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broken heart buenavista images-gettyimages.com

I viewed a lot of “hater” Valentine Day quotes, images, and jokes yesterday. And hey, that’s okay, been there, done that, too.

This made me think about the times I’ve been brokenhearted.

It sucks when your heart is broken, double sucks when it’s before the holidays, Valentine’s Day, or New Year’s Eve-all the majors.

When our hearts break, we examine and turn each chunk of our shattered heart over and over, ‘we got along so well, the dates were good, we laughed, he shared himself, I listened, don’t I get points for listening?’

We can rehash that scenario until the second coming.

What the brokenhearted needs (at least I did) is time and some action to put the pieces back together. Time to practice some self-care and self-love.

Imagine this scenario:

Light some candles and fill a basin with warm water. Now, imagine holding a chunk of your heart safely in your hand.

View it carefully. Look at the bruises, the bumps, the splinters embedded deep into the recesses.

Soak your heart piece in the water until it plumps up and everything not of the heart floats away. The water may turn dark and murky.

Blot the little lump dry. Place it lovingly, like you would an infant, on a warm towel. Swaddle your heart and cuddle it until you feel warm inside.

Come on, it’s not silly to care for yourself. Go ahead, wrap your fingers around your hunk and let your hands provide a cocoon to nurture your heart.

Find the other pieces, there on the floor, or under the bed, where you cried until you shook. Pick them up.

Tomorrow you can go through the process again with the other pieces.

When all the pieces are bathed, lift them to your chest, the left side, feel the warmth against your clothes or skin.

Take a deep breath, maybe two, and open your hands. They are empty now, having released your heart back into place.

Remember, your hands did this, your nurturing helped put together the pieces. It was your careful handling, over time, that made your heart whole again.

You did this for yourself and you aren’t holding on to broken pieces anymore.

Now you can celebrate any holiday.

The last roses until spring-alvaradofrazier.com

This morning I have bunches of pale yellow roses that are the last of the season from a bush I just pruned-a month late.

My rosebush was transplanted, to my backyard fifteen years ago, from someone who tore up their garden to put in kid friendly landscaping.

I also have a dwarf lemon tree.

Which made me think of that platitude, “When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.” That cliché sucks-big time.

Lemons = Lemonade

This phrase makes a euphemism for disappointment, a sorrow, or a hurt seem so cheerily remedied.

Life doesn’t give you lemonade.

Life gives you lemons. You give you lemonade.

The last lemons from my tree-alvaradofrazier.com

Making the lemonade is not an easy process. There is a knife involved. Cutting, twisting, squeezing, and getting a sting from the lemon juice that found the microscopic cut on the side of your fingernail.

After that, you strain the pulp and seeds and pour the result into a pitcher. You’re still not done. Some people don’t want to go through these steps. You have to stick with it, be strong.

You have to stay with the process, feel the pain, deal with the sting, the squeezing, the separating, look for the honey, the sugar, something to sweeten the tart acidic taste.

It’s a series of steps, it’s not a Lemon=Lemonade instant drink.

And when you stick with it, you have fantastic lemonade which you garnish, with berries or mint.

I was mulling over all this when I came upon an email from a friend, Michelle Wing.

Michelle is the inaugural featured writer of a new website, Off The Margins, dedicated to women writers.

Her artist statement captivated me. Her poetry, this one in particular, blew me away.

Body on the Wall

They send me a slip of paper
Anger Management – Certificate of Completion
And his name.
As if.

As if twelve weeks of one-hour sessions,
of talking about his feelings,
of tips on counting to ten,
could make him into a new man –

could undo the damage.

I know too well he can con anyone:
Police. Lawyers. Landlords.
Me.

And this piece of paper is the last slap
I am ever going to feel.

I walk to my closet, and get my dancing dress,
the little black one that twirls when I move,
that reminds me of freedom and the time before.

Do you want to know what he is like?
I’ll need some tools.

Scissors to slash the hemline.
Blades to rip open sleeves.

A lighter to torch the fluttering strips.
Dirty boots to grind out the flames.

Then a razor, to nick my forearm
so I can smear blood across his name
and pin that piece of paper to my ruined dress.

I bandage my arm, find a hanger –

It is my body on the wall, bruised and battered,
and nobody, nobody, can say they don’t see.

After reading, my lips formed the word “Wow,” my head nodded. I thought of the lemons in my past.

Lemons didn’t only make lemonade, they made poetry.

Go and visit off the margins. Read more excerpts from Michelle’s new book of poetry, “Body On The Wall.“ It debuts May 15, 2014.