My ancestral wisdom is tangible in my sunburnt skin, tasted on my compassionate tongue, washed in glorious joy, baptized in horrific sorrow. I am spirit ever expanding, heated with a desire to be loved, buried in the beaches of hourglass sands using a cracked red plastic bucket and a too small yellow shovel. I’m thirsty for knowledge, recumbent in peace. I am decayed by grief with only a mildly offensive odor. I have rebuilt myself, my life, my dreams with non-stock aftermarket replacement parts out of every past me I’ve ever been.
Category Archives: Dude
Healing Hugs
I hugged shame
I loved disgrace
I encouraged peace
To the weeping face
I heard confession
I felt mercy
I held his hand
Told him he’s worthy
Removed the prison
Of spoken word
Showed him value
By actions served
He sobbed for relief
From a god he doubted
Regret his badge
His sight; sin clouded
Visible pain
ached his soul
But his words dictated
Desperate control
Will he surrender?
Forgive his heart?
Remember his humanity,
That is tearing him apart?
I can’t fix him
Or make things better,
Just let him feel loved
Releasing the debtor
Who knew?
I have a client whom I’ve been with for over 8 months. I companion care he and his wife three times a week. He is extroverted, claims he hates people while socializing, laughs with his entire body, and is charmingly impish. She is quiet, speaks when spoken to, defers to her husband, but is sweet and expressive when she feels it.
I was doing a normal Thursday visit. He was in rare form. He declared himself indomitable then laughed when myself and his other visitor cheered his word choice. It was a grand celebration of friendship and excellent conversation.
The following morning I received a text that said things had taken a turn for the worse and he was in dire straits. Could I go visit? Absolutely.
Dire straits is an understatement. Although no fever, he was having a health crisis not experienced before. The secondary visitor of Thursday was informed of the situation and they also arrived. It was crushing to know that what we experienced the day before had done a 180. His stats were critically low, but being on hospice, comfort was key.
We prayed.
Okay, I confess, I thought prayer, like funerals, were for the comfort of the person attending to their love. Positive vibes and all that. I prayed to the Universe that peace would prevail, that the highest good would be met, and that his children would arrive in time to attend the final hours. He was put on several prayer chains, of which, I’ve also been skeptical.
For four days he knocked on death’s door. He wasn’t eating or drinking. He couldn’t swallow. He was doing a version of Cheyne-Stokes breathing (It’s kind of like a fish out of water. Because they can’t swallow, the mucus that normally goes down remains in the throat causing a “rattling” sound) He knocked hard, but…nobody was home?
Tuesday he was awake and aware of visitors; even speaking.
By Thursday he was sitting up in his chair, conversing, demanding, agitated that he couldn’t exercise “to stay fit.” He ate more than he had all week. He drank hot tea. He was cranky, but alert and responding to input.
Okay, so let me explain why this struck me as unusual. I honestly believed, as did the nursing staff, that he was going to die. His body showed all the signs of that coming up quickly. The children (my age and better), were told to prepare. But, what changed?
I’m sure there is a scientific reason for his sudden turn-around. I’ve seen and experienced people doing a “rally” (That’s when the dying person suddenly has a burst of energy that can make them seem competely “normal” again. They may want to eat their favorite foods, or drink, or talk with their loved ones. It happens surprisingly often.) Four days of awareness is unusual.
This particular set of events has really forced me to confront my views on prayer, on my own experience, and honestly, I feel like a bit of imposter. However, I’ll take the guidance of my fellow guest and roll with the grace that has been granted with this incredible occurance. I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy to be wrong, yet I want so badly to understand.
The next few days, other family members will be attending to him in conjunction with his children.
I will continue to pray. I am baffled, feel awkward in my Unitarian Universalist faith, curious as all get out, and willing to laugh at myself for thinking I knew enough. Do we ever?
Big Emotions

I eat big emotions with a ravenous hunger
gnawing on skeleton bones from my closet
just in case I missed a bit of sinew or gristle
making sure the osteology does not reassemble
into overwhelming feasts of horror
which must be returned with a clean plate
Where tears get sopped up with the bread of life
blood gets drained from the cups of my history
Scars and scabs are filleted into thin slices
childhood terrors served with wooden-spoon whipping
cream gone sour, bitter, painful to swallow.
I dig through my closet of deconstructed moral injury
dab my satiated lips with a crisp linen serviette
closing the door behind me.
TAMP: Honorarium

From the forest comes the howl
Loam of earth’s dead rise
Ascending lift of sacred fowl
Imminent his demise
The snort of buck calls to a doe
A blue jay alarms the wood
Hastened river onward flows
The frigid dusk holds good.
A witness to the story
He is silent in the still
Accolades and glory
Abandoned from his will
His legacy is found abiding
In maple, in walnut, or oak
His spirit freely residing
Among his beloved folk.
From the forest comes the howl
Loam of nature’s rise
Ascending lift of sacred fowl
The undertaking of goodbyes.
The Heir
You were a human being
With a life as precious as my own
But, I’m alive and you are not
To me a path was shown
I’ve inherited your voices
I’m heir to your bright beacon
I will not turn away
My resolve will never weaken
I spend my inheritance freely
With loud pride from your source
I magnify it ideally
Your oppression no longer enforced
The lynching tree will bear no fruit
The crucifixion of branches
Will decay, not take root
It’s time to play with matches
Vacillation
Sometimes when I’m alone
feeling sorry for myself
Lonely for the company of another,
I think of you.
I look around and see artifacts
gathered around me like ghosts.
I remember how much we laughed.
But I also remember how much I cried.
I feel the warmth of your hand.
I feel a longing for what was; not what is.
I miss you terribly
but not enough to give up the happiness I’ve built.
I refocus on my own company
I think of everything I’ve accomplished since “we”
And yes, I still miss you, but you’ve become
a fond memory of abandoned dreams
Liberation TW
What you see before you
are the skin and clothes of the living
and my dead.
A result of generations of love
or hate
or boredom on a Tuesday night
and a potluck of chromosomes
The gene pool of my ancestors
drying up in my shallow end
Distilled into hereditary faults
that I forgive them for because they resulted in me.
I observe through my mother’s eyes
They show me that inaction causes stagnation
That stagnation causes resentment
That resentment causes a paralyzing fear
THAT fear festered rudely in my cradle
visited by vacationing cockroaches from upstairs
Unlike my one-eyed father, blindness is not mine.
My eyes are opened
when my mother reads me lies from a book of fairy tales
because I know that imaginary monsters aren’t real
That the real monsters look like people
they tend not to hide under my bed
instead, they sneak into my bed
a candy-colored catastrophic cruelty
Thieving my innocence,
Shackling me in guilt and shame
reinforcing that there is nowhere to hide
No closet is deep enough,
no blanket is tightly wrapped enough
No pillow will help my breath
Swaddling complacency
Nurturing tar black secrets
Forbidden by death
To verbally vomit
My truth abandoned in cobwebs
Chronological milestones
Amalgamated rubble
Duct taped together
Glued with lies, rejection,
Abandonment, and
A visceral faith that I was the broken one.
denunciation was not implanted
on those who blighted me.
Conversely, desperately
I believed.
I once had the courage to tell a student teacher
When I was 9 years old that I didn’t want to be a girl
I didn’t want to feel the way I was feeling anymore
I wanted to have the power of being something else
Because even then I knew that what I was,
WHO I was
Wasn’t like the other kids.
I had no lighthouse to guide my loose sailing
I had no anchor to throw over the side
To halt the rocking, storm-battered ship
That I’d been given to captain with no skills.
That teacher gently corrected me
to crash on the rocks instead
There was no safe harbor in which to moor
But…
There was something inside of me
A luminosity that crusaded for freedom
A light so obscured to me
by external destruction that I was blind to it
But I could feel it, warm in the darkness.
Growing exponentially with each fear abated
With each discovery excavated from shame
With each box opened, musty and dusty
The contents returned to owners
Who gave me their rejected anger,
shame and guilt disintegrated with antique fragility
I piled them up in the middle of the room
And I burned every bit of that judgement.
The fire rampaged uncontrolled
Scorching anyone who stood too close
Its flames reached unprecedented heights
With a destruction as violent as my life
Every step a new fire ignited
Every truth a testament
Every act defiant
No obstacle an impediment.
My raised fist declared my power
My resurrection burst forth from within
I am no longer defined by what was taken from me
But by what I bring with me to this world
What I create, nurture, give and receive
Is a reflection of that glorious light
I was destined to be.
Departure
The vivid light of the dawning day
brought warmth, unexpected,
in an unusual way.
Relinquished labor past
silence in the brightness
among the spirits now cast
Peace found in the holy hour
grief intensifies exponentially
revealing its raw power
The request has been distilled
Absent heartbeat in the once vital body
The dash has now been fulfilled
EOL Doula
With trepidation I wait
Better too soon
than way too late
Asking answers of unskilled sight
Maybe so
Maybe tonight
Indecision holds me fast
Supportive heart
as he breathes his last
But will my service be enough
to smooth the edges
of the emotional rough?
Will I be able to be a guide
through the darkness
with my brilliant light?
Will it be enough to attend
the final hour
the welcomed end?


