Category Archives: writing

Louise Penny on Tour

One of my very favorite authors, Louise Penny, was here this past Wed. at a local library 15 minutes from my house. Some years ago a friend recommended her books, beginning with Still Life. I was going through some serious medical problems and needed some good distraction. I’m a voracious reader. I loved the books featuring Chief Inspector Armand Gamache in the Surete du Quebec, each book individually and also the continuing long arc of the story. The latest in the series just came out August 27, How the Light Gets In. I had pre-ordered it on my nook. (No spoilers, but I loved it. Worth waiting for! Very satisfying read!)

I had a conflict and decided not to go see her. The conflict resolved itself and still I did not make plans to go. I happened to mention Louise Penny was coming and my husband said, “Of course you are going.” Not really as a question. And I said, “No I didn’t think so.” And he replied, “Of course you are going!”

I don’t know why I didn’t jump at the chance to see her. We are connected on Facebook. She posts delightful slivers from her life, which I read every day. She is lovely and so inclusive, very personal and welcoming, as if we knew each other. Perhaps I did not want to have the reality competing with the illusion. Maybe I was feeling shy. In any case, in a burst of light-heartedness I called the library to register and was put on the waiting list. Only a few were ahead of me, I got a call later to confirm my attendance.

This was not my library so the day before I drove past to be sure of directions and parking. An eBook cannot be signed, so what was I going for? Perhaps I had written poems inspired by her books? To find out I scanned my poetic journal going back to 2006. I have written thousands of poems since then, organized into files of 6 months each. In the course of searching for Louise-related poems, I found lots of other poems of interest, especially for my next collection (more soon). And two for Louise.

I checked them over and printed them out to take with me. I thought I might also get a book signed for a friend. And maybe give Louise my CD. That was the plan.

I was early and got parking right in front. I found a seat in the third row and bought the new book for my friend. Louise walked in right on time. She was at ease, gracious and funny, thoughtful and insightful. She talked about how she came to write and the poems she uses in the books. She generously answered questions. I felt wonderful listening to her talk about her writing history. Not that we are the same, or share the same story, but we are both ultimately optimists. We love to read, and love to write. I felt unreasonably encouraged. Uplifted. What a gift!

Afterwards I waited in a long, but well-organized line. When my turn came to talk to her, I handed her the 2 poems and my CD. She graciously received my offering, taking my hand saying how she loved poets. (“Was it ok to read them later?” “Of course,” I said.) I told her I was interested in how creativity prompts further creativity. The librarian organizer took our smiling photo. I felt not shy, but kindred, and welcomed with open arms. An unanticipated feeling of belonging. Thank you!

Here are the two poems.

The Cruelest Month is the title of her third Gamache book (poem also refers to a line from a Leonard Cohen poem and song, Anthem; and Diana Jones who wrote a beautiful song, Cracked and Broken.

11/23/10

Reading The Cruelest Month
(with reference to Leonard Cohen and Diana Jones)

Is there anyone aware who
does not feel a fraud
as if secrets can no longer be hid,

as if the dark outweighs
any achievement—if only
“they” could see past the veil,

the illusion, the image, the lie perpetuated?
Is there anyone who was and remains
so pure and accomplished, so honest,

who never tried to pass
shine for rust,
who in some corner of some cage,

feared discovery, feared…
feared…feared…until blind and deaf to beauty,
until consumed with self-loathing replacing self-discovery?

Can simple love heal the breach;
and the imperfection—the crack that lets the light in—
lets the light in? Forever. Amen.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2010

Refers to Eric Whitacre, Louise Penny and Anne Lamott. All different and creative people. I love their work, but also learn by watching them being themselves: to be successful, yet remain genuine.

3/28/13

Reception
For and about Eric, Louise, and Anne

I not only
see-hear-read-feel
what you put out,

but how, with what intelligence-
humor-grace-generous heart
you can muster.

How broad your reach,
how humble yet powerful,
how determined-persistent-practical-hopeful

you may do what you must,
with the help that comes
overcome inevitable darkness.

Not thinking of me,
or me exactly, but
I am here soaking it all in,

I am here inspired…
imagining.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2013

Each Life Is Precious

Washington DC in March Margaret Dubay Mikus Copyright 2004

  March Petals                                                                                              Margaret Dubay Mikus   Copyright 2004

I have been writing a poetic journal since 1995, begun just after healing from multiple sclerosis. In 1996 I was diagnosed with breast cancer, completing treatment (surgery, chemo, and radiation) in 1997. I kept writing, (by hand, in spiral notebooks), but I was unable to get all of the poems edited and entered into the computer. Time went on and I recovered, facing other challenges over the years, balancing being a mother and wife, running a household, with writing and creative projects. At some point I got back to the process of getting my poems in the computer, organizing them in “Books” of six months of writing each. But I never got all those poems from 1997-98 into my files.

A long time passed. My writing changed, getting better I hope, more streamlined, clearer perhaps. But I held onto the idea that I wanted the complete “set” of poems to access for any future projects. The poems, as is any journal, are like memory. What happened? Who was I then, what inspired me?

Every so often over the years, I pulled out the dusty spiral notebooks and made efforts to get caught up. This week I began again in earnest to get all the poems into usable form. Many of them are clearly for my own use only. This is often the case with writing. But some surprised me. Here is one story I came upon tonight.

3/28/98

Each Life Is Precious

I am grateful
for each and every
hair growing on my head,

for eyes that blink
and open wide, that cry
or crinkle,

for every breath drawn in,
for every cell sent oxygen,
for a full heart beating untended

in time to ancient rhythm.
I am grateful for every day,
every minute each a gift,

for feet and hands and lips,
for knees and elbows and hips,
for skin and nails and toes,

for ears and eyebrows,
neck and shoulders,

for back straight
and thighs strong.

All this awareness
this awakening,

dedicated to the one
who was struck by a lemon-colored cab

right before our shocked eyes,
so hard his shoes flew off,

hit so fast and terrible
the body collapsed and lay flat

like a balloon doll with the air let out
or a scarecrow without its stuffing.

In that second, one easy Friday night
the world changed color.

We drove on, as many others came to help, hospital nearby,
we went on in horror, my head cupped in hands,

but not helpless. I sent healing energy
to support the spirit

so recently jolted from physical reality.
I held his ethereal hand as he shook it off

and kept on traveling.
I rubbed my husband’s shoulders,

he massaged my neck and head,
we spoke in hushed reverent tones

and drove carefully home.
I honor the one who gave us this lesson:

All life, every sometimes grating minute
is precious, beyond any earthly measure.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 1998

Celebrate Read-an-E-book Week


I have been a voracious reader since 4th grade. I’d enter the world of the book and just get lost in it, all time would disappear. I wouldn’t hear my Mom calling me for dinner. I loved books! I still read like that whenever I can. A year ago, I got a Nook for Christmas (recommended by my sister-in-law, Barbara). I am not a big tech person and it took me a little bit to get used to, but it was fun and I was determined to try.

Now, I prefer reading on my Nook. Truly. I love it! I have a clever case that allows me to prop the book up to read. More books take up no additional space, never get dusty, and I instantly get a new books if I want. I can adjust the font size and many other features. I’m just sayin’…  Whatever encourages reading must be a good thing, right?

This week, until March 10, is Read-an-E-book Week. Join the celebration by purchasing my latest book, Letting Go and New Beginnings. 50% off this week only!  Enter coupon code REW50 at checkout. Honest, insightful poetic story about the inevitable changing nature of relationships.  https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/39211

(“Personal and universal…with words from the heart and… photographs that complement the words beautifully. I highly recommend this book.”  Pramod Uday, spiritual teacher)

Also makes a great gift. Can be read on Kindle, Nook, iPad, iBook, Kobo, Sony Reader, PC, Mac, etc. Remember to enter code REW50 at checkout. https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/39211

Check out the other amazing authors at Smashwords too. Pass the word around. Thank you for your support!

An Offering to Inspire Healing

Fall Flower from Stella, Copyright 2011 Margaret Dubay Mikus

I am a long-time member of the International Women’s Writing Guild. This supportive organization is going through a painful (and divisive) transition right now. I wanted to do something to facilitate the healing process. Three things came to mind, to share a new poem, the tonglen meditation, and my song, “Prayer of Lovingkindness.” This then is my offering. First, here is the poem, written for us:

2/13/12

Death…or Re-birth?

(necessary turmoil)

Let us be calm.
Let us each take a deep breath,
let it out loud and long.
Then another.

Let us let go of
unsupported assumptions
and blame and taking sides,
the past is over.

We are creating the future
out of whole cloth…or not.
This sacred time of transition,
unparalleled opportunity

to re-envision the mission,
take the best of what was and
meld into what could be,
let go of what might have been

if only….
let go what you heard
might have happened….
If this collective

is to stay connected
patience and imagination,
minimum requirements for coherence.

We are women, we are writers, we are midwives.
It is our nature to give birth
to a living thing
only partly from our own genes,

to merge apparent opposites.
We are not powerless
waiting for the whims of others.
We can sit in our homes, clear-focused

and imagine the most ardently desired outcome.
With one caution, I set this in motion:
be kind, be generous, envision from certainty of compassion.
We are healers, it is not only what we do

with words or looks or action,
it is who we are, where we put our attention.
So let us heal our beloved organization.
Begin.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2012

Tomorrow I’ll post my version of the Tonglen Meditation, a practical and powerful aid to untangling relationships. What in your life is struggling to change and grow? What do you need to let go?

Poems as Memory

Thank you to my new friend, Charlotte McDaniel, who asked me the question “What do I remember?” of 9/11/2001, prompting me to look back.

As with many people, I have very vivid memories of that time. The night before I had flown back from a healing conference in CA, a 10 PM landing at O’Hare airport in Chicago (I had considered staying over another night). In the morning, my husband called me more than a dozen times to wake me, very intense, making sure I was OK and to check on our kids at school. He worked in downtown Chicago, near tall buildings that might have been targets. Personally scary. I remember him being amazing in calming those at his law office.

For me the warm feelings and processing from the incredible conference (Cancer as a Turning Point) were mostly pushed aside in the stunned days ahead. Anything I had planned to write seemed trivial. At some point writing began again as a way to cope and process and express. I did not normally watch much TV and never the news, but like so many others, I was glued to the set. Until my son (age 17) asked me to stop watching, it was making me seriously depressed.

When putting together my first book, As Easy as Breathing, I realized that those who have been through cancer or some other life-threatening experience, learned a lot about living with fear and even to thrive. So the scope of the book got bigger and I included some of my poems from after 9/11.The times we are living in are still deeply infused with fear. And that is not my way to look at things, not healthy and not healing. I try to screen what gets in to me, filtering out the fear-based stuff to a high degree. Or at least to be more aware and choose how I want to live, what I want to believe.

Here are the poems from my poetic journal from that time. It was like powerful time travel for me to read them. What do you remember? What changed for you and might still be healed? What needs to be addressed? What did we learn then, and now ten years later? Who are we, in light of all this?

(In the following poems, I think you will be able to see the point at which I fully surrendered—in the sense of letting all the darkness go, trusting in Divine help.)

9/10/01

Reprise: Flying Home

What is written on the face of the Earth
in swirls and scars and canyons deep,
in rouge rock and snow covered peaks,
in pools of a thousand azure eyes,
in snaking rivers and river valleys?

From within, the voice of the mother,
soothing, healing, scolding and weary.
Where forest grew to clear the air,
if not vanished, diminished, earth-skin exposed,
open sores to fester.

Does hope still rise with the dawn or the moon?
Yes, however improbable.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2001

 

9/11/01

Friend or Foe

How do you tell friend from foe?
If you could read hearts you’d know.

One whose heart is open could never harm;
one whose heart is armored

can squeeze out empathy and compassion,
could be capable of any outrage from misdirected passion.

Be wary though do not freeze out.
Notice and discern—trust or not trust.

A friend can be any age, any color,
any height, weight, sex or gender,

can speak any language, wear any clothes
worship any divinity.

A foe does not wear a black hat
or look any different,

it is inside where anger bubbles and hatred brews
that an enemy is made from me or you.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2001

 

9/11/01

Still Percolating

“What name do you call yourself
when you want your soul to answer?”

When I can accept myself “as is”
all else will align to that sacred name.

What is it?

“Mother of My Self.”

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2001

 

9/12/01

The Day After

When we all sat on the swing between time
before choosing to jump,

I did not say “I wish you a life of nothing happening,”
I whispered, “I wish you strength and courage

and a life full of all life has to offer.”
And we jumped, landing in these bodies and families

and in this particular place and time.
Together we came from the stars, the sun,

each navigating a separate course, until we find
our way back together and back home.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2001

From my book, As Easy as Breathing

 

9/14/01

Petty Concerns Fall Away

Though the day is sunny,
cleansing rain falls in abundance.

Hold my hand, kiss me full,
sing me your rich, dark song.
Petty concerns fall away.

Can I allow feeling,
will the ocean wash me clear?
Will those who beg for comfort

allow me peace,
those gone and those who remain?
I call to the Mother of My Self

who answers with compassion,
eyes of infinite pools,
petty concerns fall away.

I rock with my arms around,
holding the essential questions,
“Who am I in relation to this?

How is my course altered,
what am I to do, being true to who I am?”
I rock in the silence

and wait, still.
Petty concerns fall away.
I wait for clarity.

Breathe out…
breathe in…

chest aches from expansion.

Breathe out…
breathe in…

sing my sweetest, sad song,
some notes right, some notes wrong.
Trusting, I have prepared for the unknown,

now I step in
and listen.
Petty concerns fall away.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2001

From my book, As Easy as Breathing

 

9/14/01

No Need

No need for vengeance,
for retribution.
Those who planned to die

in so horrific a fashion
went through the same door
as those who thought they were

going on vacation; both
were met on the other side by generous spirits,
where each felt the result of their actions

in exquisite agony or ecstasy,
and each will return to life
to receive what is owed or to pay.

I have not forgiven.
I am not unforgiving.
I am in the flow of the River.

I am the River,
one thing leading to another.
In my times here

I have done the courageous and the unspeakable,
it has taken me this long to return home.
No one can know

what was re-balanced,
what was set in motion,
what strength found and compassion.

What was scorned is embraced,
what was demeaned is kissed.
The flag waves over the home of the brave.

Do not strike the faces
of those who look temporarily different.
Do not get sucked into shadow.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2001

 

9/16/01

Willing Myself to Live

A bitter wind
blew off my skin,
leaving me still standing,
bones and sinew exposed and raw,
mind reeling, uncomprehending.

How can I possibly heal,
how can I make sense of this
and live in the world again
as a loving child of a loving God?
I rock with this question:
Who am I in relation to this?

I attempt to breathe,
but air lacks nourishment
and my chest is crushed with weight.
I will my belly to rise and fall.
Breathe in…and out.
I will myself to live.

For protection,
my heart has closed
like the petals of a camera shutter.
Breathe out…breathe in,
into my heart, willing myself to live,
to feel, to risk embrace.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2001

 

9/20/01

The Story Up to Now

How many times did you see
planes hit the World Trade Center,
holes gaping from the sides, black smoke and flames
billowing out, people clinging desperately?

How many times did you see two 110 story towers
unzip from steel girders and cement supports and crash,
spire pointing straight up all the way down?

How many times did eyes take in
the flaming Pentagon, ears hear possible
body counts as survivors checked in…or did not.

It happened only once.  Once was more than enough.

Yet everywhere horrified, scared people
stayed glued in shock to TV’s
where we saw these raw images over and over
so like special effects in a movie,
so chillingly real.

***

On September 9th, a dear friend wrote us while traveling
on the train to New York City, letter postmarked September 10.
She grew up on the lower East side, minutes away from WTC.
I couldn’t get word of her.
Though I felt she was fine,
I longed to hear her voice or see her face in the crowds.
For 6 days I called—no answer.

***

The stories put a human face on unreal tragedy:
the people who weren’t at the towers, but would have been,
who chose to walk the dog a bit longer on a fine, clear fall NY morning,
the chef who had his eyes checked at the optometrist on the first floor,
the CEO who took his son for the first day of “big boy school,”
the financial analyst who went clothes shopping,
the lawyer who overslept and took a later train.

And the ones who were not usually there, but were on that day—
who had a rare meeting on floor 105,
who caught an earlier plane,
who made a UPS delivery.
There were husbands and wives who rode into the city together
and diligent workers at their desks on time
and those whose job it was to rescue the trapped.

So many lost.
So many saved.

Could have been worse.

All planes grounded, the skies are still.
And news filters in of who is thought responsible,
how teams trained here, lived here, drank at local bars,
rented houses and cars, charging on Visa.

Slowly the unimaginable details—and then faces
to put on terrorists, at first suspected,
then “confirmed,” 19 young men.

Cell phone calls from the doomed, in planes, in towers,
“We’ve been hijacked—men with knives.”
“I’m fine. Don’t worry.”

One plane crashes in an Amish field in Pennsylvania—
all aboard killed.  Still the good news—
no one else killed, no crucial symbols demolished.

We piece together from calls what happened, how
a decision was made, knowing the consequence
either way. “I love you…good bye.”

Other buildings teeter, burn, collapse.
Essential services cut off, thousands roam the streets,
faces shocked blank or crumpled, holding pictures of the missing,
clinging to a shred of hope for sons, daughters, husbands, wives,
friends, co-workers, fathers and mothers.

The president speaks.
His presence reassures—one symbol untouched.

The president speaks again, rising to comfort,
“we are a peaceful people, slow to anger,
but once aroused, will…”

How to feel safe,
how to feel?

The immediate fog lifts after a time.
My son asks a favor—stop
watching television. I comply,
I don’t usually watch, but felt compelled.

***

On Sunday after the Tuesday, I call and my friend answers.
Though I chose not to worry,
I am flooded with relief. We talk four hours.
She had been close to the crashes.  She saw the first gaping black hole.
Her friend’s mother had been at that moment having open heart surgery
at St. Vincent’s Hospital where many of the victims would later be taken.
Her mother lives 15 minutes away from the WTC,
my friend could walk over and shop.
She remembered a wonderful dinner at the restaurant on the top.
Reluctantly, we hang up.

***

Slowly, daily life finds a direction.
What to do? How to help?
What to think? How to allow feeling?

Important that more innocents were not lost.
Flags waving everywhere. “God Bless America.”
Whose God?  Who is excluded? Who is included?
Important here of all places, that the melting pot not boil over.

What does this mean for travel, for immigration,
for all dark-skinned, dark-eyed people,
for anyone who is perceived as a bit different?

Can we live with suspicion?  Will we send
all who are unlike ourselves to camps?
We have done it before.

Do we retaliate? Do we bomb? Are we at ease
with escalating loss of life?
Where does it end?

I pray those making decisions will make good ones,
understanding the lessons of history,
considering twenty future generations.
I pray they will be deliberate
and consult not only the “experts,” but also the Divine—

and then listen.

So much is unknowable.

Some mistakes cannot be set right—
innocent men, women and children, once killed
cannot be un-killed.  Yet this identified enemy

who could plan and carry out such
deliberate horrific tragedy,
cannot be allowed to continue.

It is not enough to catch one man,
to track down and eliminate his deadly network,
it is essential that deep changes be made,

not out of fear, but in love,
of ourselves and all others.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2001

 

9/21/01

Life Has Meaning

I can sit in the dark
at a table to eat
and not turn on the light.

I can talk, cry or scream
and rock myself to sleep
in the darkest of dark.

I do not have to seek the light,
like a woman who has been burned.
I can sit still

in the dark unafraid
of what it holds,
patient for what will be revealed.

The strongest true thing
keeping me tied to this world
is the belief that life has meaning.

If that piece of the puzzle is removed,
even as a possibility,
the rest of my life falls away.

What I have been through—
more than some, less than some—
had some purpose, shaped me, led me.

If I let go of that,
I lose any reason to stay.
Yes, I have loved and love still…

I let it all go…
And jump or fly…
Where will I land, if anywhere?

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2001

 

9/21/01

Still

I have nothing to say.
I am sitting still.
I am in the dark
as much as ever.

Illusion of security
ripped away,
hit by a steamroller—
you know how big

and heavy that is,
how deceptively smooth,
how flat you’d be,
what chance of recovery.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2001

 

9/23/01

I GIVE UP

I FUCKING GIVE UP

OK

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2001

 

9/24/01 Mon.

I ride the roller coaster
until the end.
I open a door and close it
never to return.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2001

 

10/3/01

Aftermath

It is as if
the floor was smeared with butter
and I slipped into the air
and stayed suspended there—

not falling or landing hard,
not rising or flying off,
but suspended in space, in time
with the very rules I live by.

No gravity, no pull of the earth,
no cause and effect,
one second not following another,
even breath suspended,

waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2001

(From my book, As Easy as Breathing
Recorded on my CD, Full Blooming)

 

10/6/01

Shine

We’ve all been around the block
more than a few times.
We’ve seen more than our eyes could hold,
heard more than ears can bear.

We stood out under the sun, the moon,
arms held out in supplication,
hearts bursting with the pain of living.
And the skies opened and swallowed us.

In dreams we traveled to other lands
with more flexible rules governing
behavior of the physical realm.
And we returned refreshed or confused

to begin again.
One clear thing to note:
we are not alone, but with
those here who walk parallel to our steps

and those who responded to our cosmic calls.
But this one thing is true:
the only way to safely navigate
in such treacherous waters

is to attune to our Center, our Core,
align with the Heart and the Source of all power.
Like a lamp plugged into an electric outlet,
we will shine once turned on.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2001