Self-love – Page 4

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.

My waking hours have been filled with poetry and tissues this last week.

The cold germs found their way past the daily vitamin C I take and turned me into a sneezing, coughing, dry mouthed mess. Thank goodness for the poetry.

Last week, two poets presented an opportunity which I took because I love poetry and I dabble (very lightly) in composing poems myself.

The first poet needed beta readers for an upcoming chapbook, so I read seventy plus pages of melodious words and did some critiquing (as a reader, not a poet).

The second poet, Michelle Wing, an AROHO sister, poet, and Facebook friend (who’s own poetry collection “Body on the Wall” will come out in Spring 2014) posted an interesting game on FB. Anyone who ‘liked’ a poem that she posted would be assigned a poet. In turn, the ‘liker’ would choose a poem by that poet and post it on their FB page.

Michelle assigned me to read poems by Chyrstos, a Menominee rights activist for Turtle Mountain Band of Chipewa, Norma Jean Croy, and Leonard Peltier. Her poems are in numerous anthologies and she has five poetry books published. Many of her poems speak about the living traditions of her people, the edgy rhythms of urban life, and violence.

These two poems resonated:

The Man Who Couldn’t Live Without Me

I’m sitting at the bus stop holding a pillowcase of dirty laundry

when he informs me passionately,

Baby, you’re my only

real reason for being,

If you love that other bastard

I’ll kill him

Baby I need you

Sunshine ain’t nothing

if you aren’t mine

Laughing I thought he made about

as much sense

as any woman who has said such stuff to me

Pretty efficient to obsess about a complete stranger

since the truth

arrives much faster and less painfully

When her bus comes-she leaves you

No ego loss there

As my J Church rolled up I said,

Bye, bye my one true love

Laughed with myself and every lover

I’d promised to kiss forever

cause I know now the only person I can’t

live without

is me

Not Vanishing

In the scars of my knees you can see
children torn from their families
bludgeoned into government schools
You can see through the pins in my bones
that we are prisoners of a long war
My knee is so badly wounded no one will look at it
The pus of the past oozes from every pore
This infection has gone on for at least 300 years
Our sacred beliefs have been made into pencils
names of cities gas stations
My knee is wounded so badly that I limp constantly
Anger is my crutch I hold myself upright with it
My knee is wounded
see
How I Am Still Walking

If you love poems that interweave personal stories with edgy narrative, social justice themes, and poems exploring the Native American experience, check out Chyrstos poetry.

Tag: Self-love