Vulnerable

There was something poetic about my annual visit to the OBGYN this year. I know it's hard to believe there would be anything poetic about this most intimately invasive examination. But like so many doctors, this one runs behind routinely so much so I consider every visit whether it would be worth trying a new doctor. It's not. I like her. So I pack a book and expect delays, just like flying through DFW. Last week, I brought a book by Brene Brown. We're reading it in a book study at work. Doesn't matter which one it is, they are all grounded in the same major theme: vulnerability. For a brief moment, I was encouraged as my reading was interrupted two pages in, and a nurse brought me back for a temperature, weight, and blood pressure check. I was escorted to the room where I would strip down to adult sized paper doll clothes. You know the ones; the vest with no buttons or snaps or closures, made from the same crepe-like paper as the streamers you hang across the room at a party. Only my vest was not of celebratory colors. It was sterile, medical pale blue, almost white. It matched perfectly with my crepe wraparound skirt. You know, the almost square tablecloth-like sheet. I can never tell which direction to wrap it around. Heck it doesn't even wrap around unless you're smaller than a size 8, I'm thinking. I usually give up and just lay it across my lap like the tablecloth it resembles, leaving just enough space between the bottom of my vest and the flattened part of my ass on the exam table to allow an uncomfortable draft from the a/c. I leave my flip flops on. Not sure why, maybe to keep at least the bottom of my feet from being cold. My ass and my soles, the only warm parts left in my body. And when I'm finally settled- settled but not comfortable- I crack my book again, because I know there's more waiting. "To love at all is to be vulnerable," Brene says, and I am reminded why I'm there even though I hate every minute of this annual ritual. I love myself.  

Pen

hold me

wrap me between your fingers and I will 

give to you life

let it all flow through your veins and

out in ink

smooth and forgiving

together we will light up

the world

written from a word association prompt 

Writing Around the Corner, an online writing group 

7-11-2020

We

She

giver of life
the strongest person I know, though I'm not sure I ever told her
she carried me for 9 months, and in many ways has continued 47 years

giver of hugs
the real kind pulled close and tight and all the way around
she taught me how to do it right, and she's been reminding me for 47 years

giver of love
the kind she told me I would understand one day and I do now, I honestly do
she was a model of truly unconditional love, and she has been for 47 years

He

giver of love
the kind that lives in everyday actions and emotions, so completely
he has held nothing back for 21 years

giver of hugs
the kind he learned from getting, with all the weight of his body and his whole heart
he's never too old to offer one up even at 21 years

giver of life
the source of energy and aliveness to all he encounters
he is a lover of life and people, yes a lover of love even at 21 years

I
am the connective tissue, one-of-a-kind, embedded through DNA
and perpetuated through both nature and nurture
we are the cycle of love and of motherhood

We
are
one.

 

Pull

I woke yesterday
the weight of a heavy boot on my chest
and a violent force pulling upward
a reverse gravitational pull
I struggled to heave in a healthy supply of air
the pressure was suffocating

never once did I think
the plague that's consuming our planet
annihilating our humans
has come for me, no
it was a familiar breathlessness
fear and anxiety rising from the belly

up into the throat from below
it was a fear I had not faced
since this pandemic began its destruction
the fear is not physical vulnerability
or viral susceptibility
not toilet paper availability

my fear is educational responsibility
are we doing it right
are we doing enough
how do we know
how can we know
before it's too late

there's no plan for this, no research
to guide us on this unchartered mission
all we can do is the best we know how
we hope that it's enough
and that our children will be ok
that we will all be ok

Somebody

I once worked with a wonderful man
who had a way of "getting real" with kids
You don't need no man he'd insist to the girls
across a table in a disciplinary hearing
to tell you what to do
to make you feel good about yourself
to make you worth something
he said it so emphatically and yet with a supportive tone
like a parent clinging desperately to the hope
his daughter would find the inner strength
to realize she is smart, and beautiful,
and somebody. And he'd sit back and wait and listen
with patience and he never stopped trying
even if he found himself looking across the table at
the same girl twice or three times. It was as if the girl
across the table was one of his own, his daughter in the eyes
of every one of them. I don't know if he even had a daughter,
or any children for that matter. All I know is
many of the girls didn't know their fathers and he did
his best to be a positive man in their lives, sometimes
stoic, never emotional, but consistently there with the same message:
You are somebody. Start giving yourself, your body, your future
the respect and attention you deserve.

Note to Self:

You are enough.

You are not defined by a single action.
You are not the floating ash off the
fire set by others' gossip.

You are not the worst of your days
or the weakest of your moments.

You are not the knots in your neck
or the pit in your stomach or the
lump in your throat.

You are not infallible,
indestructible, immune to hurt.

You are not in control.

You are honest and caring.
You are the pride in your parents
eyes and the joy in their hearts.

You are the best of your days
and the brightest of your moments.

You are the air in your lungs
and the beating in your heart and
the force in your action.

You are resilient, sensitive,
willing to learn.

You are enough.

Bagels: A Micro Memoir

Jewish + Sunday on Long Island = Bagel Breakfast

An actual photo of the bagel I ate this morning. #noregrets #worththecarbs

When I was a young kid, few things were more thrilling to me than hopping in the car with my dad early on Sunday morning for "a bagel run." It was a brief outing, sometimes just my dad and me, and other times my sister came too. But she liked to sleep late, and I was always a go-go-go kid. We lived in a smallish town on the north westerly coast of the island. There were few chains or franchises, the businesses were mostly family owned and operated, and many of them were along the main drag that ran from the north end of town to the south. Middle Neck Road was the place to go for Cheeses of the World, Lazar's Chocolate, any number of real New York pizza joints, and lots of other shops and restaurants. But down on our end of town,  there was a section with a local pharmacy, Tabatchnick's, and The Bagel Store. That's right. We had a bagel store called The Bagel Store. And that's all it was, a counter with a register and a bagel-making operation. There was a neon bagel light on the front window, and you could smell each of the contributors to the everything bagel when you approached the door. Fresh bagels with onion, garlic, sesame and poppy seeds, salt, and caraway seeds. Our bagel shop was famous for the bagel twist, which was essentially bagel dough braided into a twist and coated with the everything toppings. It was even better than a bagel. We would untwist it into pieces, toast them, and schmear cream cheese on each little piece. Dads would wait patiently in line with the Times under their arms, some with children in tow, others solo. I would stand in line with my dad while he picked out an assortment of 13 bagels- always a baker's dozen- and a couple of twists. The 13th was usually a snack for me on the rest of the journey. If I was lucky, it was still warm. Then we would go next door to Tabatchnick's and my dad would pick out the reddest, ripest bagel-sized tomato he could find and a red onion, while we waited in line to buy lox, and sturgeon, a delicious smoked white fish. Occasionally he would allow me to pick out a treat too, a doughnut or deli-fresh baked item. Sometimes I would get a candy in a clear deli container, not the kind that arrives in the store packaged, the kind that sells by the pound. These were benefits you only got if you tagged along for the early morning bagel run.

The memory is priceless. I went to bed last night (Saturday) thinking about how much I'd like to have a fresh bagel in the morning, and I resolved myself to do a bagel run. With the low-carb movement, bagels are getting a bad rep these days and it's a darn shame. We don't need their doughy goodness everyday. But once in a while, maybe one Sunday out of the month, a bagel run is well worth the carbs. It wasn't quite a New York bagel, but I found one SWFL bagel store that comes pretty close. With fresh whipped cream cheese and a local sliced tomato, it really hit the spot. And after toasting an everything bagel in my home, I get to enjoy the nostalgic scent of my childhood all day long.