Category Archives: healing

True Cost of Guns

In looking through my poems from a few years ago, I found this one. Timely. What do you think?

5/2/08

Pure Economics

How casually we sell guns
as if they were
eggs for breakfast,
a pen to write with,
a book yet unread.

Without understanding
the purpose behind action,
the price of inaction,
the graves yet undug.

From manufacture to distribution
to sales, follow the cost,
the opportunities lost,
for each one of us

and charge accordingly.
How few could then
afford to pay
what was asked?

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2008

Good-bye, Jean McGrew

I met Jean McGrew in 1998. She was 14 years older and a retired kindergarten teacher. Some years before, she’d had a liver transplant (following hepatitis C). Jean wrote poems to her new life-saving liver, “Oliver,” among other things. We connected right away, in part because we both were poets writing about healing, in part because we were each on a spiritual quest and liked to laugh.

Several times a year we would meet for lunch at Hackney’s in Lake Zurich, IL and catch up. For the last few years, we were in contact more by email. She was always wonderfully upbeat and optimistic. I attended one of her extraordinary “Healing Basket” presentations where she used props from a basket to accompany her stories and poems. Lovely and moving. I encouraged her to get her inspiring poems out into the world where they could help others. She ultimately self-published four poetry chapbooks. She enthusiastically read my work and encouraged me to keep writing, not to get discouraged and give up. Really, we were mutual mentors.

Though our life stories were different in many ways, we were also kindred spirits. I wrote two poems for her when we first met. She was surprised by how different it felt to have someone write for her for a change.

In August, just a month after my Mom’s death, I got a call from Marcia, Jean’s daughter, with the news about Jean’s peaceful passing. (Thank you for the call, Marcia!) Here is a recent poem I wrote about Jean. It refers to Monet’s bridge at Giverny, France, which Jean used as a healing symbol during chemotherapy, eventually having her picture taken on that very bridge after recovery. I will deeply miss her.

8/29/12

Jean McGrew Crosses the Bridge

(Call from her daughter, Marcia)

So I did hear after all
when Jean heard the call
and left this life

as she lived it,
on her own terms,
with spunk and clarity,

family gathered round
for the last peaceful breath,
comforted by their mutual faith.

I miss her encouragement,
optimism, healing words, determination,
contagious inspiration, poetry, good humor,

writing to her heart or liver,
envisioning Monet’s bridge at Giverny
to cross over the ocean back to health,

her talks at the library, wellness, and senior centers
complete with healing basket of props,
poems, stories, heartfelt collections,

compassion, support, persistence,
lunches at Hackney’s in Lake Zurich.
Miss you, rare kindred spirit!

Inevitable I reach an age
where my mothers are gone
and gone and gone and

I am left
mothering
on my own.

“We are always close
in heart and spirit,”
she last wrote to me.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2012

Good Grieving

There are many things I am grateful for in all this and I try to remember the love that surrounds me. I have a lot of support and many healing skills, but I am just barely coping. Each day I try to sleep and eat and take care of myself, but I feel like a huge weight has crushed me flat, like one of those old cartoon characters that is steamrollered into a paper-thin version of himself. I know from experience that this is part of the grieving process and it will get better over time. Every day I keep on.

As I was slowly trudging to an appointment with my holistic doc earlier this week, some words came into my head: “I feel I weigh six hundred pounds, with shoulders bowed and feet of lead….and walk through mud.” And I thought: that is exactly how I feel. Oh wait, I wrote that…years ago. It is one of two poems in my book, As Easy as Breathing, that I think of as “the good grieving poems.” I wrote these at another time when life knocked me flat. And writing saved and healed me.

First I want to share a short recent poem. For the last month, as she declined, Mom and I could no longer have our weekly phone conversations. I felt her presence nevertheless. These insistent lines came out of that space between dream and waking My Mother’s Daughter) that I complied for Mom’s wake, to share with family and friends as my contribution in celebration of her life and our connection.
7/13/12AM

She is quiet
she is still
she is peaceful

she is getting ready
to walk the long tunnel
ever grace-filled.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2012

Below are the two “good grieving poems” from my book, As Easy as Breathing: Reclaiming Power for Healing and Transformation—Poems, Letters, and Inner Listening

Back to the Living

I feel a dreadful sadness
of losses overwhelming,
one on top of the other,
no chance for breathing
in between. No re-balancing

as waves hit from the blue,
knocking the breath out
and feet out from under.
For a time water comes into
lungs…and there is a peace in this,

but no life. For a time
floating numb. Then salt
mixes with salt and body
begins to right and cough
and sputter back to the living.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 1996

Who Can Shine Such Light

I feel I weigh six hundred
pounds, with shoulders bowed
and feet of lead.

I see through salt water
and walk through mud.

The mud that clings I fear
will never wash away
by no matter how many tears.

Even so…there is a wisp of smoke
that may vanish, whispering, “feel this
too…fully…and then see

the other side.
Release what must be
to heal from wounds old and new.
The lightness that will come

from this unloading
will be miraculous.
People will be drawn to this one
who can shine such light on darkness.”

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 1996

Life Lesson

Hotel in the Desert (c) Margaret Dubay Mikus 2009

This poem is a recurring lesson for me. I see so much need all around: family, friends, the world. And I have learned a lot that can be helpful to lessen pain and suffering, to heal. But I have to remember that we are each here to learn our own lessons and no one can know what is best for another. And I have to remember to take care of myself, which is a big enough challenge. And from that self-care will come the energy and insight to be present with others as they also face life struggles. Or to laugh together in times of joy.

4/21/06

My Lesson

If I take on your pain
but do not get with it
the tools to work it through—

the tools you have been given
as this is your lesson—
then all I get is grief

and all you get is numb,
temporarily. Brace for
the next onslaught

perhaps even worse.
But if I leave you
your pain, no matter

how deep and bitter,
and sit with you in the dark,
holding your hand in hope,

perhaps speaking in a soft,
reassuring voice, or sitting
in rich silence,

then you may discover
the tools you were given,
buried deep or resting in your palm

and you may recover
your power to heal,
yes…even from this.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2006

New Mexico Sunset (c) Margaret Dubay Mikus 2009

A Dream About Eric Whitacre

Context:

In a previous post I wrote about wanting to be in Virtual Choir 3, singing an alto part in “Water Night, a gorgeous and moving piece written and conducted (online) by Eric Whitacre. I did make it to submit a video with just enough voice to feel good about it (more later). Last Saturday, the “group photo” was posted of the 2945 people from 73 countries who submitted videos. After looking through all of the thumbnail photos and not finding mine, I remained calm. It was late (2AM), but I went back to the beginning, promising myself I would look again on Sunday. And there I was! third one down, fourth one over from the top left corner. I felt absurdly pleased and light-hearted. The launch of Virtual Choir 3 is April 2. I can’t wait!

Today though, I’d like to tell you about a dream that happened two months later. And the follow through…

Yes, composer Eric Whitacre, is a dreamy character (who gets a lot of comments about his perfect hair), but it was not that kind of dream. This was more to do with creative encouragement and wanting to express something deeply heartfelt and essential. To be bold. A challenge to be fully myself. Well, you’ll see…

3/3/12

In the Dream

which seemed real
I met Eric Whitacre
and I was not red-faced
and tongue-tied.

I handed him a paper
and said “I have written a poem”
and “Here, I have written some music.”
And he responded upon glancing

“This is a song” and
sang the music
which fit the poem perfectly
liking it enough on the spot

he decided to use it
for his next performance.
I was at that concert in rich detail
an informal setting

full complement of musicians
and singers and Eric
conducting the first half.
I awoke after the break

before they played one
note of mine.
And out of that dream
in that state neither dream nor waking

came the conviction
to give him
the perfect song, with my lines:
“I know that/ I am not my hair…”

and deeper
and more.

The shy voice says
step back while
the brave voice says
step forward

and be seen.

So here is the song for you Eric Whitacre, in the spirit of the poem. I wrote it in 1996 when facing chemotherapy for breast cancer and loss of my own blonde hair (and also a loss of identity). I adapted the poem “I Know That” (which is now in my book, As Easy as Breathing).

I Know That:

I am not my hair,
I am not my eyebrows,
I am not my hunger,
I am not my tears.

I know that:

I am not my anger,
I am not my hopes,
I am not my scars,
I am not my fears.

I am not my mother,
or my mother’s mother,
I am not my aunt. I am not my sister
or my children or my husband.

I am not my past;

I am not my body;

I am the one inside,
along for the ride,
to get what there is
to get and to give
what I have to give.

Recorded the song on my CD, Full Blooming. (Track 19 on iTunes).

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