In my previous blog, I shared how quickly I compiled my latest manuscript, although the poems took years to create.
Â
When I was told Pieces of Me was to be published, I re-read the poems I sent to give them a once over and discovered a few of them were about being raised without a father. It was interesting realizing the effect it had on me growing up. This was an observation I wasn't aware of until I read all my words strung together like a wind chime of seashells bouncing off one another, making noise.
Â
As many know, putting pen to paper or fingertips to keys can be a powerful exercise in clarity and awareness.
Â
If you don't already roll over and grab a pen and journal in the morning and purge all your first thoughts of the day, you'll be amazed at how therapeutic it is to do so and to see the pattern of thoughts that arise. It wipes the slate clean before the day even truly begins. A big thank you to Julia Cameron for writing The Artist's Way!
Â
Last year, I couldn't have admitted being daddy-less was a weight I carried. I had no idea, but I did realize while having my first stye and bout of eczema that required I put a warm washcloth over my eye for ten minutes a couple times a day and lathering myself up with lotion in the morning and right after my shower at night, how time-consuming it felt and how irritated I was to have to take time out of the day to do it.
Â
I was deep into studying for my certification in Ayurveda health care (the universe knows when to enlighten you!), and  I found out simple things like Abhyanga, a self-oil massage, is an essential part of self-care to remove toxins.
Â
What I found frustrating was self-care?
What I avoided was self-care?
What I didn't have time for—was self-care?
Â
Hmm, maybe that's why these ailments were showing up, and perhaps that's why a part of me longed to correct my past?
Â
All this thinking and learning led me to finally do what was necessary to nurture myself. I quit looking for an abandoning father, emotionally unavailable mother, or my husband or friends to give me love. The actual person's affection and nurturing I needed was always right with me—because it was me.
Â
What a game-changer! Once, I started singing while putting lotion on, telling myself "I love you," while looking in the mirror, relaxing and paying attention to the inhale and exhale of my breath while heating my eyelids, journaling my thoughts, and making myself a cup of tea at night (all easy rituals), allowed me to let go of sadness and regret and forgive in an even more powerful way than I thought I'd already had.
Â
I believed I had to be under the weather to take care of myself. But I didn't want to feel sick anymore. I didn't need to feel ill. My body has done so much for me. It deserves to be treated with kindness and encouraging words all the time. Even when healthy, as does yours.
And with all that said, I share with you this poem, which is the title of the poetry book . . .
(The pieces, once broken, are being mended.)
If any of this resonates with you, please don't hesitate to let me know. I'd love to hear from you, and be sure to subscribe to my email list so you'll be notified when there's a new one!
Â
Pieces of Me
Â
Questions—the adolescent years
filled with questions.
Â
Not ordinary, angst-ridden,
social engaging, juvenile
thoughts.
Â
No, mine centered on a man.
Â
Where was he?
Did I look like him?
Did he love me?
Â
In the days of seeking Easter eggs
through grape and squash vines,
chased by chickens and geese with
a Siamese cat named Gumdrops,
I was fooled to believe what was in
front of me was truth.
Â
In the search for answers, I found
what I thought was missing in front
of a bar with dirty blond hair,
a swollen red nose and dark circles
under his pale blue eyes.
He resembled a swamp rat
dripping wet from the rain.
Â
And before I could release my words,
he had a demand for me . . .
Â
I want you to change your last name.
Â
The question of "who" was replaced
with "why" as I stood on the sidewalk
underneath the dampened moonlit sky,
now—in severed pieces.
Comments