quick

My grandmother died.

It was expected, and we never had the kind of relationship I have to believe either of us wanted, but the end result is always the same: one person leaves, and the other is left behind.

She died slowly.

The first death was at her husband's funeral. They had been married for more than 60 years. The second death was at her daughter's funeral, 11 months after her husband's. Then her hearing died. Then her ability to walk. Then her memory, her bladder control, her will to communicate. Then her leg, which had to be partially amputated.

Then, I'm sure her doctors could describe better, but it seemed her lungs died as they filled with pneumatic fluid. And then her kidneys. And then, 2 days ago, her heart.

But, really, her heart started dying more than one decade ago.

May no one I ever love
or hate
experience a slow death
either as the participant
or the observer.

*

The title of this post is a shortened name of "quickening." In the first half of the 19th century in the United States, a woman was never positive she was pregnant until she felt the child move within her. This movement was (is?) called "quickening." A woman who was (is?) "quick with child" was one whose baby had confirmed its own life by making its own movements within her.

Women were morally, legally, ethically, socially, and medically allowed to abort until this period of gestation until the 1850s, when attitudes changed.

prettycrying

Two girls on the train
our age.

One reclines
the other one massages her head, face, scalp.

They are
more intimate than friends
not as intimate as lovers.

They remind me of us.

               I miss you more
than my eyes can contain.

bishop

The art of losing
isn't hard to master. Just
practice, live, exhale.

spacation

I am sitting in front of a fireplace, awaiting the sun to rise. It's peaking out over the Catalinas, promising a new beginning. Even if it might be a chilly one.

My mother and I have escaped to Miraval, in Tucson, AZ, where we are pampering ourselves for a few days. My goal is to become healed from the past several, excruciatingly challenging months; to accept these challenges and how they may have changed me for the better; to accept myself.

To this end, I am focusing on ways to reduce stress, which include being aware of my surroundings, this beautiful desert with mountains to protect and dry air to suck out my toxins.

It is a practice in being still.

*

In my stress relief/meditative yoga class last week, towards the end of shavasana (corpse pose), when we were bringing awareness back into our bodies, the instructor said, "Feel the edges of your body. Think of your boundaries."

I mean: *that* could be quite the list.

Other favorite things yoga instructors have said over the years include "Listen to what your body is capable of today," which gives me permission to spend an entire class in child's pose if I need, and "Yoga is a practice: it doesn't have to be perfect."

So much of life is a practice, yet we cannot accept imperfection from ourselves or others. Love is a practice. So is forgiveness. And more everyday things, like cooking or driving or exercising or singing. And bigger things, like prayer.

Just because you do it differently doesn’t mean you do it wrong.

I remind myself that acceptance is also a practice. It's a form of forgiveness, but it's also a form of letting go, which is difficult for people like me who prefer control. (See how nicely I framed that? It's already working!)

*

I will feel my body's boundaries
I will feel whether it can practice, and how
I will forgive it when it is tired
or when it feels too much
I will accept my practice
I will not expect perfection from myself

And I will try my best to remember
that everyone else is also practicing

and we don't have to be perfect
we just have to practice whatever our bodies can give this day
wherever our boundaries are
whatever we can accept

*

Namaste.

crumbling

Compartmentalized
everything. Gave her fault
lines. Upon quicksand.

removal

Garbage trucks roll through
Wish they could take away his
Toxins, questions, hurt.

new year

Our midnight kisses
Felt like hope.