Let Her Be

I’m a little girl sitting on the steps with blindness. Sometimes I like her and we are friends. Sometimes I act like she's the best. Sometimes I despise her.

Looking down at my purple tights and polka dot dress, I sit with myself, my aversion, my inclination to smile at what is hard, to act or make it seem as if I like it.

I had to stand on the bumpy ride on the R train today, holding onto the bar next to an angry woman who muttered to herself and glared.

It is not easy to be cramped together on a wobbly train and meditate.

I stood with her and let her be.

Humility

How do you interrupt?

How do you shut it down?

How do you ask questions with the one

who takes each minute?

How do you share?

Explore crevices

caves

places to sit at talk

Back

I am so far away from my last apartment in Astoria

I am not where I used to live 

Yet I am further back 

Can feel Hell’s Kitchen at 28

Trips to Juarez at 19

To my mom and our shopping trips in Old Town

They were then they are now 

Today 

Page from 2008

Second Christmas, no New Mexico.

Mixing up the years, New Jersey before your move here.

I went home,

then NJ/Mahwah

NYC/Woodstock

after Chris and I met.

Took him home to Alamo

This year I went to Walmart with my mom

in Toms River and ran into no one from my past

good

no luminarias

just lights in windows

similar to Alamo I could be in any small town

this is better because it’s my mom’s new home

and I am only an hour and a half away in Astoria

in the Big Apple.

coffee break reunion

we are kind of 

almost exactly

the same

has it been 10 years or more since we last met?

before that

my dirty blonde, then dark, then reddish locks

the sharing of I met someone and you listening and advice

and what did I really tell you about myself?

poems, dirty martinis, Halloween together once

i was a flapper and you were dressed in your Eduardian suit, bowtie, hat

for twenty minutes you tell me about your business and california

and I remember subway rides and our old jobs, more than 10 years ago

you look at your phone and respond to texts and

i briefly talk about my poetry book and quitting my jobs

his voice sounds the same but different

my voice sounds the same but different

we will have more time when I’m back in NY next time, he says

what have I really told him about myself?

There is no contact to get coffee again

Your Boots, Our Boots, My Boots

Suede wine boots. Slick streets after rain. Central Park and 65th. Setting up for the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. Last year these boots went with me to Antiques Roadshow in Newport, Rhode Island. We got caught in the rain on a cliff outside the mansion overlooking the sea. The rain didn’t ruin you. Us. Bolder than ever. Honesty in gratitude. Long Live. Love Long. No end to these streets. New York everywhere goes on forever like us. I don’t even know where this spiral staircase in my life goes but I know it doesn’t end. I don’t know where you are today even though I see your apartment near the sea.

Rockefeller State Park Preserve

confetti shapes beneath feet of burgandy, pumpkin spice, turquoise and lime green

me admiring, standing still under a canopy bed of peach leaves

yellow green mauve coolness

comfort, I am giving myself on this personal walk

in public

some birds sound slightly furious, others soft

patter behind me of jogging feet

soft steps of my own toes on this trail

couples, laughter of friendship travel through trees

in the distance

I know

none of us are alone

light safety awareness

I don’t need anybody else to feel this peace with/within me

the sound of the brooks, pausing to observe and not rush by

other hikers

my own meditation

branches curled in length sturdy limbs never-ending growth

sipping water to drink this secret

Get up, Get Up

Grief wiggled its way into bed with me today

twisted and slid with me along the white sheets

positioned itself

right beside me like a lover

it kissed my lips and held me

as I briefly cried

Grief acknowledged my raw anger

under the comforter as I pulled it up to hide myself

from observing others, the world

Get up, get up, it said

Grief put Fleetwood Mac on shuffle as I showered

sugar foam body scrub, holy water from my coworker and

white flower petals

The wash of cleansing and healing -

Grief reminded me while handing me my towel

In this dance of pain and gratitude,

Love goes on and on and on

I used to think moving was leaving

I used to think leaving was breaking

I used to think breaking was permanent

I have been standing all day

I am letting go

Where am I going?

not wrong

The world is mine, ours. The bounty, the lightness. There is nothing wrong. Beautiful body, skin, eyes, soul. Stretch, bend, release. Inhale, exhale, allow this way to be. It's the truth and there is a let go. And even when there's not the beauty is all the time. The lightness the truth the all being bounty is 24 seven. This is health, this is goodness, this is reality, this is the meaning of love of life. To be and sooth and laugh and go. Ohhhhhh ok fun, you are allowed you are accepted you are here all the time even even even when even even even when the knots the loss the shrugs are there. The flowers and universe inside this body. Oh hello stomach and breasts and all being. This stardust filled sky the planets and all of us and love for strangers on this train and those kids sitting together with their backpacks the man with the blue sneakers and camouflage packs. Joan Didion essays and meditation mantras. Even when it feels bad it can feel good the discomfort. Fun. work and then what? yoga make art whatever walking the gym kisses nothing naps floss clean the litter. Time ends and begins and it can be sticky or clean so love yourself love others. Love free. Freeeeee. Allow yourself to feel good

Live

live with a permanent wound, live with an unending gift

summer

Draw, write
outdoors

The universe hangs
on sound 

Every morning
a different bird
sings the day

Astoria to Forest Hills

already i don't already i don't live here

already i am not here

even though i am walking here

I AM another part of Queens now

Visitor this moment

Glad to be gone

Glad to be somewhere new

Sad to know I am not walking home after sunset meditation at Socrates

How quickly views change yet

sidewalks stay the same

practice waiting

not saying anything

let go of thoughts

opinions

personal stories

thoughts

Rain is coming down  
I like getting me dad’s opinion
My art, finding a new job, my relationship with Chris, meeting new friends, cleaning and organizing
Thoughts of marriage and children
Oh rain, I love you rain
"I still have vivid memories of your mother." 
He imagines her in the other room
He shares and writes about
His own pain from past relationships, hurts, and traumas

This educator
This construction worker This gymnastics instructor
This young man who hitchhiked to college classes
This man who married his college sweetheart
This man who moved to New Mexico for a coaching job
Fell for my mom

My Aunt Bev says my grandparents
Got divorced - they fought all the time
And still saw the kids and each other
They still loved each other. There are all kinds of love



Joan thinks of me as a step daughter
More love can’t be bad, I’ll take it

decorate, reconnect

The little girl drags the bundle of pastel balloons along the sidewalk on Ditmars, pulling the string as if the collection can be lifted into the air like a kite.

Freedom to be anything. Freedom to have the time. Freedom to allow. Freedom to open boxes. Freedom to be gentle. Freedom to play.

She goes back to the place she once lived. It's empty, clean. We are one. We climb back out through the window.

How can one let go of things you might love again? 

Why can't death be living still?

Dear Dad

Dear Dad,

Thank you for loving me. Thank you for showing me love.

Thank you for letting me be real and true. Thank you for encouraging me.

Thank you for not holding my frustration or anger against me.

Thank you for letting me be authentic.

Thank you for letting me do exactly what I needed to do.

Dad,

You let me be myself.

You still loved me 

And you loved me more.

And we experienced a vast sea of forgiveness

And peace and love.

Dear Dad

Today is one year.

I don’t say death.

Thank for what I know.

It doesn’t end.

Conversations Continue.

Thank you for every call

Every hug,

Every piece of advice

Email

Typewritten letter

Hug

Card

Drive

Cup of coffee

Shirley temple

Diet coke

Stella beer

fishing trip

thank you for encouraging me to be

me

Manhattan Commitment

Sunshine, open to New, desire to Build. Grateful for blisters that occur from going far, for covering a lot of ground, for not sitting dormant on a beautiful day. I like stacking my thoughts and experiences. Arrange them, move or delete. Thank you for this space to write. Thank you for mornings. I see my parents are having coffee, reading the newspaper. They urge me to be bold. 

where we've been

I took my insulin without food.

No, that isn't me.

I'm standing and floating outside myself,

knowing what I need to do,

hoping I have the time and

consciousness to do it.

"What happens next?" I ask her at the cafe. 

Dear Mom,

Are you typing something to me somewhere now to be delivered by air mail, by a bird flying over the sea, or perhaps, I will open my computer and find a message from you? I saw your scarf the other day and brought it to my face. I inhaled your scent. I tied it around the doorknob to the spare room. Then I pulled it off and tied it around my neck to wear to work. I wore the silver and turquoise butterfly yesterday. We bought it in Old Town, remember? Did you help me pick it out to wear?

 "Tonight, go home and work on your spare room to get it like you desire. Type this up, Jen. Stop holding back. Stop waiting. Stop overthinking. You can watch the debates at home or if you feel up to it, go meet up with friends and Chris. No pressure, babydoll. Walk through the passageway. A little at a time. Each piece counts because it feels good and right, butterfly.”

September Device Disconnect

to see the people on their phones whizzing left and right

darting from across the street

I called my sister Debbie before I walked into this cafe

to realize I prefer clear to call in a private space at home

miss those days

house phone

2017 - each child man and woman is on a device

pieces of words, conversations

saying "I can't believe he did that!"

"having really bad service!"

"OMG, Hiiii!"

I don't need to hear them

they don't need to hear me

I watch others on their devices

reading, searching, writing, scrolling

I get it

It's good for work and play

and delight in the day

NOW NOW

I prefer to sit and not scroll

I prefer to eat and watch through this window

to listen to the music, the wind

to grab silent spots, the sun

to have a conversation with no one at all, myself

Shimmer

close up

golden mirror

I love you

40 face