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Dear Rhyming

19 Oct

Dear Rhyming,

You and I, we don’t get along. When I try to write you, it comes out all,

Roses are red

Violets are blue

I think you are stupid

And I hate you.

While concise, it’s not particularly full of meaning or imagery or um, let’s see, anything worthwhile at all.

There was a young child named Bucket

When he got mad he would say…

Oops. Better stop there. You see what I’m saying. But today I am declaring a truce in this war of ours. Today I sat down, and I tried to trick you into coming into my poem by writing it and then sneaking you in between the words and then quick! before you or I could realize! pulling away the curtains and revealing you, naked and embarrassed, at the end of the line.

I feel exhausted, and a little bit dirty for some completely unexplainable reason, and proud, and very very nervous to show you in public.

Like maybe this is going to result in that scene from Young Frankenstein when the monster tap dances and sings for the huge crowds, and it’s fabulous, and they’re going wild, and then there is fire (right? I think so) and he goes nuts and stomps on some things and then the people are going wild. And both the monster and his creator are hunted down with pitchforks.

I’d rather not have that happen. But I was talking about taking risks with writing yesterday and decided to start with you, and thank you for sticking it out with me this morning. Maybe we should both take a nap and reconvene tomorrow.

Cheers,

MM

Dear Pomegranates

8 Oct

Pomegranate Stars Dear Pomegranates,

I guess I didn’t know that you have stars in your bellies.

Thank you.

Love,

MM

Dear Body

16 Apr

Dear Body,

Every now and then I am aware of you as something oh-so physical and separate from my thoughts and emotions, something meant to be lived in and used hard, and capable of surviving incredible things, and having an astounding capacity for healing.

This is not, actually, a letter about whether or not I believe in the soul. It’s a letter about corporal being, or maybe…being corporal.

Perhaps here I should explain what a complicated relationship we have. I really do appreciate you on a daily basis– the breathing, the eating and sleeping and heart beating. Oh the other hand, we often don’t get along. You often seem unhappy with me, and punish me with a stomachache or a headache, which honestly, make me not too fond of you either. Especially when I have spoiled you by doing yoga and biofeedback and not eating or drinking things I like and going to bed early and getting lots of sleep and such.

But every now and then– especially when you and I suffer minor physical ailments, I am slaphappy amazed at your ability to stand up and shake yourself off. Burns, cuts, and bruises: they’re all part of the record that we’ve been here. That life has been, you know, lived, and left its mark. There just is day-to-day wear and tear, and that’s great. It means we were cooking, or running too fast as children and fell, or really remarkably clumsy with cheese graters.

The other day I was in a coffeeshop across the country (duh) and came across a little sign that said something like, “The goal should not be to arrive at one’s grave in a perfectly attractive and well-preserved body, but rather to slide in sideways at the last moment, having thoroughly used your body up, latte in one hand and chocolate in the other, shouting ‘WHOOOOO! What a ride!’”

Because obviously coffeeshop signs are where I learn most of my great lessons.

But no, prior to that, I was also wandering around alternately cursing and marveling at my aching sinuses, and my neckache (to the right, just below the thumbhandle of my skull), and the way my stomach didn’t hurt even though I’d had 5 (five!) sips of wine the night before. And isn’t it fascinating, that if I stand very still and very straight, and breathe deeply, and stretch my arms up over head, I feel both very anchored and very tall, and I can feel everything inside of me– my liver, and my ribs, and my spine, and my worry about what happens next year, and my what-do-I-make-for-dinner, all take a break from being busy little working things, and stretch along with my muscles?

And if I look to my left elbow, I see the shadow of the burn scar from seventh grade when I was making churros, and the darker outline of the burn from September when I was making biscuits to go with the very first time I ever made fried chicken. If I look down, I see the little bones in my ankles that always get blisters from new shoes, and on my hip is a little round mark from a spider bite from four years ago…and, well, thanks for holding on through all of that.

I like that you are a time-marker, a history-keeper. We’ll just have to keep finding ways to get along– and even though I get mad because you seem more fragile than other people’s bodies, at least we’re good at communicating…right?

Bless,

MM

Dear Helpful People

12 Mar

Dear Helpful People,

Most of the time, you are helpful, and that is an amazing and wondrous thing.  You find items in the back of the store that are not on the shelves, and you honor the price listed rather than whatever it is that rings up that is more for some unexplainable reason.  You give hints on how to get the best discount, and you stand there holding a door open for longer than is merely polite.  You point out things I’ve dropped, and help me reach tall things (because closing my eyes does not actually extend my arm reach).  You provide me with information in a timely manner and say, “Have a good day!” very, very sincerely.

But then, sometimes, you’re too helpful.  Like when I walked into the little dessert place around the corner from my house, and found no little loaves of chocolate cake like I once ate over a year ago.

And I asked, kind of vaguely, “So there’s no hazelnut or something like that chocolate cake?”

And you said, slowly, “Nooo…well, maybe…hazelnut?”

And I said, “Well, maybe.  Maybe it was something else.  It was chocolate and came in little bread loaf shaped pieces?  It was really wonderful.”

And then you looked around, and suggested that maybe it was chestnut, and then went to see if you had any whole cakes of it in the back, and then dragged the pastry chef out to talk to me, who told me he makes 12 different kinds of rolled (bread loaf shaped to me) cakes, and it could have been any one of them, and they make different ones depending on the day so maybe another day but not today and then you tried to describe how often you make the chestnut one, even though that totally may not be what I’m looking for, and you settled on, “Pretty, well, sort of , maybe, often.”  And then said, “Maybe it the flourless chocolate cake.”  (Or, conceivably, one of the other ten.)

Through all of this I kept trying to say, “It’s ok, I’ll check back, I clearly don’t know what the hell I’m talking about, so how could I expect you to know, please help these other nice people in line, really, I promise I’ll come back, you aren’t losing my business, you are so so so helpful, but please let me go home now.”

All in all, helpful is better than not helpful.  Too helpful is awkward in the most delightful way possible.

And finally– thank you.

MM

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