healing haven

September 10, 2008

Whose Hands?

Filed under: memoir,poem,Pythian Games — by thalia @ 4:42 am

 

I remember her hands, slim and graceful,

gently rounded fingernails

sometimes painted with a soft rose nailpolish,

sometimes cut up from yardwork or from building something.

 

Hands that could wield a hammer or a needle,

 pounding work or delicate work,

                sometimes doing construction as when building her house

                sometimes doing embroidery or cruel needlework.

 

 

Hands that made crocheted gifts for Christmas one year and

hand drawn with the recipient’s interest painted on tee shirts the next. 

                sometimes making and carving candles

                sometimes making beaded flower arrangements for all.

 

Hands that hammered two by four’s

hands that carried large cement blocks

                sometimes up scaffolding while building a chimney

                sometimes making a retaining wall.

 

Hands that made things from scratch

hands reddened from boiling water or strained black raspberries,

                sometimes making tofu or bread

                sometimes canning veggies and making jellies.

 

Hands that hammered wallboard

hands that spackled and sanded each wallboard joint

                sometimes painting ceilings and walls

                sometimes slapping on tar to waterproof basement walls.

 

Hands that danced through the air

as explanations needed visual expression,

                sometimes in graceful dancing

                sometimes in pointed conversations.

 

Hands that changed diapers

hands that delighted to convey love to others through touch, 

                sometimes to hold and caress

                sometimes to massage and heal.

  

But what has happened to those hands?

Whose hands do I now see?

                sometimes bloated from water retention

                sometimes aching from too much work

                sometimes not seeming like the same hands of yore

                sometimes I wonder: whose hands are they?

 

They are my hands now: aging, not as graceful

hands that convey the passage of time,

                sometimes still able to massage and heal

                sometimes to make bread or draw

                sometimes to build something or paint

sometimes pull weeds and plant.

 

More likely than not they are dry, needing lotion

or aching from too much writing or weeding

                always wanting to impart love and touch

                always wanting to distill a little more beauty

                                into gardens, or recipes, or creative gifts

                                into life, work, people, love.

 

They are my hands now—no one else’s

 I am proud of the legacy they reveal

                only to those who have the wisdom to see

                life enhances, not detracts, from the beauty of hands.

   

 

Advertisements

June 8, 2008

Maple Arrows

Filed under: appreciation,gardening,poem — by thalia @ 7:38 am
Tags: , ,

Maple Arrows

 

As arrows shot from a volley of archers

towards an unseen foe

land in unison

arrowheads imbedded in ground

with shafts all at the same angle

littering the ground,

 

So do maple trees shoot their seed-pods

in spring to impregnate the soil

as seed heads are driven deep

the dried shafts – their job done,

cover the earth.

 

In fall the seed pods are double-winged

each a Siamese twin

Over winter they dry

                        prepare

for spring breezes to separate the twins

and implant each one

to provide for new seedlings.

 

Not death, but life, comes from this volley

                  as nature, not man, has designed.

 

        – previously published in Taborri Press

               

March 16, 2008

The Weeping of a Disappointed Womb

Filed under: appreciation,healing,memoir,poem,Temple of Solace — by thalia @ 2:11 pm
Tags: , , ,

 About 6 years ago I underwent a hysterectomy because of endometrial cancer.  At home for almost a 7-week recovery, I had a chance to reevaluate my life and my job, and to more consciously create a healing haven for myself.  At that time I thought I was dealing with the loss of my uterus and with the brush with cancer, but a year later it really hit me.  This poem was the result:

                     The Weeping of a Disappointed Womb

Twice–

hiatus in the weeping

of a disappointed womb

Twice–

this womb embraced

wonderous babes  

My womb was pleased

and so was I

we both reveled

in the ease

of pregnancy

the joy of birth             

Long ago

a nurse said “the weeping

of a disappointed womb”

was a uterine function;

it stuck over the years

as I pondered

its accuracy and intent.                       

This womb, my womb,

provided good service

Symbolized the part of me,

hidden from incursions

of others

in use and abuse;

protected

within my body

protected

unconsciously by me,

until I could learn

to speak for myself. 

As I apply

this wisdom

the uterus is taken from me

– endometrial cancer

hysterectomy needed

just enough time

for quick words, thoughts

gratitude, love, appreciation

for all its gentle weeping

all its being there with me 

My womb is gone – and now I weep!                                             

 (published in Releasing Times)

Blog at WordPress.com.