On Children

Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you. ~ Kahlil Gibran

I first heard Kahlil Gibran’s 'On Children' long before I had children. They were sung by two dear friends, Joyce and Jacque, who as singers and a songwriting duo created some of the most beautiful music I’ve ever heard.  Although they did not write On Children, their rendition of the piece set to music resonated in my heart long ago and has remained there to this day.  These words, still heard in my head and heart in Joyce’ and Jacque’s voices, have defined how I parent.  As the mother of two children, a daughter (19 years old) and a son (nearly 15 years old), I am so incredibly proud of the people they are and that they are completely comfortable finding their own way, even if it is not my way. 

It has not always been easy to strike the balance between empowering my kids and keeping them safe; sometimes we have had clashes between their desire to be authentically themselves and my own fears for what their choices might bring into their lives, but we always found a good middle ground.  By and large, they have made really good choices and, in the course of this, they have become independent, kind, hard working, and confident young adults.  We have been through a lot together, my children and me, and there is no doubt we will go through more of this life being individuals who are entirely connected.  ~ Mk Michaels

Playing House

Ever since I was a child,

I loved playing house
in so many different ways.
 
Barbie was a big deal, of course.
From the Barbie camper
under my 8^th Christmas tree
to the plastic Barbie dream house
Santa brought my sister
(and I envied)
the picture perfect pink
idea of 'Home'
was imprinted in my heart
complete with picket fences,
keeping the good in and the bad out.

Although not a house specifically,

as a pre-teen I built forts along the creek
which ran behind our house.
My sister and friends swung across the creek
on the thick vine draped
alongside our homemade Batcave.
In the thick, buggy heat of
the South Carolina summers
we played Batman.
Bobby and Johnny were Batman and Robin, respectively.
My younger sister got to be Batgirl.
Being the oldest, I was Batwoman…
although at the time, I wasn’t convinced
Batwoman was a real super hero.
Eddie, the ‘poor’ kid from down the street
was always the willing bad guy
We chased him whether he was the Joker, Riddler, or Penguin.
Eddie drew the line at playing Catwoman.
I had such a crush on Eddie and
recall one summer he and I pretended
we were dating.
Batwoman and the Joker, an unlikely pair,
but we made it work
for a summer.
 
As I grew older, I made new homes.
 
In my late teens and early twenties,
my dorm room was a sight to behold
and a place for friends to gather.
I was the only one who color coordinated
the fold out couch, in case I had guests,
with the ribbon festooned grape vine wreaths
hung on the walls
alongside the Georgia O’Keefe prints
beneath the stenciled border
I had painstakingly painted
at the beginning of the school year.
A wicker rocker with a
pink, white, and periwinkle cushion,
so everything would coordinate,
rounded out the décor.
Had there been a tour of dorm rooms,
there is no doubt mine would have been on it.

In my mid-twenties, I met a woman I loved

and together we created a home
on our shoestring budget.
We were more broke than broke
and often laughed that we were too poor to use the full word;
so we would stop at ‘po’…
some weeks we were simply ‘p’
but we laughed often
and created a home with the hodge-podge
of furniture we brought together.
The lack of coordination troubled me,
but I made the best of it
and creatively decorated our home
often dragging home treasures found
in other people’s curbside discards.
It worked and, occasionally, I will
come across a knick knack from that time
and smile.
 
Happiness has a way of fading in the face
of reality, fatigue, and complacence
so in my forties I left and ventured out on my own.
In this, I created yet another home.
Colors bursting everywhere,
no two rooms the same,
warm and welcoming,
filled with trusted friends, laughter, and love
it became my nest, my haven, my home but
for more than a decade
in spite of inviting others to share my heart
none were deemed fit or chose to remain.

Until you came along in my fifties.

Our early conversations were filled

with hedges;
     If…
     Maybe…
     Some day…
     Perhaps…
Quickly though, the hedges were trimmed
and eventually, eliminated.
 
Conversations come more easily now;
     When we...
     We will…
     Let us…
     I do…
The walls are beginning to tumble down,
The demolition of impediments has started
and I realize,
I am no longer playing.

~ Mk Michaels, 2015

Unprecedented

“I don’t know what to do with you”,

I say, my brow furrowed
in disbelief.
Kindness
has never coincided
with chemistry.
Passion
has always been accompanied by
poison
in one form or another.

 

Having guzzled more than my
fair share of bottles labeled
‘Drink Me’
I came to believe poison was a
necessary evil
to experience the
power I desired.
 
Apparently, I was mistaken.

 

You,
a combination between
the most tender of whispers and
a force of nature,
rocked my world
while cradling my bruised heart.
Never have I been so glad to have been
wrong.

 

I am reborn
and find my heart
dancing with abandon
to an unfamiliar
yet entirely welcome
beat.
 
You are …
     unexpected
     unprecedented
     and, yes,
     unnerving in moments,
but only in moments.
for in all the other minutes
in our Hours together,
I am…
     unbridled,
     unbruised,
     and, yes,
     unrelentingly
falling into your
precedent.

~ Mk Michaels, 2015