Let

Many of you know I've had a journey through illness these past few years, since I became ill with my first round of covid in early March of 2020. Writing that brings wonder - was it really 4 1/2 years ago?

There is much I can say about illness as a teacher - the grief and then the mercy that comes from letting go of the hope that you can go back and be who you once were. The surrender into living in a fallible, mortal body. The way this teaches you how to listen to your body with more subtlety and presence. How your body's frailties bring a new tenderness for yourself, and can even soften decades of body hatred and shame.

There are several poems that have arisen from this crucible.

This one came in August after a particularly difficult spell of vertigo. In hindsight, the vertigo was a blessing, as its severity helped me move from, "Oh, this must be another long covid symptom" to "I need more help."

We discovered there was a reason for the vertigo - Meneire's Disease. The diagnosis was oddly a relief, because it made sense of so many perplexing symptoms. Since then, I've been learning a new form of hospitality - how to be a good host to this guest in my body's guest house.

I am learning how pain and love are intertwined. While there have been difficult days, there have also been days with much beauty. Perhaps the most challenging aspect for me - like many people who care for illnesses that appear invisible - is learning how to listen to the limits of my energy and capacity. My mind wants to 'go back' to what I used to do. I often wake up later that I'd hoped to, filled with anxiety about 'being behind.' It's a daily journey to let go of these ideas, to be with the anxiety and to embrace the kindness of reality, of what I can do. Poetry helps me grieve, helps me celebrate, helps me bow to my life, helps me move through the days of grumpiness, and helps me remember.

Through it all, I yearn to be kind to my body, and kind to my mind, especially when the anxiety roars. Anxiety is such a challenging guest! Through it all, I hope to be here.

This poem was written from a prompt from dear Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer, modeled after the structure of Jane Kenyon's poem, Let Evening Come.

Let

Let the brown tabby meow, paw
at your door and pull you out
of bed hours before you feel ready.

Let the hot sun bake the sweet
potato plants as you measure what
to water or what to let die.

Let the body buck from another wave
of dizziness as you learn a new way
to ride the body's labor pains.

Let the hollow of grief come up for air
so the tears that are stuck in the corners
of your eyes can drop their heavy load.

Let the fridge empty. Let the dust gather
on the bookshelves. Let the to do list
unravel in the light of what is possible
instead of what you hoped would be.

Let help come. Let friends bring you pots
of soup, jars of tea and prayer flags, tied
on a string. Let the doctor insert the needle
that makes you tremble.

Let yourself fall. Let yourself weep. Let
yourself shatter, let yourself know you
don't have to be any braver than you
know how to be.

The early rising brings morning flowers.
Sweet potatoes bring grace. The body
brings breath. Grief brings tenderness.
Unraveling brings silence. Help brings ease.
Shattering brings relief from holding up
what needed to break.

Let everything happen to you, Rilke says –
as if you're given a choice, as if let is optional.
What if everything happens? What if this
is what I can trust? What if this is the way
that trust holds me?

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