Excerpted from 'Wouldn't Take Nothing for My Journey Now' (again, from the great Dr. Angelou):
Being a woman is hard work. Not without joy and even ecstasy, but still relentless, unending work. Becoming an old female may require only being born with certain genitalia, inheriting long-living genes and the fortune not to be run over by an out-of-control truck, but to become and remain a woman command the existence and employment of genius.
As profoundly grateful I am for the progress in gender relations and the endless possibilities now open to women, the one thing I miss is the Old World classy feminine ideal. It seems like more and more we slip into the mentality that we're all the same but with different parts. I love that she speaks to that essence that we women are forgetting in selling ourselves short of our potential for class, beauty, subtlety, and mystique.
I've got some work to do -- doctor's orders! :)
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Friday, October 30, 2009
A spoonful of statistics
Part of my healing process and transition into advocacy has been learning more about abuse, abusive patterns, abuser profiles, and the frequency/results of abuse as captured in statistics.
Most studies or synthesized numbers are from the '90s, which is frustrating, but still offer a glimpse into the wide impact of the destruction.
Here are a few that jumped out at me from a summary (PDF) posted on Stanford's Sexual Assault & Relationship Abuse Support & Prevention website: (emphasis mine)
The next month, Redbook happened to highlight emotional abuse ("Invisible Violence") in their October 2008 issue. A loved one recommended I read the article, which hit me profoundly again with the similarities between my situation and other women's relationships. I kept it beside my bed and read it for strength each time I tried to call things off with my ex, only to be talked into staying and convinced that I couldn't trust my perceptions (or loved ones).
Most studies or synthesized numbers are from the '90s, which is frustrating, but still offer a glimpse into the wide impact of the destruction.
Here are a few that jumped out at me from a summary (PDF) posted on Stanford's Sexual Assault & Relationship Abuse Support & Prevention website: (emphasis mine)
- Domestic violence is the leading cause of injury to women between the ages of 15 and 44 in the USA -- more than rapes, muggings and car accidents combined (Surgeon General, United States, 1992)
- A woman is beaten every 9 seconds in the USA (Family Violence Prevention Fund Report, 1994)
- According to the Center for Disease Control, a woman is in nine times more danger of violent attack in her home than on the streets.
- In 1993, 3.9 million American women who were living with their spouse or partner were physically abused, while 20.7 million American women in the same living situation suffered emotional or verbal abuse (The Commonwealth Fund, 1993).
- Over 50% of the women killed in the USA are killed by male intimate partners or ex-partners (Journal of the American Medical Association, 1992)
- Approximately 50% of the homeless women and children in the USA are on the streets because of violence in the home (Joseph Biden, U.S. Senate Committee on the Judiciary, Violence Against Women: Victims of the System, 1991)
The next month, Redbook happened to highlight emotional abuse ("Invisible Violence") in their October 2008 issue. A loved one recommended I read the article, which hit me profoundly again with the similarities between my situation and other women's relationships. I kept it beside my bed and read it for strength each time I tried to call things off with my ex, only to be talked into staying and convinced that I couldn't trust my perceptions (or loved ones).
I found the Power and Control Wheel online in the final days of our relationship and was stunned by how accurately it portrayed -- in all but two of the segments -- my experience. Shocked that a stranger who knew nothing about either my partner or myself could grasp everything that I had known for the last few years, I relinquished my rationalizations. Surrendering to the truth was the next step.
Real estate for a favorite
I know I could just link to it, but I'd like it to have its own space.
I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings
The free bird leaps
on the back of the wind
and floats downstream
til the current ends
and dips his wings
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky.
But a bird that stalks
down his narrow cage
can seldom see through
his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and
his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing
The caged bird sings
with fearful trill
of the things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird sings of freedom
The free bird thinks of another breeze
and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn
and he names the sky his own
But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing
The caged bird sings
with a fearfull trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.
--Maya Angelou, who was inspired by this poem.
I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings
The free bird leaps
on the back of the wind
and floats downstream
til the current ends
and dips his wings
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky.
But a bird that stalks
down his narrow cage
can seldom see through
his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and
his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing
The caged bird sings
with fearful trill
of the things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird sings of freedom
The free bird thinks of another breeze
and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn
and he names the sky his own
But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing
The caged bird sings
with a fearfull trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.
--Maya Angelou, who was inspired by this poem.
Bite-sized inspiration
I don't claim anything of the work. It is His work. I am like a little pencil in His hand. That is all. He does the thinking. He does the writing. The pencil has nothing to do with it. The pencil has only to be allowed to be used.
--Mother Teresa, interviewed by TIME magazine
(on a related note of allowing our gifts to be used for what they were intended to maximum efficiency, check out this video.)
--Mother Teresa, interviewed by TIME magazine
(on a related note of allowing our gifts to be used for what they were intended to maximum efficiency, check out this video.)
Caged
August 19, 2008:
Pay attention to the cuss words
and the fist-fractured wall
Don't look past the blame heaped on you
For beneath its weight you'll fall
Have you quickened your response time
to appease and deflect rage?
Is a 'sorry' always on your lips?
Do you feel locked in a cage?
Can you adjust to the idea
of a master puppeteer
who pulls the strings to move your limbs
but makes sure your head is clear?
Have the insults grown more frequent?
Has respect been gagged and choked?
In the dynamics of the moment
have his macho thoughts been stoked?
Do you have the space to think?
Does he listen when you speak?
Or does he degrade your sense of self and pride?
Into your journals does he peek?
How much of you has slipped away?
How much of you is tied in knots?
You've turned yourself inside out
to be a glamorous robot.
How much longer do you have
before your life ends with a blow?
Heed my warning to you now:
Protect your life and go!
Pay attention to the cuss words
and the fist-fractured wall
Don't look past the blame heaped on you
For beneath its weight you'll fall
Have you quickened your response time
to appease and deflect rage?
Is a 'sorry' always on your lips?
Do you feel locked in a cage?
Can you adjust to the idea
of a master puppeteer
who pulls the strings to move your limbs
but makes sure your head is clear?
Have the insults grown more frequent?
Has respect been gagged and choked?
In the dynamics of the moment
have his macho thoughts been stoked?
Do you have the space to think?
Does he listen when you speak?
Or does he degrade your sense of self and pride?
Into your journals does he peek?
How much of you has slipped away?
How much of you is tied in knots?
You've turned yourself inside out
to be a glamorous robot.
How much longer do you have
before your life ends with a blow?
Heed my warning to you now:
Protect your life and go!
Phantom
September 28, 2008:
The slap of his words still stings
like the first time he spoke them
each time I remember
The onslaught of insults, the untold tantrums
leave colorless bruises -- deceptively invisible,
with no shades to gauge my healing.
The violation of space -- both physical and mental --
makes my blood boil anew,
kept in check only by the fear he's trained into me
Repressed anger, constant confusion, severe self-doubt --
these have become my closest friends,
standing in for loved ones who have been pushed away
Each day I awake
my prison walls constrict ever tighter around me
I struggle to break free, aching to use my droopy wings
yet paralyzed by doubts that they will even work
His words -- like puppet strings upon my mind --
coax me to stay and twist the fight out of me
I am limp but for his commands
I float ghostlike through my day,
His criticisms echo in my head
I sit beside you on the subway
I work one cubicle away
I am victimized by senses
I am neither heard nor seen
The abuse is not black and blue
Its essence has no proof
***
I wrote this to capture the turmoil one goes through; the fact that we bump up against victims every day who are hidden in plain sight; but also to speak to the frustration that the severe harm inflicted by emotional abusers is not valued equally as a shove or a punch in the legal system. I recognize the challenge to prosecute without physical evidence but I also feel that society gets the false message that emotional abuse isn't 'that bad.' Piling injustice upon injustice, perpetrators understand that if they don't lift a finger, there are no consequences.
The slap of his words still stings
like the first time he spoke them
each time I remember
The onslaught of insults, the untold tantrums
leave colorless bruises -- deceptively invisible,
with no shades to gauge my healing.
The violation of space -- both physical and mental --
makes my blood boil anew,
kept in check only by the fear he's trained into me
Repressed anger, constant confusion, severe self-doubt --
these have become my closest friends,
standing in for loved ones who have been pushed away
Each day I awake
my prison walls constrict ever tighter around me
I struggle to break free, aching to use my droopy wings
yet paralyzed by doubts that they will even work
His words -- like puppet strings upon my mind --
coax me to stay and twist the fight out of me
I am limp but for his commands
I float ghostlike through my day,
His criticisms echo in my head
I sit beside you on the subway
I work one cubicle away
I am victimized by senses
I am neither heard nor seen
The abuse is not black and blue
Its essence has no proof
***
I wrote this to capture the turmoil one goes through; the fact that we bump up against victims every day who are hidden in plain sight; but also to speak to the frustration that the severe harm inflicted by emotional abusers is not valued equally as a shove or a punch in the legal system. I recognize the challenge to prosecute without physical evidence but I also feel that society gets the false message that emotional abuse isn't 'that bad.' Piling injustice upon injustice, perpetrators understand that if they don't lift a finger, there are no consequences.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Don't worry, friends ...
I know I've posted a lot of the pieces I wrote while processing my last relationship. I appreciate so much those of you who've circled back and sent me your feedback. I also wanted to reassure you that it won't be like this forever. My hope was that in putting this out there now, it would allow me to move forward with other topics and also, that it might help another woman out there in a similar situation. The greatest joy for me would be to know that somebody was helped by something they read here. So, don't go anywhere. I've got some ideas for upcoming features I'd like to start and I'd love for you to be on the journey with me! :)
That said, there will be close attention paid to relational abuse. It's a part of who I am, and this being a chance to own my voice and speak out, I do hope to follow my 'beat' here. But it won't be the only conversation.
Thanks again for joining me here. It means the world to me.
That said, there will be close attention paid to relational abuse. It's a part of who I am, and this being a chance to own my voice and speak out, I do hope to follow my 'beat' here. But it won't be the only conversation.
Thanks again for joining me here. It means the world to me.
Better off without you
Your words and your actions don't line up
I'm sick of the mind games and guilt trips
I've had some fun
I've learned a lot
But I know this now:
I'm better off without you
I've felt so often like I'm tiptoeing through a mine field
Trying to do everything right but you still blow up at me
I'm sick of being scared
And blaming myself for it
I'm better off without you
So I'm packing my bags
With photos and memories
I'll keep the good with the bad
For when I'm feeling shaky without you
Gotta keep my head on straight
And find myself in my own space
This is my declaration of independence.
Life goes on; I can't wait for this next chapter
I've faced stuff in the past
And I've learned my own strength
I'm gonna resurrect that girl again
Who smiles in adversity
And screams to the wind:
Is that all you've got?
You can't keep me down
I'm cutting myself loose
You've made it easy to do
With your lies and abuse
I won't stand for it anymore
I finally know my own worth
And I'm better than that, yea
I'm better off without you.
October 12, 2009
I'm sick of the mind games and guilt trips
I've had some fun
I've learned a lot
But I know this now:
I'm better off without you
I've felt so often like I'm tiptoeing through a mine field
Trying to do everything right but you still blow up at me
I'm sick of being scared
And blaming myself for it
I'm better off without you
So I'm packing my bags
With photos and memories
I'll keep the good with the bad
For when I'm feeling shaky without you
Gotta keep my head on straight
And find myself in my own space
This is my declaration of independence.
Life goes on; I can't wait for this next chapter
I've faced stuff in the past
And I've learned my own strength
I'm gonna resurrect that girl again
Who smiles in adversity
And screams to the wind:
Is that all you've got?
You can't keep me down
I'm cutting myself loose
You've made it easy to do
With your lies and abuse
I won't stand for it anymore
I finally know my own worth
And I'm better than that, yea
I'm better off without you.
October 12, 2009
My Creed
Slow down. Listen more. Serve others. Be generous. Seek wisdom. Discern God's plan. Love more. Rest with God. Love yourself as He loves you. Ask to see yourself through His eyes, with total knowledge of your weaknesses and flaws but with passion, tenderness, and affirmation of your strengths.
September 20, 2009
September 20, 2009
Fading to black
September 21, 2009
You. You who denounces Islam
who clucks his tongue at the treatment of Muslim women
who prides himself on being shaped
by centuries of civility
You are my burqa.
You cover the curves of my spirit
that distinguish and set me apart
those colors of my soul
you black out with your oppression.
How is your misapplied sense of honor
different than the Taliban's?
Your jealous questions and penal code
stifle me like a dark robe in the summer.
They isolate me and leave eye contact
as my only connection to the world.
You. You who denounces Islam
who clucks his tongue at the treatment of Muslim women
who prides himself on being shaped
by centuries of civility
You are my burqa.
You cover the curves of my spirit
that distinguish and set me apart
those colors of my soul
you black out with your oppression.
How is your misapplied sense of honor
different than the Taliban's?
Your jealous questions and penal code
stifle me like a dark robe in the summer.
They isolate me and leave eye contact
as my only connection to the world.
Learning to love myself again
Written as lyrics with no melody in mind. Any artists out there with ideas, let's chat.
It's been awhile now
that I give your words
more weight than mine.
But I've reset the scale
and I'm walking away with
tears I won't be cryin'
I need to protect myself
Respect myself
Learn again who I want to be
It's been so long that
you've had control
I've redrafted dreams
and tried to edit my soul
It just won't work (and)
now it's time for me
to love myself again
I gaze in the mirror
and try to see
the girl long ago
that used to be me
the confidence, sparkle
and firm sense of mind
I've taken back my life,
it's a matter of time
'til I love myself again.
-September 25, 2008
It's been awhile now
that I give your words
more weight than mine.
But I've reset the scale
and I'm walking away with
tears I won't be cryin'
I need to protect myself
Respect myself
Learn again who I want to be
It's been so long that
you've had control
I've redrafted dreams
and tried to edit my soul
It just won't work (and)
now it's time for me
to love myself again
I gaze in the mirror
and try to see
the girl long ago
that used to be me
the confidence, sparkle
and firm sense of mind
I've taken back my life,
it's a matter of time
'til I love myself again.
-September 25, 2008
But the greatest of these is love
Just because I haven't found my lifelong mate doesn't mean I haven't dreamed of him or imagined the joy of time shared together. To all of you that have your soulmates, cherish them even in the difficult times. For those of us who are waiting to turn the corner and find them, keep the faith alive! :)
With tender strength
you hold me tight
I feel safe, secure
throughout the night
Nestled in your embrace
I'm lulled to dream
of a future spoken of,
not yet redeemed
In this ethereal place
I see before me
a blissful union --
love set free
from past mistakes
and future fears
instead abiding in
the present dear
A man and woman
with similar tastes
who savor the moment
and see in their faces
Devotion and fidelity's
flames abound
defining a love
reborn and refound
With childlike fervor
the man and his mate play
recognizing the precious
value of a day
that they share together
having spent time apart
one entity alive
uniting two hearts
No ocean or obstacle
can quench their fire
whose flames first burned slowly
but then leapt higher
as their consummated passion
allowed their souls to rest
having found -- at last!
the object of their quest
The road was sometimes rocky
a path paved by tears
from the result of insecurity,
immaturity and fears
but patience, forgiveness
and resolute pluck
lifted them up when
they were mired in muck
You stir in your sleep
and my revelrie fades
as I return to the present
and stroke your moonlit face
I cling tightly to you
and thank Heaven above
for guiding us together
and planting a seed of love.
-August 22, 2009
With tender strength
you hold me tight
I feel safe, secure
throughout the night
Nestled in your embrace
I'm lulled to dream
of a future spoken of,
not yet redeemed
In this ethereal place
I see before me
a blissful union --
love set free
from past mistakes
and future fears
instead abiding in
the present dear
A man and woman
with similar tastes
who savor the moment
and see in their faces
Devotion and fidelity's
flames abound
defining a love
reborn and refound
With childlike fervor
the man and his mate play
recognizing the precious
value of a day
that they share together
having spent time apart
one entity alive
uniting two hearts
No ocean or obstacle
can quench their fire
whose flames first burned slowly
but then leapt higher
as their consummated passion
allowed their souls to rest
having found -- at last!
the object of their quest
The road was sometimes rocky
a path paved by tears
from the result of insecurity,
immaturity and fears
but patience, forgiveness
and resolute pluck
lifted them up when
they were mired in muck
You stir in your sleep
and my revelrie fades
as I return to the present
and stroke your moonlit face
I cling tightly to you
and thank Heaven above
for guiding us together
and planting a seed of love.
-August 22, 2009
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Bite-sized inspiration
You will find as you look back upon your life that
the moments when you have truly lived
are the moments when you have done things in the spirit of love.
--Mother Teresa
the moments when you have truly lived
are the moments when you have done things in the spirit of love.
--Mother Teresa
Bienvenu Theo
For the Francophiles out there, this was written to welcome my French host sister's first child who was born while I was studying in Rennes, France and living with the family.
Le ciel est gris
On ne pouvait pas deviner
qu'un rayon de soleil viendrait aujourd'hui
Apres une longue journee
Tu commences la deuxieme phase de la vie
Cette journee, t'as choisi de venir
pour commencer ton chemin
que nous prions a Dieu sera long et plein de joie
T'es reste' neuf longs mois
dans le ventre de ta Maman affectueuse
Ta maman ne t'a pas encore vu
mais elle se repose
apres votre journee fatigante
Aujourd'hui tu as traverse l'autre cote
Nous te voyons te nicher dans les ailes de Papa
qui a commence de te proteger de tout ce qui est mal
et te diriger tendrement tes annees de grandissement
Pendant que tu es dans ses bras,
On peut voir facilement ton esprit
non faconne, et innocent
Une creation parfaite
qui est venue de Dieu
On remarque la paix et la confiance
auxquelles tu commence ta vie
Tu es la fleur du printemps
qui apporte un parfum celeste et doux
aux deux familles qui t'accueillent en unite
Tu ne connais pas encore les gens
qui ont parle de toi souvent
pendant les derniers neuf mois
mais nous te regardons maintenant
avec les yeux grand-ouverts
en essayant d'apprendre par coeur
toutes tes caracteristiques
Ta magnifique beaute
evoque les larmes d'etonnement
pendant que je m'emerveille
de la beaute, le mystere et la miracle
les mots ne pouvent pas exprimer
tous les sentiments de la vie
que me saisissent maintenant.
Bienvenu Theo
Nous t'aimons
-March 3, 2001
Monday, October 26, 2009
Flamenco
May 10, 2007:
Staccato steps tap on the wooden stage
Ruffles twirl from trimmed bodices
Flamboyant wrist twists exude passion
As the beats pick up
And her heels kick up
The music explodes from her body,
Her instrument, her rhythm-keeper
Propelled by claps and chords
And tapping toes, “Ole!”
This is flamenco.
The dance of desire
Where music captivates
And movements titillate
Perhaps
Those susceptible to Carmen’s charm
Who become puppets drawn
By snaking arms, and a flash in her eyes
As it has been for centuries
Iberia and Africa harmoniously blended
In feminine wile, seductive steps
The flower in her hair, the beads of sweat
That slide down gleaming muscles defined
By the jumps and bends, twists and turns
The staccato hops, the pops and blurs
A soul enlivened, unrestrained, set on fire
Passionate for life, engulfed by desire
Staccato steps tap on the wooden stage
Ruffles twirl from trimmed bodices
Flamboyant wrist twists exude passion
As the beats pick up
And her heels kick up
The music explodes from her body,
Her instrument, her rhythm-keeper
Propelled by claps and chords
And tapping toes, “Ole!”
This is flamenco.
The dance of desire
Where music captivates
And movements titillate
Perhaps
Those susceptible to Carmen’s charm
Who become puppets drawn
By snaking arms, and a flash in her eyes
As it has been for centuries
Iberia and Africa harmoniously blended
In feminine wile, seductive steps
The flower in her hair, the beads of sweat
That slide down gleaming muscles defined
By the jumps and bends, twists and turns
The staccato hops, the pops and blurs
A soul enlivened, unrestrained, set on fire
Passionate for life, engulfed by desire
Bite-sized inspiration
One comes to appreciate the reality that there can be no "wes" and "theys" in our lives, but only brothers and sisters -- all children of God -- all sacred and dignified. Destruction of any one of these God-gifts means a certain destruction of oneself and a mystery that is gone forever from this small fragile world.
--Martin Luther King, Jr.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Rome
It's the sinewy streetsthat let you stumble upon
The legacy of greatness carried
within the proud hearts of her citizens, yet stepped upon and inhabited by scrappy, stray cats
Might it be the jaw-dropping size of St. Peter's Basilica? The heart-wrenching scene of La Pieta? The bright clothes and serious stares of Swiss Guards outside the Vatican?
the Pantheon, penny-filled Fontana di Trevi or the Spanish Steps
Or is it the way your heels click
on carriage-carved cobblestones
Or is it the way your heels click
on carriage-carved cobblestones
that conjure up images of
centurions and tribunes?
Might it be the sensuality of dishes 
so balanced in texture and flavor
that tears spring to your eyes
as the food slips onto your tongue?
What is it about this city that gets under one's skin and allows it so easily to set up permanent residence in your soul?
Perhaps it's the melodic language,
the unfiltered emotions and
life lived out dramatically in the streets.
the unfiltered emotions and
life lived out dramatically in the streets.
The art of a well-foamed cappuccino,
for their proportional perfection.
The legacy of greatness carriedwithin the proud hearts of her citizens, yet stepped upon and inhabited by scrappy, stray cats
The unsung mosaics on street corners
passed over with the casualness
passed over with the casualness
Might it be the smoothness of her gelato? the curve of her cuppole? the roundness of the 'o' when a phone is answered -- 'Pronto?'
The sharply-dressed but oft-mocked carabinieri strolling around? Or the rougher polizia forces badgering frustrated drivers amid the chaos of whimsical motorists?
Is it the sizzle of sophisticated men in tailored suits and shoes?
Or perhaps the production behind pouty women in designer shades and fur coats in mild weather?
Take note of the spicyness in casual encounters that start and finish with flirtation, and the way a woman's attractiveness is never left unnoticed by men.
Perhaps it's the snappy Vespas lined up
along the Lungotevere on weekend nights,
Perhaps it's the snappy Vespas lined up
along the Lungotevere on weekend nights,
the frenzy of Campo de Fiori
the stillness of Piazza Navona
the charm of Via Giulia's ivy-hugged archway,
or the white-knuckled thrill of guarding your wallet in crowded Termini Station.
Might it be the jaw-dropping size of St. Peter's Basilica? The heart-wrenching scene of La Pieta? The bright clothes and serious stares of Swiss Guards outside the Vatican? Riding the bus with nuns returning from their grocery-shopping?
Or standing in St. Peter's Square
hugged by the curved arms of Bernini's colonnade,
knowing Nero spilled martyrs' blood on that very spot.
The hush that cloaks you as you tunnel the catacombs
where persecuted believers finally rest in peace.
The wonder reflected in other visitors' eyes
The wonder reflected in other visitors' eyes
as they take in the soft colors and elegant wrinkles of the Eternal City? 
I will be forever haunted
by her beauty, grace and sensuality,
unable to forget my newfound appreciation of human potential;
being touched by divinity
and hedonism in the same stroke
each breath history-infused,
each step on sacred ground.
--photographs by M.G.H.
The hangman isn't supposed to say 'Ti amo'
October 13, 2008:
Your fist never hit me
and yet your words
left stab wounds in my soul
as you twisted the blade
in every sacred corner
in every hope and dream
without mercy.
I did not know it at the time
but you had employed me
to build my own gallows
You had a noose around my soul;
I had only to build the platform and frame
from which I'd hang
I came close to laying
the finishing touches
of the structure
that would kill my spirit
that you had designed
and packaged in words of love
and I had naively trusted
handing over the keys to my heart
For years you whittled down
my scrappy resolve
Did you choose me because I was strong
and challenged you?
Or was my strength
an accessory you hadn't ordered
but accepted as part of the package?
I underestimated your hypnotic power
and overestimated my ability
to protect what was sacred,
to survive the siege on my soul
to keep track of how I was changing,
dying slowly.
Your "guidance" brainwashed me
Your expectations drained me
Your mockery humiliated me
Your anger frightened me
into a wide-eyed schoolgirl.
For a minute, I believed
the fault was all mine.
That you were all good
and I was all bad.
I passed over the ways
you had wronged me
because you had convinced me that
I had lost the right to speak up.
But since when is a relationship
only one person's criticisms toward the other?
There are times I've wondered
if there's not some way to work it out or save it
but then I ask myself:
Aren't you more alive now than before?
Aren't you more 'you' than before?
Aren't you less scared than before?
Aren't you more at peace than before?
Would you want to live with
the noise in your head?
the fear in your heart?
the insecurity and emptiness in your soul?
shuffling your feet to his drum beat
instead of dancing freely to your melody?
Your fist never hit me
and yet your words
left stab wounds in my soul
as you twisted the blade
in every sacred corner
in every hope and dream
without mercy.
I did not know it at the time
but you had employed me
to build my own gallows
You had a noose around my soul;
I had only to build the platform and frame
from which I'd hang
I came close to laying
the finishing touches
of the structure
that would kill my spirit
that you had designed
and packaged in words of love
and I had naively trusted
handing over the keys to my heart
For years you whittled down
my scrappy resolve
Did you choose me because I was strong
and challenged you?
Or was my strength
an accessory you hadn't ordered
but accepted as part of the package?
I underestimated your hypnotic power
and overestimated my ability
to protect what was sacred,
to survive the siege on my soul
to keep track of how I was changing,
dying slowly.
Your "guidance" brainwashed me
Your expectations drained me
Your mockery humiliated me
Your anger frightened me
into a wide-eyed schoolgirl.
For a minute, I believed
the fault was all mine.
That you were all good
and I was all bad.
I passed over the ways
you had wronged me
because you had convinced me that
I had lost the right to speak up.
But since when is a relationship
only one person's criticisms toward the other?
There are times I've wondered
if there's not some way to work it out or save it
but then I ask myself:
Aren't you more alive now than before?
Aren't you more 'you' than before?
Aren't you less scared than before?
Aren't you more at peace than before?
Would you want to live with
the noise in your head?
the fear in your heart?
the insecurity and emptiness in your soul?
shuffling your feet to his drum beat
instead of dancing freely to your melody?
This frame I live in
A trip to the lighter side ... written October 15, 2008. In no way comparable, but inspired by a favorite work crafted by a hero of mine-- the great Maya Angelou, a phenomenal woman.
It's the way you fit so snugly around my soul
The way I'm able to wiggle my fingers and tap my toes
It's the feel of the hair brushing my face in the wind
It's how my soul takes flight when I open my mouth and sing!
This synthesis of synapses
that enlivens my five senses
breathes new life into muscle fibers and bone --
but a playful nature and a spunky disposition
is what makes this
house become a home.
It's the way you fit so snugly around my soul
The way I'm able to wiggle my fingers and tap my toes
It's the feel of the hair brushing my face in the wind
It's how my soul takes flight when I open my mouth and sing!
This synthesis of synapses
that enlivens my five senses
breathes new life into muscle fibers and bone --
but a playful nature and a spunky disposition
is what makes this
house become a home.
Breaking Free
Written September 29, 2009:
Jealousy was the guard dog that kept me in your cage.
You said it was there for my protection;
I knew better.
Fear was my prison diet -- flavorless but substantive;
enough to sustain me but not to give me the strength to escape.
Fits of rage were the prison wardens you sent to discipline me --
if I stepped too close to the bars or gazed too long out the window.
Guilt trips you used to clip the wings of my free spirit.
It's hard to fly when you're looking down all the time.
Isolation was my cellmate.
How else could I have believed that nobody could be trusted?
that nobody cared enough to come for me?
Lies were the shackles that kept me chained to your blame.
In my distorted sense of reality, I welcomed the chance for 'penance.' Only later I realized I shouldn't have carried the load in the first place.
But your penal system imploded from within.
The prison break was on your watch, beneath your nose.
Carried by family and friends, the truth set me free.
Jealousy was the guard dog that kept me in your cage.
You said it was there for my protection;
I knew better.
Fear was my prison diet -- flavorless but substantive;
enough to sustain me but not to give me the strength to escape.
Fits of rage were the prison wardens you sent to discipline me --
if I stepped too close to the bars or gazed too long out the window.
Guilt trips you used to clip the wings of my free spirit.
It's hard to fly when you're looking down all the time.
Isolation was my cellmate.
How else could I have believed that nobody could be trusted?
that nobody cared enough to come for me?
Lies were the shackles that kept me chained to your blame.
In my distorted sense of reality, I welcomed the chance for 'penance.' Only later I realized I shouldn't have carried the load in the first place.
But your penal system imploded from within.
The prison break was on your watch, beneath your nose.
Carried by family and friends, the truth set me free.
Being a voice for the voiceless
A primary reason I pursued journalism was to be a voice for the voiceless, to be an instrument of representing those viewpoints that are not held by officials or agencies but are the reflection of daily life that gets swept under the rug. A hope, too, was that in holding up the mirror to society that glimpsing our reflection would spur needed changes and shed injustice layer by layer.
One of those areas that I feel is routinely undervalued but unfortunately widely experienced is domestic violence. Having just finished a fantastic read -- A Thousand Splendid Suns, which I highly recommend to everyone, I was left with this thought:
Tragedy is when a child's heart must be broken so his mother's body isn't. Tragedy is the malice and neglect that break and defeat too many women across the globe.
More on this in future posts.
One of those areas that I feel is routinely undervalued but unfortunately widely experienced is domestic violence. Having just finished a fantastic read -- A Thousand Splendid Suns, which I highly recommend to everyone, I was left with this thought:
Tragedy is when a child's heart must be broken so his mother's body isn't. Tragedy is the malice and neglect that break and defeat too many women across the globe.
More on this in future posts.
The Artistic Soul
I'd like to gradually fold in some of my work stretching back over time. This was written in October 2007.
Centuries of warfare
have torn down the world
The rape of humanity:
Hatred unfurled
With widespread suffering
and desperate lament,
Hope is beaten down;
vengeance spent
But within caustic clashes
holding hostage countless lives
the artist selects his canvas
and with colors, hope revives
In a charred and smoking landscape
he swirls shades to uplift souls
his stream of inspiration restores:
shattered spirits become whole.
In no way do I wish to oversimplify the healing process after traumatic experiences, but I do want to speak to the power of artists as healers, whether they be painters, musicians, photographers, writers or sculptors. Their work brings sense back into chaos or simply allows us to sit with the questions, knowing we are not alone and feeling connected to a humanity that has triumphed over suffering.
Centuries of warfare
have torn down the world
The rape of humanity:
Hatred unfurled
With widespread suffering
and desperate lament,
Hope is beaten down;
vengeance spent
But within caustic clashes
holding hostage countless lives
the artist selects his canvas
and with colors, hope revives
In a charred and smoking landscape
he swirls shades to uplift souls
his stream of inspiration restores:
shattered spirits become whole.
In no way do I wish to oversimplify the healing process after traumatic experiences, but I do want to speak to the power of artists as healers, whether they be painters, musicians, photographers, writers or sculptors. Their work brings sense back into chaos or simply allows us to sit with the questions, knowing we are not alone and feeling connected to a humanity that has triumphed over suffering.
Why this name?
I remember being struck by the simplicity and artistic power of the pose when I saw Rodin's sculpture in Paris. The name 'Le Penseur' (The Thinker) resonated with me as well. Deep in my memory archives, I remember being a child that was prone to pensiveness (as well as great playfulness), but one who wrestled with questions that were beyond her age. Having older sisters and feeling more at peace with adults than peers undoubtedly contributed to this, but the image never left my mind after seeing it.(Reluctantly) I cite Wikipedia for context (taking my journalist hat off and swapping it with my blogger 'chapeau'): "[Le Penseur] depicts a man in sober meditation battling with a powerful internal struggle." In every milestone of my life, I can relate to this piece. And this being no less a milestone right now, I return to be comforted and challenged.
A final reason for my cyber-namesake is that Rodin's sculpture was initially named The Poet. Given that I process my emotions with poetry, this fits well with the overall aims of this space. Here's to finding freedom in vulnerability and sailing into uncharted artistic territory!
Saturday, October 24, 2009
The journey has begun!
Creating a cybercorner for myself is no insignificant feat. I have a few friends to thank for encouraging and challenging me to break out of the protective shell of privacy I've hid in all these years. Inertia and fear have kept me rooted in the mentality, up to this point, that I write, but without risk of baring my soul to the world. But, as any artist who's been broken along life's path knows, perhaps the most frightening feeling is closure of one's expressive outlet and creative censorship.
A friend tonight put into clarity a question I've wrestled with since entering this period of artistic dryness and apparent 'voicelessness.'
"You can't ever be disconnected from your voice -- even in real life," he reassured me. "When a boy's voice gets deeper, he's not disconnected from his voice; it's just changing. (The) writing voice is the same. It may feel disconnected but its just changing, like everything else. Everything and (every)one evolves and feels lost while evolving."
Here's to the growth journey -- personally, professionally, and artistically -- of embracing my evolution. From shy writer to empowered artist, are you in?
A friend tonight put into clarity a question I've wrestled with since entering this period of artistic dryness and apparent 'voicelessness.'
"You can't ever be disconnected from your voice -- even in real life," he reassured me. "When a boy's voice gets deeper, he's not disconnected from his voice; it's just changing. (The) writing voice is the same. It may feel disconnected but its just changing, like everything else. Everything and (every)one evolves and feels lost while evolving."
Here's to the growth journey -- personally, professionally, and artistically -- of embracing my evolution. From shy writer to empowered artist, are you in?
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