Author Archives: Margaret Dubay Mikus

Scar Resolution?

Last fall, I read my poem, “Life Review of External Scars” at an open mic at the Geraldine R Dodge Poetry Festival at Waterloo Village, NJ. I prefaced it by saying that this poem was in some ways darkly funny, though the list of scars is long and might seem dreadful. Over the years, I have developed a very well-honed dark sense of humor, sometimes laughing at times that might seem inappropriate, a funeral for example. It’s just my way of coping with what sometimes seems to be an ongoing onslaught of hard times. It is of course true that many scars are internal, not visible to the eye. Scars can also be in a culture as well as a person. “Should We” was written a few days after my bilateral lumpectomies, when I was very specifically dealing with raw, new scars on a sensitive area (emotionally and physically). I often read it now as a plea for peace. “Now As I Am” addresses the idea of being at home in the body, or the longing to feel that way, a topic I return to over and over.

8/30/96

Should We

be known
by our scars
or by how far
we’ve come since
that wounding?

Could we
look at
where we are,
not
where we’ve been
and what’s been done?

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 1996

4/28/08

Now As I Am

I opened the front door
to the home I once had
and began to unwrite
the unwritten rules.

Unvoiced expectations
so heavy a load
my shoulders were bowed.
Internalized judgment
passed down generations.
Rules of behavior
kept me glued to this spot
in fear of mistakes or imperfection,
shame, guilt or embarrassment.

And even one step forward
was too much to take
under such a burden.
Time to lay that burden down.
Thank you for any gifts
and ask forgiveness.

Forgiveness for the lack of trust,
forgiveness for forgetfulness,
forgiveness for any harsh words
or unkind thoughts or anything
less than generous.

When I look into clear blue eyes
in a mirror and see the pain there
and the laughter, the willingness,

I am encouraged,
I am nourished.

And I open the door
to a home I once had
and open the windows
to let in the light,

disperse the shadows,
freshen the air,
so that now, as I am,
I can come
back in and live there.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2008

9/4/08

Life Review of External Scars

remembered or deduced, roughly in order

The belly button it could be argued,
though the cut part fell off.

The white slash so near the right eye where
grandma’s golden retriever got me at three.

Jumping in bed, hit Mom and Dad’s dresser corner
with my chin. No staples, but butterflies to minimize scarring.

Hard swing, playground first grade, gashed skull, first stitches.
Dr. Griffin, kind man, talked me through it.

The visible, but not noticeable, line across
the fleshy lower third of my left index finger,

cut when I tried to get at a box of brown sugar
with our largest sharp knife and the hard block

did not yield, the blade slicing through the box
and into me down to the bone. Parents out,

leaving us to baby-sit: I was second oldest.
Terrified. Cold compresses to stop the bleeding.

No stitches, butterflies when Mom got home or next morning.
Four deep Staph. infections: left thumb in eighth grade;

right side of nose bridge, left temple and cheek,
in the middle of high school when most self-conscious.

Inch mystery scar outside of right thigh.
Tonsils removed at nineteen.

Small dimple scar on tailbone from pilonidal cyst
the size of a small orange, painful to sit on, then burst open.

Two episiotomies, network of stretch marks
from carrying and delivering watermelon babies.

Thirty six? was it? “voluntary” stitches to remove
suspicious, questionable large moles…that proved of no consequence.

Two and three-inch fine lines from breast cancers removed,
now replaced by two eight-inch thin seams fading to white,

overlying scar tissue where breasts once were.
Three umbilical incisions repairing hernias plus

two half inch slits at bikini line, removing tubes and ovaries.
All the mosquito bites, bee stings, falls, sprains,

strains, scrapes, burns and bruises healed to invisible.
Each one a miracle.

No physical trace of measles, chicken pox, flu,
small pox vaccines, Tb tests, hard bumps,

swollen lips, teenaged breakouts,
however transiently embarrassing.

No discoloration or inflammation from adult poison ivy,
no convincing demonstration of the initial devastation.

All this not to whine, the pitiful victim,
but to take a moment to realize how far I’ve come…

still standing.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2008

“Should We” is from As Easy as Breathing (p.76) and is also read on the CD, Full Blooming: Selections from a Poetic Journal.

Healing Power of Poetry

Some “thoughts” over the years on the role of poetry in healing.

What do you think?

2/25/03

The Poet

I am my mother’s daughter
and I am the Mother of my Self—
one who made the form
and one who filled it.

And I am the mother of my daughter,
a beauty like no other.
She forgot to wash her socks until midnight and,
smiling her smile, asked if I could put them in the dryer
and I did…easily…again.

Who rules on any given day?
What boundaries between the roles I play
tying me to sanity?

No instructions, no models or even myths.
In all the worlds there ever were
not one has ever been exactly like me…or you.

Or has done what we are about to attempt.
I am tempted to stop, not life, but struggle
to be more, to become what I imagine.

But a poet who is fearless,
who carries on regardless,
whose words are kind and true and honest

is more than essential for survival…
is the compassionate and dispassionate glue
that holds it all together—

or later, after the fall,
uses the bricks from the wall
to make something else altogether.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2003

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 hand,

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

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2006

2/1/07

Poetry as Healer

And you might say,
how can poetry heal,
it is not a pill I take
into my body?

And I would respond thus
from my heart, the source of poetry:
poetry is word spoken
which is vibration
which is energy
and the body which is matter
is energy very slowed down,

so poetry is energy
into the body which is energy
so energy heals energy.

Of course the frequency of vibration
of the words is important. There are
words that tear down, as you know.

And, as has been graphically shown with
the crystals of Emoto, there are words
which health can be built upon.

These words from the heart
with healing intent,
these are the words that heal,
there is no doubt.

Try them out.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2007

2/27/07

Thinking of Beate

Sometimes art heals
by soothing, sometimes
by lancing the boil, or
by opening the eyes
to fresh possibilities.

Sometimes it is closing a door
to a room filled with stale air,
sometimes a scream
from a dark bottomless pit,
sometimes presenting
wonder on a silver platter.

Sometimes art compels to look,
sometimes can barely look;
the healing can be subtle
or heart pounding,

one moment resounding
over the ages.
All I am telling you is this:
there is no doubt art heals.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2007

“The Poet” is from my CD, Full Blooming and my next book, Letting Go and New Beginnings: Poems and Photographs

“Poetry as Healer” and “Thinking of Beate” are from my chapbook, New Year’s Eve Surgery, 2007.

Free to Be Me

My blog was partly prompted by an affirmation by Louise Hay from Heal Your Body: “My mind is gentle and powerful. I love and approve of myself. I am free to be me.” It is the last sentence that especially resonates. Free to be me. Free to make mistakes or mis-steps. Free to learn as I go, not have to know it all. Free to forgive and let go of judgment, silence the harsh, critical voice.

This week I was late to an appointment. It was a long distance, driving in a fog and torrential downpour, with thunder, lightening and small hail. (The second-most rain in Chicago in February in 138 years, the equivalent of 20 inches of snow!) I worked on conscious deep breathing and tried not to look at the clock. By the time I arrived I was mad at myself, mildly berating myself that I had not left home earlier, etc. Not as extreme as in the past, but not happy or calm. Worried that the chiropractor (a delightful woman) would be ticked off, disappointed in me, not able to see me, etc. I don’t think any of this showed on my outside, I tried to laugh it off, though I probably seemed somewhat stressed. (The first time I was late I had driven 2 hours through a blizzard for a 40-minute drive.) We joked that there seemed to be something weird about the weather on the Thursdays I was coming.Yet it all worked out. The person before me had more time for her appointment, which she needed, and the woman scheduled after me had cancelled, leaving me a good amount of time for my appointment. When I think I have quieted my inner critical judge, circumstances arise that show me that harsh voice can still be provoked. And then forgiveness, and humor, and moving on…

Every poem I write is different, its own entity. Over almost 14 years of writing my poetic journal, my writing has changed a lot. My writing voice has developed and matured (I like to think). Something about this poem is different, maybe more revealing or something. I realized I was holding back, not wanting to reveal too much. This is a poem I have been reading to people (including my chiropractor) and I wanted to let it go, not hold back.

2/14/09

Floating On Sitar Notes and Drum Beats

(dinner at The Peacock on Valentine’s)

So much done to the body.
So much stored in the body.

The body a map of the past,
the snake entwined around Eve.

The body: the sitar, the lotus, the onion,
the pond to swim in, and the fish swimming.

The foam in the cup,
the gyrations of dance,

the main course,
not so much dessert.

The color red as it
plays on the water,

the helium balloon,
the red rubber ball,

the accelerating rhythm,
the glint on sheer glass,

baby’s breath and
tiny ruby carnations.

It is amplified,
it is sober and still,

plays well with others,
puts dirty feet on the table.

The body is the flying horse,
the sparkle on new snow,

it is a glass full
and a glass empty.

It is payment for services,
it is the nourishment taken in,

it is the pen and the words
and the hopefulness.

It is less like soap
and more like anise seeds,

more a home, than a prison.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2009

All Manner of Critters

I was moved by a recent article in the newspaper. A local woman had started a pet food pantry to help people keep their pets in these hard financial times. Animals are so important to us. I thought of poems I had written and pictures I had taken of all manner of critters over the years. Once I started looking, I found more than I remembered. Here are a few.

8/19/96

Birds on a Line

How many birds
can sit on a line
not quite wing to wing?

How many birds
can sit for how long,
waiting patiently
to burst into song?

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 1996

82896

Convention in Town

Such loud birds
at the Caw Caw Convention
with all their early morning
blustering and posturing,

throwing their weight around
to get first dibs at breakfast,
not caring who hears them or who
wakes up to their raucous conversations.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 1996

10/22/96

Flying

There are as many ways
to fly as varieties of birds.
There is no right way,
only flying or not flying.

Some birds glide gracefully
going far on one powerful stroke;
some flutter glide, flutter glide
or breast stroke in peaks and slopes.

All get where they are going,
as they were designed.
The only wrong way is to not fly
and then starve in body and spirit

for the lack of soaring.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 1996

3/11/97

Once Again

Once again, as in all other years,
robins are seen in abundance
and tiny black and white birds
flock and flit in still bare branches,
and in morning light now, gentle calls
float into my dreaming ear.

Once again, as in all other years,
grass will green and buds will sprout
and weeds and flowers alike
will grow in rich profusion.
Rabbits may come or ducks,
to lay hopeful eggs in our daylily bed.

Chipmunks will scurry
and frogs and insects of all description
will bellow full-throated song.
And maybe the occasional snake
will be seen sunning on a convenient warm step.

As in all other years, wind will blow,
sometimes raging, through fresh green leaves
of all shapes that will enclose
my particular grateful space.
For in this winter past
I often wondered in my darkness,
if spring would ever come.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 1997

4/2/97

What Do We Know

of the lives of dogs,
of the richness
or lack
of their conversation?

We, who have such
blunted senses
and overdeveloped mind,
what can we know

of a life
of abundant, excited smells
and awareness of
the very highs and lowest lows
of sound?

What do we know
of love without
boundary,
of the fullness of feeling,
the sleep of content?

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 1997

5/6/08

Birdsong

A mutant bird
sang his errant song
at 2:30AM
well before dawn.

The melodious notes
slid out of his throat
lingering there
in cold night air.

Still awake,
she heard as
the notes slid into her ear,
lodged in her brain

and for months
remained there,
not washed away by rain
nor blown by wind,

pure bird notes
sung in tune
from a pure heart
that opened when it opened.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2008

6/12/08

The Pond at Daniel Wright Woods

late afternoon

Look at how the sun
shimmers the continuously
rippling water
and dragonflies flit
in the cattails.
The fishing line shines
as it’s cast and re-cast
and the clouds like fish
swim languorously above,
the air dotted with
cottonwood like bait.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2008

1/19/09

Silverfish

(not silver and not fish)

The silverfish are gone
whether because
I asked them (nicely) to leave
or the increased
activity of bees

or some other unlikely
improbable explanation…
makes me no never mind
because…
The silverfish are gone

no longer browsing
my bookshelves
or burrowing to die
between glass and mat
of my hung pictures.

No swatting the ceiling
or brisk smack with
a rolled magazine,
no more bug stains
from remains.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2009

“Birds on a Line,” and “Flying” are also in As Easy as Breathing.

Walking Wounded

Around this time last year, a dear friend who is from Poland told me a story about close friends of hers who also came to the US from Poland. They had a bright son who grew up here and loved all things American. He went off to war in Iraq and came back physically OK, but mentally and emotionally damaged, not able to sleep, not able to function, one of the walking wounded. I gave him my book and told his family about Belleruth Naparstek’s powerful guided imagery for helping to heal PTSD (https://www.healthjourneys.com/). Within an hour of hearing his compelling story, I had written a poem/song which I later sent to him with a note. Even though the war in Iraq may be winding down, it is important to remember that those who died were not the only casualties.

February 25, 2008
Dear M.:

I wanted you to know I believe in healing. I have had personal experience in healing from multiple sclerosis, cancer, depression, and panic attacks. I cannot know what you have been through, but when S. told me a bit of your story, this song came to me for you. I do not have the melody yet, perhaps you may write one some day. I wish the best for you. You can find more about my story on my website. I have not written about my latest healing from cancer, but that will come. You have my book and I know you are a powerful healer. Keep on. You will find your way.

Love, Margaret

2/11/08

Walking Wounded

For M.

There are those who didn’t come back
and those who came back but didn’t come home
and those who came home but were never the same,
the walking wounded. This song is for all of them.

Immigrant family from Poland,
bright son believed in the US of A,
went into the military
to get money for school.

And now he’s broken…
no college in his future,
just trying to get through one more day.

He was the smart one,
always got good grades,
always laughing, joking,
promising future stretched out before him.

And now he’s broken, broken…
no college in his future,
just trying to get through one more day.

He figured how hard could it be,
four years and out
money in hand,
then he was sent to Iraq.

And now he’s broken, broken, broken…
no college in his future,
just trying to get through one more day.

And what he saw there
no man can understand,
no heart can withstand.
And what he heard and tasted and smelled
he cannot forget like
shrapnel embedded in his memory,
shrapnel embedded in his cells.
He cannot remember normal,
he cannot find his way back.

And now he’s broken…
no college in his future,
struggling to get through one more day.

Pray for this young man
that he find healing,
pray for his family and friends.

Pray for this one man
and all the countless others
wounded by this latest senseless war.

And learn.
And remember.
And remember.
And learn.

And now we’re broken …
no money for our future,
just trying to get through one more day.

Pray for all the walking wounded
to whatever God you believe in:
pray, pray, pray,
it’s all the same to me.

We are all in this together
whether or not we walk hand in hand,
in whatever ways we differ
in more ways we are the same.

Wake up, wake up people
do what can be done,
do not believe those who don’t believe
in peace for everyone.

Pray for this young man
that he find healing,
pray for his family and friends.

Pray for this one man
and all the many others
wounded by this senseless war.

And learn.
And remember.
And remember.
And learn:

Never again.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2008

Note: I picked the photo above (healing daisies) before I realized that my friend from Poland had given the flowers to me when I was healing from a double mastectomy last year. Interesting how things come full circle.

Second note: In a recent email newsletter, Belleruth Naparstek mentioned research findings that showed her guided imagery CD, Stress Hardiness Optimization, (which is less intense than her Healing Trauma CD), is helpful for soldiers in reducing PTSD symptoms.