Simple Sunday: You should date that person you love

I've written about this before, something like "I highly recommend dating your spouse." Blake and I got married fast, got pregnant on the honeymoon, and never dated regularly after having kids. When things got especially rough, it became clear we were more familiar with each other as that other annoyed parent in the house, than, you know, like actually fully formed and ever-changing individuals. After a decade of this and my own need to develop a other-than-motherly identity for myself, we made the commitment to go out together once every week or two. Yes, this means actually securing childcare which can be a pain. But once we pushed through the awkwardness of "hey, wow, uh, hey...so, guess what the kids did today!" we began to get comfortable being that cute married couple snuggled at the counter seat near the kitchen (we discovered we both liked this compared to tables at nice restaurants) and we found we could actually catch up on conversational shit we needed to catch up on regarding the week OR we could just talk about food and music and plans without being interrupted twenty million times by kids.

I love date night. Even if I'm low energy and have been hacking up phlegm for a week (like this week--ugh) I just like being with my sweetie and visiting new places and looking at his cute face.

So tonight it was ramen at Boke Bowl, Star Trek pinball at Bunk Bar, and a cruise through Buffalo Exchange (no luck there though!)

Of all the days

Of all the days to have a box of ashes delivered to your house, I think the Day of the Dead is the most appropriate.

Blake's mother passed away four weeks ago. We've been steeped in the process of losing a parent for the first time. It was not expected but he was able to get to her, and say goodbye, to give her comfort.

On Halloween, he was given the news that his mentor and friend Father Daniel Jensen passed away over the summer quietly in the Maryknoll in upstate New York but no one had informed him. Father Dan married us in Mexico under the shadow of the great El Castillo at Chichen Itza twelve years ago. He was a Catholic priest who lived among the Maya for thirty years, not to convert but to appreciate and serve within a culture he adored. Blake and him had bonded over their mutual admiration for pre-Columbian art and ritual.

Exactly twelve years to the day of that ceremony, Blake held his mothers hand as she passed through the veil. And today, the day we have adapted for our own ritual of honoring the memory of those we love who have died, her remains came in a US postal service box: a knock and a signature and pass off.

Death is as crisp and real as the sound of fall leaves under my feet and stirring in the streets. Fragility is in the air.

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.