love letter to my thighs

O dimply thighs,
we will be together forever
of this I am sure

In our years together
we have matured so much,
haven't we?

We know what does not serve us
(we broke up with mini-skirts
and never looked back)

We know who treats us right
(may we have endless supplies of black opaque tights
and sensible heels!)

Dimply thighs,
I am sorry if I ever hurt you
or tried to diminish your worth

You have done nothing but
worn your purple-silver stripes
with grace, even when I was unkind

Forgive me
I am done trying to change you
You live so lovely on my bones!

Let us go to art museums and
gaze upon our ancestors draped on velvet chairs
and hugging white columns

Ours in an old-fashioned love
we will not find such roots
in the magazines

Sometimes I see my daughter's thighs
in skinny jeans and its like looking back
at a photograph of us--so young!

Now I know we must set the example
of solidarity and acceptance
for the future generations, dear ones

'Til death do us part
may your fleshy beacons shine
and give comfort to those chilly in the night

(Disclaimer: These thighs have been photo-shopped)

everybody hurts

if a reach in the form of a video from 1992 sent via email at 1am is all i have, i will have to take it. she's down below and we haven't even gotten started yet. he's asleep and i haven't had my second glass yet. i don't want to wake any one but apparently this is my hour of feeling. i mustn't disrupt.
i, alone in my bubble of ear buds and toasty laptop and peanut butter cups, from the edges of bodily self and in toward the center: this day, these people, this life, my life, how hungry 
to tell how it is, in some ways, like your life. shhhhhhh...if i wake this bubble of words might break. i will have to turn out the lights (although i should) and i know its late and i have boxes to pack (and a life to unpack) and meals to prepare and phone calls to make and details dormant that have not even occurred to me yet, all on the plate of tomorrow. because i have not closed my eyes, tomorrow hasn't happened, and the whole of what is mine, and possibly yours, seeps into me now that everybody's chest rises heavy and i alone am here pressed up against the night mirror and all that batters my ethereal tissue and how i am not enough to you, the baby of you, both of you, cut from one maddening duvet. do we even remember the child? I will be the first to say in the breath-space that at times i do not remember, i am so overwhelmed by present that the cotton of my blankets feel worthy of a line, and i wonder how i might reach her right now because the morning will come and i will be stiff and young again, or he will turn in our bed and squint at the light and the words will stop coming from me the way they do now, like a spell broken across the heather sheets. so desperate and lovely we are in the night.

For Mothers

(for Pauline and Kelley's Blessing)

Beauty lies in the belly--
    the accommodation,
      the trepidation,
The foundation.

Children change us from the inside, flesh to flesh,
Then enter the world and change us on the outside,
    streak our hair and deepen our faces,
And continue to transform us beyond the surface,
   the most inward of spaces
   where lovers could never touch,
Remodeling our entire hearts,
   down to the nails.

Sewn into them, our seeds of sorrow and surrender,
    of navigation and delight,
That will thresh out of their fiber every day they step on Earth.
Mothers, they stand by, in the sticky dirt
They bind together the pieces that no one else can bind
   for they don't have the same quality of breath.
They are the framework that holds together,
    and gives birth,
To humanity's tiny masterpiece.

The mother is the language,
   and the child her poetry. 


--LKP 4/6/13



(© 2013 Leah Perlingieri and Beyondthemilk.blogspot.com All Rights Reserved)

This day

At the end of this day

I have talked that talk
A thousand times

Performed the necessary
reparation
caressed and cooed
their precious hearts
curdled by the
banshee moan

Applied the patches
intentionally left gaping holes 
layed just enough ground
to transverse
like advancing along
the attic rafters

With the precision
of a married woman
I have practiced this day
derailing and mounting
in intense fluxuation
the tracks of fear and love

And still I have mastered nothing

little braveheart

isadore did the most amazing thing tonight. i was at the dinner table, post-dinner, slid low in my chair. it was one of those two-people-with-needs-and-not-enough-to-go-around kind of days with the husband. i was looking out the window trying to conceal my tears from the disappointment and loneliness i was feeling, and she skipped into the room with her normal isadore energy. she stopped mid-question (kids always enter a room already talking to you) and noted my tears, and began to in her flair-for-drama way take exaggerated steps backward, to un-tip-toe herself out of the room.

at that moment i shut my eyes very tight. i didn't want to think about anything, about how she was receiving me, what kind of memory i was creating for her, what kind of weepy mother i was being, i just needed to pause in my lacking without consideration. on my island of a moment i was surprised to feel a warm breeze blow in, and that breeze was isadore wrapping her arms around me, with complete acceptance. it felt like medicine, and i was equally comforted as i was amazed at her ability to see what i needed and be brave enough to give it to me. plenty of times my tears have turned into anger at whomever happened to be within snapping distance. perhaps she wasn't afraid of my sadness because she knew it had nothing to do with her; she didn't take it personally, and she had it in her heart to meet this need she'd stumbled upon. i immediately let out a sob, i felt so safe doing so. she said to me "i have been wanting to do this all day." and i thanked her and thanked her and thanked her again.

Dangling aloft

I felt good about getting up today, "my day" to get all three kids off to school. All three. Completely new territory. With prior evening preparations and organization, I felt like a mom With Her Shit Together, a confidence boosting space for me. The morning arguing and stress was minimal (perhaps none??) and we left with the house tidy. I experimented with a slightly altered route from my usual, and got to our destination with 5 minutes to spare.

Mayan launched out of the van before I'd killed the engine and dashed off immediately to find her friends. George and I walked Izzy into the building, and then the two of us waited outside of the preschool waiting the doors to be unlocked. The air had that delicious autumn nip. Once inside, George was happy to change into his slippers and kiss me goodbye.

I met a friend in the lobby so she could tell me about her new love interest, the first since her divorce. I took a moment to revel in her happiness before excusing myself to go to yoga. Although I had 40 minutes to drive only 7, I knew I needed some molting time. The strange, full, lonely, lost feeling was creeping on me. The questioning of myself. A mother whose children are in the care of others, and from now until forever, they will always (and even more so as the years tick on) be in the care of others or of themselves. That raw, dangling feeling, as if aloft without the distinction of joy, but accompanied by the tightness of throat and the imminence of tears. I got to the sun-warmed car before letting any of them fall. I dumbly picked up my phone, sobered by not having my day planned out. Just yoga. Going forth to yoga, I knew, was best.

The northeast class is big, much bigger than the humble loft in southeast, my usual yoga cocoon. I feel slight irritation at this particular instructor--I sense a snobbish streak or maybe I just find her too adorable to relate to. But her classes are skillful, if not lacking a strong flow due to the incessant verbal instruction. Today, my fellow yogis and I packed in only slightly less like sardines. I stayed introverted as I set up, clutching a tissue to dab any quiet trails of tears as they slipped past the ledge of my lower lashes. As the detailed instructions began, I became so engrossed in the distraction that I was taken away from my sadness completely. I thank her for that. Our focus was on the kidneys and spine and brain, and the cerebral-spinal fluid. I've never paid so much attention to the interior space of my body in all of my 11 years of practicing yoga.

Yet when the class wore off and I found my self back in my mobile sanctuary, more tears came. It was then 11am and I had 4 hours of unmarked time. I called the father of my babies and he offered me a verbal pillow to soften on. He helped talk me through my next move--home to brew a pot of coffee and reheat left-overs. He granted me the permission that I silently sought to sit at home with no interruptions in front of my laptop, a perfectly acceptable afternoon. A gentle way to transition into this unprecedented independence that marks the beginning of a whole new elevation of my mother journey. And I promise not to waste it all on Facebook.  

Dead Can Dance, Alive Can Sit

 


In an outdoor theater outside of Seattle last Friday night, Blake, Mayan, and I saw Dead Can Dance perform. The band has been split up since 1998, and most people thought they would never reunite. Seeing them was an awesome experience, especially in the open air on a summer's eve.

 Possibly the sweetest thing I've ever seen: Blake helping Mayan with her eye make-up

The venue reminded me a lot of The Crowded House show we attended a few summers ago at McMenamin's Edgefield, and I suppose most outdoor summer concert venues have that same vibe. Grassy fields for parking, older crowd who listened to band 20 years ago and can afford to pay the ticket prices, some bringing their families, tiny compostable cups of red wine and micro-brews abound. And of course, the seating.

 Nothing says "Restoration" like a few hundred SUV's, sport wagons and luxury sedans.

At first we were so excited to get reserved seats through pre-ticket sales, avoiding the hit-and-miss of the grassy general admission seating area behind the reserved section. But as we approached the tidy rows of white chairs just as the first notes rang out, I realized that when the mesmerizing melodies washed over us we would all be...SITTING. Jesus Lord forbid, you are moved by the music and you want to dance (Dead Can DANCE!), because you'd be blocking someone who paid good money to sit on their ass to ingest this long-awaited experience. Which is FINE; that can be nice, too. It's just that as a crowd you have to collectively decide what you are going to do, and this massive crowd decided they were going to stay glued to their chairs.

The diplomatic extrovert in me fantasized about starting an actual conversation about sitting versus standing, and whether or not we could work something out that could get "all of our needs met." My proposal would have been: let's stand for the first two songs, then sit though the remainder of the set, then stand again for the encore. How does that sound, folks? Ok, smiles, nods, agreement, comradery. But, nooooooo, I just quietly bitched to Blake for a few minutes.

Partway through the show, I identified that guy--who was so moved by the music, he was having the hardest time staying in his chair. His hands were in the air most of the show, he shot out of his to seat to clap after every song, yelled out verbal encouragement and praise, and one song he even (gasp)...remained standing for the next number. I watched intently to see what would happen.....a passionate rebel, ignoring the law of the people...would the people take pity or see it as act of of mutiny? I counted about 36 seconds before the lady behind him tapped him on the shoulder and asked him to sit. He complied, neither graciously or non-graciously, but just succumbed to The Group.

  You can see Hands Guy in this video!

Mercy, did they sound GOOD. Brendan Perry and Lisa Gerrard sound as crystal as studio recordings from 20 years ago. It's amazing to me how some people's voices can hold out and stay so strong and beautiful over decades, and hearing their rich voices blended together in the flesh was truly a delight.


This was only the second show of their reunion tour, so the energy was still fresh. Plucking away at her hammered dulcimer, and dressed in silk and velvet gown, Ms. Gerrard looked much like a priestess, composed and serene. I often saw what looked like complete delight and gratitude on her face, as she basked in our applause. Being in the studio, recording soundtracks for movies like Gladiator and Whalerider, have quite a different reward than live performances, I imagine. Mr. Perry, who looks simply like any one's Social Studies teacher on summer vacation in a short sleeve shirt and casual pants, can both rattle and lighten the bones with his pleasing baritone and resonant 12-string. Their music is like a hand-picked selection of "the best of" world music with darkly melodic roots, orchestrating a variety of instruments and tongues into a diffusion of deliciously palatable sounds for our Western ears; this is done with an intensity that makes their bodies seems like vessels which ancient spirits and sounds are channeled through. Perhaps this is the inspiration to the name--the spirits of the dead are dancing through their voices and hands.








In the end, the best part of the evening, wasn't actually the show, or our succulent Italian dinner afterwards, or our familiar and posh hotel room in downtown Seattle we retreated to post-show. The best part was that is was a great date with our oldest daughter, Mayan. She, too, is a lover of music, no matter what the are, she loves all things goth and lace, and keeps DCD on her iPod. While she has an especially tight relationship with her dad (the two are cut from the same yard of fabric, I swear), her and I have had a rockier, oil-and-water type connection....pretty much since birth. The past year or so, we've been able to come to an understanding place, and though she is in the throws of great changes, we've been surprisingly close, and able to appreciate our differences for the first time in years. Her father and I found it truly refreshing to have a chance to take her along with us on what would usually be Just Us, and still have it be relaxing despite "having a kid with us." Her presence really enriched our experience, because it reminded us she really isn't a kid anymore, she's a lovely, creative, sensitive, and funny young woman, and ready to partake in more mature adventures. I look forward to many more!