The Air Here

The air here is heavier,
filled with salt and sun and sound.
Where fragrant flowers
trigger memory upon memory,
touching me like so many
clammy hands.
Here each heaven-leant breath
fills me deeper
with wonder at the
mundane made divine . . .
the simple smell of salt-spray
catches me off-guard while waiting
as we filled up the car with gas.
Where bird-songs mean something
I can't quite remember,
and the luau music in the distance
taunts me with a culture
I couldn't quite embrace.
Through it all the warm sun
holds me here
and I am lulled into thinking
I finally belong . . .
this time I won't have to leave.

Untitled and Rough -- poem about hiking to Manoa Falls

Okay, I think this might have some good stuff in it, but I feel like it is all over the place. I think it probably needs to be cut way down, but I'm having a hard time cutting anything (actually, I keep adding!!). It has so many different themes, and images and ideas. Is it too much? Anyway, here it is:


Your tiny trail-muddied shoe rubs
against my leg
smearing dirt across my shorts
as I carry you down from Manoa Falls.

On the way up, you hiked uncomplaining
jumping and climbing and scrambling
your own way over the bolder
whose mossy back divided the easy trail.
You beckoned me on
when I paused,
eager to reach the falls.
Mothering me by
telling me to watch out for the puddles.

Now you are wet against my side;
where you sit on my hip
the fall-water soaks me to the skin.
Tired and skinned-kneed, you insist
on being carried, and though tired too,
I oblige.

Ahead, I see the boys have waited
in the bamboo forest
where the sticks click, talking to us
in the breeze,
as we pause with them for pictures.
When the wind gusts I look up
and I'm dizzied by the violent
swaying of these tall, thin giants.
I feel like a child, swallowed up in this ocean.
A stick of bamboo blown down
thuds hard on the ground
and I move us quickly along,
fearful of where the next piece will strike.
My boys and brothers disappear
ahead of us again.

Behind us lags
my mother with her parents.
Four generations of haoles
trailing through the giant ferns.

And again on my hip
you fill the relative silence
with a little nonsense tune.
Competing now and then
with the chattering of birds,
and always accompanied
by the low gurgle of the stream,
you hum in my ear.

A breeze brings a flower scent
filled with a hundred blurred memories
of my childhood in Hawaii.
And in this moment of filtered sunlight
touching earth and trees and stream,
with your sweet body
against mine
all is suddenly sublime.

Ode to Zoloft

lying in bed
mid-morning
heaviness
holds me
there
with heart enough
only to stare
through tiny cracks
in slats
of blinds where
I see
it is sunny outside
of me.

A List

Things I'm afraid of:

snakes
waterskiing with snakes
the dark
looking stupid
saying the wrong thing
being someone's service project
my children's pain
losing a child
losing my mind

Dear friend,

little by little
at our weekly
park bench lunches
i begin to
serve up my sorrow
always in small
bite-sized pieces
like finger foods
on a high chair tray
slices of my darker side
carefully wrapped
and presented
little sour sweet
anecdotes and memories
lemon drops
to slowly suck
as they're stuck
in the side of your cheek
nothing too bitter
to make you gag
some thoughts i chew
in silence
as our children run off
to play.

Living My Nightmare

When I was pregnant with my fourth child, there was a dark little spot inside of me that did not truely believe that my baby would be born alive. It was all the normal pregnancy worries amplified far beyond normal. This was not every moment. But there were enough of these dark thoughts pressing on me that it was definitely not healthy. I put off preparing his room and getting out the baby clothes for a long time because of these worries. And then one day when I was finally making myself work on it, I actually thought to myself, I wonder if the Relief Society will send someone over to pack these things up for me, or will I have to do it myself when I get home from the hospital? Yeah. Really dark stuff. So that moment when the doctor laid my perfect little boy in my arms was the first moment that I really and truely knew that I was taking a baby home from the hospital with me! A very joyous moment.

About five months later, a friend from church lost her baby girl during labor. It tore my heart open, and shook me to the core -- here she was, living my nightmare. And then I had to watch as she kind of came a little unhinged. She got pregnant again soon after that, again with a baby girl. Mostly she seemed so incredibly strong to have gone through what she did. The day I started to really worry about her was when she told me that she couldn't decide whether to use Natalie's things for the new baby. I told her that I was sure that Natalie would want her little sister to use her things. And then she said, "but what if the Millenium comes?" I was so shocked by the question that I couldn't begin to articulate an answer. I suppose then they could have had their two baby girls share the clothes that they had lovingly prepared. The millenium did not come, but her baby did. We moved away before her baby was even born, but when we went back to visit, she was beautiful. Perfect. And alive. I think the wounds were still there for my friend, though, under the smile. I'm not sure if holding her sweet baby was healing wounds, or picking at the scabs.

Now another friend is living another of my nightmares. My sister in law is hospitalized as I write. For post partum . . . I don't know what to call it . . . I suppose it has gone far beyond depression at this point, so is is post partum psychosis? I don't actually know her clinical diagnosis. My brother called me the week after Easter, and made her get on the phone with me to talk about post partum depression, and the wonders of medication. Because after my fourth child, a little boy, was born -- healthy, perfect and alive -- I still found myself lost and wandering in the maze of depression. Walking that balance beam between the darkness and the light. And medication saved me. It is still saving me every day. She and I had a nice conversation about it. She was not particularly open to the idea of taking something, but said that she could see my points that I was making about it, and said that she would prayerfully consider what to do.

I never followed through. I thought so many times that I should call or email and see how she was doing, what decision had she made about medication, did she end up feeling like she needed it. And now she is living another of my nightmares. Of course, it is a nightmare from which she will emerge. She is getting help, and I am confident that she will be fine. But I find myself feeling so so sad for my brother, who had to involuntarily commit his wife to a hospital, worried for my four nephews who must be scared and confused, and heart broken for my sister in law.

And I also have to admit, I am sad and worried, and heartbroken just a little bit for me, too. I can't stop thinking: How close to the edge did I come? In my wanderings through the darkest of times, how close was I to where she found herself? Am I even now safe?

Mom mom

Sometimes the name "mom" is my least favorite word in the world. When it is being called out in anger during a fight between siblings. When it is being whined. When it is repeated over and over -- often even after I have said, "what?" more than once. When it is repeated for the 17 millionth time in a particular day. I have decided that I know why Heavenly Father has asked us not to take His name in vain. Could you even imagine what it feels like to have your name cried out in anger, whined, and repeated . . . multiplied by 5 billion? I have asked my children not to take my name in vain, but in this they aren't any more obedient than Earth's general population. Sometimes the name "mom" represents the constant pull I feel of needy little people overwhelming me. Their cries distract me, and peck mercilessly at my mind's every thought.

Sometimes the name "mom" is my very favorite word in the world. When it accompanies a declaration of love. When it prefaces a humble request for help. The first time each of my six children has truely learned it. Any time it is voiced with admiriation and respect. I think I know why Heavenly Father has asked us to come to Him in prayer. Can you feel him there, returning your love, ready to help, eager for us to learn more of Him? I am so thankful to each of my children for the blessed moments of motherhood that I find so fulfilling.

I have had thoughts along these lines many times throughout my 15 years of motherhood. I got thinking about it again recently because my Emily often calls me "mom mom." It is baby talk, but it fills me with warmth, and I began to wonder why I like that name so much. I have been called by many appellations of motherhood: mom, mommy, mamma, mommylu, mother. Yet somehow, mom mom is the one I find the sweetest. I feel she is endowing me with all the blessings and love normally accorded to two moms. That she can't fit all that I mean to her in just one name. It fills me with resolve to overcome the trials that motherhood brings. The repetition is a prayer of thanks for who I am to her, of what I can and will do for her, of the love she knows I return so fully to my sweet sweet EmilyEmily.

Things I Want to Write About:

After the hurricane

Mom mom

Sunday Clothes

Summer of the Chickens

Work on my Hawaii poems

Lupus

I had a million ideas one day, and didn't get any of them down. Well, that's what this list is for. Hope some of them come back to me . . .

Airing My Dirty Laundry

Recently I decided to ask my sweet sister in law to look at my stuff here on this blog, and see if she had any feedback for me. But before doing so, I read through all of it. I guess that was the first time I had done that (read all the posts in one sitting). And I had to absolutely laugh at myself because of all the laundry references and metaphors!! I decided that one day I'll have to publish a compilation of poetry and essays that all have something to do with laundry. I can give it the same title that I gave this post!! :) I guess that is one of the things that I feel the most overwhelmed by is trying to keep up with the laundry for 8 people. Or maybe it's just harder to make glib little references to needles and diabetes test-kits, another very overwhelming aspect of my life.

Memories

my memories are torn and crumpled
they are the little washed paper pieces
found in the dryer lint screen
and I don't know whether to
carefully unfold them
piece them back together
pray the faded writing
though smeared and barely
legible will still provide some clues
or scoop them up with all the
rest of the bluegray lint
and toss them in the little plastic
garbage can next to the washing machine

Darkest thoughts

Remember that mom who drowned her babies,
to save them from the world?
It worked, right?
Her babies went straight to heaven.
But she sold her soul to the devil in the process.
What deals will
I have to make with the devil when
my cries go unanswered . . .
Father in Heaven, please, please,
please, can't you just help the baby sleep through the night?
I'm so very tired . . .
I'm the one facedown in the bathtub.
Drowning in my own inability.
But I always raise my head,
gasping for air,
but living.
For one more day living.
Even in my darkest thoughts,
I want to be with my babies
for today
for always
So they are safe
I am safe
No contacts signed in their blood or mine
As I stagger,
gasping
through one more day.

Empty

Wet sloppy toddler kisses
caught between loads of laundry
that squealed laughter
overheard as I make dinner
playdates and parkdays
homework help
driving
Always driving kids
somewhere
pre-nap snuggles
storytimes snuck in too rarely
datenight
diapers
hugs from a son taller than his mom
days so full so
full
I've weaned the baby
But still I feel
sucked
so
dry.

Strange

I lay down next to the stranger in my bed.
The quiet comfortable stranger
breathing slowly.
He was awake when I went in to brush my teeth.

I wake to an empty bed.
To a busy life full of needy children
alternately hugging and pushing.
He won't be home until it is dark again.

Mid-day, I put the baby in her crib.
She's angry, but tired;
her tears will soon subside.
He doesn't take my call when I need to hear his voice.

It wasn't always this way.
I almost remember knowing for sure
he loved me.
The stranger I've bound myself to forever.

Doing the Math

The sweet sharp smell

of rubbing alcohol

no longer evokes

doctors' offices and hospitals --

the little square swabs

have become as much a part

of our landscape

as cheerios and baby wipes.

Some things I've stopped calculating:

the shots . . . twice a day times

a year and more . . .

the finger-pricks

that leave the swabs bloodstained

multiplying til I'm dizzy.

We've filled as many

gallon juice jugs

with your medical-sharps-waste

to match your three years.

Other math must still be done daily:

correction factors . . .

Insulin-to-carb ratios --

I wish I could as easily

divide your pain

your disappointment.

Even the small hurts

I'd make smaller.

I prick and you flinch.

And I want to flinch.

Let the diabetes win for one day

as I stop playing pancreas

so I don't have to be the one

to do the math

find the magic number

balancing your life one meal at a time.

Needle poised before

your perfect, round, toddler belly:

"We're turning your tummy

into swiss cheese" I joke.

You laugh and I poke.

This one didn't hurt -- too much --

but still my mind is racing

doing the math

dividing

Divide.

In Search of a Smile

I grimace at the bright pink polish

on stubby nails.

What was that impulse?

a stab at youthfulness?

attempted joviality?

Instead it is silly

and I must admit

smudged

when I reached too quickly

for the package of diapers.

But polish notwithstanding,

poopies must be changed.

And though it offends,

I'm sure it will be days

-- and many chipped tips --

before I drag out cotton balls

and polish remover.

Because after all,

the baby is still crying,

the dog is still barking,

the laundry is still dirty,

the three-year-old is still begging me to

change the batteries in a (probably broken) toy,

the dishes are still waiting,

I still haven't showered . . .

And, I guess, I'm still hoping.

Hoping maybe later, as I'm folding finished

laundry I'll see the pink

and think it's pretty.

And then

for the first time today

I'll sit there among the neatly

folded piles

and smile.