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
Fear overwhelms me.
Sucking me dry
So many wounds
A shell of a human
Left to die
Without the virus
Imperfect, unworthy of care
You know it’s over when they let you enter without first scrubbing your hands.
This ends one of two ways. Only one means coming home with the one you love.
Safety precautions are no easier in intensive care, just clearer.
The ventilator, translucent skin, the unsteady beat of the monitors--all scream vulnerability and so, of course, of course you wash and gown and mask. That’s obvious.
The dying parent. The tiny babies. Every cell in your body wants to shield them from danger, even – especially – the invisible danger clinging to you from outside, hitching a ride closer to them. Looking for a way in; their vulnerability an invitation.
They can’t protect themselves.
Protecting them is obvious even when it’s not easy. You respect the barriers marking the threshold between the menace outside and the relative (hoped for, prayed for) safety here, inside.
When you can see blue blood rushing beneath translucent skin, it’s not hard to wash your hands.
The line used to be hard and sharp. Maybe it was imaginary, but it seemed straightforward. Safety is here: danger is there.
Now, the ink has smeared until that line becomes earth, becomes air encircling each of you and what does it mean to be safe now?
Ah, but you know what it means to keep a distance, so that you can protect.
You remember. It’s planted in the marrow of your bones.
How do you love through panes of glass? With a heart beating so hard you’re certain your tiny babies must hear it, too. When you touch them with a gloved hand, is it warm? Do they know it’s you?
Only your voice can touch without danger. The soft lullaby you sing into the incubators when you have to leave them. And the way his heart speeds up when he hears you coming into his hospital room.
On that final morning, they let you in without scrubbing. You touch your father’s hand with yours, unwashed and ungloved, because that line doesn’t matter anymore. It’s how you know it’s over.
All those years before, you got to take your babies home, drawing a new line around them, hard and strong for as long as you possibly could until you cracked it open to take them out. Out there. Unwashed hands and air travel leave them with bronchitis, but they’re stronger now and recover. You gave them time to grow and for their lungs to heal.
And you know it isn’t over.
It’s planted in the marrow of your bones.
And now? Now you will stay away for as long as you must if it means they will be safe.
You will love them again through a pane of glass (or a computer screen) when they are six-thousand miles away instead of in your kitchen, cooking and bickering, where you wish they were (where they’re supposed to be) instead.
You will send your voice through the telephone and hug over a video link and listen through a window for the music you know is out there because the line defining dangerous and safe has shattered, and you will protect them with the distance that you keep because this is what you do when you love.
- Visual Media and Poem by Dr. Mara Tesler Stein
May the reason I practice yoga be
To lead others to realizing the true nature
of the Self
Yet in doing that empowering others
Especially my fellow sisters
to advocate for themselves
To not let men walk all over us
In the name of spiritual practices
For us to claim our voice
As the creative energy that makes
it all happen
Refusing to be treated as anything less
We are not just servants
of the masculine
We are the whirl that creates
The motion and maintains
People have tried to keep the waves
From rising to their fullest majesty
not anymore, and never again
Burn away the pages
of my past
told by strangers to
Burn away the tainted
gripped with desperate
Awash my body
with the healing
my own spark.
Heed my call,
the scream from
Heed the fire
held in my heart.
- Peyton Cram
Dance for yourself
like you want to dance for him
When you move as a river
touching your body with delight
Know that you are touching
eternity herself, the Divine Goddess
When your hips unleash
a torrent of sensual bliss
Know that you are creating
flames to warm the earth entire
When you quiver with electricity
and beckon him to come
Know that you are connecting
with your True Divine Nature
Yours, not his
I love you with an old-fashioned heart
Maybe the leftovers of another lifetime
My God, loving you was easier then
In this time, in this place
I am just another misfit with an
Old-fashioned heart and an even
Older soul who hopes we can one day
Find ourselves on the same page of
Our tattered storybook
A single tear runs down my face
Smearing the ink off my lonely page
Soon there will be an empty canvas
And I do not know what will be created
A solo piece, or a call and response
For now, the not knowing must be enough
Photography of Jamie by Ellen DeCarlo (2004)
Attune me to today
Let my words
Be your words
And may I respond
To life's challenged
From the fusion of
My humanity and
I’m tired and
I just want to go home
I am hungry all the time and
I constantly yearn to be touched
Not just by anyone--
By the one I adore more than I should
I crave the things I cannot have and
I resent having to wear this meat suit
My soul is already home
My body longs to catch up
My body is exhausted
My body still wanders
My body constantly feels teased
My body is hungry all the time and
My body yearns to be touched
Can’t she just get with the program?
I know I am not my body
My soul is who I truly am
When I recognize this truth, I am at peace
And it’s so fucking hard to stay there
When I live in this human shell
I am not my limbic brain and yet
I have a limbic brain, a brain that is tired
And just wants to go home
I want nothing.
Nothing pleases me.
I celebrate nothing.
I love nothing.
Nothing beckons me beyond the urge to strive,
a constant yen to stave off Zen.
I want no sound, no taste, no smell,
no color, shape, or texture.
Nothing has plenty of nothing,
respite for my senses,
and that is what I want,
for a bit of time every day.
- Velma Lee Barber
Dr. Jamie Marich
Curator of the Dancing Mindfulness expressive arts blog: a celebration of mindfully-inspired, multi-modal creativity