 Manigusto (n.): The resolve to enjoy life more; a combination of “manifesto,” a mission statement that comes from the same Latin root where we get both “a ship’s manifest, or list of inventory,” and “gusto,” now an English word with multiple meanings (also the same root as “a gust of wind”). In many Romance languages derived from Latin, “gusto” means “pleasure.”
Deep dives in the ocean of life with People I love and cherish In this life I’ve been entrusted to Care for the ocean To help save it and to Rescue the people drowning in it Yet what is the sense in accepting This life vocation if I do not Take ample time to Swim in it myself To dance in the waves at sunset And to listen to them as the sun rises Eating food that excites me Climbing mountains and Enjoying the massages afterwards Savoring experiences while Still collecting a few things along the way Making time to read All of the books on my shelf And write the ones that are Locked inside of me Telling stories in all of the mediums Exploring what my heart desires To enjoy in the world And then resting into the journey home Snuggled up with myself, And with the ones I love On the couch, content Talking about everything And nothing at all Enjoying this life to the fullest And never fearing the next.
0 Comments
 I wanted to write you a think piece
A cogent reflection on an issue of Great social import-- What it’s like to be raised in the Culture of conspiracy Yet my brain is still a bit too scrambled To weave coherent sentences together Probably because phrases like “Deep state” and “high cabal” Were a regular part of my childhood diet Long before YouTube was even a thing But just as toxic voices coming Through the radio flooded my tender heart Sometime before my brain broke Beyond repair I wanted to write you a think piece But my brain can no longer think straight Not like anything about me was Built to be straight- Perhaps it’s that I am so damn tired My mind is exhausted The heart hurts like my heart has the virus And my soul can only muster the strength To plop down on my couch and cry The last four years wearied my soul On top of the forty years I’ve spent running from ghosts Slaying monsters, dancing with demons Or figuring out a way to live with them Most days it all feels the same I wanted to write you a think piece Something that might catch the attention of Rachel Maddow or NPR A queer daughter shares her lived experience Of surviving a conservative existence Q-Anon pings on our modern radar, yet A-thru-P were quite the torture too The father who exposed me had such a Questionable relationship with the truth, With consistency, with decency, and yes Even with the Mighty God he claimed to serve Yet when you’re a spirited little girl You believe in him And that his goodness will prevail Not his delusions I wanted to write you a think piece Full of big words to help you understand And yet I only have big feelings That still make an accomplished person Unsure of who she can really trust Uncertain of what is fantasy and what is real Unclear if the avoidant lovers who are a Staple in her life truly mean what they say About my love, my body, my light Or if they are just like him Afraid of my light Too afraid to let it work Her transformative powers My light works that magic for so many So why do I still feel so cold in my own bed? I wanted to write you a think piece About how the fire in my belly Led me to the Capitol to make sure That the King of my father’s own image Was indeed knocked off his throne I got to tell one of his disciples That he sounded like an abuser And that I could no longer communicate With such a person for whom the Truth Clearly means something so different Their vision of a great America is no America in which I want to live So how am I supposed to live with them? How can our demons ever possibly dance Together on the same floor? I wanted to write you a think piece Full of solutions for unity Based on my knowledge and life’s work Yet this puzzle is not one that Thinking will ever solve And our feelings may burn down Each other's houses I am curled up, crying on my couch With the young women that still Live inside Just wanting their father to love them As they are, as she is A very blue soul Who loves America and everything in it With a fiercely bleeding heart Dr. Jamie was proud to interview one of her role models and "legends" of expressive arts therapy, Dr. Cathy Malchiodi on January 6, 2021. Listen as they chat about the expressive arts and the needed paradigm shifts within our field.
To learn more about Dr. Malchiodi's work, go to: www.cathymalchiodi.com Darkness and Light: Poetry Composed in Community by 2020 "Between the Holidays" Retreatants12/18/2020  Artwork credit: Debra Sowald “We need to be in dark soil to grow. There is no spotlight in the womb. Darkness is incubation.”
Not separate Darkness and light is whole in its contrast but also one in its wholeness of the same… Darkness and light are a continuum All is required for life and growth Transformation from one to the other Both And The swirling, the deepening, the opening reconciled within The sun, the storm, the journey, the challenge Brought us together today Seeds push up through the black soil Evolving ever onward Entangled You have to embrace darkness to give light a rebirth. And find wholeness that is my birthright New life contracts from darkness to light Love and Growth and Fear and Protect all that is within Held in a sacred womb Both are gifts that merge I can “be” Both  Do you spit or do you swallow?
What! How dare you ask me that! The question is relevant Do you spit or do you swallow… The shame. Some women seem to have a natural gift To spit it out, to reject it Or they simply refused to be dicked around In the first place I am in awe of these women because for years I swallowed and Swallowed and Swallowed “Taking it like a woman” to Keep the connection To secure the attachment To be a good girl For the men I wanted to love me To praise me To adore me To let me play on their field Even though I was more talented More resilient More flexible and A hell of a lot stronger By swallowing the shame Internalizing the misogyny Being the version of a lady They wanted me to be And even treating other women Poorly in reaction Denying them their rights, Their process I swallowed Believing it would keep the man happy When he could care less what I did As long as he got off first How would he react now if I spit it Right back in his face? Would that make me an unlady? Will they take my good girl card away? Better yet, what if I don’t show up for the game? Make him take care of himself Hell has no fury like a privileged man Losing his power While compassion has long been our power I must no longer let the man use that against me I almost died in both body and spirit Caring too much When we step back into the power we deserve The world comes back into balance Yes, the fight ahead is a long one They will come after us Violently Or worse yet They may even deny us the Connection and love we desire May the fire burning in our bellies Lit from the kindling of that Good Girl card they revoked Light the way Surround yourself with the good men, women, and people Who will never make you be anything than who you are Who will celebrate your spirit to the fullest Who will never ask you—spit or swallow?  “The heart is an organ of fire.” ~Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient The limbic brain, the seat of our emotions and learning as human beings, can be destroyed by unhealed trauma. Ancient Christian mystics, often called the desert fathers and desert mothers, referred to this brain as the heart brain. Our emotional world, governed by the limbic brain, can feel like a fire that is raging out of control. Some trauma survivors are affected oppositely—they become shut off to feeling altogether. Often we shut ourselves off from emotion by choice, afraid of what feeling them might do to us. Our emotional world and other matters of the heart are much like a fireplace that keeps a cabin warm. If the fire rages, it can burn the cabin down. If the fire dies, the cabin goes cold. Recovery teaches us how to keep the fire in balance—properly tended to create for us a beautiful warmth. Invitation: Interlace your hands together and place them over your heart. If directly touching your body feels too activating, you may hover this cross-fingered gesture a few inches away from your heart. Spend 3-5 minutes in this position and listen to what messages your heart—and the emotional world it represents—may be giving you today. Prayer or Intention: May the emotional fire of my heart create warmth—not destruction—today and on the path ahead. Excerpt from the forthcoming, Trauma and the 12 Steps Daily Meditation Reader, releasing on September 30, 2020 from Creative Mindfulness Media Photograph & Meme by Dr. Jamie Marich
Dear Friends
Do not fall back asleep Although the days are short And the night is long. Do not fall back asleep If your heart still beats for humanity I beg you. Go find your kindling Reignite the flame within your heart. Do not fall back asleep Remember 401 years of terror for Black Lives. Reaffirm your commitment to justice Do not fall back asleep Remember we still can’t breathe - even though we find a way to keep smiling, laughing, drumming, crying, working, marching Do not fall back asleep For me and mine there is no option We can not step out of our Black skin and take a day off. There is no day off. Our ancestral melanated garment calls us to action everyday. Do not fall back asleep My dear Ally There can be no peace in our land if the blood of Black people continues to flow through the streets. Stay awake Do not fall back asleep. Poetry and photography by Dr. Kellie Kirksey  What do you see?
What is the story of your projection? Do you see my color? or is my hue invisible to you? How does this unfolding story strike your heart? Where does the word racism resonate within your body? Why were your eyes closed for 401 years? Did you not hear my screams? Did you not see the hanging tree? Did you not feel my anguish? Did you not notice my red blood running through the streets? Was I not just as human when they killed us again and again and again? I am perplexed. So. Do you really see my reality now? Can you taste the fear that has been my life? Is this all real or simply a gaslight hallucination? Real talk... My fear is you will fall asleep once more and i will recess into the blackground of your mind like yesterdays old yellow newspaper. I know one of you has cried muffled tears of saddness for this 4 century long tragedy. Step boldly forward and work for systemic change. Please come out of the shadows. Let your tears water the soul and soil of justice. ....she is exhausted. and yet she begs you. Do not slumber. Please do not fall back asleep. Stay awake for freedom... and raise your voice to action as we toil for a system that is just, together....and truly equal. May the souls of the Ancestors rejoice in this earthly transformation and find peaceful eternal rest. By Dr. Kellie Kirksey June 30th, 2020 1:26am  Outside the window, Cleo’s uncle stalked to the corner of the yard to stand beneath the phone pole and look up, hands on hips, ranting. Cleo grabbed her father’s handgun from the dusty windowsill and ran to hide it between her mattresses.
When she returned to the window, Uncle Bobby was still out there waving his hands and yelling at the brown-skinned cable guy on the pole. Cleo stared through the glass, images blurred by a filter of dead bugs, bird poop, pollution particles. The man on the pole cut and moved wires without bothering to look down at her screaming uncle. That impressed Cleo, seeing a man who could take insult and mind his own business. Then she noticed the ear buds and his moving mouth. Maybe the man couldn’t hear her uncle threatening to blow his “stupid fucking head off.” Uncle Bobby threw up his hands, yelled, “Fuck you!” and turned toward the house. Cleo dropped into the chair whipping her face back to the school-issued laptop screen. Words raced before her eyes. Her heart fluttered. The front door opened and slammed shut. Cleo peered up, keeping her head down. “Did you hear me giving it to that sonuvabitch out there?” her uncle asked. “I heard him talking on his phone, saying he supported the stay-at-home order.” He reached into the corner cupboard, his sweaty T shirt riding up over the little bulge growing around his middle. “What a dumbass. We oughta kick out all the foreigners. That would solve 99% of our problems. Get real Americans back to work and back to normal life. This CO-VID shit is a liberal hoax.” He moved a few cans around, muttering, “Damn!” “What are you looking for?” Cleo asked. She glanced out the window. The cable man descended the pole. “I’m looking for my damned peas and carrots,” her uncle barked. “I think daddy ate them,” Cleo said. The man outside climbed into his white van. “He knows those are my favorite!” Her uncle slammed the cupboard door. “He’s been taking my shit since we were kids. I’m gonna kill him when he gets home.” He stalked to the bathroom, the door cracking shut against the frame. Outside, tail lights lit up and the van moved into the street, diminishing in size as it travelled up the block, shrinking the threat of violence, the distraction of warranted worry. Cleo's breath calmed and she returned to the Civics assignment: Read a news article related to how any level of US government is responding to the current pandemic; write a one sentence summary of the article; write three relevant questions related to the article and include answers. She opened a fresh document and tapped the keyboard with efficiency, accuracy. The first lady of Maryland has been instrumental in securing coronavirus tests for her state. 1. What is the first lady’s profession? (Artist) 2. Could this first lady be governor some day? (Yes) 3. If a girl who grew up on a chicken farm in South Korea can become the first lady of Maryland, could someone like me possibly escape this hellhole? (Maybe) The toilet flushed. Cleo ran to collect the gun and put it back on the windowsill. With any luck, when her father returned from work to face his brother’s wrath, one of them would take a bullet and the other would end up back in jail. Didn’t matter who shot who, as long as they were both out of her life.  If you can’t handle me in three or more dimensions You don’t get to have me in two You one dimensional fool If you can’t digest my substance and my messiness Seeing only the perfect image you behold You won’t get any of me, not anymore If you can’t treat me with the respect You would want any man to show your most sensitive daughter I withdraw any respect I ever held for you If you keep putting me on hold when you were Once so eager for me to answer the phone This fantasy of ours will cease to be reality Poetry by Jamie Marich
Mixed Media by Jamie Marich based on a photograph by Michael Gargano |
Dr. Jamie MarichCurator of the Dancing Mindfulness expressive arts blog: a celebration of mindfully-inspired, multi-modal creativity Archives
April 2021
Categories
All
|
RSS Feed