And so it begins...

This week when I gave my talk, one of the audience members asked me what was next for me. This was a tough and scary question in that it forced me to declare my intentions. I mean, I have spent the last several weeks, likely months, talking to myself about what I'd need to do next. But here I was, giving a talk, answering questions about my subject matter when someone pierced through the topic to ask me about what all this authenticity stuff meant in my own life. I paused, chuckled nervously and responded, "Well, I have decided to pursue a life as a writer." There, I had said it. I publicly declared that I would abandon my work in education to take a vow of poverty, er, poetry.

What was most interesting about this declaration is that once I made it, the details of my plan came spilling out. I talked about the approach I'd take to making the transition, the tools and resources I'd need to take advantage of and the timing of it all. I was clear, I had committed and because I had made the commitment a public one through this talk's Q&A, I'd be held accountable and made to demonstrate my intentions with some consistency. Clarity, commitment, and consistency. Has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?

Poem: Twice Born

I am lucky.
My mother loved me enough
to birth me twice.

The first time she was
young and strong and fertile.
Her hips spread wide,
her breathing deep,
She bore down and pushing
gave me life.
Sprung forth one early morning
to the winter air I came.

We had a life together,
my mother and I,
some silent agreement
that she would see me through life,
saving me from myself indefinitely.

One early morning,
my mother decided to birth me again
--she loved me that much.

This time, older and sicker,
body withered, drawing in,
shallow breath in stony lungs,
she, grasping, gave me life.
One early spring morning,
coldly lovingly she left
--and I came to my life again.

Our agreement broken
Or altogether different
Than I thought it was.

My mother birthed me twice.
She loved me that much.
I am lucky.

Poem: I am clear

I've made up the dishes
and dried off the bed
I'm wandering woman
I'm walking while dead
and the voices I hear
have escaped from my head.

I've paid all the houseplants
and watered the bills
I'm listening softly,
and crying at will
and the person I pawned
is becoming me still.

I'm sorry I hate you
I'm happy you left
I'm dodging my feelings
and weaving the weft
I'm wheeling and dealing
with a hand that is deft

I'm writing my eulogy
sealing the chest
I'm toasting the people
who treated me best
I'm taking the good things
and leaving the rest
I am clear, I am clear, I am clear.

Poem: Return to Sender

I am going to sit
in the middle of myself.
Points belabored
noisy neighbors
people point and stare - so what?

I am going to sit on the stoop of my life,
perch and watch the people pass
smirk and hear the people laugh.
Tip toe up the stairs
to stare into my own windows
while I fold my laundry there.

The problem with composure
is that it is oftentimes misleading
and denies the self the bleeding
and while placating
leaves pleading - the soul.
Hungry, starving, compulsive
feeling clasped in hands - composed.

I'd rather riff the rage and
scat the storm.
I'd rather beat the drum and strum
the heartstrings
plucking plucking
fucking nerve it takes
to improvise.

Improvisation is
composition is
improvement is
composure.

I am going to square my shoulders and
circle myself.
Take me in and
size me up.
Why not>
Join the pity party
feeling partly like myself
feeling sorry for myself hardly
hardly, am myself.

Pretend. Perform. Perfect composure.

Expect, explain, accept.
Compost-like
bullshit, like
full of it
like pull your own shit.

I am going to roll my eyes and
suck my teeth and
give you all kinds of sass and stank.

And I might stand arms akimbo
feet pigeon-toed
rolling neck, "I told you so"s
and wagging perfect, pink-tipped finger.

I will allow myself the anger
and the confusion
the madness of angry woman
once-loving, once loved
to seep out my pores
oozing you, oozing at you.
Making you squeamish
so you can see this.
Me standing
staring
staking out my own self
trying to assess what ever is valuable inside.

All because you
made me stand outside myself
and question my plans
for my own design.
You led me through rooms of myself -
rearranged to your liking
and being a mutable sign
and an adventurer, wanderer
seeker, sister, lover -
I let you.

I let you
you hurt me
you left me
you learned me
you stopped.

BUT I LET YOU

I loosened my grip
on what I didn't want and you
began to step away.
half-heartedly I
followed you,
chasing in the end because really -
who likes to lose?

Know this:

You may have left and you may be gone
but before you walked out,
they were playing my song.
I packed up your things
and I bid you adieu
and just so we're clear
dear, it's not me
it's you.

But more importantly
I am walking proudly up the steps
to my front door
jangling my keys -
one set for me.

I am walking through
foyers, looking at furniture
needing to be put back in place
boxes unpacked
clutter undone.
Dusty windows
and burnt out bulbs
long forgotten
in the dim light of love.
Low, low light.

I am steeping tea
and playing Nina
ironically grinning at no one in particular.
Humming to myself, barefoot
in these rooms
to these walks
Ne me quitte pas
Ne me quitte pas.

I serenade myself
a song for me.
Song of myself
a welcome home ditty.

Ne me quitte pas.

And I promise me
that I won't sit outside myself
while someone rearranges me
ever again.

I will open the shutters
and pull up the shades.
I will use the china and
read the good Book.
I will feast to my own presence
smelling of jasmine
and glowing the color of honey.
I will embrace myself this day,
welcoming me home.

Poem: A Prayer

This poem has particular significance as I wrote it a month to the day before my mother passed away. I then read it at her funeral, where I promised to pursue writing - one of two things she always adamantly encouraged me to do. It was even featured in online magazine, The Vyne.

I can feel our lives slipping away from us,
Oh God,
from both of us and through our tiny hands - away.

I can feel the weight of mortality
rushing at me with full force contact
--the push of life's large ebbs and flows, at once.
At once I am knocked over and yet buoyed to the surface
--carried to shore and carried to sea.

I can feel the darkness
looming out just beyond the horizon, beyond the beyond.

I cannot see the start and stop
I cannot see beginning or end
I cannot grip what is slipping away from me,
Oh God.
I do not know which way I'm facing
I cannot read the starry sky,
Oh God.
I never could, but then again,
I never thought I'd have to

I cannot breathe
I cannot breathe
I cannot breathe
Oh God.
--my chest an angry chamber
--inner sanctum beating hollow

The resonance of solitude is
unwelcome in this world.
I want to find the shore,
Oh God,
to see the tide receding,
to know that I am anchored safely
in the harbor of your love.

I feel the living rhythm of the sea song now,
Oh God.
The gentle lull, the violent crash
The ebb and flow of masterful love.
I breathe the salted mist of prayer,
remembering the vastness of the ocean.

It doesn't scare me now, the bigger you and smaller me - the smaller we.
Together we bob in and out of this,
feeling somehow at peace,
even as we feel ourselves continuing to slip away,
through our tiny hands

Poem: Coincidence of Nikki

You can be strong
You can choke back each tear
and tell the world you’re full of hate and anger
or that you’re fine and full of nothing at all.

You can lie to them
and tell them you’re fine and that you don’t remember
that he is crazy and that it doesn’t matter
but it means nothing to history, to those things which were

To the coincidence of Nikki
and the ceremonious Saturday French press coffee
to the bottles of wine and rubbing of shoulders
to the laughs and love and touching of skin

To the reality of what is still there
of what you are still full of
despite your best efforts to be strong
you are weak in the knees, in the mind, in the heart

And you hurt.
and you cry and you wonder what you you did
when you tell them you blame him – you blame you.
and you are sad, very sad for the things that were

And you want them back, some days
and you call his name some times
and you cry and you curse that you let it happen
despite your best effort to be strong

You can be strong and you can be hurt and you can cry and curse
and you can tell them and yourself that it is your fault
and his fault and love’s fault for pulling on you
so strong, so real, so here and there at once.

Poem: Lie to me

We are afraid--

The world of us--to tell each other our secrets.
In hidden rooms, with jammed tight doors,
we suffer silently per protocol,
make messes of our messes.
if we would stand straight, eye to eye,
confessing our disaster...
 
Perhaps we'd find each other in our messes,
and our masses would seem masterfully drawn
together in the larger open spaces of our togetherness
where doors don't jam
and people cry
and laugh
and hold each other
 
instead of keeping secrets.

Putting it Out There

As part of this challenge, I needed to submit to a contest or apply for an award to demonstrate my expertise. I decided to submit for a contest of a literary journal, Crazyhorse, based on one of my gifts - poetry. After searching for a bit for a contest on authenticity, the only thing I could find was a contest which asked individuals to outline ways in which consumers of news could authenticate/validate the information they get via various news outlets. I decided to submit three poems which reflect my experience over the last several months. The poems follow in separate posts.

Walk the Talk

Over the last 60 days, I have been part of a challenge to become an expert in a specific area. I am working with a group of phenomenal women who are well-versed in such interesting and compelling areas such as sustainability, wellness, youth development, and education. I am even working with folks who are subject matter experts on paths less traveled such as lactation, gratitude, and astrology.

And then there is me. I am struggling still to define my area of expertise. 60 days into the challenge, I am clear that I am passionate about authenticity, but how does one demonstrate that? Unlike a fine art connoisseur, I can’t get ‘training’ on how to be an expert in authenticity. I don’t have a ‘kit’ like a forensics expert to assess the evidence I’m presented with on a daily basis. So what’s my gauge? My barometer?
Personal experience. I can’t say without a shadow of a doubt, that I can ‘teach’ someone else how to be authentic without first knowing that I am living my life as authentically as possible. What this means to me is that I am actively pursuing those things which I am passionate about and which I am good at doing. For as long as I can remember, my two greatest passions have been music and writing - not necessarily in that order.

I’ve sung for as long as I can remember (I even studied jazz and classical music) and I’ve been writing probably since I was 10--journaling, writing poetry and articles for various publications, etc. So in a quest to be more authentically myself, I am grounding myself in my poetry and in my music. I’ll dedicate a few posts not to me pontificating about what it means to be authentic, but just demonstrating it as best I can.

Be Impeccable With Your Word

As part of this 90 day challenge I am doing, I am tasked with living the mantra with which we begin and end each of our coaching calls. The full mantra, taken from Don Miguel Ruiz's seminal work, The Four Agreements, reads as follows --

Be impeccable with your word
Don't make assumptions
Don't take anything personally
Always do your best

In addition to living the mantra, we are tasked with writing several experts whose work/lives inspire us a handwritten letter of gratitude. I chose to write to some therapists, some coaches, but also to some extraordinary writers. In my chosen field, writing is core to the work I intend to do within the space of my expertise. It would follow that I'd select as inspirational guides and people after whom I'd like to model my own writing, writers and teachers like Oriah Mountain Dreamer, Kahlil Gibran, and Nikki Giovanni, people whose healing, enduring words have been translated to several languages, circulated around the globe and gifted to people repeatedly because of their sheer power.

I take so seriously the power of the written word, that I often suffer from paralysis when writing emails or when trying to craft a critical essay. In these letters of gratitude, however, the words came easily and quickly. Gratitude, genuine gratitude is one of the most natural things to express.

I took this approach when writing to Ms. Giovanni. I communicated how I am consistently moved by her poetry, how my mother was also a fan and how grateful I am that she had the audacity to share herself with us. Simple, to the point. Just like her reply - "Michelle, thank you for your kind words and for the memory of your mother. Nikki."