Kindness

Years ago,  when I was first thinking of getting a tattoo,  I decided that I would get the Jewel quote,  In the end,  only kindness matters.  Because,  actually,  when you get into the depths of it all,  that's what I believe.  It's a choice we make,  as a person,  as a culture.  And we don't hold it to high enough value.  In the end, only kindness matters.  

So much is luck,  and you never know which end of the stick you will be - and as long as the world is kind,  then it really doesn't matter,  you'll survive anyways.  But of course,  the world is not kind.  So we have to remind each other about kindness and it's essential importance.

Then I was clicking around youtube and some woman was reading poetry,  not well.  And I thought,  surely there are better readers out there!  So I randomly typed in Emma Thompson reading poetry,  because I just love her voice.  And I came across this:

And here is more to fundamentally agree with.  Didn't know the poet Naomi Shihab Nye,  but isn't this beautiful.  Let's sit with it for a while,  and breathe better... 

Current favorite poem

I revisit this poem from time to time.  The first time I read it,  I was still menstruating and I kind of smiled at it.  But having reached menopause some years ago,  this poem grows stronger for me each passing year.   I think this is why we need poets to write about our own experiences.  Otherwise we just miss their amazing perspective and reframing of our lives... 

To my Last Period

by Lucille Clifton

well girl, goodbye,

after thirty-eight years

thirty-eight years and you

never arrived

splendid in your red dress

without trouble for me

somewhere, somehow

now it is done

and i feel just like

the grandmothers who, after the hussy has gone,

sit holding her photograph and sighing,

wasn't she beautiful?

wasn't she beautiful?

Current favorite poem

 

Isn't that just perfect?  Poetry,  like a great song,  can just lift me to a different place.   By the wonderful Wendy Cope

Today's poetic words

I read this online,  these are not my words.  There was a thread on infidelity and someone wrote this:

May truth find you gently. May clarity reach you before confusion does. May your heart be protected from deception, and your dignity remain untouched by what was never yours to carry. And may whatever is revealed lead you not to pain, but to freedom, strength, and deeper self-respect.

Isn't that beautiful?  I wish it so,  especially on something as painful as infidelity. 

Current Favorite Poem

At lunch today a friend told me that she was reading the poetry of Erica Jong.  And straight away, not having read any of her works for years,  I said the one about housework? 

Here it is,  in case you haven't read it:

Woman Enough

Because my grandmother’s hours

were apple cakes baking,

& dust motes gathering,

& linens yellowing

& seams and hems

inevitably unraveling

I almost never keep house

though really I like houses

& wish I had a clean one.

 

Because my mother’s minutes

were sucked into the roar

of the vacuum cleaner,

because she waltzed with the washer-dryer

& tore her hair waiting for repairmen

I send out my laundry,

& live in a dusty house,

though really I like clean houses

as well as anyone.

 

I am woman enough

to love the kneading of bread

as much as the feel

of typewriter keys

under my fingers

springy, springy.

& the smell of clean laundry

& simmering soup

are almost as dear to me

as the smell of paper and ink.

 

I wish there were not a choice;

I wish I could be two women.

I wish the days could be longer.

But they are short.

So I write while

the dust piles up.

 

I sit at my typewriter

remembering my grandmother

& all my mothers,

& the minutes they lost

loving houses better than themselves

& the man I love cleans up the kitchen

grumbling only a little

because he knows

that after all these centuries

it is easier for him

than for me.

In Blackwater Woods, by Mary Oliver

I didn't feel I could jump into something chatty after the horror of the Bondi Shooting lingers in my heart.  So I did what I often do,  when feeling sad and vulnerable,  I looked for a poem.  I really do find solace in the right poems. Here's one I found that I am happy to share with you:

Look, the trees

are turning

their own bodies

into pillars

of light,

are giving off the rich

fragrance of cinnamon

and fulfillment,

the long tapers

of cattails

are bursting and floating away over

the blue shoulders

of the ponds,

and every pond,

no matter what its

name is, is

nameless now.

Every year

everything

I have ever learned

in my lifetime

leads back to this: the fires

and the black river of loss

whose other side

is salvation,

whose meaning

none of us will ever know.

To live in this world

you must be able

to do three things:

to love what is mortal;

to hold it

against your bones knowing

your own life depends on it;

and, when the time comes to let it

go,

to let it go.

   Mary Oliver
In Blackwater Woods

I struggle with the letting go, 
it's good to be reminded from time to time,  
how essential it is... 

Current favorite poem

I'm so upset with the New York Times,  a paper I read daily,  which put up an article asking if Women had Ruined the Workplace.  And when they faced backlash over that,  changed the title to Did Liberal Feminism ruin the workplace?  And then,  when that didn't seem to fix the problem,  changed it to  What is toxic Femininity?   Just such an awful question,  which gave rise to lots of thoughtful articles debunking it! 

And in a perfect antidote to that,  I found this poem,  by a poet I have written about before,  Danielle Coffyn

If Adam Picked the Apple

There would be a parade,

a celebration,

a holiday to commemorate

the day he sought enlightenment.

We would not speak of

temptation by the devil, rather,

we would laud Adam’s curiosity,

his desire for adventure

and knowing.

We would feast

on apple-inspired fare:

tortes, chutneys, pancakes, pies.

There would be plays and songs

reenacting his courage.

But it was Eve who grew bored,

weary of her captivity in Eden.

And a woman’s desire

for freedom is rarely a cause

for celebration.

Speaking of Poetry

Here is another poem that spoke to me

Pandemic

“What if you thought of it

as the Jews consider the Sabbath—

the most sacred of times?

Cease from travel.

Cease from buying and selling.

Give up, just for now,

on trying to make the world

different than it is.

Sing. Pray. Touch only those

to whom you commit your life.

Center down.

And when your body has become still,

reach out with your heart.

Know that we are connected

in ways that are terrifying and beautiful.

(You could hardly deny it now.)

Know that our lives

are in one another’s hands.

(Surely, that has come clear.)

Do not reach out your hands.

Reach out your heart.

Reach out your words.

Reach out all the tendrils

of compassion that move, invisibly,

where we cannot touch.

Promise this world your love–

for better or for worse,

in sickness and in health,

so long as we all shall live.”

– Lynn Ungar 3/11/20

I came across this on a forum I like,  and I've definitely been there - so I am sharing it with you,  because knowing that other people have been there too, makes the journey far easier! 

Relax
Ellen Bass

Bad things are going to happen.
Your tomatoes will grow a fungus
and your cat will get run over.
Someone will leave the bag with the ice cream
melting in the car and throw
your blue cashmere sweater in the drier.
Your husband will sleep
with a girl your daughter’s age, her breasts spilling
out of her blouse. Or your wife
will remember she’s a lesbian
and leave you for the woman next door. The other cat—
the one you never really liked—will contract a disease
that requires you to pry open its feverish mouth
every four hours for a month.
Your parents will die.
No matter how many vitamins you take,
how much Pilates, you’ll lose your keys,
your hair and your memory. If your daughter
doesn’t plug her heart
into every live socket she passes,
you’ll come home to find your son has emptied
your refrigerator, dragged it to the curb,
and called the used appliance store for pick up—drug money.
There’s a Buddhist story of a woman chased by a tiger.
When she comes to a cliff, she sees a sturdy vine
and climbs halfway down. But there’s also a tiger below.
And two mice—one white, one black—scurry out
and begin to gnaw at the vine. At this point
she notices a wild strawberry growing from the crevice.
She looks up, down, at the mice.
Then she eats the strawberry.
So here’s the view, the breeze, the pulse
in your throat. Your wallet will be stolen, you’ll get fat,
slip on the bathroom tiles of a foreign hotel
and crack your hip. You’ll be lonely.
Oh taste how sweet and tart
the red juice is, how the tiny seeds
crunch between your teeth.