poem/prose: forgiveness

found in my phone notes, from 8.6.13, 7:41pm.


he ruined forgiveness for me the minute he hit her, said he was sorry, and then did it again and again. decades later I tell my therapist that I cannot forgive him, because to forgive means to say it is ok. she tells me that forgiveness does not have to mean concession. it can just be letting go. I try that on for size. at first it is too small. then it is too big. and then, somehow, as time goes by and the pain fades slightly, the fit is ok.
now, as the tables have turned, and I am the one who has done wrong, the one who has plunged the knife of hurt into another, twisting it one time too many, packing the wound with the salt of my selfishness. it becomes hard to breathe under the guilt. I stuff it down as deep as I can. and although it is heavy and weighted, it floats to the surface. it bubbles over.


here are some random quotes from a podcast/forgiveness seminar called "The Life of Forgiveness" by Mahatma dasa. I never finished listening to the whole seminar series. I should really do that.

"forgiveness means giving up all hope for a better past."

"resentment is a weapon you use to punish the other person."

"mercy makes up for what we lack."

"an unforgiving heart is attached to hurting another person because we were hurt by that person."

(if you search Mahatma on itunes, I'm pretty sure you can find the podcast - I really do recommend it!)


5 random things: panic at the disco

here are a few things that make me want to hyperventilate.

1. driving a brand new car in the winter. dodging potholes is really stressful.

2. having a very new student come to a yoga class who has some kind of body part replacement (think knee, hip) or physical injury. want to kick the anxiety up a notch? new student with a knee replacement at a yin class.

3. being the only person playing kartals during a kirtan. or, even better, is when I'm at a class and my guru is about to lead kirtan... I see him scan the room for someone who can play kartals, and then I see the look on his face when he realizes I'm the only one. sweaty palms x10.

4. when I make a joke to break the tension in a weird situation...and no one laughs. and then I make it worse by explaining the joke. aaaaaand still nothing...

5. having to cook for large groups. having to cook something I've never made before for other people. or these two combined.


poem: wreck(age)


I have
left you behind.

promised myself
lock you
out of me.

but today I see
the car crash
that you are -
the train wreck
smoldering -

and even though
I find myself
to look away,

I am
so grateful
that I got out
of the car,

that I missed
the train,

that when
you are
a house
burning down

I will be
far away.


5 random things

1. why is jillian michaels always shouting, even when she's just talking?

2. I haven't had spanakoptia in a long-ass time. too long!

3. I bought a new car yesterday. my anxiety-gut over whether or not it was a good idea is still hurting.

4. deep down I truly believe I'm never going to be a school counselor and it makes me superduper sad.

5. I recently had my astrological charts done and had the brahmin astrologer do an 8 day fire sacrifice to try to please venus, who is apparently angry with me. I'm thoroughly convinced that my recent illness is related to karma burn-off from those yajnas. I'm supposed to have a mars one done too, but I'm kind of terrified.



I am writing because I should be writing. I want to write about why I don't write, but what is the point of that? that's worse than a poem about writing poems (actually, I like poems about poems, but some people don't - so this comparison is for those people). writing is about opening, letting go, validation. but when you are holding things close and fear judgement, it makes writing hard. but wait, I'm almost writing about why I'm not writing. didn't I just say I wasn't going to do that?

so then why now? because sometimes things happen - happen so suddenly and unexpectedly - as to open our eyes. and I feel like - no, know - that I am becoming - have become - one of those writers that "once was". I used to say, "oh, yes, I am a poet." and now I am just some girl, some woman, packed full of life, who says, "oh, yes, I used to write poetry." and it totally grosses me out.

I don't know. my head is full of mucus (literally) and my lungs shudder and burn when I inhale and my wrists are sweaty and I'm a manglik, and I have lft, so writing this right now is uncomfortable. but I'm doing it, because putting something down - as nonsensical and kookie as it might be - is a step forward. and so I did it and I'm done.


poem: radio silence

radio silence

I have folded myself
and over myself
like a paper origami
fortune teller
full of secrets
instead of future.
I want to shed those ties
like the leaves
of the thirsty
and neglected
house plant.
this is the story
of my silence,
the story
of the things
I cannot say,
the things
I will not tell,
the things
that have
ruined me
for myself
for you.