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The Only Way Out Is Through This morning I woke solid, safe, snug as a nut in its shell unprepared for the sharp snap of a breakthrough. Oh, the delicious pain of knowing I can’t go back. Better anyway to chew my way out than to pretend the cracks will heal and not lead to rot. ----------------------------------- I Am the Year of Jubilee The branches of my family tree bow toward the earth, weighed down by generations of grief and broken hearts. My inheritance is a suitcase I drag behind me, my arms sore, back aching, until I think to ask, “What am I carrying? Is it even mine?” I break the seal, fling it open to find it stuffed with silence and the pain of unmet needs crying to be seen. With gentle hands, I hold them up, peer at them in the light of day, examine their seams, where they hurt. There, in the desert, I bury them— not in an unmarked grave, but with dignity. They deserve acknowledgment, but they cannot come with me from here. ----------------------------------- The Chocolate Milk One day, in the kitchen, blue gingham cloth on the table and an overflowing basket of pills on top, my grandmother ignored my protests and poured a heavy splash (half a cup) of cream into an almost empty bottle of Hershey’s chocolate syrup. I watched her drink, horrified, as self-appointed tsar of her healthcare, her eyes squinting with rebellious relish, my grandfather egging her on. I wish I’d known how to love her like that, to see how she needed joy and control even more than I did, to just laugh at the way the chocolate marked her upper lip, accepting that one treat wouldn’t take her away from me, but that all my grasping and reproving and clucking would, in the ways that mattered most.
Show of hands—who else morphs into a melancholy, lo-fi indie song in the fall?
I always turn introspective this time of year (probably something to do with my impending birthday, coupled with the start of the new school year and the changing weather), but I expect this autumn to bring that out in me even more than usual. I’m taking the first counseling course of my degree, which concentrates on family systems, and the bulk of the work will be focusing on my own story and how my family of origin shaped who I am and how I relate to people. This approach makes a lot of sense—we have to understand our own stories intimately before we can healthily engage with the stories of others—but I feel like it’s going to be the emotional equivalent to the “hurts so good” itch of a healing wound. Uncomfortable, but in a way I can’t quite get enough of.
All that to say, don’t be surprised if there’s a lot more moody poetry around these parts over the coming months.
Speaking of poetry and the coming months, stay tuned for publishing details for my haiku book, which will be coming out early next year (no pre-order date yet). I’m also planning to launch my paid substack subscription tiers in the new year, and I’m excited to share about that in the near future, too!
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