Endings… and Rebirths

In my heart, winter scribbles 

one more calming

tale of rebirth in the making-- 

pages and pages of lived endings,

showing that some deaths are just

another beginning. 

photo by Fabrice Villard, on Unsplash

– for Poets and Storytellers United (Friday Writings #158: Prioritize), where we are invited to “prioritize”. The first thing that came to mind, when I saw the word, was a list of all the things I have (want?) to do, and the best way to arrange them from least to most important. The task terrified me. So, I went for something smaller (or just abstract). Winter always brews melancholy in the depths of my heart and skull (and a whole lot of pain in my joints). Nature goes so quiet, so many things die. And too often, it takes me a while to remember that winter isn’t just a cold ending, but the lull that fuels the beginning of a spring to come. So, I’ll focus on that: I will remind my flesh and spirit and bones and me that winter is a death that brings rebirth… eventually.

“nothing is more telling than a story”

not-quite Journaling, 56

for summer,
sweet amaryllis
peekaboos

6/21/2023: My amaryllis is celebrating the first day of summer by glimpsing prettily out of her verdant hood. My exhausted lungs and I shall join the festivities after seeing the pulmonologist.

 

in my wee garden,
tomatoes and onions grow
zero soothing sleep

6/30/2023: When you live with chronic illnesses, something as seemingly simple as the common cold can be the unwanted gift that keeps on giving. My recent dance with a cold gifted me with a lingering cough that has been stealing my sleep for weeks. I’m exhausted. My body hurts. My mind is sluggish. I need sleep. But my tomatoes and onions look happy, so… good times.

 

7/1/2023: My Piano Man and I celebrated another anniversary. We’ve spent a lot of the day talking about our first date--my predatory grins, his slightly nervous smiles, our first grope… There is also a slight possibility that we’ve been walking around with happy-goofy looks on our faces. 

 

Freedom is a flame,
feed it.

7/4/2023: Or, as Juliet Marillier put it, “Every man or woman who makes a stand helps keep the flame of freedom burning.” So, be a woman; be a man. Let us stand for each other, and keep the freedom flame burning--specially these days, when so many freedoms are being smothered.

 

7/8/2023: For the one who told me that she wasn’t going to share her words anymore, because some a-hole said her writing wasn’t good enough. Sister, don’t let someone else’s issues muddle your ink--write, share, grow… and let the worth-vampires rot in their own malice.

 

7/11/2023: NYC is scorching, but I’m not complaining (heat helps bloom pretty cool things).

- for Poets and Storytellers United--Friday Writings #85: First Lines. The last poem was inspired by one of my favorite quotes, from The Thirteenth Tale by Diane Setterfield: “All children mythologize their birth. It is a universal trait. You want to know someone? Heart, mind and soul? Ask him to tell you about when he was born. What you get won’t be the truth: it will be a story. And nothing is more telling than a story.”

Of Succulents and Pain

not-quite Journaling, 47

in autumn,
my frizzle sizzle
twists and curls

11/23/2022: I can’t stop whispering “my frizzle sizzle / twists and curls” and cackling. I’m waiting to see my oncologist, some people in the waiting room are giving me funny looks. So I, of course, add a little shoulder dance to “my frizzle sizzle / twists and curls” chant, and cackle a bit louder.  Try it. It’s fun. And if you get funny looks, cackle louder and be merry!

 

Storytelling is the storm that calms
my spirit.

11/28/2022: My OCD therapist and I have been working our way towards Exposure and Response Prevention therapy. We’re taking it slowly—since the last time I went right into it (with a different therapist), my anxiety and nightmares and such… got so bad that I could barely function. We’re doing seemingly small things: not listening to audiobooks 24/7, not ending all my alarms with 13 or 31, not stirring my coffee 13 x 3… It’s not the most comfortable of experiences, but I’m doing it (without screaming or hitting something) and that’s a win. Also, when things get really bad, I can pull myself out of the abyss by writing stories.    

 

11/30/2022: Every now and again, poetry is a tree which grows fire for leaves… while refusing to get naked for autumn’s pleasure. Yep, every tree around this beauty has given in to autumn’s desire for bare limbs, but not this one; its stubbornness blooms warm smiles out of my soul—a good thing on a rainy, chilly day.

 

I will be

a succulent
leaf--

patient, keeping
in mind healing and growing
dance with time.

12/7/2022: I’ve been on physical therapy for my left and right shoulders for a looooooooooooong time. I tell myself that torn flesh can take months (even years) to mend. And that often does the trick. But when the pain is relentless, when things throb and THROB… it’s much harder to remain patient. Lately, I’ve been trying to do like a succulent, letting time and TLC do their thing… Now, if only this f*cking pain would let me get a full night sleep (or, mayhap, grow some new leaves ).

 

When I remember ‘comfortable’,
I sigh.

- Poets and Storytellers United--Friday Writings #56: Cozy.

Balance

not-quite Journaling, 36

 On the landscape

of my heart,
I grow words—

poems and tales
that turn blues and brights
into hope blooms.

 

“When the world wearies and society fails to satisfy, there is always the garden.”
~ Minnie Aumonier ~

 

5/24/2022: My wee garden is no longer empty. Everything is sooo soothingly green. Some things are blooming (tomato, daisy, strawberry…), other things are fruiting (tomato, strawberry… *and the blue jays have noticed*). My treacherous digestive system, on the other hand, continues to be a mess. But things are very slowly getting better. I am tired, my throat is slightly raw, and I have not been able to eat my slice of birthday cake for this year. Still… my wee garden is no longer empty, and that makes the bad less so. Also, I’ll probably have my cake in the next week or three (and yes, I’m going to eat it too). 

6/6/2022: On my way to see the doctor, after my latest cycle of Crohn’s crappiness. I’m feeling great, and I hope today’s tests reflect that. I’m ready for a break that lasts more than a week--it would be nice to be able to go on a hike (or 3) in this lovely weather.

 

thorns and blooms,
to make the world think
of balance

- for Poets and Storytellers United--Friday Writings #30: Beloved Books.

Blues and Brights

not-quite Journaling, 34

Wee magics

growing
in and out of my hearth,

to celebrate spring, life
and all Nature
promises.

4/26/2022: On my way to the oncologist, I saw a tiny bouquet sprouting out of the trunk of a cherry blossom tree; on my way home, I noticed that someone had stuck a heart(ring) in the bark of a tree growing by the bus stop; when I got home, I found a ladybug exploring the window screen in my bedroom; all these seemingly small things, made my day a little better. Now, if I could only stop bleeding out of not so comfortable places, then “a little better” would morph into “just perfect”.

 

Unseasonable chills hold my garden hostage, but birdsong flies free.

 4/28/2022: A couple of days aren’t enough to achieve “just perfect”, but I’ve arrived at “so much better”. The cough still troubles me at night, but that’s manageable. The weather seems to finally be leaving the 30s behind (it’s supposed to be 30-something degrees Celsius tonight, then 40s and 50s!). Tomorrow, I get to spend quality time at the garden center (I need soil). And then… into the garden! I am sooo looking forward to that. 🥰

 
- for Poets and Storytellers United--Friday Writers #24: Your Landscape.

Writing My Medicine

not-quite Journaling, 33

Still no sun,

skies and streets are puddles
of gloomy gray.

But deep in the hearth,
amaryllis rebels
in wild bursts of color.

4/7/2022: The weather is… wet, too chilly for outside gardening. But Ms. Amaryllis keeps things interesting—the mother plant and all of her offspring (I’ve been propagating) are blooming. And they’re doing it about 2 weeks apart, which means that I’ll have something bright and warm to look forward to (even if the weather is gloomy and the oral surgeon is planning tooth torture).

 

4/9/2022: Living with a collection of chronic illnesses makes everything harder, including relationships. I’ve heard heartbreaking stories--lovers who tire of caregiving and want out, lovers who stop seeing lovers as such and spend their time trying to “fix” them… I tell my Piano Man just how special he is, because he always sees me as I am: a strong, wild, sexy, witchy woman who happens to live with a chronic illness (or 3). My Piano Man shakes his head, and says, “That’s what people do when they love another.” I kiss him, and thank the universe for my good fortune.   

 

4/21/2022: I slept through the night for the first time since the 6^th. My body isn’t as healthy as it can get (not yet), but I can breathe… I don’t cough the moment I try to talk or eat or lie down, my eyes aren’t inflamed, I can taste my food, my chest doesn’t hurt, colorful fluids are no longer coming out of places one doesn’t even want to imagine, I can do some cleaning (and gardening!), and I have the time (and strength) to share my words, read your words, spell some healing. 

- for Poets and Storytellers United--Friday Writings #23: Write Your Medicine.