Three Days: A Poem in Three Parts, Part Three

ZOELAB DAY 47

The valley welcomes a new calm.

Outside, the air lets the sun shine through.

The wind is a welcome friend.

But, what happened to all the caterpillars?

The rain has chased them out of their homes.

As it has with the scorpions and snakes and beetles.

I find one, curled up on a leaf.

I find another one, eating our bougainvillea.

Then, I see them:

Tiny, yellow, fluttering.

I try to capture them

with my camera,

The weather thief.

The question remains:

Which butterfly belonged to which caterpillar?

Three Days: A Poem in Three Parts, Part Two

ZOELAB DAY 46

The next day, the rain came, again.
Every few minutes, a new sound,
A new amount:
A sheet, a bucket, a drop, a blanket.

And inside our house,
the rain came too.
Honey brown stripes down
our 6 month old walls.
Pools collecting on the orange plastic
covering my desk.

Watercolors painted,
Paper soaking
muddy stains.

The wind was next.
With its power
mostly suggested.

Loud because of a tarp on our roof
Ineffectively flapping about.

The fear of destruction
Waking us up at dawn.

The light so dim,
Not from earliness
But from clouds.

The day is given up on
For anything related to production
Or radio waves.
It is time for
mopping and sopping.
Watching and snacking.

Telepathically transmitting:
We are okay.
We are a little bit wet.

The house has been overtaken
By chaos.

A storm within created by
Retreat.

Three Days: A Poem in Three Parts, Part One

ZOELAB DAY 45

Three Days

Day One

Sneaking out of the house,
before little eyes see me.
I walk up the mountain,
which I have come to realize
is really a hill,
and along the way I counted
128 caterpillars.
Each one, clinging quietly
to a blade of grass,
appearing very much like a cattail
but green, and speckled, and shiny.

One hundred and twenty eight
for my two miles of walking
a straight-ish line.
My view, a few feet wide.
Imagine,
for a moment,
all the other caterpillars in the valley
unseen by my eyes.
Seen, only barely,
as hot air balloons
by the busy ants.
Or as finger snacks
By the hawks.
I did not stop for one caterpillar,
Only taking notes and numbers
With my eyes.
Trying, not that hard,
not to step on them.

Poems on a Theme

ZOELAB 365:  DAY 44

To continue on yesterday’s themes, I want to share three poems.

The first is very well known, and written by the spiritual activist and writer, Marianne Williamson, but is often wrongly attributed to Nelson Mandela as part of his inauguration speech. I was first introduced to this poem by one of my acting teachers many years ago. It spoke to a part of me that had never been spoken to before and has inspired me countless times since. The second is a poem I wrote in response to that poem. The title comes from a women’s artist collective and website called Spun Sugar that I initiated many years ago in NYC, but never came to fruition. The third poem is a poem I wrote while in graduate school that dares  the other (and myself) to not fall for the illusion (a false self) of disempowerment. The latter two poems became lyrics to songs that are as of yet, unfinished.

I made the drawing above while exploring Jungian theory in graduate school. It depicts the feminine archetype that becomes empowered through her connection with nature. By reclaiming the parts of her that were in shadow: her power/animus (the lion), her groundedness/earthiness (the tree), and her femininity/sexuality (the moon) she becomes an integrated, embodied and empowered woman, and therefore: whole.

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, 'Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous?' Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There's nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give others permission to do the same. As we're liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.

Song for a Spun Sugar Sister

Planes go high in the sky,

red-winged red birds pass me by.

But, me on them,

me seeing them

makes me large & upwards &

cross-moving.

makes me Chinese-happy,
& sunshine eyes.

My tragic stomach

flittering,

ticking the blood up to my heart.

Don’t be afraid,

in the smoke-stacked circumference

of a tiny world

on tiny hinges

to be great,

to let out the largeness of you.

Don’t be afraid

to put forth

kind & bouncy words

for those ears you care for.

Don’t be afraid

to talk of your unique bible:

soulful & aesthetic

human & genetic.

Don’t be afraid

within the shameful state of things

to be embarrassed

to hold yourself,

to wink at unseen things.

Cuz it’s not what we can swallow,

but what we can chew-on

that gives us acceleration

and initiation.

So, be large, as Marianne says.

Be huge in your dollhouse

and soon you will see

that even those who’ve made you shrink

will suddenly swell.

Don’t Believe

Don’t believe

this face

this ease

this voice.

Don’t believe

this overt tenderness

which caresses you

and mends

your discomfort

with your presence.

I need for you

not to believe

that this is all I am.

I need for you

to pry me out.
I need for you

to know how I have left me.

That there’s a fierceness inside

that aches.

There’s rhythm

in this body.

But not the rhythm you think.

Don’t believe

My voice you hear.

It’s on top of another thing:

A rumbling.

A torn creature.
A fire.

Listen harder

And be bold with me.

Blood bold.

Don’t believe

my fragile escape.

Even this,

I can fake.

Revolutionary Love

ZOELAB 365 DAY 40

Revolutionary Love

(from 2007)

I want to protect our honeymoon of the future. This is because I am a fighter. A revolutionary within. A revolutionary, fighting for love. Fighting for our deepest need for fantasy and drama and love of the highest order. Devotion and longing of the dream unfulfilled. The dream you know in your spine before I say the word: dream. You dreamt in the womb—it was your womb—soft darkness with eternal space for the energetic dreamer. You were dreaming of your honeymoon—a trip in celebration of your departure and your return. A trip that is touched by your love, that is shielded by your love.

It is not the honeymoon of the bride or groom, it is the honeymoon of your constant longing, your devotion to your longing, from the spell that has overtaken your daily speech and figurative lies. It is a honeymoon of what your spine knows to be true. A truth that has never been spoken. It is a honeymoon of the dream unfulfilled, a dream of your most intimate and innate potential. Inside your belly I can see you are collecting songs, because you are a lucky poet. A cat. Even a lioness.

Your claws are fierce because you are a fighter, a dreamer, an artist of the trapeze, of the high wire. You are a boxer, bloody fisted, reeling. Alive with what is staring you in the face. You can’t afford to lie, to turn your head away, to murder your power. You were born into the boxing ring, and with the most tender and most fierce sensibility, you fight.

Some Creatures

Sometimes it’s the creatures that make the stories. The moths have become a part of our daily life. Many of them are as large as bats. They are attracted to our lights at night, and loudly waver spellbound near our lamps until we turn them off. Then they flutter near the upper windows of our house, transfixed by the light of the moon, trying desperately to reach it while flinging their bodies against the glass. During the day, they stay flat on the walls--looking like intricate decals. I’ve been collecting the dead ones, one of which is in the above photo. Upon inspecting it up close, I discover their huge eyes and hairy legs. I am developing a fascination/repulsion with them.

Our friends’ horse Canela, had a surprise baby. They didn’t know she was pregnant, and then one morning they woke up to discover a miniature horse looking like a carbon copy of his mother.

I found and caught a big spider (which I am pretty sure was not poisonous) and tried to put her on my latest spider web drawing for the website so that I could photograph it with a real spider. But I just couldn’t get her to go on the paper. So I let her be free outside.

I also want to share two poems by Mary Oliver that feel relevant right now. I was introduced to these by one my psychology professors in grad school who started class with a brief mediation, and a poem which she always read to us twice. Sometimes lines from each of them come into my head. I love Mary Oliver’s hauntingly exultant way of communing with nature.

Wild Geese

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting–
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

 

 

The Summer Day

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

Beginning, Again

My first entry. I feel nervous and excited, like the first day of school.

 When I was in high school, sometimes I had a difficult time diving into my homework because I had all these other sensations swirling inside of me in the realm of art and emotion. So what I would do was write a spontaneous non edited poem, which helped me arrive. 

 Here goes:

The anticipation of

a new cycle. A full circle of days.

A whole blue moon glowing itself

at daytime.

I like speed, but not falling.

I like contact, but still moving.

I was told I am like a shark.

the biological need to move,

to grow

to create

to devour

to cycle.

What is feminine?

the reciprocal voice of love warming my ears

the need to make a place

and be that place.

To be seen.

What is masculine?

the voice making its mark, 

the etching of new patterns.

The structure of seeing and understanding.

Arriving, I become closer to the space in between.

And now, looking back:

This is a poem I wrote a long time ago:

September (before 2001)

Behold the clear sky and the heather gray outfits.

Behold the sharp pencils, the leather boots,

the moonbeam memories;

suede-like, slow.

The sad-eyed walkers, the school-feet,

the heavy back packs, heavy hearts

heavy beds and bed-wetters.

Would women want to be pregnant?

Oh yes, I think.

What is better than a new one in May?

(little toes poking)

(little buds peeking)

But the roundness won’t start for a while.

For now it is lovers’ quarrels and heat therapy.

“Be patient, little one.

I still have a career to caress.”

And September drives my deepest function,

I receive a present of the present.

I turn from August laziness towards inside.

I turn to face moment things like:

orange leaves, dancing trees and anti-freeze.

That poem is about a different September. An East Cost September. About where I am from. It’s about the start of the fall, my favorite season. A time that evokes deep emotions and nostalgia. Now I am in Southern Baja, and it’s a different story I am telling. We live in a tropical desert. A contradiction that is very real. There are both cactus and palm trees. It is hurricane season. We are dead in the middle of a very hot, humid summer. And even though it is easy to complain about the heat and the bugs and creatures, there is also a sensual pleasure in this season. First of all, there’s the rain. I love rain. It has a way of connecting everything, of adding a cosines and drama and beauty to everything. And then the light after the rain is fun to photograph. And then there’s the explosion of green. I love green. It always amazes me--the irrepressibleness of plants. Add a little water, and the desert becomes bright green.

The Pacific Ocean is always near, the waves are long, low and warm. Not good for surfers, but good for me who doesn’t like to fall. 

This time of year also brings back vivid memories of the first and the last summer we spent in Baja. It was three years ago. The summer of Hurricane Jimena. It was also the summer our son, Emilio was born.

It was the year we moved to Mexico, we drove down from Northern California 3 days after I discovered I was pregnant (not an accident, but it came much sooner than anticipated). We had spent much of the year camping on our piece of land, (to watch video about our camping experience, click here: camp video) and then decided to find a house to take care of (we didn’t have any money for rent) for the last month of pregnancy and the first months of parenthood. A woman I met in a café overheard me talking about camping (while I was obviously pregnant) and offered to let us stay in her guest casita in exchange for some basic care taking. We moved in a few months later, while I was about seven months pregnant. The house was a little rough around the edges, but it was artsy, and we liked it. I was overjoyed to be living in a place with real walls, refrigeration, and electric lights. We spent the first day or so having fun turing on and off the lights as if we were toddlers. The main drawback was the roof was made of translucent plastic. We had to wear sunglasses inside, it was like living in a greenhouse. Being pregnant, my body temperature was also about 5 degrees hotter than usual. We suffered through it, and I found particular relief in air-conditioned car rides to the American style ice cream store to get cone of mint chip. This became a daily ritual. Our other form of relief came from an unlimited amount of agua mineral (seltzer). It was a luxury that we allowed ourself. Once Emilio came via a cesarean section on August 10, 2009 in La Paz hospital, there was a great and brief feeling of relief and happiness. But sooner after, things became even more difficult. I was recovering from surgery, and the pain medication I was given was causing so much anxiety that as soon as I fell asleep my body would jolt me back into wakefulness. I had to watch old episodes of The Office incessantly in order to get my mind off of it. Additionally, my body was exploding with hormones from nursing. I had read that if nursing hurts, you’re doing it wrong. Nursing hurt like hell. I wavered between being anxious that I wasn’t nursing correctly and being irrationally terrified that one of us would die at any moment. No one had prepared me for this intensity of feeling, pain or hunger. I have always been a person with a big appetite, during pregnancy it increased, but while I was nursing I was incapable of feeling full. I was like a teenage boy with the munchies. During and after the birth, we had a few week’s help from both of our mothers that was very welcome and comforting, but soon after they left, Hurricane Jimena came. Here is an excerpt from an email I sent to friends and family afterwards:

So the hurricane hit us pretty hard. At around 9 PM, we were all prepared, with lots of drinking water stored up, cans of beans, our valuables stored in a plastic box, our lantern charged, and we were sitting down to watch a movie as the rain hit our roof hard and the wind blew dramatically. I turned to Lucas, who had said the biggest risk to us was that our roof would blow off, "do you really think our roof will blow off?" And he said, "probably not." And then... a very big gust of wind, and a booming noise, and sure enough, our roof started to blow off! It was pretty scary at first, because we thought maybe the whole thing would come off. But just a section of it did, right near where we were sitting. So we moved all of our stuff into the bedroom, and our valuables into the bathroom (which is the only room in the casita that has a concrete, not plastic roof.) Our plan was if the whole roof was to blow off, we'd go into the bathroom for immediate protection, and then move ourselves into the main house, which is unoccupied, and has a concrete roof. Fortunately, Emilio, being his very calm and sleepy self, didn't even wake up for all the dramatic noise. But, poor Ping, was very scared, and wouldn't go more than a few inches away from us--needing lots of reassurance. I, myself, was pretty stressed, but after a few hours of the loud banging of the piece of roof, the loud rain hitting our roof, the electricity was surging and our fans and light bulbs were pulsing into overdrive, and the wind blowing only outside, we started to be more assured that we were safe. It was a sleepless, scary night.

 The next morning, the hurricane had passed. The windows had not broken, the hole in the roof was a bit bigger, but it was not huge. We feared the motor of our electric fans had died, but thankfully they worked the next day! We lost water, but only for a few hours. Our fridge was still on too!  A large tree on the property had been knocked down and was blocking the road. Lucas cut it up yesterday with his chainsaw, to remove the blockage. The house is now a mess, filled with bugs, and has become just too hot to be bearable. Fortunately, the owner of the house, took pity on us and offered to let us sleep in the main house which is much cooler. We slept there last night, and it was much more comfortable. Even Emilio took a morning nap until 10 AM (which he almost never does), so we got some more sleep--because the sun was not directly on all of us the way it is in the smaller house.

After Jimena, the electricity continued to surge all day long, into periods of too-high, and then too-low. Too-high meant super bright, buzzing lights, too-low meant the fan working at such a minimum as to not feel its breeze at all. When the too-low periods happened at night, the heat would wake me up (in between nursing sessions which for some reason I took intricate notes on) and I would take my seventh shower of the night, until the fan started working again. There were days when we had no water and once we actually trucked our own water from the pump station near our land to fill the tank. 

 You might wonder, why didn’t we just leave? Well, the worst part of it was, we couldn’t. In order to leave Mexico and enter the US, we had to get Emilio’s paperwork in order. We had to apply for his US Citizenship and his passport. It meant several trips to both Cabo and La Paz a week. After about two months, we had it all together, and we were finally able to find relief from family and friends in the US.

 It is easy to complain, but what I would rather do is learn from this experience. First of all, I use remembering that summer as a meter to measure my current discomfort. Also I have come to believe it’s important to experience doing without, not as a punishment, but as just an other experience. It allows me to appreciate the disappeared when it returns to our life. What’s great about summer is that it makes me appreciate winter.   So far, nothing I’ve experienced since has been as difficult as that summer. Motherhood is now (mostly) an utter joy and a consistent source of inspiration and growth. And now we live in our own house that we built on our land. I continue to struggle, just as I always have, but the struggle becomes more meaningful, more reflective of what I really care about. It’s starting to add up. I know there will be other hardships, and life has many challenges and strife yet to offer. However, I also believe, in the larger sense, of our life here, that we are learning what we can and cannot live with out. We are blessed to be in this position, even if we have made sacrifices. We are explorers, pioneers. We are risking our comfort to carve out something for ourselves. We don’t always have a plan, but we always have a dream. That dream is to live an open, independent, conscious and creative life. We are making up the rules as we go. We are giving up a little first world practically for the sake of an enchanted life.

 Thank you for reading.