Today my mother’s hair started falling out for the first time. It really does fall out in handfuls! Big hunks come out with one swipe of a brush. Tonight she is close to bald. We are in new territory in more ways than one. This is the first time I’ve visited her here and I’m feeling a bit like someone in movie about time travel. I’m in Surprise,
In
The memory of this trip will forever have poetry engrained into it. The original poetry has amazed me, as well as the diverse selection of favorites. The rich river of poets is bringing their healing green to this arid place; Cummings, Rilke, Plath, Hughes, Ferlinghetti, Gluck, Parker, Tennyson, Oliver, Brautigan, Broumas and more. The poetry really does seem infinite, and so does the beauty of each blog and the individuals out there writing. This is healing. It really is.
6 comments:
I'm so sorry you're going through that. I'm sure your presence is a comfort.
Yes, the poetry is a healing thing, isn't it? It makes me feel better to know there are so many others with a passion. My days seem to pass so often in grey, but I'm happy to see there are so many others who also live in colour.
Rough stuff, I wasn't really there for my mom when she went through it (she had her beau who was just right, though).
Mom said that the chemo was to kill fast-growing cells and if her hair fell out, it must be working. What a wonderful attitude.
The good news is it has been 10 years since her last Chemo and she's winning ballroom dance medals again. May the same results happen for your mom.
Someone I know has had chemo and his hair has grown back now and I think that the all-clear has been given, so although chemo is unpleasant, I guess it's worth it. I also know someone who's going through it at the moment, but it's working apparently. Best wishes to your mum.
Arizona is a very peculiar place. Your mother is lucky to have you there with her. I'm certain you must be making her laugh out loud, always a healing tonic.
Sending much love in your direction.
(from Mystical Feet in Hawai'i)
Valentine for Ernest Mann
You can't order a poem like you order a taco.
Walk up to the counter, say, "I'll take two"
and expect it to be handed back to you
on a shiny plate.
Still, I like your spirit.
Anyone who says, "Here's my address,
write me a poem," deserves something in reply.
So I'll tell you a secret instead:
poems hide. In the bottoms of our shoes,
they are sleeping. They are the shadows
drifting across our ceilings the moment
before we wake up. What we have to do
is live in a way that lets us find them.
Once I knew a man who gave his wife
two skunks for a valentine.
He couldn't understand why she was crying.
"I thought they had such beautiful eyes."
And he was serious. He was a serious man
who lived in a serious way. Nothing was ugly
just because the world said so. He really
liked those skunks. So, he reinvented them
as valentines and they became beautiful.
At least, to him.
And the poems that had been hiding
in the eyes of the skunks for centuries
crawled out and curled up at his feet.
Maybe if we reinvent whatever our lives give us
we find poems. Check your garage, the odd sock
in your drawer, the person you almost like, but not quite.
And let me know.
- Naomi Shihab Nye
I'm very sorry for what you and your mother are going through right now, and in the midst of it all, I wish you moments of peace and beauty. I will do Metta Sutras for your mother today:
May she be well.
May she feel safe and protected.
May she feel pleased and content.
May her physical body support her.
May her life unfold smoothly with ease.
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