Antidotes to self-abandonment

1: Surgery

In the dream I was one of those Frida paintings

The doctors needed to take me apart

Re-align my insides

My bones and my core, they weren’t right

The day before, the nurse prepared my body

Made some precision cuts on my forehead

They hurt, which was surprising to me

She stretched me out and I felt relief

“The relief is from the stress you were storing,” she told me

All throughout that day, I had small crises to tend to around me,

Trying to get my visitors settled and taken care of before I went under

The typical conflicts playing out

“Let me talk to them, I can fix this,” I said

I laundered my hospital bedsheets and brought in my hospital food tray from the hall, dodging people sitting in the way, thinking, I shouldn’t be lifting things right now

I took a call from my surgeon while trying to drown out the voices around me

He gave me instructions for my body for the night ahead

The last thing I remember was realizing that below all the chaos, I was scared

—

2: Space

I fill this spaciousness with mediocre fibre crafts,

Sleep to avoid wakefulness,

Endeavour to guess at the blanks in our story,

Become still and unresponsive to the knocks on my door.

If I know you much at all,

I’d wager you are filling yours by chopping more wood than you need,

Walking those short streets at night,

Stacking chores as you talk to the river,

One silent meditation away from turning this experience into a growth opportunity.

It is spring, but I’d rather compost than grow.

I want to gnaw through the hurt like an animal with its foot in a trap, but my jaw is locked.

I lay down.

I let my laundry pile grow.

—

3: Vessel

I am a vessel at the best of times:

A sturdy mason jar

(your thoughts — copper pennies — collected and polished and gleaming)

A hollow trellis

(the winds won’t get you today, I am staked deeper than your roots)

A shining mirror

(I’ll reflect yourself back to you, and neither of us will be alone)

I am a vessel at the worst of times:

A stained glass window

(catching the light for you to see, but never catching enough to make myself warm)

A blank notebook

(you eagerly filled out the first page, but gave me up when your hand cramped)

A mother-shaped space

(producing care from my mouth like a handkerchief rope, unending, choked up)

In my bed at night, I extract my soft slug body from its vessel shell. I melt into primordial shapes. I contain nothing. I am everything, I whisper to myself, and I rest.

—

4: Take a walk with me

I am more than your soft place to land

I am less than an archetype

I am more than your trail guide

I am less than the possibilities of a blank slate

I am more than the quiet of your forest

I am less than its eternal white pine, unmoving and firm

I am the vulture, transforming grief into nurturance. Collecting disappointments like rodent bones in my beak. You could have joined in my sacred hunt. De-pedestaled, I will take my leave.