Matins

I love poems that celebrate the tender, poignant, beautiful, earthy, and the everyday. These are our lives, they proclaim, and offer beauty where we may have previously seen banality, drudgery, or annoyance.

I love how poetry asks us to pay attention. It hones in, a microscope, on one tiny thing so we can see our lives anew.

This poem arose one morning when I realized I'd wet the bed. Many women experience incontinence as they age, and I have, too. This was something different - a gushing that I found out later was tied to illness. After the shock, I was further shocked by what arose for my body: love. I felt the instinct, like a mother with a child who's had an accident, to treat myself with gentleness.

I'm grateful for that time, because it helped me fall in love with my body in a new way, with my body in this particular form. I bow before the miracle, how our physical diminishment can breed love.

Matins is a time in the night when monks would hold vigil, often beginning two hours after midnight and ending at dawn. A ripe time for them, and for me, and perhaps for you, too.

Matins

The morning I woke, my bed clothes
damp, I felt confused – can menopause
reverse? But no, this is a different kind
of moisture. My grandmother said
we start in diapers and end in diapers
but I didn't think I'd be there at 49.
But here I am. And I can't help but
think – after the first shock of surprise,
then grief, and after asking my husband
to please let me know if I smell like pee –
what a wonder this is – to mother
myself in this new way, to care for
my body – my body who does so much
for me. Now it's my turn, my love,
to care for you. I can't hate my body
for growing older. I can't hate my body
for failing any more than I can hate
the broccoli plants that can't flower
in the too cool nights. I never thought
I'd see incontinence as joy, as a chance
to love myself, but here it is. I never
thought the years of self hatred, the shame
of living in human flesh, would thaw
in my disintegration, but here it is. What
a wonder, this love, that I don't feel humiliated
by my body's demise but touched and tender,
fully alive and dignified.

If you appreciate receiving the poems of O Nobly Born, I'd love your financial support. You can make a $10 donation here by credit card or a donation of any amount through paypal at paypal@growinghumankindness.com. I cherish every donation, as they support my work and enable me to offer these poems freely to all.

With a grateful heart, Karly