lyrics for wellness
Of all the art forms, poetry is the most economical. It is the one which is the most secret... the one which can be done between shifts, in the hospital pantry, on the subway, & on scraps of surplus paper... As we reclaim our literature, poetry has been the major voice of poor, working class, & Colored women.
~ Audre Lorde, from "Age, Race, Class, and Sex: Women Redefining Difference" (1980)
Where I work at a bakery counter, most customers use "How are you?" as a greeting. This feels unbearable when
you have to answer this repeatedly, and
you aren’t doing well.
Each time, you lie.
You say, “Doing well, and you?” — even though you aren’t well, and you don’t want to hear the customer’s answer (chances are, they’re lying too).
A greeting is functional. But the more you brush away the hurt — because you have to, because you’re at work, because you’re performing — the more it erodes you.
The more it scrapes raw the urge to express, “No. I am not okay.”
Next time a customer asks me, “How are you?” here’s what I would say, if I wanted to disrupt the flow of my workplace and upend others' schedules:
"How are you?"
i am
slowly
waking up
from three months inside
a cold, darkening cocoon.
(it is / quiet in
here but / there is
life in / here.)
i am drowsy, a drooping
sunflower transplanted
from the west coast
where i was raised in
an abundance of sunlight
that never hid its face
the way the sun hides
from this city.
the concept of a long winter
(the concept of winter)
is still taking root
in me.
i am still reel-
ing from the
recent anniversary of
a childhood friend’s
death. it has been five
years, it was going to be
fine, i thought i would
be fine, then i read a
poem born two years ago
in between my faith & his
suicide.
then, grief took me
deep down where i had no
way of breathing, no
way of recollecting
the joy i had left. then,
grief took me.
(months / in a
cocoon / there is
life / what about
months / in grief)
i am
crushed by the pressure
to create by the standards of
what is enough
imagining the judgment of
this audience i stepped before
of my own volition
paying this endless toll
of vulnerability &
calling it a career.
last week, i called a dear friend who
called my creative work “vibrant.”
does that mean "enough" lately, my creativity has sprung
from sadness. insecurity. confusion.
when will it be enough?
lately, creative work is where
(i hide
from the non-
performative
work of healing.)
i am warm-
ing up to the
possibility
of my own well-
ness, dreaming
of joy as more
than memory, how
it must have felt
under my skin,
through my veins, spill-
ing from unpainted lips in
chords of (effortless)
bliss.
i am tasting
the sweetness of
a notion i don’t have
to be over-worked, sleep-
deprived, steeped in sadness,
to create work that is worthy
& build my dreams
from the ground.
(yes, i am blessed to have the
support of so many on Patreon.
yes, to some extent, it cost me
my mental health.)
i am wel-
coming the bitterness
of healing, committing
to it again & again.
i am not well, well-past
pretending, welding this
unsettling tendency
towards vulnerability
with the beginning of hope to
be well like the people whose
care has opened my eyes
to the possibility of
my own joy
(is not merely
the ghost that sparks
a lyric of mourning)
my own joy i am
here this morning, chest rising &
falling, eyes opening & closing,
like the doors to other worlds
painted inside my eyelids, like the
oceans unspoken in my breath
(so much to say, not all of
it will be said), but i am awakening,
i am breathing
slowly, that is (that
always will be) enough.
At the risk of dampening the mood of my blog beyond repair, I'll end by sharing excerpts from the poem mentioned above.
I wrote this poem two years ago, torn between the reality of my friend's suicide & a faith in which some go to Heaven, others are damned.
This month, I'll share the full poem & the journey behind it with subscribers of Watch a poem grow.
