May Reflection and New Poem
It has been a super-busy May: my birthday, travel to Michigan to see our families on Mother’s Day weekend, our daughter’s college graduation, and our 35th wedding anniversary. I read recent poems at a spirituality group and facilitated a world peace meditation with them. I was (unexpectedly) asked to be on a local cable TV show on using poetry for healing and comfort. What fun! I had three colds (unusual) and I continued doing deep healing work with a goal of being more consistently healthy, with more peace, calm and clarity in my life. I learned a new breathing technique which I practiced daily.
As the month went on, I had thoughts and poems I wanted to post, but the time passed. I did put my name and copyright on all my blog photos and replaced all the unmarked ones.
This recent poem was written as part of my healing work. It was inspired by talking with my friend, Geary Davis, who moderates a spiritual gathering every Thursday evening.
5/28/09
Put Down the Sword of Self-wounding
(after talking to Geary about a ritual to ease pain)
Put down the sword
of self-destruction
and self-immolation,
of self-defeat, self-demolition,
and self-defacing. Stop
stabbing myself in the vulnerable gut
in remorse, guilt, grief, and regret
at what I could not
control or plan or shape.
Melt that sword
into the ploughshare
that carves the furrows
into which I place
the seeds I have been holding back.
Let forgiveness
flood the field,
let love shine upon them,
let the earth be fertile and loam-rich,
and bountiful harvest my just reward.
After all the lifetimes
of all the dark and light alike
let my new life
result from a conscious new choice:
to put down the sword.
No more self-blame
self-criticism or self-judging,
no more crimson shame,
no more self-harsh words,
no more self-unkindness,
no more self-disrespect,
or screaming at myself
at perceived imperfections
or unbearable failings.
Only forgiveness
to the bone of things
to the bottom and top of memory,
forgiveness heaped
on forgiveness, eaten
at a great feast of forgiveness.
And when sated,
love as dessert and
as the main course ever after.
Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2009
Note: definition of immolate
1) To kill as a sacrifice
2) To kill (oneself) by fire
3) To destroy
The American Heritage Dictionary, 3rd edition, 1992
Gratitude
The radio was on in the background as we were having Sunday breakfast and reading the newspaper. It was a program of classical music from South America, one piece from each country. The conductor came on before each one to introduce the music. Before one of the pieces he said something like: the composer’s wife and child had been in a head-on collision and the composer named this composition for her. I believe he also said that they had survived. It got me thinking about the preciousness of time. And how we don’t choose how much time we have we have with those we love. And this poem popped out. I was thinking of my husband, but it really applies to everyone I encounter.
4/26/09
Inspired by Something
Partly Heard on the Radio
I do not know
how much time
I have with you.
I read the stories
or avoid reading them
of all the sad, tragic
things that happen
and tears run down my face
in sympathy, in empathy
whether I would stop them
or not. I know this dark place.
But yet, I do not
want to know the limits
of the hours, the minutes
I have with you.
What good would that do?
Just to be here
where you are
for as long
as there is…
and be grateful.
Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2009
Belated Happy Easter!
This poem is a true story from last Easter. When I read it again it was like memory, seeing the scene play out in my eyes, but stripped of the powerful emotions of that morning. I know it was no accident everything happened as it did. What fruits are borne of this Easter morning re-birth is up to each one of us.For those who might not know, Reiki is a kind of divinely guided healing energy (universal life force) that is transmitted through the hands. Anyone can learn to do this. For 12 years, I have used Reiki almost daily for myself and others. It is powerful and gentle. It is great first aid. And is always available. A complete Reiki session can be very relaxing. As mentioned in the poem, Reiki can be helpful for emotional issues as well as physical or mental. I often add a visual like the gold globe or bubble to protect the person or strengthen them. In this case, Reiki was calming for me, as well as potentially helping the man and the medical techs.
3/23/08
Easter High Mass
After Dawn finished singing
her angelically beautiful “Alleluia,”
the heart of the man at the right back
of the Easter-filled Church of St. Patrick…
well, his heart stopped. And those around him
alert to his plight shouted out for help.
Many called 911 on cell phones.
A woman, outwardly calm, did CPR.
Briefly, a priest in vestments bent in blessing.
A man rolled up the sleeves of his blue dress shirt
and did his part: one shock of the defibrillator,
following instructions. Others gathered
in an anxious half-circle around them.
The filled church was quiet except for fussy babies
and squirming toddlers. High Mass did not begin.
Father H. strode to the front and led
an “Our Father” and a “Hail Mary” for the stricken man.
Time slowed down. Words softly spoken
could be heard across the rows of wooden pews.
Firemen arrived quickly and took over.
IV begun…slow beeping…slowly… moans as, I assume,
the man returned to us. I held the hands of my daughter
on my left and my husband on my right. At the start, I tried
to send the healing energy of Reiki, but felt too much emotion
to finish. I heard in my head a strong, clear, firm voice:
to concentrate on placing a gold bubble
around the workers and the man, and
to fill that bubble with Loving Light—
as I have done before. I did this.
Immediately I felt calm. Then in my imagination I gathered
the strands of fear and anxiety that swirled around
and sent them out through the central skylight, up into the Light.
Rescue efforts continued; the fireman
wearing the heavy coat wiped his brow.
Another held the IV bag high in his blue-gloved hand,.
Snow-coated pines, sunlight, shrubs and blue sky,
a serene backdrop behind them.
I remembered to breathe, and kept breathing deliberate breaths.
Finally the gurney was raised, the IV bag and tubing now clipped
high in its stand. Surrounded by help, the man was wheeled out the back.
Those standing returned to their seats. Music resumed;
processional from back to front, Father and two girl servers.
“Jesus Christ Is Risen Today! Alleluia!”
Throughout the Mass, the man was mentioned:
a prayer to surround him in healing grace.
What fruits are borne of this Easter morning re-birth
is up to each one of us. For me: this poem,
my way to reflect and release and remember.
Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2008
My Dad’s Birthday
April 2nd was my father’s birthday. Family story has it that his mother held out when she was in labor with him so he would not be born on April Fool’s Day. I don’t know if it works that way, a baby is born when he or she is ready. In any case he was born on April 2.About 23 years ago, when he was just 60, he died of a heart attack following minor surgery. He was a complex man. In many ways I was a Daddy’s girl. But at other times I was an outcast too. I’ve written a lot about many facets of our complex relationship. Here are four of those poems. “The Legacy” is from the very beginning of my poetic journal. “Upon Serious Consideration” I wrote when I was trying to deal with emotions (particularly fear) of being diagnosed with elevated blood pressure, which my dad had for a long time. The other two poems were triggered by contemplating feet and from yoga meditation, respectively. I never know when some bit of truth is going to come through.
10/14/95
The Legacy
My dad had a way of seeing
that he passed on to me,
a way of looking at small things
like spider webs and squirrels,
a way of looking at large things
like waterfalls and sunsets.
He knew when there would be
an eclipse of the moon
and we would watch.
We’d sit out on August nights,
lying back on our picnic table,
to search the skies for falling stars.
He knew how things worked,
how to take apart and
put back together.
He could fix bikes and cars
and washers and plumbing,
and I got some of this, too.
When I was older
my dad had a way of receiving
just what I had to give,
of not always asking for more
than I offered.
This was true of him
with others too.
What a gift he had this way!
I’ve tried to do this,
but it doesn’t come easy to me.
This is not to say
all was well with my father.
He spent most of my life really,
stuck and not happy and dying.
He’d take medicine or have surgery,
do what the doctors said,
but he wouldn’t or couldn’t examine
or change his ways
to become healthy and whole.
What happened to the strapping boy of sixteen
who biked a hundred miles in one day
to visit his uncle, then rode back home again?
What happened to his sense of adventure
and freedom and spirit?
I don’t know.
Lots of things can happen in a life.
Why are some crushed
and others thrive?
Yet I see how much of me now
comes from this man.
How much he passed on
stays with me still
and has brought me to
this perfect moment.
Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 1995
6/1/05
Upon Serious Consideration
I am not my father
what he did or did not do
is not my choosing;
how he died,
how he lived,
whether he was happy,
or satisfied
had little to do with me,
his oldest daughter.
What he could tolerate,
what abuse he got and gave,
his temper, his intellect,
his humor, his blood pressure,
blood sugar, cholesterol,
scars, mistakes, history,
none of this is mine.
I have a fresh slate
upon which to write.
Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2005
6/11/06
Composite Feet
Perhaps the lack of metatarsal arch
from my mother, the shortened toes,
bunion (genetically inclined).
And from my father (gone now twenty years)—
I don’t remember his feet, perhaps I got the high arches,
the high insteps, now falling.
From him I got my love of walking.
In his prime I remember one day—
maybe when the house was up for sale
and the kids needed to be away—
he took us to the woods somewhere near
and we walked until exhausted—
that was the point. And at that point
none of us could best him—not like later.
And I remember when I was older
and did not go on family vacations
to state parks in Michigan,
my father was driving north
and the car overheated and to keep going
he ran the heater—in deep summer—
not knowing the diabetic neuropathy
was so advanced he couldn’t feel
his foot burning. And when they
arrived and set up camp
and he took off his shoes
and took off his socks
the skin of his right foot—
his accelerator foot—
came off too.
Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2006
9/19/06
From Yoga Meditation
I am playing piano
my father sits on the sofa
in the living room
of our house on Eastwood.
He listens to Moonlight Sonata
and improvising sometimes for hours.
I play and he listens.
I do not know how often this happened
maybe once or maybe regularly.
I loved to play and felt it relax him.
I do not remember him ever
commenting or complimenting,
just listening to his oldest daughter
do what she loved.
And that was…and is…enough.
Do you know how hard it is
to re-write the old stories
to heal from wounds old and deep
to rest, finally?
To remember even harsh things
with compassion and understanding
to forgive and let go?
It is hard sometimes
but can be done
and must be done
to heal and move on.
This story of playing piano
and listening is true.
To remember so vividly
the room, the furniture,
the draped windows along the side
to see him so clearly sitting there
what a gift to have him back
for a bit.
Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2006
