Little Letters : April 3, 2017

Ever feel like the world is too much. Just too damn much,always asking for your attention to this headline or that breaking news. Early morning routines,structured around social media check ins, as if our day will be predicted whether we saw that perfectly stylized picture of a succulent plant wall. How fast can our blood pressure rise knowing at 5 am that unkindness and loud mouthed brashness and brassiness is still the new law of the land? Could a revival of materialistic television shows like Dynasty, Dallas, or big loud porsches that talk to their entitled owners not be far behind, replacing Dragons that fly or Girls who dream? And then there are the fads and trends of whether to roll your jeans or not, rip them at the knees, trucker hat or not, diy or buy, boho or sleek, clutter or minimal, on and on and on, creating a community of unsatisfied but ever hip and with-it cool “misfits”. 

The above sentiment was the kind rolling in my head as I penned today’s selected poem sometime last year. 

Still the thoughts and questions that had me writing this poem invade my head space, today. Now, though my friend ‘why’ has gotten cozy with the ever bad influence of ‘fear’ and ‘complacency’ and her oft labeled slutty sister of ‘I don’t give a fuck anymore, think what you want, bastard.’  I sort of like the little sister way better than the other two. 

Yes, the sister and the sea, who with its unpredictable waves, love of the crash and burn, who beckons again and again to try, try, try, no matter the predictable outcome of its water spouts eventually crashing , with you sliding on the wet sand head first into a clump of flea infested seaweed, these two demand that you try again. Admidst those saying, ‘Don’t rock the boat’ , the sea and the sister says , ‘Try you! Try. You.’

Yes, ‘Try you’ she says to me. ‘Try. me.’ 

– Mona

Little Letters: Monday – 3/20/17

Happy First Day of Spring! I spent the past two days ushering in the change of seasons by doing some yoga and watering my garden and crocheting and eating and fixing up my studio and yes, doing a little writing, just a little, but some and that’s enough, right?

My poetry seems to always touch on the raw and rarefied emotions experienced by all people. The sadness, the hurt, the complex anger and fear that society demands of us to tap down and hide away. Push away, push away, little girl. Play nice and look nice. Well, I refuse to do that. Push away? No. Expose it. Pick and peel away until the wound is out in the open and if one is lucky enough, get a blast of cool air to dry it up and scab over and remain a scar,a final badge of the survivor’s fortitude and belief.

In my attempt to heal and get “through”, not “over” the trauma of my younger self’s lfe, because it’s ridiculous, ignorant, and insensitive to ask anyone to get over a life experience that scarred them and changed them forever. Please remember that.  Yet asking someone or yourself to get “through” it and make peace with it and sit with whatever “it” is, that’s something we can all work on.

Spring Equinox signals a new beginning. A washing away of the grey and dissappointing winter. Wash away, wash away, wash away the judgements and unacceptance of the grime that the world sometimes shakes onto us. Wash away, but what if it doesn’t want to wash away. Stubborn damn dirt. 

It’s okay. This dust. This grime. The not so perfect matchy-match kind of life’s residue. Let the dust of a life well lived settle and breathe it in and sit awhile with it. You just may discover a new friend, a soul mate, a companion, a reality that yes, you can live with. 

Out of a weekend, sitting with my own inner grime, this sprouted: