Your gift arrived early, so I opened it. It was meant to be opened early. If I had opened it on Mother's Day, the disappointment may have hurt more. Opening it alone in my office protected you from criticism. I have overlooked the cheap gifts before. Today felt different, though. Inside the box, a blue cardboard box with unidentifiable blue flowers with black centers that reads Be Yourself in italics. The glue coming apart at the seams. Warped from the heat? I look again. $2 sticker on the bottom. Inside a yellow dollar store bag, three dish towels, two matching, one not, their tags still on them. I am grateful I opened the card first. Its message was touching, but dubious, even if true. More than you know, you make a difference in this world... More than you know, you spread smiles and laughter... More than you know, you inspire with your kindness... This gift hurts, more than she will ever know. Now I understand why when I ordered her gift and shipped it, the inner voice said, Just buy one thing. I thought it was because I am trying to save money. Now I know it was because her gift would be rushed. Thrown in a box. Tags on. So unlike my mother. That's when I decided to let go of the responsibility of liking everything she gives me. That's when I decided to honor the message on the box and be myself. No gifts, please, will be my future request at holidays. Your presence in my life (even if limited to texts or phone calls if I call you or letters) is the gift. For once in my life, being a mom is gift enough. Knowing the right thing to say in any given moment. Even if in doing so I release one more thing that keeps me tied to my own mother.
Opening our eyes paper thin sun warm skin not burning, not yet Opening our eyes crystal clear tears reflecting your confused anger Opening our eyes danger, danger here fists clenched, eyes blazing Opening our eyes not our rage to bear we uproot, leave you Opening your eyes sunlight singing you back home you wake up, alone Muscle memory. sunlight shaking you awake you burn the photo Present or past? Choose. hurt the ones who love you now or let your mom die Opening your heart cremating childhood remains tend your son's garden Muscle memory. son yelling in your ear, "Hey!" hold me, hear my voice Open up, irises. See us as we stand before you. Love, imperfection. Startling voices. We didn't mean any harm. Let go. Open up.
If you saw me, would you crush me? Would you step on my neck and kill me? If you saw me, would you greet me or would you turn your head the other way? Does my color make me any less fragile? If you encountered a field of my children, would you raze them to the ground? Am I only a statistic to you? Does my annihilation keep you alive? Do you choke me because I grow from concrete? What about me is so threatening that you must pin me to the ground squeezing the life giving oxygen out of me until I am no more? What was it that arrested your humanity and turned you into a vise?
My cousin died an untimely death in October. Only thirty-seven years old, he was hit by a car when he had pulled over on the side of the road and run out of gas. Nobody knows exactly where he was going. Given COVID-19, maybe he had wanted to travel. He had been out of prison for about a year, started his own business, and was sober. He had found God as he knew God, and was moving forward in life.
His death caught me off guard because it was sudden and accidental. I felt confused and sad for a week because I wasn’t sure how he died, and then it hit me: what if his soul hadn’t passed over to the other side? As a shamanic apprentice, I was aware that psychopomp might be necessary: because of my cousin’s tragic death, his soul might not be ready to leave earth. In psychopomp, a power animal spirit will speak with the soul who is stuck on earth due to a violent, traumatic, sudden or untimely death, and if the soul is willing, the spirit will guide it to the light where it can be at peace. I journeyed to my power animal to ask for help in my grieving, and to understand the truth of my cousin’s death. I witnessed my power animal perform psychopomp for my cousin by being merged with the animal spirit so that my cousin wouldn’t see me and feel disturbed or confused by my presence.
I felt great peace seeing my cousin go to the light and be with God. I felt even greater relief writing my aunt and uncle a sympathy card, assuring them that my cousin was in heaven with his master Jesus. There was some doubt on my family’s part that he wouldn’t be in heaven due to his troubled experience on earth. However, I knew from his correspondence with me while he was in prison that he had converted to Christianity, and that his soul was at peace. Although I now identify as pagan, I still hold my initial Christian walk throughout my young adulthood as an invaluable experience, in that it led me to value service, social justice, equality and nonjudgment. As a shamanic apprentice, I believe that Spirit takes multiple forms, and that it is important to honor the various modalities of those we serve as Spirit’s representative.
I also found out that my cousin wrote poetry, and so I decided to go ahead and post the two poems included with his obituary below to honor him and let his words live on here on earth. I hope his message of redemption in spite of hardship brings you hope, regardless of your religious beliefs. I have also included this Nickelback song, “If Today was your Last Day,” to honor my cousin’s journey, and remember that every day is a gift, and we need to live with purpose, gratitude, bravery and dignity.
The New Me By: S.C. Hello, Me, it's the new me Old me you're dead I am a new creation through Christ Jesus Old things have passed away The new me has begun now I will shoot my shot and this will be to the whole world I needeth no bullets nor a gun This battle will be won Fought with the word of God My aim is true and so is my heart The target has been acquired Sickness, sin and disease is being destroyed Through Jesus Christ who died on the Cross Thank you, Jesus! Not Afraid By: S.C. I have fought from birth Born with a noose around my neck Battled rejection, addiction, evil spirits, prison Been poisoned Sickness and disease lived in bad difficult straits But when redemption stomped Satan on the Head through Christ Jesus Satan lost the taste of victory over me My Savior not afraid of death Went to the gates of hell and stole the devil's horse and rode hard Side by side with the Holy Spirit slashing demons the whole way Long Live the Lord God Almighty Thank you, Jesus, from my heart I want to be a warrior for real like you I am not afraid to live for God and Jesus Christ my Savior
A painting I made to show how grief feeds new life.
Thank you for reading, and feel free to share stories of how you honor your loved ones who have died in the comments section below.
Here’s a link to the October issue of Ang(st) Feminist Zine. The theme is hair. My piece is titled “My Unkempt Angel” and discusses my experiences in childbirth. The above image reflects my piece’s theme of hair as spiritual consort in challenging experiences.
Trigger warning: many of these pieces evolve around our relationship to our hair, but how our perception of it is informed by our culture, family, significant other, etc. There is some explicit content, but it merits close study and compassionate witnessing, as it highlights the all too familiar struggles women experience around body shame, self-image, sexism and self-acceptance within dysfunctional homes, relationships and cultures at large. There are some pretty amazing photos, comics, illustrations and short prose, fiction or poems within this magazine, so I encourage you to take your time and really immerse yourself in the fifty pages of content.
As I focus on your absence, I forget. I am present in an empty bedroom full of unread books, waiting to be read. Scan my body for a singular opening into the epiphany of being in love. How can I call this moment my own when I never linger long enough to stay? When will change ever be imminent? Life is fuller when you've vacated. Spit accretes in dish and spoon, muscles arch into midnight. If I was to dissect the feeling, I would find hope mingled with disappointment. I believed you capable of transformation. If you passed through fire, you would become gold. When pushed, you'd soar like a kite past the canopy. In the mirror, I saw you did not want to go there. I saw that you were afraid to run away from yesterday. Today became like every other. A habit will hold you in its arms forever until you let it go. Addiction is the perpetual fling convincing you it will grow into a kingdom by the sea. All the while, you wait in an empty room. The sun sets. It is pink, orange and yellow all at once, veined with blue. You can say that it is beautiful, knowing it is pollution that brings the rosy glow. I am empty yet full in your absence. How I can finger this rose knowing it will prick me bewilders me until I am bleeding alone again, hungry for your touch even if it costs me every ounce of presence I own.
The vampire has left, but I still wish he’d say something.
The darkness ahead is the surface of the waters or graveyard,
not sure which. Darkness so thick it sucks at my shoes.
Rest in this darkness. Rest in uncertain directions.
The darkness of a thousand graves or the darkness of his mind?
Which do I prefer beating down on me at all times?
I wake up after every dream and I fear for my life.
I think I may go insane, just trying to make it out alive.
The vampires have been my comrades for so long,
what will happen when I no longer offer my neck?
Will I still be codependent or will I just be a single mom,
stretched until I rip into cosmos?
The pain behind my nose is not an illness.
It is grief waiting to burst into a million tears
until I am ocean pounding surf, ocean of stars–
Tears of loss, tears of grief, of what could have been–
single microcosms of gratitude dripping off my fingers
for what is, what was, what will become
darkness or light, distant surf or sandy shore.
This is water, this is the abyss of rebirth
where I belong. Go ahead. Swallow me whole.
I will be reassembled as a star, no matter
how much I fear my self-composure.
