1/29/01
Vacation
to vacate
to empty out
Dis-ease
lack of
ease
Both are
opportunities
one easy
one harsh
your choice
Opportunities
to transform
to shift
perception
occupation
destination
Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2001
“Back Home” is from As Easy as Breathing by MDM
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
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
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
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.
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
(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
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
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.
OK, it’s President’s Day and here’s the link. The 200th birthday of Abraham Lincoln and also Charles Darwin was last week, Feb 12. Apparently, they were born within minutes of each other. I chose Darwin to focus on today.
“Mr. G,” my former chemistry teacher and mentor in the late 1960’s at Bishop Gallagher High School in Harper Woods, Michigan, noted scientific references in my poem, “Meltdown.” My science background weaves into my poetry in unexpected ways sometimes. A few years ago, I read some articles about pre-historic findings in Illinois and ancient art in France. Just after that, out of the blue, my friend, Brigitte, asked if I knew of any poems about evolution. I thought about it and decided to write one myself (and then another). Here is the result.
6/23/06
A poem on evolution—
do I know of one?
Maybe yet to be written.
Not advocacy,
just the facts, ma’am.
How two cells merged into one
out of mutual admiration
in primordial soup under conditions
considered inhospitable today.
First, molecule joined molecule,
or arrived on a comet some say.
Not a process for seven days,
except…metaphorically.
And the cells that were formed—
drawn to nourishment,
protectively repelled by toxins—
some survived, some perished.
Survivors passed on genes to progeny,
mutations occurred, mostly disadvantageous.
Again and again survivors passed on genes.
Some advantages in multi-cellular organisms,
what worked persisted.
Climate change, comets splash into solid earth,
glaciers carve out lakes and oceans,
land masses move across molten layers,
earthquakes, volcanoes, mountains erupt
from tumultuous land.
Gases, ash, ice, sun, newly formed oxygen
play their sequential, essential roles—
timing is everything.
And I do not mention the mystery
about what is not known—only the when,
but not the how, the why, and the who,
if anyone.
Why such beauty and symmetry
arose from chaos
and continues to arise,
a constant, magnanimous unfolding.
But the facts—written in rock:
a hunted herd of bison trapped in the muck,
and carcasses left long ago by a river in Illinois,
a pre-historic bee frozen in amber,
a full skeleton of a new dinosaur,
an ancient woman unexpectedly buried as a warrior,
vivid, realistic paintings tens of thousands of years old
newly discovered in caves in France.
Time trapped in stone
to be later uncovered.
The facts are plain,
the interpretations complex
and open to varied belief.
A poem about evolution
to take in the whole of it,
the flow of time over billions of years,
flowing right past this tiny,
but crucial moment in the middle.
A poem of wooly mammoths and elephants,
Neanderthals, gorillas, chimps, and humans,
the intelligence of dolphins and whales,
a tale of bacteria, some friendly, some pathogens,
of predators and prey and neighbors.
A poem of insects, the cockroaches
that would survive a
nuclear holocaust.
Yes, this poem of evolution,
of holograms, the widest view
and the most narrow—
a bite of an apple looking the same
as the whole apple.
Honoring the role of the moon as
mother of the seasons.
Yes, this would be a poem
of epic proportion
and universal dimension
and Divine (and personal) implication.
Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2006
6/23/06
What is it makes a human?
At one time it was thought to be use of tools,
until it was observed that chimps, for example,
fashion a twig as a tool to get ants.
So then, it must be language.
But recently it was uncovered
that some male songbirds
learn new songs and phrases
to communicate—like language.
So it must be the large number of genes
it would take to run this complex
organism called human.
But no, the number of genes,
when counted (and sequenced)
was smaller than some much more primitive organisms
and had much in common with yeast cells even.
True, human genes are regulated in
imaginative and complex ways.
So what is it makes a human?
Perhaps not even the most intelligent species here.
You don’t see dolphins and whales
fouling their habitats,
and destroying the homes of others.
To my knowledge they do not attack their own kind.
No, that describes the human condition.
I do not mean to be a cynic,
but some facts are incontrovertible.
Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2006