Books, Nuts, and a Hammer

My memories of the sea are book scented
chants that sing of hammers
promising treats.

Weird? Of course, it’s weird—
I am a weird woman
sprouted out of the wild heart
of an even weirder child
who, on Fridays, fed a hammer
to her schoolbag.

But don’t you fret for me—I grew up
in a magical time and place,
where the thought of a metal detector
in school
would’ve brewed a riot of disbelief-
infused laughter.

So, I smuggled my favorite hammer to class
(well, perhaps ‘smuggled’ might not be the right thing
to call it—since no one ever said to me, “Hey girl,
you aren’t allowed hammers in school, bus,
or in the Biblioteca Nacional!” for that matter). 

My hammer waited almost patiently
in my schoolbag,
through math with señor Gustavo,
through natural sciences
with Sor María de la Piedad,
through social studies with a terrible teacher
whose name I can’t quite care to remember
(but know everyone called her Sor Mumm-Ra).

So, when school ended, on Fridays,
I would take two buses to the library,
where I would delight in books
(mythologies and dark fairy tales and garden
grimoires were my favorites). 

After the bookish fun, my hammer and I
would go to El Malecón (which isn’t just a pier
but a whole street glancing into the Caribbean Sea).
Between the street and the beach,
out of sandy soil, grew tropical almond trees.

I would sit on the ground,
not caring if my uniform got dirty.
My hammer would come out of the bag,
I would reach for the best almond,
hold it against a flat rock,
and hammer it until it split in half
to present its nutty treat
to my mouth.

My memories of the sea are book scented
chants that sing of hammers
promising treats.

via

  - originally, this was a prose piece, titled “A Hammer in My Schoolbag”.

- for Poets and Storytellers United--Weekly Scribblings #93: Kid Stuff (where we are asked to “write about something we really enjoyed in childhood.”    

The Wheel of the Year

Autumn takes
buzzing bees, butterflies on blooms,
and so many birds.

October brings
festive gourds, grinning skulls,
and grows tiny gardens in my hearth.  

Winter is coming… spring and summer too.

One of my favorite bits about the cold months is that my living room becomes a wee jungle. I enjoy seeing Halloween decorations and making pumpkin chili, too. But the terrace-garden-to-living-room-jungle conversion is by far the best.

- for Poets and Storytellers United--Weekly Scribblings #92: Forward Movement (where we are asked to “write something on the theme of ‘Forward Movement’, in whatever way [we] choose to interpret that.” My muse and I focused on the constant movement of the seasons, on what is lost… on what is gain… and on what moving with The Wheel of the Year offers.

Letter to My Pre-Breast Cancer Diagnosed Self

Dear Two-Breasted Magaly,

June is as hot as jalapeños in a Sahara mood, and you’ve just received a breast cancer diagnosis. You aren’t scared. You aren’t crying. You are no stranger to serious illness. Still, I must warn you that this flesh-eating beast is going to be different from any other disease-demon you’ve had to kick in the teeth before now.

No, I’m not talking about the riot of side effects breast cancer treatment will brew (what you’ve read is brutally accurate: it is going to hurt, it is going to alter your flesh and feels, it is going to seriously suck for a while). This disease will change how you’ve always felt about certain social concepts (i.e., labels such as “breast cancer warrior”, wearing the pink ribbon).

Right now, you are wondering if calling oneself breast cancer warrior and wearing the pink ribbon are just fads, or symbolic ways to fight against something too ugly to face uncloaked. I’m writing this—three years after your breast died so that I could live—to share with you what I know now: I claim the label and wear the pink ribbon, because awareness is a caring weapon most warriors are grateful to share. I have also added a skull to the mix, as a reminder that even after our flesh is maimed or gone, at our core we’re as hard as bone, and will keep on grinning even after being stripped to the bone.

With a Whole Lot of Love (lively cackles, and at least 13 skulls),
Magaly

 

 One can’t stay sillily-serious for too long while wearing such a cool hat.

  - for Poets and Storytellers United--Weekly Scribblings #91: Personal Symbols (and Changes to P&SU).

Running Thoughts

Bouncing on my trampoline, I remember running on dirt (under trees and clouds and sun), the wind singing in my skull, my feet drumming to the song. I know I shouldn’t dwell on what was, but embrace what is. I just can’t help it. I love the feels brewed by bare feet on canvas, by flesh and bones and spirit on the move. Still, I miss running on dirt.

photo by Ramesh Iyer, on Unsplash
(I miss running on sand, too).

- for Poets and Storytellers United--Weekly Scribblings #89: Keeping It Real. If you aren’t interested in my Pseudo-Intermittent Fasting Challenge, do feel free to skip the rest.  Also linked to Writers’ Pantry #90: Why Do You Write and Share?

31 Weeks of Pseudo-Intermittent Fasting: What Actually Happened
Wed, Sep 1^st – Tue, Apr 5^th
(close to the end of week 4)

Some weeks ago, I said that the “Do Research, Come Up with a (realistic) Goal/Plan, Collect Battle Gear” stage of my Pseudo-Intermittent Fasting Challenge would last a week. Well, it lasted three. But that’s all right. This was the time to figure out what I wanted out of the challenge and gather the information/tools I would need to get me there. Here are the results of my search and some thought:

1. I was 165 lbs. when I started this challenge. According to professionals, who are supposed to know this stuff, the ideal weight for a 5’ 3” 44-years-stunning woman is 120 lbs. Since the last time I was 120 lbs. happened to be during a particularly terrible Crohn’s flare that left me resembling a lively cadaver, I shan’t be following that bit of instruction. Instead, I aim to weight about 131 lbs. Why? Because that is a very pretty number, which allows me and my vanity to look wonderfully hot in my favorite jeans.

2. I can do cardio every single day (hooray!). I should limit calisthenics and strength to every other day. And I must be mindful of my crappy left arm and right shoulder.     

3. To lose one pound a week, I’m supposed to consume about 1,400 calories. Most days my caloric intake doesn’t go over 1,200 calories. But every once in a while, I delight in a huge treat that can take my count to 1,700… which balances things out.

4. Instead of having bone broth for dinner every night, as I initially planned, I’ve been replacing one of my meals with bone broth or complementing two meals with a cup of bone broth. It’s been working like a charm.

5. The challenge is much less challenging than I thought it would be. I suspect that I will lose the extra 30-something pounds, I have been carrying around, a lot sooner than I thought. Also, having bone broth every day does such wonders for my tummy that I know the magic brew will remain part of my diet after the challenge is done.

I See You

Bright souls terrify
the weak-minded
and weaker-hearted,

the too self-blinded
to notice glitter-shrouded gloom

which senseless fear
illusions into being;

but I see you—
creative and quiet,

shining on the world.

- a very talented friend of mine was having a severe case of writer’s insecurity (mostly inspired by an envious idiot), so I wrote this poem to remind her that some of us admire and respect her work.

- for Poets and Storytellers United--Weekly Scribblings #88: Equinox. Also linked to the Writers’ Pantry #89: Ghost Walk.