Not all Southern Women Make Biscuits

When my son, Christopher, woke up this morning, he wanted biscuits for breakfast.  I usually have a can of store bought in the refrigerator, so this is not usually a big deal.  This morning, however, I noticed that the can I bought last week was already a year out of date - so dead end there.

Being an eternal optimist, I pulled out the recipe book and decided to make biscuits, carefully measuring, breaking the shortening up until it looked like course meal, minimally stirring, kneading.....even going the extra step of glazing the top of the biscuits with milk and a sprinkling of sugar so they would be pretty.

They baked beautifully and came out the fluffiest I have ever made and even tasted good, I thought.  I was beaming with pride and laughing because I knew I would brag about my biscuit success story.

....and then....my son, who had been served a biscuit in the downstairs den as he watched Saturday morning cartoons, came upstairs.  Fishing for a compliment, I asked him how he liked his biscuit - he'd helped cut them out so I figured he'd be proud too.   Imagine my dismay when he stated without the least hesitation "They weren't very good, Mama."  Shock, horror!  "Okay, so maybe he just doesn't have an appreciation for a good biscuit", I told myself.

When my daughter, Scout, got up, I overheard the following conversation from the kitchen:

Scout: "What's that?" ....her tone conveyed a wrinkled up nose and a sneer in the direction of the biscuit covered baking sheet on top of the stove.

Christopher: "Biscuits"  ...said flatly without a hint of any opening for further discussion of the unimpressive biscuits

Scout: "Are they good?"

Christopher: "No, they're the worst biscuits ever!"

At which point, Scout made herself a bowl of cold cereal.

....I suspect the kids will be playing biscuit hockey later this afternoon.

Screw homemade biscuits made with love; next time I'm checking the date on the can! …tomorrow we’re making pancakes.

~ Mk Michaels, 2013

 

 

On Grief, Gratitude, and Guilt

Five weeks ago, my ex-partner of 16 years and my children’s other mother died suddenly.  Her name was Amy.

In an instant everything changed.  Our children who we were happily co-parenting were thrown into an abyss of shock and pain.  Our colorful and contented world went dark and dismal.  The busy, but manageable pace of our lives went into frenetic overload as we planned Amy’s memorial, spread the sad word to friends and family, sorted through the 14 years she spent in her home, got back to the day to day of our lives – work, school, running a household, and mostly, remembered to breathe.

Friends and family flocked from all directions, providing their support, helping with logistics, bringing food to remove the burden of cooking and help us through the immediate period of shock, caring for our animals so they wouldn’t be forgotten in the shuffle, and taking over the reins when each of us, in turn, crumbled to the floor in grief.  We were literally surrounded by kind people and generous acts.

In the past five weeks, emotions have ranged from utter shock and disbelief, excruciating loss, and a punch-to-the-gut grief to deep gratitude and even a sense of protection.  To be specific, I felt gratitude and protection.  These two feelings seemed at complete odds to what I ‘should’ be feeling.  Gratitude and protection. 

Bit by bit, my children and I are coming to find our new normal.  We are adjusting to being together full time instead of the 50/50 custody split my ex and I had shared.  We are bringing together the children’s belongings into one home.  We are facing the holidays with a bit of dismay at the absence of a woman, a mother, who was always there and often taken for granted, because that’s what people do with those they love most.

And yet, the sense of gratitude and protection persists.

Today is Thanksgiving.  We are spending it as a family and, in spite of the gaping hole left by Amy’s absence, I feel so utterly grateful.  I am grateful for the children we had together.  I am thankful for the welcoming home in which we live.  I laugh heartily at the stories told about Amy, a woman who had a delightful and self-deprecating sense of humor.  Words can hardly express how much gratitude I have because Amy and I found deep peace and a renewed friendship after so many years of post-separation fighting.  I am joyful today and yet my heart twists in guilt that I can feel joyful so shortly after her death.  But I am joyful, all the same.

Earlier today, my children woke and came to the living room in their pajamas, eyes puffy from their pillows, and sweetly smelling of their sleep.  They saw the fire I had lit in the grate, smelled the sausage I had cooked to make one of their favorite breakfasts and heard my happy “good morning dearest son and daughter!” They smiled and I knew, if only for a moment, amidst the grief at the loss of their other mother, they were grateful too.  In this moment, there was no guilt at feeling joy and I realized that this is what Amy would have wanted.  She would have wanted to be remembered, but for life to go on with all its joys, trials, lessons, victories, and traditions.  Today, we will light a candle for her and say a prayer of gratitude for having had her in our lives.  She left her mark on the world in her own unique way and our family was forever improved by her influence.

Happy Thanksgiving from our grateful family to yours!

~ Mk Michaels, 2013

The Loneliest Hour

In the darkest hour, I ask

“Are you awake, my love?”

The silence answers.

The sheets on the right side of the bed, untouched and cold

The sheets on the other, tangled and sweaty,

bear witness to hours of sleepless impatience.

“When?” I wonder aloud.

But no one is there to hear. 

A deep and invading lonesomeness has crept into our bedroom

and taken up residence in your unfilled spot.

With all the love in the world at my fingertips,

I have never felt more alone and

our bed is still too big.

~ Mk Michaels, 2009

Gandhi's Family Portrait

I was eldest child of a narcissistic and competitive mother and afforded all rights and privileges inherent in the title.  In reality, I was my mother’s unwilling sparring partner, her litmus test and the measure by which she perceived that all others judged her success….or failure.

I have been told that I was a little adult, perfectly behaved, well mannered and mature far beyond my years.  In stories I’ve heard of my childhood, this is illustrated time and time again.  I was the good child.  I was the daughter that my parents could rely on to do the right thing.  I was the one who took on the mantle of caring for and protecting my sister two and a half years my junior. 

Years ago, I read in my baby book the chores I had at Age Two:

1.      Set the table

2.      Clean the crumbs under the table after dinner

3.      Unload the silverware from the dishwasher

4.      Separate the laundry

5.      Fold the laundry

On the one hand, this could be a charming list of chores that a two year old was, in fact, assisting with alongside a patient parent who held ultimate responsibility for completion of the task.  Knowing my mother and how she interacted with me, however, I am certain that I held ultimate responsibility and was chastised were I not to complete the task…flawlessly.

I look at the few pictures I have of my childhood and, it is clear, I was not generally a happy child.  Pictures taken with my mother show her monitoring my performance for the camera – am I smiling well enough?  Am I being a good reflection on her?  My favorite picture of me as a child, however, is one in which I was two, maybe three years old.  I am dressed in my marigold flowered Sunday dress, pristine white tights and an expression on my face that can only be described as a passively resistant pout.  As usual, my mother is in the picture looking the part of a resplendently perfect mother and I, in a display of immaturity equal to my years, am refusing to participate in the exercise of perfection for the camera.  While I do not know this as fact, I like to think of it as me resisting in the only way I knew how at the time.  I was Gandhi leading the Indians in disobedience against the salt tax.  I was Martin Luther King marching against segregation.  I was a three year old, pushed to the edge by one too many picture perfect poses, poking out her lower lip and refusing to be pretty for the benefit of yet another photograph.

It was the early start of my slow and tidal rebellion against the constraints of being my mother’s daughter.

~ Mk Michaels, 2007

This article has appeared on Rebelle Society.
http://www.rebellesociety.com/2014/07/20/gandhis-family-portrait/

Blue Toothbrush

Her forgotten toothbrush, left behind
sat on the shelf by my bathroom sink.
I contemplated its blue handle as I brushed my teeth
and realized that I was just as blue and just as forgotten,
but
even
more
useless.


~ Mk Michaels, 2010

Fear of Death

Humbly dedicated to the talented Ms. Houston with an appreciative nod to Sir Frances Bacon
 
Fear of Death

The way we judge the dead
is harsh, unrelenting,
and oh so pious.

“She lived too fast,
She played too hard,
She lived her life out of control.
Her death was inevitable.
A tragedy, but not a surprise
Tut, tut
Tsk tsk…”
 
Really?  Really?!?

This deep seated need to judge
from our glass houses,
and cast stones at corpses
is not about them,
rather it is about us…

The old joke goes,
the only certainties in life are
death and taxes
and we all laugh uncomfortably.
But we laugh
at death pushing it just a bit further away from us.

Who among us, I ask you, will not die?
Not me.
Not you.
Or you.
Or you.

Could we, then, in the time we have here,
be kinder to the dead
and let the lessons of their lives simply be?

Leave their families to their grief
without the added burden of our
fears voiced in the form
of vilification and verdicts about their loved ones?

Instead, could we, perhaps,
make the most of our summers,
swinging on fragrant willow boughs,
leaping fearlessly into the lake, and
gorging ourselves on life’s bounty
so that maybe, just maybe,
we’ll fear death a little less
and let the dead

Simply
Be
allowing them to rest in our peace.

~ Mk Michaels 2/2012

Baptism

In the early morning hour, before the sun has peeked over the horizon
and the  light is still soft and tender
I slide from my bed,
hair still a tangled mess like the bed sheets after a night
with my lover.
My bare feet pad down the hallway
toward the door which leads to our garden.
I contemplate the slippers at my doorway
and venture without them.
This morning, I want direct connection, the grit and cleansing grime of the earth under my feet.
At our garden’s edge, I stand quietly, an observer to the beginnings of a new day.
The first chirps of the purple martins and bluebirds,
the distant hum of the third shift making its way home,
the relative quiet of my country made at home in the city.
I look down at my hands, dirt from yesterday’s labours still under my nails and
add a mental note to the day’s list to buy a new fingernail brush.
The morning dew coolly anoints my bare feet
The sun shyly peeks past the edge of my world and pauses,
asking permission to enter my morning meditations.
I smile a gentle nod and ask her in.
A new day is begun and I am absolved.

~ Mk Michaels, 2010

Azimuth

Lost. You, my true North.
My compass fails me again;
I turn and look South.

~ Mk Michaels, 2013

Blood Oranges

Blood oranges
juicy, dripping, ripe.
I nibble.
This pleases the orange.

The sweet scent of pink-red flesh
tickles my nose and urges me on.
Zest nips at my tongue
I indulge myself, gorging
honey sweet dripping down my chin.
This, too, pleases the orange.

~ Mk Michaels 2006

In the Event of Loss of Cabin Pressure

At the beginning of each flight, attendants instruct passengers, 

“…in the event of loss of cabin pressure, put the oxygen mask on yourself before helping your children or other passengers.”

As a mother, this directive always troubled me.  What decent mother would take care of her own needs before those of her child? 

Life has a way of bringing its truths full circle until you finally get them.

Three weeks ago my ex of 16 years and my children’s other mother died suddenly.  She had had some health issues for years, but nothing which appeared immediately life threatening.  Unfortunately, this was not the case.  She died.  Gone.  Without even saying goodbye.  Early one morning, she went out for breakfast, had a heart attack while driving and crashed into a telephone pole.  We are told she died at the scene.

In an instant, the amiable relationship she and I had developed after separating ten years ago disappeared.  In an instant, the colorful, comfortable, thriving life I had built for our children in my home was darker, duller, and cloaked in sadness.  In that moment everything changed…and yet so much didn’t.  In spite of the tragedy which made us want to stop breathing, life demanded we keep living.  Bills still needed to be paid; children cared for, groceries bought, homework completed, tests taken, college applications submitted, laundry washed, gardens tended, and life lived.  It seems offensive that the life force on which we had been coasting along now required that we continue living.  

To see my children, who I love with all my heart, in pain and be helpless to make their pain go away is, by far, the most the most overwhelming situation I have ever encountered.  All prior disappointments, devastations, heartbreaks, and traumas paled in existence.  They weren’t even in the same ballpark.  For the first time since my children were born, I was at a complete loss as to what to do to care for them.  I have done what I think are the right things – talked with their teachers and school counselors, made sure both have a therapist they trust to speak with, and encouraged them to stay open to their friends’ offers of support.  My daughter and son are eating, sleeping and still talking, positive signs I am told.  We also hug a lot these days, more than ever before.  

Nature has a way of helping.  We go numb.  We forget.  We find anesthesia and comfort in friends, family, television, books, and the internet.  We escape for a bit.  In time, though, the initial shock wears off and we realize the unfathomable is real.  The impossible was standing dead center in front of me, taunting me with its presence.  It was at this time that I realized it was not only a good idea to take care of myself alongside my children, but that it was an absolute requirement.

So, I am doing just that. I am writing and started this blog.  I met with a counselor this week and, thankfully, am sleeping in spite of my menopausal age.  My garden is a balm too, although I haven't had much time for it in the past three weeks.  This weekend though, she's all mine.  For the first time in my life, I have a thriving vegetable garden - lots of greens, kale, collards, broccoli, mustard, arugula, spinach, fennel, and carrots.  I like feeding my family healthy food grown by my own hands.  

I have put the oxygen mask on and am keeping the oxygen flowing.  Once again though, the flight attendant’s words come to mind:

“…remember that oxygen is flowing, even if the bag is not fully inflated.”

~ Mk Michaels, 2013

Double Quotes

Double Quotes - I often am inspired by another's quote to respond with one of my own. This is a collection of some of the double quotes I have posted.

12/1/2013

You can never get enough of what you don’t need, because what you don’t need won’t satisfy you. ~ Dallin H. Oaks

We have all, at one point or another, tried to fill the void we feel.  In gorging ourselves, overspending, pretending we know it all, grasping at straws, another’s spirit, or another’s body, we attempt to fill the void and obliterate its existence.  None of these proved successful.  None could fill the void we felt in our hearts.  The void, you see, is not physical. It is emotional and spiritual.  If we can, instead, face ourselves in the mirror, evaluate our flaws and address them gently, with the compassion we would offer a sick friend, we can fill the void over time.  We are all worthy of our own kindness and can grow beyond our wildest dreams if we can come to trust our own Spirit over what the outside world would have us believe.  ~ Mk Michaels

 

11/25/2013

Well, I looked my demons in the eyes, laid bare my chest, said ‘Do your best, destroy me. You see, I’ve been to hell and back so many times, I must admit you kind of bore me.' ~ Ray Lamontagne

Our demons are our greatest teachers. Instead of running, listen to them, face them, take the time and actions to slay them. In this, demon-slayers lead happier, richer, and more free lives than the turtles who hide in their shells. Take the leap and see your demons as an opportunity to grow past them. ~ Mk Michaels


11/18/2013
Death ends a life, not a relationship. ~ Mitch Albom

Those we love who have passed before us live on in the ripple effect of their lives; the stories, the laughter, the trials overcome, the life events remembered, the familiar gestures nurtured and seen in their children, and the lessons taught and learned. Each of these remain resident in our memories and hearts long after a physical life has ended and bear witness to a life lived and a person loved. ~ Mk Michaels

Rest in peace, Amy. You are missed. February 22, 1965 - October 22, 2013. 

11/16/2013
 What makes you vulnerable makes you beautiful. ~ Brené Brown

Take the risk and open up a bit; it does a body good. ~ Mk Michaels

11/5/2013

It's a good idea always to do something relaxing prior to making an important decision in your life. ~ Paulo Coelho

Similarly, it is important to recognize those times when an important decision should be deferred. If life feels chaotic, if you have experienced a major life change, or you are simply tired, take a pause. Any action coming from of that place of noise will be a reaction not a decision. Instead, breathe slowly and deeply, get outside, take a look around you both physically and spiritually, and find your center. Then, in that quiet and stillness make a choice. In this, you will be living from a place of intention. ~ Mk Michaels 

10/27/2013

Vulnerability is the only authentic state. Being vulnerable means being open, for wounding, but also for pleasure. Being open to the wounds of life means also being open to the bounty and beauty. Don’t mask or deny your vulnerability: it is your greatest asset. Be vulnerable: quake and shake in your boots with it. The new goodness that is coming to you, in the form of people, situations, and things can only come to you when you are vulnerable, i.e. open. ~ Stephen Russell

Living means being in a constant state of change. Some changes are small and others profoundly significant. Often the changes leave us feeling small, raw, and vulnerable. If we can, instead of digging in our heels and resisting change through gritted teeth, embrace this state and remain open, we will be amazed at the outpouring of blessings, new experiences, and people who come into our lives. We cannot control the changes to come, but we can choose to respond to them in a way which allows new light to come in. ~ Mk Michaels

9/26/2013

I - Want - Peace, I is ego, Want is desire; Remove ego and desire and you have peace. ~ Sri Sathya Sai Baba

You can't always get what you want, but most often you get what you need....usually with an even better outcome than you'd imagined in the first place. So just accept whatever comes and get on with your day. ~ Mk Michaels (with a bit of inspiration from the Rolling Stones)

 9/24/2013

The only way to learn forgiveness is to be betrayed. You might understand the intellectual concept of forgiveness, but you will only learn how to truly forgive when someone has done something that requires you to love them and let it go. Life demands these hurtful experiences for you to learn how forgiveness feels, it could be no other way. If there is anyone in your life that you must forgive, instead of seeing them as someone who has hurt you, try to see them as someone who was sent to teach you forgiveness and thank them for this precious gift – then forgive them, and let it go. ~ Jackson Kiddard

Without exception, the most longstanding and profound relationships in my life have involved some form of betrayal and, in turn, forgiveness. If I'd called it quits on these relationship at the point of betrayal, real or perceived mind you, my family and village would be small, meager, and possibly nonexistent. Forgive, let go in love, and move forward. The best is yet to come. ~ Mk Michaels

 9/23/2013

Love does not claim possession, but gives freedom. ~ Rabindranath Tagore

Hold me loosely, as if a handful of sand. Enfold but not constrain me. Resist the urge to squeeze too tightly or I will trickle through your fingers, forever lost. Allow me the freedom of the open air and the respect to take my own journeys when needed and I will be yours until my dying day. ~ Mk Michaels

9/21/2013

If being alone is uncomfortable for you, it means you are probably not doing it enough. ~ Lakara Foster M.Ed

A strong and abiding relationship with ourself is one of the greatest gifts we can give not only to ourselves but to any other relationship we have, for all will be benefited by it. ~ Mk Michaels

 9/20/2013

God will not make it easy or comfortable for you to be with people or in places that are not in alignment with your assignment ~ Lakara Foster M.Ed

This explains a lot. I find myself curious about and open what comes next. ~ Mk Michaels

9/18/2013

Nothing can complete you except your own self approval and the love of the Universe.
Everything else will leave you wanting more. ~ Mastin Kipp

Developing a deep, loving, and abiding relationship with myself coupled with the loving support of my family and village of dear friends has been one of the most powerful and courageous acts of my life. I highly recommend it! ~ Mk Michaels

9/17/2013

Style is knowing who you are, what you want to say, and not giving a damn. ~ Gore Vidal

There is great freedom in fully embracing who you are at your core and letting that brilliance shine forth. Although your current circumstances may not be your ideal, remember they do not define you; YOU define you. Don't let anyone convince you otherwise. ~ Mk Michaels

8/23/2013

God provides us ALL with soul mates and we will have many of them in our lifetime. However we have to stop limiting ourselves with the belief that there is only a "romanticized" version of this awesome GIFT. Soul mates will come in the form of best friends, family members, relationship partners, spouses, and even strangers. They come here to help us do the work of the soul...to assist us on the journey of remembering what our purpose is...to be the match that lights the FIRE within us so that we shine brighter than we EVER imagined...and that is exactly what we ALL came here to do...SHINE...So take a moment today to acknowledge and thank those wonderful souls who came to work with you!!! ~ Lakara Foster M.Ed

Here's to all the soul mates, soul friends, soul sisters, and soul brothers I am so thankful to have in my life! ~ Mk Michaels

11/20/2012

Don't underestimate the value of Doing Nothing, of just going along, listening to all the things you can't hear, and not bothering. ~Pooh's Little Instruction Book, inspired by A.A. Milne

This weekend, I have no plans. Nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Such decadence! ~ Mk Michaels

7/26/2012

Coffee falls into the stomach … ideas begin to move, things remembered arrive at full gallop … the shafts of wit start up like sharp-shooters, similes arise, the paper is covered with ink …
~ Honoré de Balzac

I like coffee. A lot. ~ Mk Michaels

The Courage to Live Box-less – getting outside the label labyrinth

I have never fit inside a box.  I tried.  At one point or another, I have squeezed my ample self into just about every box imaginable: the good girl box, the bad girl box (much shorter lived and wildly less successful than the good girl box), the wife box, the mommy box, the divorcee box, the post-divorce slut box, the corporate professional box, the earth mother box and on and on………  None were quite the right fit.  I would constrict myself in each box only to feel unsuccessful, frustrated, and more than a little bit crazy.  Most people I knew had boxes. A definition.  A singular label which defined them.  I wanted a box!

A box-less life is a frightening endeavor.  All my friends were boxed.  What was wrong with me that I couldn’t fit comfortably in a single container?  Why couldn’t I find the right one for me?  Was I fickle and incapable of committing to a single box for fear I’d miss a better box? Was I flighty in the same way overeager freshman girls can be, shamelessly flirting with too many upperclassmen in a desperate attempt to avoid yet another Friday night spent at home alone? Was I a frightening freak of nature who defied the convenience of the labels our culture alternately inflicts and embraces?  In all the boxes I tried, I was unable to find an easy resting place, a place to call home.

A box is perceived comfort and security.   Labels on those alluring boxes sent me in a scurry here and there to find something, anything that fit me.  I spent a lot of time running.  I ran toward the ideal of Barbie’s dream house, the Leave it to Beaver picket fence I thought should define the borders of my happiness, and the pinnacle of self actualization on the mountain of Maslow’s hierarchy.  At one point or another each of these seemed to be the right answer.  I also ran away from the terrifying prospect of hiking through life solo, without a constant companion would lend me the anesthesia of her companionship, her courage, dazzle, or sex appeal.  My world was infused with so many ideas of what I should and shouldn’t be.  I should be patient, tidy, kind, responsible, and smart.  I shouldn’t be impulsive, chaotic, cruel, whimsical, or too smart. In trying to fit inside the conflicting messages of what I should and shouldn’t be, I became a consummate people pleaser with virtually super-human abilities to  shape-shift, style-flex, and bring pleasure to everyone I encountered…except me.  I was isolated in my unboxed life and miserable.

To be nobody but yourself in a world which is doing its best day and night to make you like everybody else means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight and never stop fighting. ~ E.E. Cummings

The courage to find your authentic self takes many forms.   Courage requires turning away from the many messages preached by those who influence you; your parents, peers, teachers, pastors, and the ever-present media of who you “should be”.  It takes the audacity to take the life- script written for you and editing it to suit what makes your heart sing, even to the point of shredding it entirely and piecing together slices of scripted words to create a daring new story   It takes that mustard seed of faith to prove you are less crazy than those who surround you, those espousing conventional wisdoms, straitjackets in hand, ready to constrain you if your actions frighten them. Courage is the sun’s knowledge she was born to rise every morning and light our way in the world even if clouds may temporarily occlude her brilliance. Courage is getting out of bed; getting dressed is a bonus.  Other days, courage is sitting still even when the act of stillness demands far more energy than taking action. Courageous stillness shuts out noise, allowing silence to enter and alight alongside you, reassuring you with its mirror of your tranquility.  By sitting in stillness, courage can listen to the silence and, with the cacophony of the world shut out, hear the messages the wisdom the ages are sending you. 

I sat still.  I listened.  I heard. The silence spoke of my own needs, peace, and journey.  Although it felt brutal at the time, the silence made it clear I was on another’s path and not my own. In choosing my next course, I knew I must choose to stop dying the slow death of pleasing others and choose to live on my own path. In this, I appeared certifiably insane to those who comprised my world at the time.

I leapt out of my poster-child “happy” marriage into a void.  I spent ten years falling, getting back up, still in search for the special box labeled “Me.”  I dug deep into my roots.  I sought out and revisited my first love.  It was glorious, exquisite and entirely wrong.  I climbed out of that magnificent wreckage to make so many unexpected discoveries. I discovered I was terrified of being alone.  I discovered I had used other’s bodies, vision, courage, and sparkle to fill the relentless emptiness in my chest. I found the courage to be alone.  I found my own comfort. I learned to trust myself.

I developed a deep abiding relationship with the person I had ignored for most of my life, me.  I found the courage to be unapologetically intelligent and no longer dumb myself down.  I found the courage to take the risk of looking foolish in order to learn a new skill. I took salsa lessons and looked silly for months, but didn’t care. I found the courage to ask for and expect those I love to be physically close when I need it, whether the physicality took the form of a hug, curling up side by side, making love, or hard core fucking.  I also found the courage to ask for space when I wanted it so I could continue to be still and hear the invaluable lessons silence brings.  In the course of attempting to define my box, even my sexuality has run the gamut from being a self-proclaimed flaming heterosexual in my early college years, to being exclusively lesbian for nearly three decades, to choosing  a man I believed could be a ‘no strings / friend with privileges’ type relationship because I was bitter and disgusted with love.  Ironically, I fell in love with that man and, in this, found I am not a 'no strings' type woman. After two years in the relationship that was never supposed to be a relationship, we parted.  With my newfound courage, I knew I could be single and not melt into a puddle of tragic goo.

I found the courage to be different from those around me, often falling outside any of the norms imposed by their own concept of limits.  I found the courage to seek out and do what makes my heart sing; creating art from discarded paint-chipped window frames, found beach glass and wood, and bits and pieces of stamps, pictures, tea boxes, and other ephemera.  I found the courage to write prose and poetry outside my comfort zone and, in this, show my belly and reference the ample body I have fought to hide my entire life.  I found the courage to respectfully acknowledge other’s opinions, but move on past them to find that which suits best me even if others would deem it flighty, unpredictable, and inappropriate. 

I found the courage to be me. 

My authentic self is a good girl, a bad girl, a wife, a mommy, the occasional slut, corporate professional, and an earth mother all in one. I am a fortress, expertly crafted, protected and yet still open to a whole world of experience and people.  I am embodied by a flexible, translucent, permeable membrane allowing me to ebb and flow along with my desires.   I can stand on the edge of a storm swept cliff and yet still gently cup a handful of sand so as not to lose a single grain.   I am as blindingly beautiful as the sun, as humble as a Buddhist monk, as gentle as a feather floating on the breeze, as fearless as a lioness protecting her cubs, as flawed as a Kindergartener’s penmanship, as perfect exactly as I am.  No single box could possibly define me.  The authentic me is the ultimate juxtaposition and I have stopped apologizing for it. 

I'm a bitch I'm a lover.

 I'm a child I'm a mother

 I'm a sinner I'm a saint

 I do not feel ashamed

 I'm your hell I'm your dream

 I'm nothing in between

 you know you wouldn't want it any other way

  ~ Meredith Brooks and Shelly Peiken

 The world will define your box if you let it.  Find the courage to defy the pressures to contort and fit into a single box.  Have the audacity to live box-less.  True, a life without borders can be terrifying at times, but speaking as one who has broken free, rarely looks back, and has no regrets, it is well worth the effort.

~ Mk Michaels, 2013

This article has appeared on Rebelle Society.  http://www.rebellesociety.com/2013/11/29/the-courage-to-live-box-less-getting-outside-the-label-labyrinth/

Junk Food Junkie Haiku

I offered my heart
A delicacy, served rare
But you like hot dogs

~ Mk Michaels, 2013

Echoes of Dylan

The echoes of Dylan, long past, are my companion tonight.
A crystal rocks glass, a family heirloom from my now deceased Aunt,
serves as an elegant companion to Hennessy and two cubes of ice,
and entirely inelegant contemplations.

Emotionally, I am yours.
I always have been,
always will be,
but life moves on 
as swiftly as the river flows, the planets orbit, our Mother Earth turns.

Today, I stand here
looking at the wreckage of my latest attempt,
my most recent effort at contorting reality to fit my ideal of love,
you.
The ideal fell short, as I’m sure you realize.

We tried.  We lacked. 
We beat our wings against the cages we each imposed.
You, complete freedom to fly wherever your heart and fears took you.
Me, a feathered, nest resplendent of jewel tones and ninety nine pieces of art on the wall.
The confines took a beating, bars bent, gaping holes from which either could escape.
One fine fall day, you did.

Escape.

In not pursuing, I set you free.
You never returned.
In this, I have come to believe you were never mine to begin with.

I sip the dregs from my crystal cup,
wash and lay it tidily beside the sink to dry,

and go to bed,
for tomorrow is another day.


~ Mk Michaels, 2013

Her Voice

…Unexpectedly,
Her voice washes over me
again
like liquid love.
A smooth Southern melody
telling tales of
cotton and craft,
art and folk,
she and me.

Elegance and grace
with a twist of
sarcastic tenor,
eliminating any risk of boredom
or unintentionally falling asleep.

Talking with her is
like juggling knives;
mesmerizing, focus required
the hint of danger at the edge
of every phrase.
A silken cord
turned to
barbed wire
should I displease her enough.

This woman, capable
of crushing me with a glance,
could certainly vaporize me with her words.
…..she has, in fact, a time or two.
It took some time
to reassemble the pieces. 

So why, I ask you
would I ever, again, pay heed
to that which
scorched me,
singed me and
scarred me
before?

Am I playing with fire?
Juggling knives again?
Sticking my glorious mane of hair
into the lion’s mouth for the last time,
with equal prospects of delight or decapitation?

But Ohhhh,
Ohhhh,
Ohhhh!
Her voice enfolds me and
sweet, sweet honey drips from her tongue
to mine.

 So I sit
..quietly contemplating
the  urge to swallow
building in my throat.

~ Mk Michaels, 2009

This poem has been published on elephant journal http://www.elephantjournal.com/2015/06/her-voice-poem/