April 5^th and 6th

Skipped April 5^th as I was busy and exhausted. April 6^th, still busy, exhausted, but finally caught a nap and feel so much better! It has been a rough week in the news and in so many personal lives. Friends of ours who long for a baby lost their child in the early stages. I remember losing five of mine and the pain with each, especially the last that I held in my hand before letting them slip away into the water.

 Mizuko kuyō (水子供養) is a Japanese ceremony for miscarriage.  It means water child. It is letting the child go into the water and be at peace. There is more to it as a Buddhist practice, for those who mourn the loss.

 My friends planted a tree to mark the loss of two little ones. My father and mother did that after they lost my brother at only about 10 days old. I wish I’d done more ceremonies to our losses. I wrote poetry and drew pictures but it was a lonely and terrible time in our marriage as we were raising our one child and mourning the loss of several. Yet, I remember what it was like not to have any children or think they would come, which is a huge loss when you are hoping to bring one into existence from the love you share. Trying to put all of this into words, here is my clumsy poem to share grief with my friends. I hope for better days for them.

Tariffs seem to be the other subject we can’t escape these days. So, here's a short, pithy poem on that subject, too.

 Washing Mizuko kuyō

I saw you before you were here

I was looking for you there, scared

Surprised by delight in the night

I knew you had survived

To thrive was our goal

To one day stroll

Hand in hand, skipping

A lifting of thought and spirit

To inherit a part of me and him

Margins are slim

That you will become you

To stick like glue

To my insides

Residing and abiding

Safe in that space

To gain and grow

Till I can show

Shouting from the rooftops

Letting people know

You are mine

The day turned black

A pain that racks my back

My belly a sea of uncertainty

An urge to purge

The color red

Shed in the bed

That made you

I am beyond blue

Panicked I called the doctor

Who is a calm proctor

Testing my strength

As I tend to sink

She sends me a link

Of how to do this

I am pissed

This is cold

I do what I’m told

Another wave of nausea

I ran and found the cause, yeah,

This is a familiar awful territory

I sit, I reach, and out you rush,

You are whole, not crushed

I can hold you in one hand

I don’t understand

Soft, fragile, eyes closed

All tiniest fingers and toes

I wash you off and speak to you

I don’t have a clue

What else to do

Curtis Wicklund's drawing about the grief of miscarriage.

I stare in despair

Long to repair

My little girl or guy

Not in the “sky”

Here! I want you

I do, I do, I do,

Something went wrong

It wasn’t long

Enough

 

Tariffs

A tax on my brain

Would be the next step

Why not?

You could only escape it in death

These punishments for other countries

Tend to squeeze those in the middle

Who only have a dribble or two to spare

As the cupboards are bare

The whole thing seems as fair

As taxing my brain