, and one of those people you kind of hope you don’t run into in the morning, as you know he’ll make you late for work. “It’s a little shih-tzu!” Except, he didn’t say shih-tzu. He used that really awkward pronunciation of shih-tzu which places entirely too much emphasis on the “shit” part, before reaching the “zoo.” “I used to have a little shit zoo! I loved my little shit zoo.” He scratched Marshall’s ears as Marshall squatted and peed on the pavement. Luckily, my neighbor didn’t notice. “I had my little shit zoo for 17 years! Awww, I loved my little shit zoo SO much. They’re such good little dogs…I miss my shit zoo more than I miss my wife, that’s how good he was.” He doesn’t laugh. I don’t either. “Where’d you get your little shit zoo from?”
I pause. Do I tell him Marshall is not a shih-tzu? Doesn’t even look like a shih-tzu? I decide not to, and just glide over it. “I got him from a friend who had to get rid of him,” I say, smiling.
“Oh, well I just love little shit zoo’s.” He thumped Marshall’s head, which made him roll over and expose his belly. “What a good little shit zoo,” he says, smiling. I smile. Now, every time I see him, he asks me how my little shit-zoo is doing. I always smile and say, “he’s just fine, Mr. Edwards. How are you doing, today?”
There is also the issue of gender and names. There is no good way to avoid the pronoun issue when asking the dog’s name. You’ve got a 50/50 shot and, while that seems like good odds, it really isn’t. At least not for me. Marshall and I were walking past the retirement community down the street a few weeks ago, and saw one of the residents walking down the street with her dog. A little brown thing with a pushed in nose and curly fur, half the size of Marshall, the dog had blue bows in the fur above its ears. Bows = girl, I figured. The dog yipped and yipped and yipped at Marshall, while Marshall smelled her butt and then rolled on the ground.
“What’s her name?” I asked the woman.
“Huh?” she asked, unable to hear me over the yipping.
“What’s her name?” I asked, louder.
“Heh?” she said, again, distracted by the butt smelling going on in front of us.
“What’s her name?” I asked, very loudly.
The woman looked at me, indignant. “HIS name is Prince!” she said, huffily.
“Oh,” I say. “What a nice name. He’s a cute little guy!”
She looked at my dog, lying on the pavement, gave Prince’s leash a tug, and walked away without saying goodbye. “Take care,” I said, calling after her.
There is also the fact that Marshall has a purple collar. Now, I know our society is deeply entrenched in the pink-is-for-girls/blue-is-for-boys concept, but didn’t fully realize that this extends to dogs. (Says she who assumed that just because the dog had bows he was female….but still). I like purple and, honestly, I just didn’t think that long about it when I bought the collar. My dad consistently called Marshall “she,” until he finally said “your poor dog has a purple collar. He’s a man! He needs a manly color to build up his confidence. No wonder he’s a wussy dog.”
“I wanted to raise a dog who is free to explore his gender identity,” I said, not skipping a beat. “I didn’t want him to feel trapped into the gender binaries of pink and blue. Besides,” I said, “you wear purple.”
“Woah,” he said. “You thought about that a little too much.” I’m pretty sure he wondered what I will be like when I have children.
Names are just awkward in general, apparently. A few months ago, Marshall and I met a woman who lives in the complex somewhere. Her dog ran up to us, but was clearly more interested in me than Marshall. “Well hi there,” I said, scratching his ears. I looked up at the owner and said hello. She said nothing. “You’re a good dog, aren’t you?” I said, returning to the dog as the owner was unresponsive. “Yeah, I can tell you’re a lover, aren’t you, buddy.” I looked back up at Owner, to ask the dreaded name question, but she was looking at me, eyes narrowed and suspicious.
“How did you know his name was Buddy?” she asked, as if she was almost scared to know the answer. I stared at her for a moment, thoroughly confused.
“Oh,” I said, “his name is Buddy? I didn’t know, I…”
“But you called him Buddy,” she said, eyes squinted
“I…well…I think I just call dogs buddy…I think it’s something I just say.” I pretended to be distracted by Marshall. “Okay, Marshall, we’re going,” I said. “Bye Buddy!” I sang, probably too cheerily. “Have a good day,” I said to her.
What was really embarrassing was when I saw them two months later, didn’t recognize them as Buddy and Owner, and asked his name again. She looked at me like I must surely have some sort of problem as she said, “his name is Buddy.” Oops.
Finally, there is the issue of weird dog owners. There are lots of weird dog owners. I might be one of them. However, there is one woman in my neighborhood who is a snotty weird dog owner, and they seem to be the worst. She has two identical looking dogs that are some special rare breed I have never heard of, and a miserable looking kid. I am of the opinion that the kid is miserable because mom spends all her time with the dogs, but this is just a guess. This woman clearly is of the “my dog is better than your dog” mentality. Plus, her dogs get a sick pleasure out of growling and lunging at Marshall and making him run and hide behind me, or lay down in the ultimate submissive position WHILE peeing on the pavement. It’s awful. I don’t like her or her dogs (although her miserable kid might be okay).
Her dogs are fat. Very fat. And, since October, they have been wearing sweaters. I’m not fundamentally opposed to dogs wearing sweaters, but I am opposed to HER dogs wearing sweaters. The sweaters are so tight, they look like they must have been knitted around the dogs. I have no idea how else she could possibly get the dogs into them. Her dogs are not friendly, but she acts like they are, and like they are “so excited” to see “their friend” (i.e. Marshall). The second time we ran into them, the dogs lunged and barked and growled at Marshall, who rolled over and wouldn’t get up. When we were done talking, I pulled his leash to try to get him to stand, and Marshall looked at me and flattened himself to the pavement.
The woman looked at me, with something that might have been pity in her eyes. “What’s wrong with your dog?” she asked.
I looked at my dog, rolling on the pavement, and then at her fat, sweatered dogs breathing heavily from the effort of scaring Marshall.
“I think,” I said, looking back up at her and trying not to laugh, “he might just be jealous of their sweaters.”
She looked at me with a sort of confused amusement, and then looked back at the dogs. “Yes,” she said, with finality. “I think that must be it.”
Okay…so yes, I might be one of the weird dog owners. Regardless, I thank whatever higher power is above for sending this dog into my life and hope that, one day, Marshall and I will both master the art of meeting other dogs.
Autodidact: (n) a self-taught person. Poet: (n) a person who writes poetry. Autodidactpoet: (n) A blog full of thoughts from a self-taught writer.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Monday, January 17, 2011
Write a poem that scares you?
I think I read somewhere that you should try to write a poem that scares you. Well, I did something more frightening than that. I sat down to write one poem and ended up writing a poem that scares the you-know-what out of me. If you know why...just let me know, k?
The Assault on Divinity
If I had died yesterday
I would have died a nobody.
A 20-something with
too much education and
a head full of words that don’t matter:
500 ways of naming crazy,
labeling broken,
fixing it all back to a normal that was never loved,
but my heart
was made for loving.
Filled to the breaking point
my heart loves the silent places that speak
and the monologues that don’t,
the feet that tiptoe
and the boots that stomp,
the small, crayon-filled hands coloring rainbows
and the big, dirty ones wielding guns,
my heart
was made for loving
but love
is never enough.
If I had died today
I would still have been no one.
A 20-something with
too much education
a voice that was made for speaking words no one will hear
reading phrases in a language my own
I have always been
at a loss for words.
I let passion slip through my fingers,
seep into the world
like the butterfly no human ever saw
born in the country where only god lives
she lived 72 hours
flapped her wings sixteen billion times
making hurricanes and perhaps
pollinating flowers, till
she fell to the ground, so unknown
she couldn’t even be
forgotten.
If I died tomorrow
I would leave dissonance in the wake of my life.
The vague discord of a soul that never fit
a triangular or octagonal soul in a round world
people would walk through me in
a quantum leap of time and space
a surge of intensity
a pause where doubt is suspended in
an elixir of cotton candy dreams, bubble bath,
baby laughs
more beautiful than I ever was—
but remember,
love
is never enough.
We all carry bruised hearts and
too many stories of hope turned sour
refusing to release them because hope
is our only connection to god
and regardless of faith
we refuse to discard
divinity.
The other day I saw a boy
knocking on the door of a little play house
like his god might live inside.
The door was painted on, without a knob,
the windows were tacked on pieces of plywood but
he knocked as if hope alone
might make his god come out and play,
as if persistence was all he needed
for his make-believe life
to come true.
I stopped and watched, thinking for a moment that maybe
he was right
I peered to see
if god would answer.
No one came,
but I knew god must just be out because
when the boy smiled
I saw my sisters in his eyes
my grandmother in his laugh
the faces of strangers in his smile
people who had hurt me in his hands.
I knew I had to rewind because
we all carry bruised hearts
too many stories of hope turned sour
we refuse to release them: hope
is our only connection to god
and yet,
hearts only bruise
when our divinity
is trashed.
For now, I keep living
listening
for the bullets that fall
naming the ways we bruise one another
feeling the blows in my magnetized heart
watching the bullets slide, pooling
in the deepest point where they hide,
wounds,
masquerading as smiles and belief
in a bright day dawning, nothing
but hope
urges me forward
reminds me to connect to my god in the belief
that today
we will be restored to divinity,
I am knocking on the doors of righteousness
peering into tacked on windows
face frozen in a smile I can’t own
wondering how justice can be won
when everyone fights
alone.
The Assault on Divinity
If I had died yesterday
I would have died a nobody.
A 20-something with
too much education and
a head full of words that don’t matter:
500 ways of naming crazy,
labeling broken,
fixing it all back to a normal that was never loved,
but my heart
was made for loving.
Filled to the breaking point
my heart loves the silent places that speak
and the monologues that don’t,
the feet that tiptoe
and the boots that stomp,
the small, crayon-filled hands coloring rainbows
and the big, dirty ones wielding guns,
my heart
was made for loving
but love
is never enough.
If I had died today
I would still have been no one.
A 20-something with
too much education
a voice that was made for speaking words no one will hear
reading phrases in a language my own
I have always been
at a loss for words.
I let passion slip through my fingers,
seep into the world
like the butterfly no human ever saw
born in the country where only god lives
she lived 72 hours
flapped her wings sixteen billion times
making hurricanes and perhaps
pollinating flowers, till
she fell to the ground, so unknown
she couldn’t even be
forgotten.
If I died tomorrow
I would leave dissonance in the wake of my life.
The vague discord of a soul that never fit
a triangular or octagonal soul in a round world
people would walk through me in
a quantum leap of time and space
a surge of intensity
a pause where doubt is suspended in
an elixir of cotton candy dreams, bubble bath,
baby laughs
more beautiful than I ever was—
but remember,
love
is never enough.
We all carry bruised hearts and
too many stories of hope turned sour
refusing to release them because hope
is our only connection to god
and regardless of faith
we refuse to discard
divinity.
The other day I saw a boy
knocking on the door of a little play house
like his god might live inside.
The door was painted on, without a knob,
the windows were tacked on pieces of plywood but
he knocked as if hope alone
might make his god come out and play,
as if persistence was all he needed
for his make-believe life
to come true.
I stopped and watched, thinking for a moment that maybe
he was right
I peered to see
if god would answer.
No one came,
but I knew god must just be out because
when the boy smiled
I saw my sisters in his eyes
my grandmother in his laugh
the faces of strangers in his smile
people who had hurt me in his hands.
I knew I had to rewind because
we all carry bruised hearts
too many stories of hope turned sour
we refuse to release them: hope
is our only connection to god
and yet,
hearts only bruise
when our divinity
is trashed.
For now, I keep living
listening
for the bullets that fall
naming the ways we bruise one another
feeling the blows in my magnetized heart
watching the bullets slide, pooling
in the deepest point where they hide,
wounds,
masquerading as smiles and belief
in a bright day dawning, nothing
but hope
urges me forward
reminds me to connect to my god in the belief
that today
we will be restored to divinity,
I am knocking on the doors of righteousness
peering into tacked on windows
face frozen in a smile I can’t own
wondering how justice can be won
when everyone fights
alone.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
A rant.
You know, people joke a lot about eating disorders. People laugh about the girl they knew in high school who ate only ketchup and water for lunch. They laugh about how skinny the celebrities are on TV, and how they look, like, anorexic or something. When I talk about my sister having an eating disorder, people will often crack jokes. Jokes about how they could be anorexic too if they didn't eat so much. Or how I should send my sister to live with them, because they eat all the time. Or how they'll just force-feed her and solve the problem. Want to be let in on the real joke about eating disorders? Want to have a laugh?
I have spent the past 6 years? 7 years? 8 years?... (how long has it been now?)...worried about my sister, and it's not what you think. It's not that they "just don't eat." It's not about food. It's not that they "just want to be skinny." It's not about wanting to be the next great cheerleader or teen idol or model. It's not even about wanting to get the latest cool size 0 jeans from the latest coolest store.
For me, anorexia has meant watching my 16 year old sister, who is taller than I am, wear children's clothing in a size 10 or size 12. It means hearing how frustrating it is to find clothes without a Disney character on the front--about arm sleeves and pant legs being too short, when everything else fits. It means general frustration over clothes not fitting, analyzing costumes for plays and singing performances, and never hearing the end about how "ugly" she looks in any particular outfit.
Anorexia has meant having my sister have things taken away from her--like dancing--that she loved, because she wasn't at a safe weight to continue the exercise once a week. It has meant her giving that up completely because she wasn't willing to gain the 4 pounds that would have made it safe.
Anorexia means screaming matches. It means having food thrown at me. It means watching my father have food thrown at him. It means watching my father carry my 14 year old sister to her room because she was completely out of control. It means having my sister inpatient for weeks and weeks, and my father restraining her to keep her inside the hospital. It means leaving her in a locked ward and only being able to see her when she eats. It means not being able to see her.
It means seeing women who are at home in the locked ward. Women who look like skeletons. Women with nasogastric tubes so they can be force-fed. Anorexia means seeing a skeleton of a teenager sobbing that she doesn't want to die. It means knowing that young woman disappeared from the inpatient unit, going to the hospital, and knowing that she did not return. It means hearing that someone on the ward has told my sister that she is going to die. It means being 19 years old and sitting and holding your 13 year old sister who is terrified of dying. It means holding her, and being in so much pain, you don't even realize you are crying.
Anorexia means osteopenia at age 14 and osteoporosis at 16. It means weight checks and blood tests and bone scans. It means being 18 and not having your period. It means having no hips and a flat chest. Anorexia means urine tests--proof that she is burning muscle because she has no fat in her body to burn. It means a broken ankle that shouldn't have broken if her bones were strong. It means dehydration. It means looking at her hip bones and her spine. It means no butt or thighs.
Anorexia is dropping my sister off at the door of the supermarket because we don't want her burning the calories to walk across the parking lot. It means telling her to stop shaking her leg, to stop bouncing, to stop trying to burn more calories.
It means medications: anti-anxiety, anti-depressants, anti-psychotics. It means failed medication treatments because she didn't weigh enough for them to work. It means non-compliance with medication treatments.
Anorexia means watching her eat the same foods every day for years. It means watching those foods dwindle further and further until they include only a few items, eaten only from a paper towel and a select small bowl. It means watching foods picked apart, mashed, pushed, stirred, swirled, tossed, flipped, ripped, and chopped. It means disaster if we don't have the right type of bread in the house. It means she won't eat anything she hasn't made. It means never eating out. It means watching my sister refuse invitations to birthday parties and get-togethers with her friends. It means having her refuse to invite people over. Anorexia means never eating at holidays. It means watching her cry before holiday meals because she doesn't even want to get a plate to pretend to eat.
Anorexia is relatives and friends saying "but she looks good!" because skinny is good. It means needing to stop myself from yelling at them, explaining that it's not about how she looks. It’s being 18 and turning my back on relatives, walking away, because I know if I open my mouth I will either cry or yell. It means needing to find the words to explain that burning muscle isn't healthy. It's listening to the same relatives and friends tell her she looks good anyway. It's feeling physically ill as you watch her face glow at that compliment.
It means control. Anorexia controls my entire family.
Anorexia means watching her face light up every time she loses another ounce.
Anorexia means being 18 years old and looking into my sister's bedroom before I go to bed, just to make sure she is still breathing.
Anorexia is knowing that the mortality rate is 5-10%.
Anorexia is knowing that she will likely be hospitalized again.
Anorexia is knowing that she will struggle with this for most, if not all, of her life.
Anorexia is not being able to do anything about it. It means watching someone you love hurt themselves. It means standing by helplessly, knowing she is the only one who can do anything to change it. It means knowing that she is the only one who doesn't want to change.
Being a sister to someone with anorexia means no one caring about your college graduation, because they're too busy running from the graduation to the inpatient unit to see her. It means feeling your stomach clench in fear every time your friend says "these jeans make me look fat..." because you're terrified you'll have to watch someone else you love fade into near nothingness. It means talking for hours to parents about what choices to make, offering perspective, telling them they are doing the best they can, and assuring your mother that she IS a good mother. It's holding your other sister in the fear that both of you share, and needing to comfort her anyway. It's missing final exams because your mother is having a "break down" and needs someone to talk to, needs someone to go with her to buy a toothbrush for your newly hospitalized sister. It means never being able to fully explain just how much it hurts to hold your baby sister as she sobs, uncontrollably, and has no words to tell you why.
Anorexia is praying for a light at the end of the tunnel. Praying for a way out. Praying that one day, this will all make sense to her and she will be able to help herself. It means praying that she will take her medications. It means praying that the medications will help. It means praying that today, she will eat. It means praying that she will have enough energy to make it through the day. It means praying that she won't throw another can of tuna fish or gallon of milk or apple or box of cereal at someone. Anorexia is praying for a cure, and knowing there isn't one.
Anorexia is an enormous battle I witness but cannot fight.
Anyone want to laugh now?
I have spent the past 6 years? 7 years? 8 years?... (how long has it been now?)...worried about my sister, and it's not what you think. It's not that they "just don't eat." It's not about food. It's not that they "just want to be skinny." It's not about wanting to be the next great cheerleader or teen idol or model. It's not even about wanting to get the latest cool size 0 jeans from the latest coolest store.
For me, anorexia has meant watching my 16 year old sister, who is taller than I am, wear children's clothing in a size 10 or size 12. It means hearing how frustrating it is to find clothes without a Disney character on the front--about arm sleeves and pant legs being too short, when everything else fits. It means general frustration over clothes not fitting, analyzing costumes for plays and singing performances, and never hearing the end about how "ugly" she looks in any particular outfit.
Anorexia has meant having my sister have things taken away from her--like dancing--that she loved, because she wasn't at a safe weight to continue the exercise once a week. It has meant her giving that up completely because she wasn't willing to gain the 4 pounds that would have made it safe.
Anorexia means screaming matches. It means having food thrown at me. It means watching my father have food thrown at him. It means watching my father carry my 14 year old sister to her room because she was completely out of control. It means having my sister inpatient for weeks and weeks, and my father restraining her to keep her inside the hospital. It means leaving her in a locked ward and only being able to see her when she eats. It means not being able to see her.
It means seeing women who are at home in the locked ward. Women who look like skeletons. Women with nasogastric tubes so they can be force-fed. Anorexia means seeing a skeleton of a teenager sobbing that she doesn't want to die. It means knowing that young woman disappeared from the inpatient unit, going to the hospital, and knowing that she did not return. It means hearing that someone on the ward has told my sister that she is going to die. It means being 19 years old and sitting and holding your 13 year old sister who is terrified of dying. It means holding her, and being in so much pain, you don't even realize you are crying.
Anorexia means osteopenia at age 14 and osteoporosis at 16. It means weight checks and blood tests and bone scans. It means being 18 and not having your period. It means having no hips and a flat chest. Anorexia means urine tests--proof that she is burning muscle because she has no fat in her body to burn. It means a broken ankle that shouldn't have broken if her bones were strong. It means dehydration. It means looking at her hip bones and her spine. It means no butt or thighs.
Anorexia is dropping my sister off at the door of the supermarket because we don't want her burning the calories to walk across the parking lot. It means telling her to stop shaking her leg, to stop bouncing, to stop trying to burn more calories.
It means medications: anti-anxiety, anti-depressants, anti-psychotics. It means failed medication treatments because she didn't weigh enough for them to work. It means non-compliance with medication treatments.
Anorexia means watching her eat the same foods every day for years. It means watching those foods dwindle further and further until they include only a few items, eaten only from a paper towel and a select small bowl. It means watching foods picked apart, mashed, pushed, stirred, swirled, tossed, flipped, ripped, and chopped. It means disaster if we don't have the right type of bread in the house. It means she won't eat anything she hasn't made. It means never eating out. It means watching my sister refuse invitations to birthday parties and get-togethers with her friends. It means having her refuse to invite people over. Anorexia means never eating at holidays. It means watching her cry before holiday meals because she doesn't even want to get a plate to pretend to eat.
Anorexia is relatives and friends saying "but she looks good!" because skinny is good. It means needing to stop myself from yelling at them, explaining that it's not about how she looks. It’s being 18 and turning my back on relatives, walking away, because I know if I open my mouth I will either cry or yell. It means needing to find the words to explain that burning muscle isn't healthy. It's listening to the same relatives and friends tell her she looks good anyway. It's feeling physically ill as you watch her face glow at that compliment.
It means control. Anorexia controls my entire family.
Anorexia means watching her face light up every time she loses another ounce.
Anorexia means being 18 years old and looking into my sister's bedroom before I go to bed, just to make sure she is still breathing.
Anorexia is knowing that the mortality rate is 5-10%.
Anorexia is knowing that she will likely be hospitalized again.
Anorexia is knowing that she will struggle with this for most, if not all, of her life.
Anorexia is not being able to do anything about it. It means watching someone you love hurt themselves. It means standing by helplessly, knowing she is the only one who can do anything to change it. It means knowing that she is the only one who doesn't want to change.
Being a sister to someone with anorexia means no one caring about your college graduation, because they're too busy running from the graduation to the inpatient unit to see her. It means feeling your stomach clench in fear every time your friend says "these jeans make me look fat..." because you're terrified you'll have to watch someone else you love fade into near nothingness. It means talking for hours to parents about what choices to make, offering perspective, telling them they are doing the best they can, and assuring your mother that she IS a good mother. It's holding your other sister in the fear that both of you share, and needing to comfort her anyway. It's missing final exams because your mother is having a "break down" and needs someone to talk to, needs someone to go with her to buy a toothbrush for your newly hospitalized sister. It means never being able to fully explain just how much it hurts to hold your baby sister as she sobs, uncontrollably, and has no words to tell you why.
Anorexia is praying for a light at the end of the tunnel. Praying for a way out. Praying that one day, this will all make sense to her and she will be able to help herself. It means praying that she will take her medications. It means praying that the medications will help. It means praying that today, she will eat. It means praying that she will have enough energy to make it through the day. It means praying that she won't throw another can of tuna fish or gallon of milk or apple or box of cereal at someone. Anorexia is praying for a cure, and knowing there isn't one.
Anorexia is an enormous battle I witness but cannot fight.
Anyone want to laugh now?
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Fuschia (or some other title that fits better)
I wrote this poem a while ago, and really didn't like it when I wrote it. Since then, I've come to not only like it, but am kind of obsessed with it. (Is it pompous to be obsessed with ones own poem?) When I wrote it, I couldn't decide if it read as a depressing poem or a kickass "speaking back" poem. I've decided it's more speaking back--or at least, that's how I want it to read, with some uncertainty, because...well...that's true to life. I hate coming up with titles, and a title for this one particularly eludes me. I've tried "Fuschia Dresses" and "Tell me I'm not beautiful" and "Imperfect" and just "Fuschia," but none of them fit like I want them to. I am open to suggestions. ;)
This is one of the first pieces that I have ever read aloud in front of people (given, it was 2 people, but that's still people!), and it was a pretty much a fantastic empowerment moment.
Fuschia (or some other title that fits better)
When you told me I’m unlovable
did you mean I do not possess
qualities you can love
or did you mean
I’m just not worthy?
I ask, not because I
care or
think about you or
want to know, I just
want to put my nightmares to rest and
find my confident, inner self that is
missing. I just
want to know what was in your mind so I
can make sense of the
insanity,
find some reason why this
empty, aching hole is still
unfilled.
It’s not that it hurts me, I just
want to try remembering the
possibility of my worth because
walking around in a body, unlovable, with a mind,
unworthy,
is just a damn
heavy
load.
It’s not that it matters, I just
want to know so I can
tell my soul she can
come out of lock down and
don her long fuchsia dress because,
whether you know it or not
my soul
wears long, fuchsia dresses.
Did you know my soul wears fuchsia dresses?
Not that you care, but maybe
you should know that
my soul is
divinely feminine. She
exudes confidence as she
saves worms from the sidewalk after a rain
rescues spiders with her bare hands
crochets dishtowels for fun and
wades in creeks to connect with her god.
This soul flounces her
fuchsia skirt as she
rejects conformity and
stays so strong she
bites her nails and
wipes mascara from under her
tear-stained eyes, this soul
wears fuchsia
even when she thinks she can’t, even
when her body shakes from the
injustice of this world and the
rage she can neither name
nor contain
this soul
is imperfect
and I would be lying if I said
it’s not that
it means everything to me, just
please
I dare you to
look at me again and
tell me I’m not loveable.
Touch this fuchsia soul
and tell me I’m not beautiful,
tell me I’m not confident because
this soul stumbles over words in conversations and
blushes unnatural shades of red, her
mind is busy with
words no one will read and her
too-sensitive heart shatters and
swells and
loves and
dies
a little each day as she
attempts to live in a mundane world she’ll never
fit into or
understand.
She trips
frequently and
has feet so rough from
walking barefoot they could
sand walls,
this soul
wears fuchsia
to let the world
see her,
so go on and tell me
I’m
not
beautiful.
Look into the
green eyes of this
spider-carrying, poem-constructing,
too-sensitive, blushing spirit
and tell me I
will never be loved, because it’s
not that it matters, but if my
fuchsia-wearing
worm-saving
mascara-running
soul is truly
unlovable, I just
want to let her know
before
she’s lost
everything.
This is one of the first pieces that I have ever read aloud in front of people (given, it was 2 people, but that's still people!), and it was a pretty much a fantastic empowerment moment.
Fuschia (or some other title that fits better)
When you told me I’m unlovable
did you mean I do not possess
qualities you can love
or did you mean
I’m just not worthy?
I ask, not because I
care or
think about you or
want to know, I just
want to put my nightmares to rest and
find my confident, inner self that is
missing. I just
want to know what was in your mind so I
can make sense of the
insanity,
find some reason why this
empty, aching hole is still
unfilled.
It’s not that it hurts me, I just
want to try remembering the
possibility of my worth because
walking around in a body, unlovable, with a mind,
unworthy,
is just a damn
heavy
load.
It’s not that it matters, I just
want to know so I can
tell my soul she can
come out of lock down and
don her long fuchsia dress because,
whether you know it or not
my soul
wears long, fuchsia dresses.
Did you know my soul wears fuchsia dresses?
Not that you care, but maybe
you should know that
my soul is
divinely feminine. She
exudes confidence as she
saves worms from the sidewalk after a rain
rescues spiders with her bare hands
crochets dishtowels for fun and
wades in creeks to connect with her god.
This soul flounces her
fuchsia skirt as she
rejects conformity and
stays so strong she
bites her nails and
wipes mascara from under her
tear-stained eyes, this soul
wears fuchsia
even when she thinks she can’t, even
when her body shakes from the
injustice of this world and the
rage she can neither name
nor contain
this soul
is imperfect
and I would be lying if I said
it’s not that
it means everything to me, just
please
I dare you to
look at me again and
tell me I’m not loveable.
Touch this fuchsia soul
and tell me I’m not beautiful,
tell me I’m not confident because
this soul stumbles over words in conversations and
blushes unnatural shades of red, her
mind is busy with
words no one will read and her
too-sensitive heart shatters and
swells and
loves and
dies
a little each day as she
attempts to live in a mundane world she’ll never
fit into or
understand.
She trips
frequently and
has feet so rough from
walking barefoot they could
sand walls,
this soul
wears fuchsia
to let the world
see her,
so go on and tell me
I’m
not
beautiful.
Look into the
green eyes of this
spider-carrying, poem-constructing,
too-sensitive, blushing spirit
and tell me I
will never be loved, because it’s
not that it matters, but if my
fuchsia-wearing
worm-saving
mascara-running
soul is truly
unlovable, I just
want to let her know
before
she’s lost
everything.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Say something. Care about people. Listen. Speak with intention; socialize with compassion.
“I didn’t say anything,” she said, “because, you know, you never want to…ask.” She whispered the last word like it was something dreadful. I nodded.
“Sure,” I said, as if I understood what she was saying. Of course. One never wants to…you know…ask.
*****
“I didn’t want to say anything,” she said, “because I didn’t know if you wanted to talk about it.”
“Sure,” I said, as if I understood what she was saying. Of course. Better not to say anything at all, right?
*****
“I haven’t asked because I figured you didn’t want to talk about it.” “I didn’t ask because you didn’t look bad.” “I didn’t ask because you sounded okay on the phone.” “I didn’t ask because I figured you were over it.” “I didn’t ask because I didn’t want to pressure you.” “I didn’t ask because I didn’t know if you wanted me to know.” “I just didn’t want to ask because, you know, nobody wants to have to ask about that sort of thing.”
*****
There is something about my generation (and perhaps other generations, but I notice this particularly with my peers), that we don’t know how to offer support to one another. We have more ways to offer support than ever before: you can call and chat, text it quickly, email a line or a page, Facebook it and put it on their wall, say it in person, Skype it and say it through a webcam, instant message it, tweet it on Twitter…and you can do all of this from home, work, the car, the grocery store or an airplane. We are more connected than ever, in more ways than we ever need, and yet, I really feel that, at least my generation, doesn’t know how to “do” support.
Maybe it’s not just my generation. Maybe I expect too much from people, that’s entirely possible. One of the blogs I read has a byline that states: “Survival is a testament to someone’s strength. Healing is a testament to the community surrounding her.” It’s ironic that sometimes the very thing that hurts us most is what we need to heal. People aren’t hurting one another less—in fact, all those methods of offering support also offer other ways of invalidating, hurting, ignoring, and devaluing people. The bottom line is that people are cruel. It looks different in men and women, but the truth of the matter is—it knows no sex boundaries. Both men AND women can be cruel. I wrote a “belief statement” about two years ago when I did a youth-led service with my youth group kids at church. In this essay, I wrote about how my world had been changing, and my early twenties had been rocky purely because of all the changes going on. However, I named one constant that ran through all the chaos. There was one thing I believed in that never wavered. “In all the turmoil and change and questioning and shifting,” I wrote, “one thing becomes clear: I believe in people.” And I did. I believed with all my heart that people are good. My love for people, for the ways in which we relate and love and live, for the ways we support and interact and depend on one another—this love carried me through some difficult times. When I hit upon difficult times—when my sister had her 4th heart surgery, her 5th heart surgery, when my other sister was hospitalized for anorexia, when my grandmother died—I was overwhelmed by the kindness of others. Did I have problems with friends, with other kids, with peers and coworkers? Absolutely—but I was able to continue believing in the “good” in people. I felt my love for humanity so deeply, it seemed to come from the deepest part of my soul.
Betrayal changes that about a person. Cruelty changes that about a person. Strangers, friends, family…they can all bring about that change. I’ve thought a lot about “betrayal,” what it is, what it means, how to define it, and what it does to you. I have zero answers, purely because it is so many things, and has so many nuances and layers and ways of presenting. About this topic, my thoughts, my voice, everything, seems to go completely silent. It is hard for me to separate this issue from others all wrapped up in the same event, but it is the betrayal, more than anything, that has led to the distrust of my world and myself. How do you go from loving a friend to being so hurt you have a hard time getting out of bed in the morning? How do you go from having a friend email you a link to Train’s song “Hey Soul Sister” because they think of you as a “soul sister” to having them hurt you so deeply you lose your faith in your world? How do you go from trusting people one week to physically shaking in a crowd of people the next? How do you understand being able to walk through the world, trusting strangers and friends one evening, to feeling unable to trust anyone, even yourself, the next? Once the ball gets rolling, at least in my experience, it doesn’t stop for a long time. One betrayal, one hurt, one event, seems to lead to another and another and another until you’re so wrapped up in a web of nastiness that even the people closest to you seem as though they could turn on you, suddenly, and without warning.
For better or for worse, when things happen to me or in my life, my thoughts tend to go large scale and I realize: THIS IS NOT JUST ME. I don’t know if this is a healthy way of coping or an unhealthy way…it doesn’t make life any easier, I can tell you that. Regardless, it makes me realize that this is not just my story. Realizing this does not make it any less isolating, but it stokes the angry fire in me that makes me say “I’m gonna change this for other people.” I don’t know how to do this yet. I don’t know what form this will take. I don’t even know if it’s possible. All I know is that other people—other women—should not have to hurt at the hands of men. Other people—other women—should not have to hurt at the hands of other women. (And of course, men should not hurt at the hands of men, and men should not hurt at the hands of women…but I am not a man and cannot speak to what I don’t know). At the risk of being very presumptuous, perhaps a bit pompous, and maybe a little egocentric, I have a list for you: a “to-do” list, of sorts, when you’re in that weird place of “not wanting to say anything” or of being unsure if/how/when to offer support.
1.) Say something. Please, please, please…just say something. When you hear from somebody that somebody else said that your friend is having a difficult time because of X, Y, or Z…say something. It doesn’t have to be “hey, I heard from Anne that Suzie said she heard you telling Bobby that you…”. It doesn’t have to be “hey, I heard that you have X, Y, and Z going on.” All it takes is a simple, “Thinking of you,” or “I’m here” or “I heard you have something going on…are you doing okay?” It doesn’t have to be an hour long conversation. It doesn’t have to be a 500 word essay, or a soliloquy on how much your friendship means or how much you care about them. Really, a text message that says “thinking about you today” can make all the difference in the world. Consciously going and sitting next to that person in class, even without saying anything, is huge. You know how people say that “it’s the little things?” It is. Truly. Because it can also be the little things that make the big thing seem unbearable.
2.) Care about people. Care about your friends. Care about acquaintances or co-workers or strangers in line at the grocery store, just please…care about people. They are the only way we can ever hope to make it through life in one piece and are also what can tear us apart and leave us broken. For those who have been broken, who feel broken, who see themselves as broken, the only path to wholeness is through the love of people. Yeah, I know, you have to love yourself and all that…but I can tell you right now that nobody is ever going to be able to love themselves if they don’t have people around them reminding them they are loveable.
3.) Listen. Understand that some stories aren’t meant to be told—perhaps not now, perhaps not ever. Understanding that you don’t have to know “what happened” or “what is going on” or “what’s wrong” to offer support is huge. Sometimes, people DON’T want to talk about it. Sometimes, they can’t. Sometimes it’s not safe to. Sometimes you just want support without people knowing why or what. Isn’t it enough to know that a person is struggling? Listen for the pain, not for the gossip. Listen for what they need, not for the story. Listen for the empty places you can fill, not for what emptied them.
4.) Speak with intention; socialize with compassion. Rumors fly and take on a life of their own almost before they are fully formed. You can choose to believe what you hear or not. You can choose to engage in and perpetuate the gossip or not. Words hurt, even as adults. Beliefs people hold based on the rumors hurt, even as adults. Think about what you are going to say before you say it—is it something that really needs to be said? Are you saying it in good faith? What is your intention in saying it? Respect others privacy. Don’t share what might be potentially personal or private information. Of all the things on my “to-do” list here, these might seem the easiest, but are the most difficult.
I could go on and on and on about this, but I won’t. I could list what not to say, but I won’t. I could be completely self-indulgent and tell story after story after personal story, but I won’t. Really, it’s about me but it’s not. I am lucky: I know these things that SHOULD be done because I have experienced them. That is a huge blessing and a privilege not everyone has. The reason I know that these things matter is because they have mattered to me; because they have made a difference to me. And yet, I still struggle. A lot. I still hurt. A lot. I cannot imagine—don’t want to imagine—where I would be today if I didn’t have those people who DID listen, amongst all the people who didn’t. If I had not had people who “said something” amongst all those who are silent. If I had not had people who spoke with intention and socialized with compassion amongst those who spread rumors, swallowed lies, and shared untruths. If I had not found people who cared about people and cared about me, I would be unable to write this. It only takes one person. I promise. You can be that person. Do it. I dare you. You could be the ONE person that helps someone make it through another day. You can be the ONE person who restores someone’s faith in humanity, in the world, in the fact that they are worthy and loveable and whole.
Say something. Care about people. Listen. Speak with intention; socialize with compassion.
“Sure,” I said, as if I understood what she was saying. Of course. One never wants to…you know…ask.
*****
“I didn’t want to say anything,” she said, “because I didn’t know if you wanted to talk about it.”
“Sure,” I said, as if I understood what she was saying. Of course. Better not to say anything at all, right?
*****
“I haven’t asked because I figured you didn’t want to talk about it.” “I didn’t ask because you didn’t look bad.” “I didn’t ask because you sounded okay on the phone.” “I didn’t ask because I figured you were over it.” “I didn’t ask because I didn’t want to pressure you.” “I didn’t ask because I didn’t know if you wanted me to know.” “I just didn’t want to ask because, you know, nobody wants to have to ask about that sort of thing.”
*****
There is something about my generation (and perhaps other generations, but I notice this particularly with my peers), that we don’t know how to offer support to one another. We have more ways to offer support than ever before: you can call and chat, text it quickly, email a line or a page, Facebook it and put it on their wall, say it in person, Skype it and say it through a webcam, instant message it, tweet it on Twitter…and you can do all of this from home, work, the car, the grocery store or an airplane. We are more connected than ever, in more ways than we ever need, and yet, I really feel that, at least my generation, doesn’t know how to “do” support.
Maybe it’s not just my generation. Maybe I expect too much from people, that’s entirely possible. One of the blogs I read has a byline that states: “Survival is a testament to someone’s strength. Healing is a testament to the community surrounding her.” It’s ironic that sometimes the very thing that hurts us most is what we need to heal. People aren’t hurting one another less—in fact, all those methods of offering support also offer other ways of invalidating, hurting, ignoring, and devaluing people. The bottom line is that people are cruel. It looks different in men and women, but the truth of the matter is—it knows no sex boundaries. Both men AND women can be cruel. I wrote a “belief statement” about two years ago when I did a youth-led service with my youth group kids at church. In this essay, I wrote about how my world had been changing, and my early twenties had been rocky purely because of all the changes going on. However, I named one constant that ran through all the chaos. There was one thing I believed in that never wavered. “In all the turmoil and change and questioning and shifting,” I wrote, “one thing becomes clear: I believe in people.” And I did. I believed with all my heart that people are good. My love for people, for the ways in which we relate and love and live, for the ways we support and interact and depend on one another—this love carried me through some difficult times. When I hit upon difficult times—when my sister had her 4th heart surgery, her 5th heart surgery, when my other sister was hospitalized for anorexia, when my grandmother died—I was overwhelmed by the kindness of others. Did I have problems with friends, with other kids, with peers and coworkers? Absolutely—but I was able to continue believing in the “good” in people. I felt my love for humanity so deeply, it seemed to come from the deepest part of my soul.
Betrayal changes that about a person. Cruelty changes that about a person. Strangers, friends, family…they can all bring about that change. I’ve thought a lot about “betrayal,” what it is, what it means, how to define it, and what it does to you. I have zero answers, purely because it is so many things, and has so many nuances and layers and ways of presenting. About this topic, my thoughts, my voice, everything, seems to go completely silent. It is hard for me to separate this issue from others all wrapped up in the same event, but it is the betrayal, more than anything, that has led to the distrust of my world and myself. How do you go from loving a friend to being so hurt you have a hard time getting out of bed in the morning? How do you go from having a friend email you a link to Train’s song “Hey Soul Sister” because they think of you as a “soul sister” to having them hurt you so deeply you lose your faith in your world? How do you go from trusting people one week to physically shaking in a crowd of people the next? How do you understand being able to walk through the world, trusting strangers and friends one evening, to feeling unable to trust anyone, even yourself, the next? Once the ball gets rolling, at least in my experience, it doesn’t stop for a long time. One betrayal, one hurt, one event, seems to lead to another and another and another until you’re so wrapped up in a web of nastiness that even the people closest to you seem as though they could turn on you, suddenly, and without warning.
For better or for worse, when things happen to me or in my life, my thoughts tend to go large scale and I realize: THIS IS NOT JUST ME. I don’t know if this is a healthy way of coping or an unhealthy way…it doesn’t make life any easier, I can tell you that. Regardless, it makes me realize that this is not just my story. Realizing this does not make it any less isolating, but it stokes the angry fire in me that makes me say “I’m gonna change this for other people.” I don’t know how to do this yet. I don’t know what form this will take. I don’t even know if it’s possible. All I know is that other people—other women—should not have to hurt at the hands of men. Other people—other women—should not have to hurt at the hands of other women. (And of course, men should not hurt at the hands of men, and men should not hurt at the hands of women…but I am not a man and cannot speak to what I don’t know). At the risk of being very presumptuous, perhaps a bit pompous, and maybe a little egocentric, I have a list for you: a “to-do” list, of sorts, when you’re in that weird place of “not wanting to say anything” or of being unsure if/how/when to offer support.
1.) Say something. Please, please, please…just say something. When you hear from somebody that somebody else said that your friend is having a difficult time because of X, Y, or Z…say something. It doesn’t have to be “hey, I heard from Anne that Suzie said she heard you telling Bobby that you…”. It doesn’t have to be “hey, I heard that you have X, Y, and Z going on.” All it takes is a simple, “Thinking of you,” or “I’m here” or “I heard you have something going on…are you doing okay?” It doesn’t have to be an hour long conversation. It doesn’t have to be a 500 word essay, or a soliloquy on how much your friendship means or how much you care about them. Really, a text message that says “thinking about you today” can make all the difference in the world. Consciously going and sitting next to that person in class, even without saying anything, is huge. You know how people say that “it’s the little things?” It is. Truly. Because it can also be the little things that make the big thing seem unbearable.
2.) Care about people. Care about your friends. Care about acquaintances or co-workers or strangers in line at the grocery store, just please…care about people. They are the only way we can ever hope to make it through life in one piece and are also what can tear us apart and leave us broken. For those who have been broken, who feel broken, who see themselves as broken, the only path to wholeness is through the love of people. Yeah, I know, you have to love yourself and all that…but I can tell you right now that nobody is ever going to be able to love themselves if they don’t have people around them reminding them they are loveable.
3.) Listen. Understand that some stories aren’t meant to be told—perhaps not now, perhaps not ever. Understanding that you don’t have to know “what happened” or “what is going on” or “what’s wrong” to offer support is huge. Sometimes, people DON’T want to talk about it. Sometimes, they can’t. Sometimes it’s not safe to. Sometimes you just want support without people knowing why or what. Isn’t it enough to know that a person is struggling? Listen for the pain, not for the gossip. Listen for what they need, not for the story. Listen for the empty places you can fill, not for what emptied them.
4.) Speak with intention; socialize with compassion. Rumors fly and take on a life of their own almost before they are fully formed. You can choose to believe what you hear or not. You can choose to engage in and perpetuate the gossip or not. Words hurt, even as adults. Beliefs people hold based on the rumors hurt, even as adults. Think about what you are going to say before you say it—is it something that really needs to be said? Are you saying it in good faith? What is your intention in saying it? Respect others privacy. Don’t share what might be potentially personal or private information. Of all the things on my “to-do” list here, these might seem the easiest, but are the most difficult.
I could go on and on and on about this, but I won’t. I could list what not to say, but I won’t. I could be completely self-indulgent and tell story after story after personal story, but I won’t. Really, it’s about me but it’s not. I am lucky: I know these things that SHOULD be done because I have experienced them. That is a huge blessing and a privilege not everyone has. The reason I know that these things matter is because they have mattered to me; because they have made a difference to me. And yet, I still struggle. A lot. I still hurt. A lot. I cannot imagine—don’t want to imagine—where I would be today if I didn’t have those people who DID listen, amongst all the people who didn’t. If I had not had people who “said something” amongst all those who are silent. If I had not had people who spoke with intention and socialized with compassion amongst those who spread rumors, swallowed lies, and shared untruths. If I had not found people who cared about people and cared about me, I would be unable to write this. It only takes one person. I promise. You can be that person. Do it. I dare you. You could be the ONE person that helps someone make it through another day. You can be the ONE person who restores someone’s faith in humanity, in the world, in the fact that they are worthy and loveable and whole.
Say something. Care about people. Listen. Speak with intention; socialize with compassion.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Hands
This poem came from a prompt from louderarts.com, and the prompt was written by Marty McConnell--a spoken word artist I really admire.
Here is the prompt:
stanza one: what was the creator thinking when making your hands?
stanza two: something you ate once and never will again
stanza three: something one of your siblings told you once
stanza four: how have your hands changed?
stanza five: the last, best thing you made to eat
stanza six: something your grandmother once told you
stanza seven: what animal or vegetable you would like your hands eventually to become
I stuck to it pretty much. I dare you to try it. It's hard! I dare you to share what you write...I would love to see what other people come up with. :) Stanza 4 is a little off...it's not really about change I guess, and stanza 7 is a plant, not an animal or a vegetable. I think I'm okay with that, though. ;)
Hands
When the creator made my hands,
I am certain that first,
she paused.
Hands are supposed to match
the size of the heart,
so service can match
desire to serve
but to match
the size of my heart, she realized
I would need eight hands, and
knowing I could only be human, she
stopped in thought.
Perhaps she wondered
what life would be like
for a person with a too big heart and
too few hands,
but she decided to send me to earth, and I was
not quite a mistake but more of
an experiment to see
just what I would make of myself.
With not enough hands
I learned to give and give and give
because my heart aches with fullness
wanting to be given and
aches with the
pain of the world.
I have too few hands to protect, to
push away, to stave off the invaders of the spirit,
so I slowly learned
to feed my soul untruths and
nourish myself with lies
I cannot rid my body of and
can only hope
I never have to eat
again.
“When I grow up,” my baby sister said,
“I want to be you.”
We held our hands together
comparing the sizes
she, astonished that my finger tips could
bend over hers,
and then we folded them together
so hers became nearly invisible
under mine
fitting neatly like they wanted
that protection, like maybe that is why
my hands were made.
I hope the creator gave her
stronger hands than mine:
her spirit needs protection against
those falsehoods
I ingested.
These hands were meant to
topple patriarchy, to
build houses, to
wipe away the tears of babies
and grandmas, to
hold puppies and encyclopedias, to
nourish a strong
survivor of a soul
to do the job of 8 hands in
10 fingers
so instead, they
play music in the isolation
drawing melodies from simple strings of the
harp or heart variety, it
doesn’t matter
the difference is only
two small letters,
really.
I watched my hands as I
cut the broccoli
having not eaten the entire day
my hands were shaky as I
sliced the thick, green, crunchy stalk
sending tiny florets skating
across the counter.
I cooked it quickly,
“pan-roasted” as the recipe’s name implied,
on the stove top
with salt and pepper
and a bit of butter
it tasted like
health and
vitality
and nourishment without shame.
It had been so long, I almost
forgot what that tasted like.
“You’re an old soul, Laura,”
my grandmother said.
I was 8 at the time
so I nodded
hoping this was a good thing.
I wonder what my hands were like
on my first trip around the sun.
When I die, again,
returning
to the Earth as nothing more than a bit of dirt
a soft place in the ground
giving a worm a small, fertile plot or a
leaf a comfortable place to land,
when I die and fall into
forgotten nothingness
from the place where my hands are laid will spring
two, purple flowers
the only thing left
of the energy I was.
Here is the prompt:
stanza one: what was the creator thinking when making your hands?
stanza two: something you ate once and never will again
stanza three: something one of your siblings told you once
stanza four: how have your hands changed?
stanza five: the last, best thing you made to eat
stanza six: something your grandmother once told you
stanza seven: what animal or vegetable you would like your hands eventually to become
I stuck to it pretty much. I dare you to try it. It's hard! I dare you to share what you write...I would love to see what other people come up with. :) Stanza 4 is a little off...it's not really about change I guess, and stanza 7 is a plant, not an animal or a vegetable. I think I'm okay with that, though. ;)
Hands
When the creator made my hands,
I am certain that first,
she paused.
Hands are supposed to match
the size of the heart,
so service can match
desire to serve
but to match
the size of my heart, she realized
I would need eight hands, and
knowing I could only be human, she
stopped in thought.
Perhaps she wondered
what life would be like
for a person with a too big heart and
too few hands,
but she decided to send me to earth, and I was
not quite a mistake but more of
an experiment to see
just what I would make of myself.
With not enough hands
I learned to give and give and give
because my heart aches with fullness
wanting to be given and
aches with the
pain of the world.
I have too few hands to protect, to
push away, to stave off the invaders of the spirit,
so I slowly learned
to feed my soul untruths and
nourish myself with lies
I cannot rid my body of and
can only hope
I never have to eat
again.
“When I grow up,” my baby sister said,
“I want to be you.”
We held our hands together
comparing the sizes
she, astonished that my finger tips could
bend over hers,
and then we folded them together
so hers became nearly invisible
under mine
fitting neatly like they wanted
that protection, like maybe that is why
my hands were made.
I hope the creator gave her
stronger hands than mine:
her spirit needs protection against
those falsehoods
I ingested.
These hands were meant to
topple patriarchy, to
build houses, to
wipe away the tears of babies
and grandmas, to
hold puppies and encyclopedias, to
nourish a strong
survivor of a soul
to do the job of 8 hands in
10 fingers
so instead, they
play music in the isolation
drawing melodies from simple strings of the
harp or heart variety, it
doesn’t matter
the difference is only
two small letters,
really.
I watched my hands as I
cut the broccoli
having not eaten the entire day
my hands were shaky as I
sliced the thick, green, crunchy stalk
sending tiny florets skating
across the counter.
I cooked it quickly,
“pan-roasted” as the recipe’s name implied,
on the stove top
with salt and pepper
and a bit of butter
it tasted like
health and
vitality
and nourishment without shame.
It had been so long, I almost
forgot what that tasted like.
“You’re an old soul, Laura,”
my grandmother said.
I was 8 at the time
so I nodded
hoping this was a good thing.
I wonder what my hands were like
on my first trip around the sun.
When I die, again,
returning
to the Earth as nothing more than a bit of dirt
a soft place in the ground
giving a worm a small, fertile plot or a
leaf a comfortable place to land,
when I die and fall into
forgotten nothingness
from the place where my hands are laid will spring
two, purple flowers
the only thing left
of the energy I was.
I wear myself differently now
“Pretty is as pretty does,”
my grandmother said,
and I learned
to be the girl who does pretty
and was pretty
and did pretty
well
in everything, and knew that to
be pretty
do pretty and
make pretty
good friends, you have to
be pretty good and
make your parents
pretty proud and
have nice fingernails because
pretty girls have nice fingernails,
my grandmother told me.
“Actions speak louder than words,”
was another adage repeated
so I learned
to be the girl who acted loudly and
spoke softly and
knew what to do
and how to do it in actions but
couldn’t form the words or find the voice because
the actions were what counted and
the voice behind could be silent,
humble, and
unassuming. Just
leave the rest for those who
have something to say, I thought, because
I’m the girl who
does pretty
good things and has pretty
fingernails, you see. The
action of compassion
was the only thing that mattered
and stories didn’t get told because I believed
actions were louder
than voice.
But the layered
truths of my life
spread themselves thicker and thicker
moving me from pretty
good stories to pretty
strong thoughts to,
well,
pretty much just
“what the fuck?”
and I can’t get to the center
of my stomach
where the layers lie
covering the truth that cannot be told
where the pretty
brutal fact that
life isn’t always pretty
lives. It’s the pit where you know
friends can betray you and where
having pretty actions,
pretty words, and a pretty face
can lead you to a pretty
horrible evening, where the
loudness of your actions
is ignored, the
loudness of your words means
nothing at all,
and you spend the next
two
four
six
seven months
biting your nails, wondering
if you’ll ever be a
pretty girl
again.
Pretty used to glow
like an innocence on my skin
and my actions served as vehicles
curating my soul
exposing the hidden beauty
of a pretty confident woman
with words that whispered of amazement
revealing my faith in the people of my world.
I wear myself differently now
casting off the prettiness
holding the confidence
with bated breath
hiding the strength of my voice
where the prettiness used to be
immobilizing my actions
in the fear
named Aftermath
hoping one day I’ll wear myself
as something undeniably
beautiful.
my grandmother said,
and I learned
to be the girl who does pretty
and was pretty
and did pretty
well
in everything, and knew that to
be pretty
do pretty and
make pretty
good friends, you have to
be pretty good and
make your parents
pretty proud and
have nice fingernails because
pretty girls have nice fingernails,
my grandmother told me.
“Actions speak louder than words,”
was another adage repeated
so I learned
to be the girl who acted loudly and
spoke softly and
knew what to do
and how to do it in actions but
couldn’t form the words or find the voice because
the actions were what counted and
the voice behind could be silent,
humble, and
unassuming. Just
leave the rest for those who
have something to say, I thought, because
I’m the girl who
does pretty
good things and has pretty
fingernails, you see. The
action of compassion
was the only thing that mattered
and stories didn’t get told because I believed
actions were louder
than voice.
But the layered
truths of my life
spread themselves thicker and thicker
moving me from pretty
good stories to pretty
strong thoughts to,
well,
pretty much just
“what the fuck?”
and I can’t get to the center
of my stomach
where the layers lie
covering the truth that cannot be told
where the pretty
brutal fact that
life isn’t always pretty
lives. It’s the pit where you know
friends can betray you and where
having pretty actions,
pretty words, and a pretty face
can lead you to a pretty
horrible evening, where the
loudness of your actions
is ignored, the
loudness of your words means
nothing at all,
and you spend the next
two
four
six
seven months
biting your nails, wondering
if you’ll ever be a
pretty girl
again.
Pretty used to glow
like an innocence on my skin
and my actions served as vehicles
curating my soul
exposing the hidden beauty
of a pretty confident woman
with words that whispered of amazement
revealing my faith in the people of my world.
I wear myself differently now
casting off the prettiness
holding the confidence
with bated breath
hiding the strength of my voice
where the prettiness used to be
immobilizing my actions
in the fear
named Aftermath
hoping one day I’ll wear myself
as something undeniably
beautiful.
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