Space of Grace

Inspiration and Creation

2012-01-21T00:36:00.002-06:00

One thing that fascinates me is how creativity inspires and encourages further creative expression. How a poem I read may prime the pump for the emergence from me of another poem -- or some other form. It is magical, somehow. I’m aware of being careful what I read, what fuel I put into the hopper…

A week or so ago, while battling yet another cold, I happened on the Facebook announcement of Virtual Choir 3.0, Water Night. This is an extraordinary choral piece by Eric Whitacre, adapting a poem by Octavio Paz, (translated from Spanish by Muriel Rukeyser). Very cool story about the music came to be composed. I had heard about Virtual Choir 1.0 and 2.0 from a TED talk by Eric.

The way Virtual Choir works is that Eric posts video of himself conducting the chosen piece which he posts online. Virtual choir members then practice and submit individual recordings of their parts: soprano, alto, tenor, or base. These videos are then assembled by a super tech guy into a coherent whole. The results are stunning. VC 1.0 was Lux Aurumque (scroll down), with about 180 singers from 12 countries and VC 2.0 was Sleep with 2052 singers from 58 countries.

The deadline for submissions for VC 3.0 is Jan 31. Even with no voice I was drawn to do this. Although I’d sung in choirs most of my life, the last time was 15 years ago. (Since then I’ve been taking voice lessons which has increased my confidence, etc.) So last week I began with learning the words to the song, listening to my part (alto 4) and listening to the whole and getting acquainted with the technology. All with the hope that I would recover in time.

Every night I “practice.” One night I actually sang. This is a gorgeous piece, a spiritual experience to sing. The more I work with it the more compelling it is. And through the Facebook page, I feel a connection to other singers, struggling with the same difficulties in notes and breathing and tech problems.

I am inspired and encouraged by this experience, however it ends up. And, as it turns out, I’ve written my own poem about the process of creation of this wondrous work that is uniting people all over the world through music, through hopeful vibration…dare I say, healing? Who has inspired you? Come sing!

1/19/12

Thursday

Creation of Water Night

by Eric Whitacre and Octavio Paz

First was the word

and that vibration in translation

set the possibility in motion

that someone, sometime

would come who heard the music

and could set it down.

And in that decision

was the inherent gift,

the Universe saying Yes,

leading to the poem, then

words lassoing the music.

The lotus bud tightly closed

opened its lush velvet petals

revealing the inner gold.

For what was desire

was only a direction to head,

not the ultimate goal.

And direction led to here…

and now…and astonishment…

and beauty everlasting.

Small splash, then larger

as patient tendrils effortlessly

envelope and transform

the ever-expanding whole.

Margaret Dubay Mikus

What I Learned (so far) from Falling

2011-10-26T15:36:00.002-05:00

Saturday, Oct 15, a beautiful, clear, fall day, was the weekend after my husband, Stephen's 60th birthday and we all gathered to celebrate. That afternoon his sister, Barbara, was flying back to Texas and his aunt, Dorothy, was flying back to Michigan. We met our two kids in the Lincoln Park neighborhood of Chicago for brunch before heading to O'Hare Airport. The first restaurant we tried had a wait of two hours, so we decided to walk to another place under a mile away. I was feeling good that day, walking briskly, and talking to my daughter's boyfriend. Suddenly my feet were knocked from under me. We had stepped to one side to let a jogger pass and apparently my foot caught on a decorative stone that was sticking up around a tree in the sidewalk. With nothing to grab hold of I went flying and ... well, the poem tells the story.

It is now 11 days later. I am still sore, but healing fast. Whatever I was going to do was mostly put on hold. What have I learned (again)? It all works out. Whatever life looks like, however messy and even painful, it all works out. I say this from a full awareness of ongoing challenges and sometimes dark days. But I am more and more aware that Life is mystery. Somehow with all that has gone on, I end up in the right place. What have you learned, maybe the hard way?

10/18/11

Hard Fall

The fall

not from grace

but from briskness,

momentum following

ordinary laws of physics.

One moment laughing,

walking, talking,

the next stumbling,

falling, sprawling

into the street

between the curb and

a new brown parked sedan.

From a good day (finally!)

to unbearable pain

embarrassment, shame.

Try to rise

try to dust off

try to see

to act normally

pretending…

but not possible.

Halsted Street and buildings

melt into bright light,

few outlines remain

and the pain

takes over everything.

Not a head hit,

not bleeding,

scraped knees swelling

from inside pants

(material still intact!).

Left shoulder

hit cement curb and though

mind and will are strong as ever,

eyes close.

She retreats into the bubble

forming around her,

hard to stay with him

despite intense entreaties.

Ambulance gurney,

lying down she returns,

shock retreats.

Emergency room.

X-rays. Testing.

Telling the same story

of what happened 20 times.

More herself, joking even.

Flashbacks

play inside her eyelids,

over and over she stumbles

and falls…and falls,

trying to rise on bruised knees.

Nothing broken,

healing begun immediately,

she remembers to take arnica

tablets to minimize bruising.

Also the best of it:

her left side hurt, not dominant right,

no blood or ragged gash to stitch,

help immediate.

Back not wrenched

face not scraped

teeth not chipped

hands not ripped

pants not torn

nor sweater, nor purse, nor coat,

bladder was empty,

her stomach had breakfast.

In some essential small corner

all is well.

Margaret Dubay Mikus

Happy Birthday Mom!!

2011-09-28T22:30:00.003-05:00

Today is my Mother's 85th birthday. She was 25 when she had me, her oldest daughter (second of seven children). Now her life is wrapping up. After a series of many small strokes or "episodes," she has significant cognitive loss according to testing. (Not Alzheimer's.) She was a registered nurse for many years (maybe 50?). But now she cannot recall many words that used to be easy for her and she more often loses her train of thought, which frustrates her.

Yet every Monday we have these amazing conversations, talking of our week, our lives, our memories. I try to be calming and newsy: what's going on with the kids, my husband, or my writing. We try not to talk too much about the medical. I may describe a squirrel swishing his tail on the tree in front of me. And we both remember that my Dad loved to watch the antics of squirrels in our backyard. I am grateful she knows who I am and remembers what is going on with our family. We both consciously treasure these conversations, this time we still have. This is the most recent poem for her.

9/12/11 Monday

An Ordinary Conversation

My mother wanted to remember

and I want to remember

this particular conversation

which started out about disarray

of a problematic week and

took a journey to calm consideration

of life as it plays out.

And if her voice is rough, throat dry

and if memory slips in and out

well, so what? Here we are still

talking of past and mostly present

telling stories that mean something

lending support, encouragement

eye to eye, heart to heart.

What could be better than that?

Margaret Dubay Mikus

Poems as Memory

2011-09-09T15:07:00.001-05:00

Thank you to my new friend, Charlotte McDaniel, who asked me the question " What do I remember?" of 9/11/2001, prompting me to look back.

As with many people, I have very vivid memories of that time. The night before I had flown back from a healing conference in CA, a 10 PM landing at O'Hare airport in Chicago (I had considered staying over another night). In the morning, my husband called me more than a dozen times to wake me, very intense, making sure I was OK and to check on our kids at school. He worked in downtown Chicago, near tall buildings that might have been targets. Personally scary. I remember him being amazing in calming those at his law office.

For me the warm feelings and processing from the incredible conference (Cancer as a Turning Point) were mostly pushed aside in the stunned days ahead. Anything I had planned to write seemed trivial. At some point writing began again as a way to cope and process and express. I did not normally watch much TV and never the news, but like so many others, I was glued to the set. Until my son (age 17) asked me to stop watching, it was making me seriously depressed.

When putting together my first book, As Easy as Breathing, I realized that those who have been through cancer or some other life-threatening experience, learned a lot about living with fear and even to thrive. So the scope of the book got bigger and I included some of my poems from after 9/11.The times we are living in are still deeply infused with fear. And that is not my way to look at things, not healthy and not healing. I try to screen what gets in to me, filtering out the fear-based stuff to a high degree. Or at least to be more aware and choose how I want to live, what I want to believe.

Here are the poems from my poetic journal from that time. It was like powerful time travel for me to read them. What do you remember? What changed for you and might still be healed? What needs to be addressed? What did we learn then, and now ten years later? Who are we, in light of all this?

(In the following poems, I think you will be able to see the point at which I fully surrendered—in the sense of letting all the darkness go, trusting in Divine help.)

9/10/01

Reprise: Flying Home

What is written on the face of the Earth

in swirls and scars and canyons deep,

in rouge rock and snow covered peaks,

in pools of a thousand azure eyes,

in snaking rivers and river valleys?

From within, the voice of the mother,

soothing, healing, scolding and weary.

Where forest grew to clear the air,

if not vanished, diminished, earth-skin exposed,

open sores to fester.

Does hope still rise with the dawn or the moon?

Yes, however improbable.

Margaret Dubay Mikus

9/11/01

Friend or Foe

How do you tell friend from foe?

If you could read hearts you=d know.

One whose heart is open could never harm;

one whose heart is armored

can squeeze out empathy and compassion,

could be capable of any outrage from misdirected passion.

Be wary though do not freeze out.

Notice and discern—trust or not trust.

A friend can be any age, any color,

any height, weight, sex or gender,

can speak any language, wear any clothes

worship any divinity.

A foe does not wear a black hat

or look any different,

it is inside where anger bubbles and hatred brews

that an enemy is made from me or you.

Margaret Dubay Mikus

9/11/01

Still Percolating

"What name do you call yourself

when you want your soul to answer?"

When I can accept myself "as is"

all else will align to that sacred name.

What is it?

Mother of My Self.

Margaret Dubay Mikus

9/12/01

The Day After

When we all sat on the swing between time

before choosing to jump,

I did not say "I wish you a life of nothing happening,"

I whispered, "I wish you strength and courage

and a life full of all life has to offer."

And we jumped, landing in these bodies and families

and in this particular place and time.

Together we came from the stars, the sun,

each navigating a separate course, until we find

our way back together and back home.

Margaret Dubay Mikus

9/14/01

Petty Concerns Fall Away

Though the day is sunny,

cleansing rain falls in abundance.

Hold my hand, kiss me full,

sing me your rich, dark song.

Petty concerns fall away.

Can I allow feeling,

will the ocean wash me clear?

Will those who beg for comfort

allow me peace,

those gone and those who remain?

I call to the Mother of My Self

who answers with compassion,

eyes of infinite pools,

petty concerns fall away.

I rock with my arms around,

holding the essential questions,

"Who am I in relation to this?

How is my course altered,

what am I to do, being true to who I am?"

I rock in the silence

and wait, still.

Petty concerns fall away.

I wait for clarity.

Breathe out…

breathe in…

chest aches from expansion.

Breathe out…

breathe in…

sing my sweetest, sad song,

some notes right, some notes wrong.

Trusting, I have prepared for the unknown,

now I step in

and listen.

Petty concerns fall away.

Margaret Dubay Mikus

9/14/01

No Need

No need for vengeance,

for retribution.

Those who planned to die

in so horrific a fashion

went through the same door

as those who thought they were

going on vacation; both

were met on the other side by generous spirits,

where each felt the result of their actions

in exquisite agony or ecstasy,

and each will return to life

to receive what is owed or to pay.

I have not forgiven.

I am not unforgiving.

I am in the flow of the River.

I am the River,

one thing leading to another.

In my times here

I have done the courageous and the unspeakable,

it has taken me this long to return home.

No one can know

what was re-balanced,

what was set in motion,

what strength found and compassion.

What was scorned is embraced,

what was demeaned is kissed.

The flag waves over the home of the brave.

Do not strike the faces

of those who look temporarily different.

Do not get sucked into shadow.

Margaret Dubay Mikus

9/16/01

Willing Myself to Live

A bitter wind

blew off my skin,

leaving me still standing,

bones and sinew exposed and raw,

mind reeling, uncomprehending.

How can I possibly heal,

how can I make sense of this

and live in the world again

as a loving child of a loving God?

I rock with this question:

Who am I in relation to this?

I attempt to breathe,

but air lacks nourishment

and my chest is crushed with weight.

I will my belly to rise and fall.

Breathe in…and out.

I will myself to live.

For protection,

my heart has closed

like the petals of a camera shutter.

Breathe out…breathe in,

into my heart, willing myself to live,

to feel, to risk embrace.

Margaret Dubay Mikus

9/20/01

The Story Up to Now

How many times did you see

planes hit the World Trade Center,

holes gaping from the sides, black smoke and flames

billowing out, people clinging desperately?

How many times did you see two 110 story towers

unzip from steel girders and cement supports and crash,

spire pointing straight up all the way down?

How many times did eyes take in

the flaming Pentagon, ears hear possible

body counts as survivors checked in…or did not.

It happened only once. Once was more than enough.

Yet everywhere horrified, scared people

stayed glued in shock to TV=s

where we saw these raw images over and over

so like special effects in a movie,

so chillingly real.

***

On September 9th, a dear friend wrote us while traveling

on the train to New York City, letter postmarked September 10.

She grew up on the lower East side, minutes away from WTC.

I couldn't get word of her.

Though I felt she was fine,

I longed to hear her voice or see her face in the crowds.

For 6 days I called—no answer.

***

The stories put a human face on unreal tragedy:

the people who weren't at the towers, but would have been,

who chose to walk the dog a bit longer on a fine, clear fall NY morning,

the chef who had his eyes checked at the optometrist on the first floor,

the CEO who took his son for the first day of "big boy school,"

the financial analyst who went clothes shopping,

the lawyer who overslept and took a later train.

And the ones who were not usually there, but were on that day—

who had a rare meeting on floor 105,

who caught an earlier plane,

who made a UPS delivery.

There were husbands and wives who rode into the city together

and diligent workers at their desks on time

and those whose job it was to rescue the trapped.

So many lost.

So many saved.

Could have been worse.

All planes grounded, the skies are still.

And news filters in of who is thought responsible,

how teams trained here, lived here, drank at local bars,

rented houses and cars, charging on Visa.

Slowly the unimaginable details—and then faces

to put on terrorists, at first suspected,

then "confirmed," 19 young men.

Cell phone calls from the doomed, in planes, in towers,

"We've been hijacked—men with knives."

"I=m fine. Don=t worry."

One plane crashes in an Amish field in Pennsylvania—

all aboard killed. Still the good news—

no one else killed, no crucial symbols demolished.

We piece together from calls what happened, how

a decision was made, knowing the consequence

either way. "I love you…good bye."

Other buildings teeter, burn, collapse.

Essential services cut off, thousands roam the streets,

faces shocked blank or crumpled, holding pictures of the missing,

clinging to a shred of hope for sons, daughters, husbands, wives,

friends, co-workers, fathers and mothers.

The president speaks.

His presence reassures—one symbol untouched.

The president speaks again, rising to comfort,

"we are a peaceful people, slow to anger,

but once aroused, will…"

How to feel safe,

how to feel?

The immediate fog lifts after a time.

My son asks a favor—stop

watching television. I comply,

I don=t usually watch, but felt compelled.

***

On Sunday after the Tuesday, I call and my friend answers.

Though I chose not to worry,

I am flooded with relief. We talk four hours.

She had been close to the crashes. She saw the first gaping black hole.

Her friend's mother had been at that moment having open heart surgery

at St. Vincent=s Hospital where many of the victims would later be taken.

Her mother lives 15 minutes away from the WTC,

my friend could walk over and shop.

She remembered a wonderful dinner at the restaurant on the top.

Reluctantly, we hang up.

***

Slowly, daily life finds a direction.

What to do? How to help?

What to think? How to allow feeling?

Important that more innocents were not lost.

Flags waving everywhere. "God Bless America."

Whose God? Who is excluded? Who is included?

Important here of all places, that the melting pot not boil over.

What does this mean for travel, for immigration,

for all dark-skinned, dark-eyed people,

for anyone who is perceived as a bit different?

Can we live with suspicion? Will we send

all who are unlike ourselves to camps?

We have done it before.

Do we retaliate? Do we bomb? Are we at ease

with escalating loss of life?

Where does it end?

I pray those making decisions will make good ones,

understanding the lessons of history,

considering twenty future generations.

I pray they will be deliberate

and consult not only the "experts," but also the Divine—

and then listen.

So much is unknowable.

Some mistakes cannot be set right—

innocent men, women and children, once killed

cannot be un-killed. Yet this identified enemy

who could plan and carry out such

deliberate horrific tragedy,

cannot be allowed to continue.

It is not enough to catch one man,

to track down and eliminate his deadly network,

it is essential that deep changes be made,

not out of fear, but in love,

of ourselves and all others.

Margaret Dubay Mikus

9/21/01

Life Has Meaning

I can sit in the dark

at a table to eat

and not turn on the light.

I can talk, cry or scream

and rock myself to sleep

in the darkest of dark.

I do not have to seek the light,

like a woman who has been burned.

I can sit still

in the dark unafraid

of what it holds,

patient for what will be revealed.

The strongest true thing

keeping me tied to this world

is the belief that life has meaning.

If that piece of the puzzle is removed,

even as a possibility,

the rest of my life falls away.

What I have been through—

more than some, less than some—

had some purpose, shaped me, led me.

If I let go of that,

I lose any reason to stay.

Yes, I have loved and love still…

I let it all go…

And jump or fly…

Where will I land, if anywhere?

Margaret Dubay Mikus

9/21/01

Still

I have nothing to say.

I am sitting still.

I am in the dark

as much as ever.

Illusion of security

ripped away,

hit by a steamroller—

you know how big

and heavy that is,

how deceptively smooth,

how flat you=d be,

what chance of recovery.

Margaret Dubay Mikus

9/23/01

I GIVE UP

I FUCKING GIVE UP

Margaret Dubay Mikus

9/24/01 Mon

I ride the roller coaster

until the end.

I open a door and close it

never to return.

Margaret Dubay Mikus

10/3/01

Aftermath

It is as if

the floor was smeared with butter

and I slipped into the air

and stayed suspended there—

not falling or landing hard,

not rising or flying off,

but suspended in space, in time

with the very rules I live by.

No gravity, no pull of the earth,

no cause and effect,

one second not following another,

even breath suspended,

waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Margaret Dubay Mikus

10/6/01

Shine

We've all been around the block

more than a few times.

We've seen more than our eyes could hold,

heard more than ears can bear.

We stood out under the sun, the moon,

arms held out in supplication,

hearts bursting with the pain of living.

And the skies opened and swallowed us.

In dreams we traveled to other lands

with more flexible rules governing

behavior of the physical realm.

And we returned refreshed or confused

to begin again.

One clear thing to note:

we are not alone, but with

those here who walk parallel to our steps

and those who responded to our cosmic calls.

But this one thing is true:

the only way to safely navigate

in such treacherous waters

is to attune to our Center, our Core,

align with the Heart and the Source of all power.

Like a lamp plugged into an electric outlet,

we will shine once turned on.

Margaret Dubay Mikus

Inspiration

2011-08-04T15:30:00.005-05:00

It has been very hot here, thus the refreshing fountain, which also applies to today's topic.

I read two poems last Friday at the open mic at RHINO Reads at Brothers K coffeehouse in Evanston, IL. About ten of us read (roughly 4 minutes each), followed by the two featured poets.

I am intrigued by how creativity inspires or "primes the pump" for further creative endeavors. Like writing or art or dance or architecture, etc.… opening a door to a new poem or photograph for me.

The origin of first poem is self-explanatory. Ralph Hamilton is a great guy who MCs the monthly readings. A bit of a risk reading a poem for someone who was there. But I gave him a heads up when I sent him an earlier version of the poem last week. Bravely, (or kindly) he did not discourage me from reading it.

The second poem is a reflection on the healing power of art inspired by Woman Made Gallery in Chicago. Beate Minkovski is the co-founder and executive director. I have been a member there for years and I never leave without feeling energized.

What inspires you?

6/9/11

In Response to Ralph Hamilton

(inspired by a Rhino blog entry on what he looks for in poetry)

Let me gently read aloud

your razor words back to you

so you will hear and see and feel what I do

what is true and not true.

So you can step outside

the mind creating

and be immersed in creation,

be swept away swimming.

You are unworthy you say

self-absorbed, lonely, even lazy.

Yet what you dared to write

sings louder to me than words.

Be kind, outside the familiar

voice of harsh critical judging,

reflecting on how far from

the intent is the attempt.

Be generous, as if you were someone else,

believe your words bravely written

have something essential to say to someone,

open long-closed channels, move immovable mountains,

expose exquisite unique facets.

Poetry is big enough you say

for differences to grate or soothe or rouse.

There is no success or failing,

there is no measuring up to

what might have been, if only…

There is only this:

life, full, repressed, expressed.

And a container, hopeful bowl of cherries,

even pitted, may still contain pits.

Risk a bruised or broken tooth

for the tart sweetness and abundant juice.

Margaret Dubay Mikus

(These two evocative photos were taken at Eyes Wide Open, Beyond Fear--Towards Hope: An Exhibition on the Human Cost of the Iraq War in Grant Park, Chicago, IL, May, 2007

2/27/07

Thinking of Beate

Sometimes art heals

by soothing, sometimes

by lancing the boil, or

by opening the eyes

to fresh possibilities.

Sometimes it closes a door

to a room filled with stale air,

sometimes screams

from a dark bottomless pit,

sometimes presents

wonder on a silver platter.

Sometimes art compels to look,

sometimes can barely look;

the healing subtle

or heart pounding,

one fully present moment

resounding over the ages.

All I am telling you is this:

there is no doubt art heals.

Margaret Dubay Mikus

Sale

2011-07-05T23:16:00.000-05:00

Summer/ Winter Sale at Smashwords.com! (It's winter down under.)

Now is a great time to check out my new book, Letting Go and New Beginnings: A Mother's Poetic Journey, about healing relationships.

50% off until the end of July!
Just enter coupon code SSW50 at checkout. Thanks for your support!

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/39211

Let Us Remember

2011-05-27T23:23:00.002-05:00

More natural disasters have come since the huge earthquake in Japan, so this poem could also apply, for example, to those in Joplin, Missouri, who suffered a huge tornado last week that wiped out most of their city (50,000 people), winds over 200 mph and many dead, wounded, or missing. Their Medical Center looks like a bomb hit it. So this poem below is for them too. On this Memorial weekend of remembering soldiers (and their families) who sacrificed, let us remember all the lost. And do what we can. We are all connected.

4/14/11

Remember Japan

post-earthquake

Now is the time to help

those who have been forgotten

whose earth swallowed

their homes and

whose sea washed their bodies away

And now who are off the front page

out of public consciousness

reduced to silence except for

radiation upgrades and occasional aftershocks

and back page human interest

Yet starving in masses, scanning rubble

that had been neighborhoods for anything familiar

Painful to imagine

But the stories, if any, buried where

few might read and be moved to action

Now is the time to help

put out a hand, a prayer, a dollar, a kindness

Anything…

Everything matters

to those who have nothing

Margaret Dubay Mikus

On Being a Mother and a Daughter

2011-05-08T21:26:00.004-05:00

Expressing the essence of being a mother, a line often comes to mind from my poem, "After You Left" in Letting Go and New Beginnings (For entire poem see post 37 on 3-29-11 )

"Constantly

I am watching out for you.

Even when I am not watching,

I am watching."

"Even when I am not watching, I am watching…" Even when I need my own life, I gather my "chicks" now grown, under my wing. I can't help it. Even if I struggle for balance and need to take better care of myself, if they need me, I want to be there for them.

What is the most important thing we want to teach our children? How do we free them to go out and live their lives fully? How do we transition to a more adult level relationship with our offspring, the foundation for the rest of our lives? How clearly can our children ever see us as real people?

Here is another poem about being a mother.

1/19/03

Upon Returning Home

From birth

letting go

and letting go,

letting go.

If I have taught you anything

let it be this:

kindness.

Striving, yes

but be generous.

I let you go

and heal from the wound

and then you return

as promised

and gradually I adjust

and trust.

Then you leave

as I know you must

and I am filled with longing and sadness.

Letting go,

letting go

the greatest gift,

not to hold and define and smother,

but to see you writ large

by your own hand.

And I am always

your mother,

not a strange mythological creature

who tames dragons and rides unicorns,

but a woman

of flesh and bone.

Not frozen artistic perfection,

a marble statue unchanging, beautiful,

but a work in progress,

the same as you.

Margaret Dubay Mikus

From Letting Go and New Beginnings: A Mother's Poetic Journey

As I wrote before, my mother-in-law, Rae, died in March. It felt very strange this first Mother's Day without her. I kept thinking to remind my husband to call. It looked like my Mom might also be wrapping up her life, but she is strong in so many ways and she rallied. On Mondays after my voice lesson I call her. We both consciously treasure our wide-ranging conversations—for however long we have. (I sent her tulips.) Two recent poems about her.

2/14/11

Valentine's Day Conversation with Mom

Even close to the end,

eyesight failing,

words dropping out of her repertoire,

she looked to the west

over the building tops

from her apartment balcony

appreciating, savoring,

thoroughly enjoying a magnificent sunset,

full of vivid description

of the flaming band of clouds

that spanned the horizon,

filled with the grace of it, the joy.

And even a day later

would see it still in her mind's eye

and tell her poet daughter

400 miles away, who could then

see it also…and enjoy…and write….

Margaret Dubay Mikus

2/17/11

Mom

At some point

often a phone call in the night

and someone you love

is gone. Right now

all I'm saying

is the beginning of the end.

And if I cling to the notion,

the belief, that life is eternal,

still I am aware

it ends in this form

and there will be…soon…

one last hug, one last conversation.

As much as I try

not to think about it,

to be in the moment

where you still are,

still I cry softly

when I consider

you not being here.

Margaret Dubay Mikus

Retrograde: To Look Again

2011-04-21T15:08:00.004-05:00

During much of this month (until April 23) the planet Mercury has appeared to be going backwards in the sky (an optical illusion). According to astrologers this is called a period of Mercury Retrograde, when life may seem less smooth, specifically with disruptions in communications. Generally not the best time to sign a major contract or buy a house, for example.

Whether you believe this Mercury retrograde business or not, there does seem to be a time of "shake-up" around that time, and people don't like it. In a workshop I took years ago, the teacher said this was a time to do things that begin with "re": Reflect, restore, rejuvenate, replenish, review, rest, relax, redo, renovate, etc. You get the idea. A time to look back, clear out and begin life fresh again. So I do not dread these times, when my computer or internet seems more likely to be off kilter, I try to take care of myself and clear off my desk (an ongoing challenge) and not take it personally. A great time to get a massage, take a walk, breathe deeply, do yoga, re-connect with old friends…

Here is a poem I began while getting a massage with Brigitte, thinking about restoration of body, mind, emotions and spirit.

Note: Khofu was a pharaoh in ancient Egypt. In 1954 a ship (solar barge) was discovered buried at the base of the great pyramid of Giza. The ship is held together by a sophisticated system of ropes stitched through holes in the planks.

4/6/11

During Retrograde

After Brigitte

From Jell-O or pudding

reconstitute a human

build muscle in lattice of bone

use ligament and tendon

to lash the boat together

like the great ship of Khofu

that lasted four thousand years and counting

Remake organs from blueprints

found in memories' closet

that box on the top shelf never opened

but now essential

for restoration, renovation, revolution

The eyes of innocence, not naïve or wary

but open to beauty

The ears, the tongue fresh from the factory

brain, heart, programmed for compassion

Blood courses through the map

of newly laid arteries and veins

The pump begins again

Nerves reflexively control all motion

all manner of sensation

Cleansed of barnacles of tension

washed free of grime and lampblack

covering innate light

All in all, all is well

considering…

Margaret Dubay Mikus

Review of As Easy as Breathing (and Full Blooming CD)

2011-04-18T00:05:00.004-05:00

By Pramod Uday

Spiritual being, teacher and speaker from India

http://pramod.podomatic.com

Let me begin by telling you that I really love the title. On many occasions, when I was upset or worried, just looking at this book sitting neatly on my reading table brought me just enough relief to "point me downstream". I feel Margaret heals more through this work than any other anthology.

Writing in her open, sensitive and yet detached vein as always, the poet impresses on the reader the need to get unstuck and flow with life. What one cannot but marvel at is how her poems create both the impression of having flowed smoothly through a wide conduit of inspiration and yet seem to have been subjected to the meticulous chisel of a finicky craftsmen. One can sense this palpable tension of sorts quite clearly, for example, in the piece entitled To Dance is To Be, where you find a very dynamic and lively snapshot of gracious dance movements. Let me be clear here - this conflict only adds to the merit of the poems as it provides another glimpse into Margaret's loving care for words.

The poems address a wide variety of topics ranging from healing to allowing, filial love to finding your purpose and much more.

I highly recommend this book. However, if you want to completely relish the sweetness of Margaret's poetry, I really think you should listen to them in her own voice as found on the CD Full Blooming, which is a reading of selected poems from the book. The enchanting quality of Margaret's voice is so full of that rare elusive quality, what one might dub muliebrity. Margaret's poetry itself is autobiographical. But when you listen to them in her own voice, the full sincerity and warmth of her words easily seep into the cockles of your heart. Suffice it to say that listening to this CD is like a deep relaxing session of meditation. You will find that your fatigue and stress has been removed and that your soul has been nourished and replenished from within.

Thank you, Pramod, for your generosity and thoughtful reviews. I am most grateful!
Check out As Easy as Breathing and Full Blooming CD to see for yourself.

Unexpected Fierce Mother

2011-04-15T23:32:00.001-05:00

Amazed, I looked out into my wooded yard today. At first I thought some crows were attacking a large rabbit. But it was the other way around. She (I assume is was a she) was chasing after two huge crows like a mini-sheep dog. Ah! A tiny bunny running scared along the brick of the back of the house. Cowering in the mulch at the corner of the step. Stay there! I urged from inside, but he kept on running along the edge of the house and out of sight. Fearless and tireless, the momma kept after those crows whenever they dove down with their black wings widespread. She stopped to rest only when the threatening birds were far up in the trees or flew into the field behind us. I was called away by someone at the door, so I don't know what happened in the end. But I was rooting for the rabbits. Even though they eat our garden, they are such a delight to see, especially the magic of the babies.

The apparently fierce mother reminded me of this poem:

1/17/04

The Fierceness of Loving

Now you are gone

the silence has a presence of its own.

I have longed to get back

to my other life,

the one that continues when you leave;

my gift to you, this letting go.

I missed you the moment you left

and allowed myself that time to grieve

and keen and then as therapy

I began to clean,

partly restoring order,

partly to focus on something concrete

and unrelated, partly meditation,

fulfilling my dream of good intention.

I missed you before you left

and struggled against

the thoughts that brought tears,

for after all you were still here.

And now

to resume a life disrupted,

not to pick up the same threads exactly—

for the river of life continued to flow

carrying me to new harbors,

opening fresh possibilities.

Thank you for coming back to us,

what joy to watch you grow!

How much I have learned

about the fierceness of loving.

Margaret Dubay Mikus

From my new book, Letting Go and New Beginnings: A Mother's Poetic Journey

and my CD, Full Blooming: Selections from a Poetic Journal

Dad's Birthday

2011-04-02T23:16:00.001-05:00

Today was my Dad's birthday. Happy Birthday, Dad! No one alive knows any more the truth or myth of the family story that his mom tried to hold off his delivery until after April Fools Day, 1925. But babies come when they are ready and even a very stubborn German lady might not be able to pull that off!

He died in 1985, (when my son was just shy of one year old). He was 60, the age I am very aware of approaching. And very aware of how young that was, how much I have left I want to do. In 2009 I posted some poems for his birthday. Here are a few more.

10/5/08

Watermelon Reminds Me of Michigan

My strapping Dad buying

a couple big, unsplit,

possibly ripe, whole ones

for the extended family reunions.

Chill and wrap in layers of newspaper

to keep cool in summer heat.

Slippery wet black seeds

could be pinched between thumb

and forefinger,

shooting some distance

into park crabgrass

or spit, with juice

running down the chin,

face a satisfied grin.

Yes, that watermelon,

sometimes salted half-moon slices

or quarters for the youngest

(don’t eat below the pink part!)

treats in the hot season,

limited availability then.

Margaret Dubay Mikus

7/18/10

Sitting With It

My uncle died last week,

my Dad’s only brother,

I was not that close to him

so the intensity of my grieving

ambushed me.

But he represented my father,

gone these 25 years,

and he represented my past, my childhood,

my tribe, my clan (all that expectation).

All the memories wrapped up in one man.

He represented all the aunts and uncles beginning to pass on

and my mother, waiting in line.

I am from Michigan people who gathered

and stayed together, supported each other.

And I left them to find myself—

the gain in that decision

greater than the loss, but there was loss nevertheless,

any connection to them from a distance.

Any relationship of my children to them,

more fragile and tenuous.

(My children did not grow up with

extended family at every important occasion.)

And now that my Dad’s brother is gone…

no more chances for understanding.

Margaret Dubay Mikus

My father was a complex man and we had our troubles growing up, but I am grateful for many things, the lessons I continue to learn from him. This poem was written as part of body-mind-emotion-spirit energy healing work I did with Tricia Eldridge (founder of Energy Touch School for Advanced Healing in Michigan) to deal with recurring abdominal weakness and other persistent health issues.

12/1/09

Old Wounds Healed

My Dad came this time,

invited to participate,

to undo what had been done,

to take back what had been said,

lodged in my gut but rightfully

belonged to him.

She said he struggled with it,

but kept on until the dark mass,

that chain and ball or anchor?

who knows, not mine,

but his, and now returned to him,

leaving me lighter, healing.

He died 24 years ago,

I have worked hard

over and over to heal and forgive.

Last week he showed up

clearer than ever—in a good way—

sitting at our old Formica kitchen table,

cutting giblets and celery for stuffing

the Thanksgiving turkey.

Was that his ethereal gold form

standing last night in my room?

Did he choose to come help

or did I call him…or both…or neither?

Just the right timing,

you know how this works:

what is ready to be healed

come up to the surface.

However painful, allowing the feeling

releases the hold.

Still true,

still true.

Margaret Dubay Mikus

IWWG at Brown, part 3

2011-04-01T00:45:00.005-05:00

These are my final poems and a few pictures from the IWWG conference at Brown University in summer, 2010. (Some poems written at home just after.) The Remember the Magic conference has been going on more than thirty some years, a long time, mostly at Skidmore College. Last summer it was at Brown, this summer it will be a Yale, but smaller in scope. This is an organization in transition and like all transitions, personal or organizational, the outcome is not certain. The possibilities numerous and spacious. I am grateful for the weeks I had to go out on my own, with other women writers, and discover and be myself. The joy of creation and then coming home. What remains of all the glorious insight when I am back in the context of daily life?

8/4/10

To write on unlined paper

to color outside the lines

willing to be seen as different

not go along to fit in.

To be joyful

to carry a glass at least half-full.

To embrace change

as pure possibility, wait and see.

To practice

what I almost preach

to walk the talk

without squawking.

Margaret Dubay Mikus

8/5/10

For Kitt

You don’t know

what they say about you

but I do

“That Kitt Alexander,

I just love her!”

I’m not making this up

from fervent imagination.

It really happened.

Would I lie to you?

Margaret Dubay Mikus

8/5/10

Lessons in Self-Care

Every day, wake up

balance consciously as best I can

stay with it

brush teeth twice, morning and night,

shower, lotion, and deodorant.

Clothes in colors that vibrate and resonate.

Water often. Food as fuel. Walk. Listen. Smile.

There is more I'm sure,

just promise to pay attention

as best I can, as best I can.

Margaret Dubay Mikus

8/8/10

Post-Conference

Opportunities will arise
to gently exercise
underused muscles like

the muscle to stick up for yourself

to be assertive on your own behalf,

or the muscle to listen to inner guidance

without struggle or shyness,

or the muscle to hear the voice

that says time to rest.

Each an opportunity to practice

what you know is true.

This way you are is not the True-you,

just the collection of life choices

and circumstances up to now,

conscious or unaware,

added to what you came in with

and what you were given to work on.

And now is the chance to choose again,

begin to re-write the old story.

Margaret Dubay Mikus

8/8/10

Thinking of You

Time and again

I have faced the inevitable end

and thus far

it has always receded

to the indefinite future

where you still are.

Margaret Dubay Mikus

8/8/10

Lie Down

Lie down in the clouds above you

separate for a moment from the life you lead

float for a bit weightless

just for a moment

then drift back

light

breathe

and re-animate

wiggle bare toes, feel grass tickle

feet grounded but light on the face of earth

Margaret Dubay Mikus

8/9/10

Monday Walk After Singing

Empty

Fill

Be filled

Empty

Walk to the lake

muscle kinks work out

mind stills with steps taken

See the new ivy shoots

on crumbling brick wall

Drink water

go on after intersection

Check in. Go on

Surprising how far goes

one foot in front of the other

Drink water

Turn back at the end

walking uphill now

comfortable stride

Left, right

walk with both feet

heel, toe, shoes re-tied

just right

Cut across church grass

not exactly explicitly forbidden

Drive off smiling

at workmen spreading out dirt

under very old trees

Margaret Dubay Mikus

8/9/10

Someone Said

Someone said something

a small puzzle

a sliver under the skin

irritatingly hard to remove.

Why of all the kind words spoken

should these thoughtless ones remain?

Because of implication

because I want to please everyone

(including myself)

even though that is not possible—

there is no pleasing some people.

Let it go. Don’t you know.

Let it go, my sweet potato.

Talk and untangle.

Walk and calm.

Sweat and sleep and write

and bless all the teachers

who have come.

Bless and move on along.

Margaret Dubay Mikus

8/9/10

Home

Back home with

magic in my bones

how to sustain

in my usual domain

where it appears

nothing has changed

the demands, the constraints

the ties that bind.

How to be as I was:

most gloriously my own?

Margaret Dubay Mikus

Surprises of Both Kinds

2011-03-29T23:02:00.024-05:00

Some surprises are welcome and others not. Recently we have had some of both. My husband and daughter went to Michigan to see his mother, who was in failing health. They had a wonderful visit at the hospital, though it was clear she was declining. When they were almost home, a call came that she had died. Last Monday we came back from her funeral. (In the first week of January, Stephen's Dad, who had been very hardy, slipped on the ice in his driveway and died in the hospital days later.) They were both in their eighties and we were aware time with them getting short, so we had made more trips than usual to Detroit last year. Still there is no way, really, to prepare, and losing both parents so quickly is especially hard. My way of coping was, as usual, to write. Here is a poem about my mother-in-law, Rae.

3/16/11

Rae's Last Day

I can picture her standing there

in front of the living room picture window

small, fragile, vulnerable, frail,

wearing her tan jacket

and matching tan pants,

her hair done just so,

and I gave her a hug and said

we'd soon see her again

knowing it was nearing the end.

And today was the end

of that complex book,

the last page of dialog written

in a grace-filled hospital room

with loved ones gathered around.

All she needed to slip away

more or less easily, graciously, consciously.

To say and hear "I love you," to laugh,

to be herself. To wrap up long life,

to breathe the last sacred breath…

and go.

When preparing his mother's eulogy, Stephen unexpectedly turned to my new book, Letting Go and New Beginnings: A Mother's Poetic Journey. Over the 16 years of my poetry writing, Stephen has supported me in many ways. Often I read to him poems that I wrote for him. But typically he does not read my poems on his own. This time he was looking for something that would express the mother's voice—in a sense speak for his mother—and amazingly he thought of my book to find something that fit. These are the three poems he chose to read in the course of his eulogy. I love my poems being used, in that sense, a good surprise.

1/20/06

Reset Button

In a sense

I have not allowed myself

to let go

of your small hand in mine

as we cross the busy street,

although I know you are ready

and you know you are ready.

Perhaps guilt over sometimes

letting you cry, when I

needed my own life,

but felt stuck in the apparent

confines of caring for two small children

—the life I had,

a life I had chosen.

But now, do you see it too?

It is time to let go

and walk side by side as equals,

each as tall as the other,

each as weak and as strong,

each sometimes needing a hand.

Margaret Dubay Mikus

7/1/06

Mother of Adult Children

You want me to be there

when you want me to be there,

and to disappear when

you are no longer—

presumably temporarily—

interested.

How fair is that? And,

that is OK with me…

up to a point.

Margaret Dubay Mikus

2/24/08

After You Left

Constantly

I am watching out for you.

Even when I am not watching,

I am watching.

I cannot say why this is true

or when it began,

it feels like forever

my love.

So do me a great favor

and become…not less carefree

nor less careless,

nor even more careful,

for being full of care

is not it exactly.

Be more aware of your choices,

Symbolic

2011-03-13T01:31:00.014-06:00

When we save things our babies have outgrown to later pass on to our kids for their babies, it means more than just the things themselves. They symbolize the dreams we have for our children, our wish to be part of their lives, and our desire to support them. Here are two poems about things I saved to pass on and what happened to those plans.

As expectant parents in 1984 we wanted everything to be perfect for our baby. This first poem is in my new eBook, Letting Go and New Beginnings: A Mother's Poetic Journey.

11/20/06

Passing Love Along

I painted this chest of drawers

when I was big with my firstborn.

I chose the handles of yellow, red, green, and blue.

I drilled new holes, putting wood dowels and wood putty

into the old holes, lovingly sanding smooth.

I added a white, coated-wire shelf

and screwed it onto the side to hold

the powder, cream, and baby wipes.

I sewed a green cover for the pad to act as changing table.

And after he was born this is where we changed him.

This dresser moved with us to the new house

and has been in his closet as he grew. Twenty-two

years he is now and gone to an apartment in the city,

no place here or there for this white chest.

We are ready to let it go with a blessing

to a hopeful family crossing the ocean,

welcoming them to the beginning here of their new life.

Margaret Dubay Mikus

The second poem was prompted by the news: a law passed that cribs with side rails that went down were unsafe and could no longer be sold. Since cribs are used for such a short time, most cribs are bought second hand or passed down. When I was pregnant with my son, we picked out a really good crib with matching dresser that would be used for both our babies and handed down the generations. After saving it in the basement for 23 years, this week that crib went out with the trash. What else could we do with it, in good conscience, but let it go?

3/6/11

Old Crib

(as best we can)

The crib that we choose with deliberate care

has now been determined and declared

unsafe for all babies—or some—

even though the slats were closer,

even though we entrusted our two new ones

to its nighttime enclosure with the bumper pads

of bright cars or pink buds with lace, matching comforters.

Now it cannot in good conscience be saved

for grandchildren yet unconceived.

It could be kept as a souvenir

of lost sweet baby days, but what would be the point?

Let it go forevermore

bless what use we had of it

what love surrounded those precious lives

just then at their beginning…

Margaret Dubay Mikus

What have you let go this week? And why?

Inspiration in a Crisis

2011-03-06T23:23:00.000-06:00

In early December we got news that a dear friend was in the hospital and doing very poorly. Her husband called and it sounded dire. Stephen and I were supposed to attend a Folkstage concert that night (Buskin and Batteau at the WFMT radio station in Chicago), but my husband had the flu and couldn't go. I was upset, but he encouraged me to go on my own, as the music often moves me and we have made many friends there. During the concert, this poem began in my head for my friend, Barbara, expressing my love for her. (She gave permission to share this poem.) I am very happy to say she has recovered! The line "choose joy" came from one of the songs they performed that night, because Barbara is one of the most joyful people I know.

12/4/10

For Barbara and Me

Begun during Buskin and Batteau

Choice-time.

Choose to stay,

choose to live,

take care of yourself

as if you were someone else,

as you took care of me

so unselfishly

able to put aside

all other consideration.

Choose that

for yourself

my sparkle girl

(it takes one to know one).

And if you choose to go

know I am grateful

for you here

up to now.

But stay,

choose to live,

choose joy…

“Missing you already”

you wrote to me

on a flower post-it

stuck where I would find it

when you left for home.

Love you forever

whether days are short

or however long.

IWWG at BROWN, part 2

2011-02-25T17:33:00.000-06:00

Spent the week recovering from the flu. Came on suddenly right after I did my last post. I trust all is well with you. Here are more poems I wrote at the IWWG Remember the Magic writing conference at Brown and a few photos. Includes two more from my self-guided project on doors poems and photographs. Providence is a lovely place. Inspirational.

Let me ask you. What is the purpose of poetry? Do any of these poems or pictures evoke a feeling or memory for you? Are there any doors in your life that are closing or opening? Let me know below.

Now it's easy to share these posts with your friends on Facebook or Twitter by clicking the appropriate icon below.

8/4/10

Home Body

Some choose looks

over feeling,

unaware or ingrained,

mind over body,

emotion over body,

anything over body.

Body, the second class citizen,

mundane matter subject

to vagaries and whim.

Body that speaks one language

to get attention:

discomfort escalating to pain.

What is this disconnect

from home?

Why are feet not planted

firmly on the ground?

Pulled, lulled ever outward

attention paid to everything but….

Margaret Dubay Mikus

8/4/10

Dramatic Reading

The words dictate

how to be spoken

to go out and sink in.

More than that emphasis

is drama, pleasing to the actor,

overlaying the meaning,

attention now on the reading.

What remains after

in the retina of memory

is not the words, but acting.

Do the audience a kindness

to remember them.

Deliver the lines,

no more, no less,

that is enough.

I acknowledge

different styles and cultures

different training and shaping influence,

not all of them resonant with me.

And so I listen, open,

and get what I can.

Margaret Dubay Mikus

8/4/10

Anything

What do I have to give up

to do what I suspect is expected,

to get my money’s worth?

I could head back

to class, to the grid, the schedule,

but this day stretches out

before me, hot and sweet.

Once set in motion

I want to follow where it goes

and where the energy flows,

I flow too.

Anything can happen.

Margaret Dubay Mikus

8/4/10

Doors (2)

Doors open, closed, locked, hidden,

the center of attention,

carved, worn, splintered, cared for,

spectacular, plain, old, new, fresh-painted,

peeling, wood, glass, all hard protection

against what might come.

Down steps, up steps, even with the street,

all colors or none, reflective, shiny or matte.

Inviting, inhibiting, used for everyday,

only for show, friendly, forbidding, functional,

what is behind, what stories told or unfolding

what crime, what passion, what apathy,

none of it in relation to me

except as the threads play out

and I am ensnared in a sticky web

not entirely of my own devising.

Margaret Dubay Mikus

8/4/10

Doors (3)

Back doors, front doors, side doors,

creaky doors, easy-slide patio doors,

temperamental doors depending on the weather.

From inside looking out

from out, looking in

perspective is everything.

Certain door types found in certain areas of town,

but the most worn so far, with the hole

in the bare wood splintered step

is one short block from the college dorm

and the chichi, multicolor-trimmed,

ornate pillared-porch door.

Doors with transoms, doors with fanlights,

double doors, single doors, slim or wide,

doors with chains, doors with brass handle locks,

doors with deadbolts, doors with beveled windows,

doors with gates, doors with peepholes,

gates with latches, wrought iron elaborate

or parallel bare bars like a fence,

multi-panel doors, or flat veneer or select fine wood,

revolving doors, automatic doors, doors to push or pull.

Doors that stay open, doors that swing shut

doors that slam every time, screen doors,

doors with jalousie window slats and aluminum frames.

bathroom doors, kitchen doors, bedroom doors,

doors where the top separates from the bottom.

In fifty-eight years, how many doors have I walked through:

school doors, library doors, store doors, church doors, restaurant doors,

house doors, rest stop doors, apartment doors, car doors,

public doors, private doors, doors to keep out or let in,

revealing or concealing everything.

Margaret Dubay Mikus

8/4/10

Empty Being Filled

Going down a path

willing to be directed

willing to take what comes

to make decisions

to avoid the valleys

by listening

I tell you

a thought is powerful

I am filled

with manifesting

Margaret Dubay Mikus

IWWG at BROWN, part 1

2011-02-21T01:44:00.003-06:00

One of the good things for me last year was attending my second International Women's Writing Guild Conference, held in 2010 at Brown University in Providence, RI. I was still recovering my resilience and stamina, but I was determined to go. I had new writer friends to see again and I gave myself permission to do whatever I wanted. I had never been in Rhode Island, I could be a new me. Each day I had inner guidance about an "assignment": someone to talk with, or something write about. I gave my first reading at one of the nighttime open readings. I met new women. I sold my books and CD at the book fairs at the beginning and the end. I worked on a poem/photo project about doors, inspired by one sentence a teacher said at the opening. I took care of myself. And every day I followed the energy. It might mean doing an energy healing for someone I met at lunch or it might mean taking pictures or sitting in reflection on the quads. Here is about the first third of the writing from that lovely week with a few photographs.

7/31/10

Grounding in Earth and Sky
For Diane and me

How much trouble
you can get in
not listening to your own wisdom

giving away power
to make decisions
then saying…later…

I knew all along.
See now how strong you are,
no longer a beginner.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2010

7/31/10

For Hannelore

Reflection,
introspection,

change in direction,
some follow, some lead,

some drop out and circle back,
some stay away forever and sulk,

some are drawn in who never were,
change is a requirement for living.

Adaptation with the blowing wind,
continual evolution,

so it is for all living things
including people and organizations,

the desire to exist, to keep on.
Nourish the whole

and the courageous ones
will risk it all following the larger vision.

What is important is not each tiny detail,
but the rich and nurturing conversation.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2010

7/31/10

After the wise women
must come the young ones
who care, who bear the

accumulated lessons
with learning of their own
in context of their times.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2010

7/31/10

Adventure After Waterfire

Lost
but not lost,

knew where we were
but not how to get

where we were going
back to temporary home.

Stopped for directions at a waterside bar
on the wrong side of the river

and from two characters in the parking lot:
a right, 5 lefts, over the red bridge

and down Angell Street,
which improbably turned out to be right.

Disorienting dark
with inconstant moon as talisman!

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2010

8/1/10

Healing Lunch
After Sue

There is the linear way of things
and there is the other,
order inherent in apparent chaos

where what comes together
has invisible purpose,
and what comes to us

leads back to wholeness.
There is no separation,
energy is energy whatever the spectrum.

To allow this process to happen,
to graciously let go
the smoke, the veil, the illusion,

to be content and at ease
in this insistent skin.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2010

8/1/10

Starving for Solitude

The nothing
in which to shape
something

of my own invention
is missing
all space filled

all days overflowing
even into night
More than one

chance to choose…
otherwise.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2010

8/1/10

Choosing a Teacher

Be careful who you select
as teacher, not to swallow
everything you hear,
paying attention to your truth-sense.

Be aware of how you feel—
discomfort tells you something
not good/not bad
necessarily, but check in:

Who resonates, who is kind in assisting,
strengthening the emerging voice,
not stamping on tender shoots
barely emerged from germination.

Who would never douse the heart-fire
and disperse your dream
back to the swirling primordial mists
it trustingly came from.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2010

8/3/10

Doors (1)

What is behind Door #1
unknown

What is behind Door 2 and 3
however elegant or shabby?

And all the rest: 14, 22, 637…?
Step through

close off or circle back
and see what happens

who do I want to be
and want with me?

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2010

8/3/10

To Protect My Luminosity

and not feel guilty

to be drawn to or away from
listen and let it be

What I am here for
who I am I see:

to gaze at the stars
to stand in the sun

no more, no less
to speak and sing and be silent

to flow as colored silk on the wind
to be truth as I know it

to catch, to throw, to be kind
to lead, to follow, to be still.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2010

8/3/10

To Be

An experiment
yet untried,

quite funny really,
to be myself fully for a week

day in day out, moment to moment,
to listen and act from

inner wisdom,
to pay attention aligned

and balanced, in harmony.
To act as if I am healed

and realize it
is true…

extensive laughing is involved
and weightlessness.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2010

8/3/10

Yes, I Noticed You Being You

What can I say of friend Amy
who spoke tonight so well and courageously,

who opened arms wide, glad to see me
before I even stepped through the door.

And who generously watches out for me
and graciously accepts me.

How fine a friend is that!

Amy, who paints her sad tale so vividly
parts of it are funny,

disconcerting when she feels more the tragedy,
but she pulls us into the humanness of the story

and humor allows us to keep looking,
to keep listening to what was imaginably unbearable.

A skilled weaver, illusionist, wordsmith,
she makes me care…what happens next.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2010

8/4/10

IWWG Conference

In coming together
opportunity
to see the places
both healed and raw still

To be who we are
built on what we have chosen
to be better than
wild and playful imagination

Whoever, up to now,
you have been
or considered being
come here…and choose

and choose again.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2010

Priming the Pump

2011-02-19T00:51:00.000-06:00

One of the delights in 2010 were the amazing performers I heard and met at live Folkstage concerts on many Saturday nights, (also heard on WFMT just before The Midnight Special. Both shows are masterminded by Rich Warren.) My husband, Stephen, and I have been members for a while and really look forward to the music and the company (and the treats). Recently the concerts have stimulated my writing in a big way (priming the pump). I'll be sharing some of those poems (and artists) with you.

12/5/10 Sunday

Buskin and Batteau
(at Folkstage)

If I had known you better
before I met you,
before I heard you sing,

I might not have
gathered the courage to speak,
taken advantage of opportunity,

grace, and graciousness.
But I didn’t know of your vast accomplishments
(of course discounting my own)

I only heard the call of the song,
the stories that sprang out apparently
fresh and unjaded when you weren’t looking.

I only knew the music, the dance, the vibration.
And because I was there alone last night, which is unusual,
and because it was the first big storm of the season

and because I had just heard bad news
that pierced me, shaking my defenses,
taking away any semblance of invulnerability,

because I had been waiting in some essential way
to speak to you, to give to you just a bit
and to receive what you offered perhaps surprised.

Well then, the Universe made the set up
and I walked through the open door.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2010

More about David Buskin and Robin Batteau can be found here

Mini-Review of 2010, Part 1

2011-02-17T18:52:00.011-06:00

I remember 2010 as a very difficult year. And in many ways, that is true. But when viewed from a bit of distance, it was mixed, really, with low and high points. I don't want to spend too much time there, but I do want to wrap it up as a way of going forward. First: the challenges. Last: the delights.

Today's topic: A Major Challenge.

In February, 2010, after many months of body-mind-spirit energy healing work, I had my third surgery for an abdominal hernia, repairing damage partly due to previous surgeries. There were unexpected post-surgery complications, pain, and a long recovery. Not much writing. For a while I was physically unable to write and mentally foggy. I also did not want to remember the details, which caused flashbacks. Here are two short poems and photos from that time.

2/11/10

Comfort

Sometimes the need for comfort is so acute,

the circumstances so dire and dark,

the vortex you are pulled into so nightmarish,

everything taken away: food, water, sleep, all the familiar,

that you can’t find yourself within yourself,

you are a skin filled with nothing in particular

and it seems you will always be lost.

Even if someone is there who knows you well,

whose voice is the tether to reality,

who casts the line, holds the rod that reels you in,

even then
the need for comfort is so great

that anything from home,
any ice chip or thoughtfulness,
any kindness or generous voice

calls you back to hopefulness.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2010

2/24/10

Room on Cardiology Floor

I can still feel her surprisingly soft lips
pressing on my forehead,
a good bye and good luck kiss as she left.

My roommate, sweet Italian lady,
both of us not our best, faces pale,
hair tangled and matted.

Her husband, most kind, friendly
and hopeful. Full of stories with
ambulances and happy endings. How he’d

been recognized in the grocery store by the ambulance driver.
How she’d had a seizure maybe
and he’d carried her to the door

though he had a pacemaker and they were older.
And all her surgeries and still her spunk.
“Good bye,” she said, “It will be fine,”

or something like that in her gentle Italian accent,

pressed into my hopeless forehead.

Unexpected, spontaneous, natural, and welcome.

Three weeks later I feel the kiss still.

Her easy gesture, her faith,

her sweet kindness.

Of course she was right.

Margaret Dubay Mikus

Tomorrow: the Delights

Begin Again

2011-02-15T23:30:00.003-06:00

Last year was a tough one for me, though it got better as it went along. I will share a little more about that soon. Right now I'd like to share a book with you that is powerfully moving and helpful. Here is the review I posted on Amazon.com.

Review of Spiritual Weightlessness: Free to Create Whatever You Want: Nuggets of Wisdom from the Talks of Pramod by Pramod Uday. http://alturl.com/sgu3p

I couldn't tell you exactly how I first found Pramod. A few years ago I was following links on the internet and I happened to find one of her podcasts. It came to me at the perfect time. In her calm and soothing voice, she spoke about mindfulness, being fully present and aware, using full enjoyment of a cup of aromatic coffee as a metaphor. I emailed her in support and she responded to my enthusiasm. Every so often I would find another one of her podcast-teachings (maybe posted on Facebook) that resonated in the moment.

Recently, she told me about her new book, Spiritual Weightlessness: Free to Create Whatever You Want. It is a lovely slim volume, designed with lots of spaciousness. Feels good to hold. I thought I could read it in one sitting, but so far, no. After a brief meditation, the first time I opened the book to a "random" page, I could hear her voice reading to me. Perfect. Another day, I intended to read it from beginning to end, but after twenty pages, I was "full." The last page I read—to stop making rest yet another thing on the list of things to do—was just what I needed to "hear."

I keep the book at my bedside. One more time I tried to make it to the end so I could tell her what I thought and felt. But still I found what I was looking for in just a few pages. And I set the book down for another day, letting her gently loving words soak into me, urging me to remember to be kind to myself and thus have more to give to others.

This is true healing power, vibrational energy healing, spiritual re-connection. The miracle and mystery is that when one heals, we all heal. She reminds me that no matter what comes, I am powerful, I know what I need to know, I am able, and I am filled with purpose. It is my nature. And to let go of the rest, that does not serve me.

This deceptively small volume is a potent antidote to the often toxic environments that surround us. Let it soak into you. Feel energized and positive about your life path and your ability to follow it, creating what you truly desire. The world needs what you have to offer and Pramod inspires and encourages you on your way. A lovely gift for yourself or friends; I have already ordered more.

by Margaret Dubay Mikus, Ph.D.
Award-winning author of As Easy as Breathing: Reclaiming Power for Healing and Transformation and Letting Go and New Beginnings: A Mother's Poetic Journey. Selected poems from both books are read on her CD, Full Blooming. More about her on www.FullBlooming.com

Often Unsung Heroes

2010-01-20T20:01:00.002-06:00

What a pleasure reading my poem, “Mantles of Transformation,” (see previous post) for the large, enthusiastic group that showed up at the Artists Reception for the Women’s Journeys in Fiber Retrospective Exhibit! It took place in the old Dole mansion built in the 1860’s that is slowly being restored by the community. Very cool! Interesting contrast between the 100 pieces of vibrant, colorful art with the intricate wood trims and their peeling paint, the lofty ceilings and crumbling walls (not yet restored). The art and the good company nourished me yet again.

In one of those pre-sleep flashes the night before, I remembered I had written a new poem for Jan Gerber, the curator and coordinator of ten years of these fiber arts projects. I read the poem to see if it seemed “settled” and gave it to her as a surprise.

Then I began my reading with this recent poem. What of yourself do you see in her?

11/23/09

For Jan Gerber

You are the seed crystal,
the often unsung hero,

the gatherer, the glue,
the creative spark,

the tranquil reflecting pool,
the gypsy fortune teller.

The one who risks,
the nurturer,

the shock absorber,
the way seeker,

the book maker,
the curator, the midwife,

creator of the grand design,
the one who keeps on.

The dreamer
and follower of the dream.

Trust, patience, truth,
good humor, good heart,

intelligence, hope,
inspiration, courage.

Listener, speaker,
avid student, natural teacher.

Persistent. Determined.
Enthusiastic. Resilient.

Kind and generous.
What of myself

is mirrored in you?

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2010

Mantles of Transformation

2010-01-10T17:18:00.004-06:00

In 2000, I was inspired by the Mantles Project displayed as part of the Fine Art of Fiber show at the nearby Chicago Botanic Garden. About 30 unique, colorful garments created by local women artists, each reflecting their spiritual/life journey. Awesome. I took many photographs and then the lines began in my head to the poem below. I used my photos as a watermark behind the poem and also read it to the group.

You can see these beautiful garments (http://www.womensjourneysinfiber.com/) at a new exhibit, Women's Journey in Fiber Retrospective Exhibit at Lakeside Legacy Arts Park, 410 Country Club Road, Crystal Lake, IL, http://www.lakesidelegacy.org/ running Jan 4-22. (Curated by Jan Gerber) Don't miss this extraordinary vibrant show!

I will be reading "Mantles of Transformation," at the Artists Reception Jan 17 at 2-5 PM Come join us!

Mantles of Transformation
by Margaret Dubay Mikus

The clothes I wear define
the role I choose to play,
or choose without knowing a choice.
And if I wish to change my past
in the endless unfolding drama,

I naturally would change my garb.
I might buy an outfit that better suits
who I am becoming
or I might fashion with my own hands
a garment of my own devising.

I might think on it and meditate
and in the end just wait
until this mantle of transformation
slowly reveals itself to me….
And my hands begin, as my mind lets go,

to weave from all I know, using
threads from my past
and hopes from my future
and Divine breath with every suture,
all woven into my wondrous creation.

And once I have done it
I know I can
begin with a dream
and make it so I can hold it
in my trembling hands.

And once I have done it
I know you can too, create
a mantle to proudly wear
as you set your course
for a new destination.

We can weave all the love we are
into each moment, each hour,
all the kindness and compassion,
all the fire, longing and desire—
I’ve seen it done.

Thirty women met in a class last year
and began a course none knew well
to discover what lay ahead.
And together, with conscious intent,
each made manifest her heart’s desire:

a mantle of vivid color, pastels or black and white.
Of lace or silk, memory and mist, sweat and tears,
beads and buttons, laughter and determination.
As time went on, they helped each other
realize their lofty goal: to show themselves

and show their world, be it large or small,
a piece of their true magnificence,
remembering as they sewed or knit
what joy in pure creation.
And whether each mantle turned out

as originally envisioned was unimportant,
their lives changed as their hearts opened
and hands worked, each creation becoming
a thing alive, growing and evolving.
Each “baby” was then birthed in its own time,

with many midwives to assist
and encourage and breathe with the “mother’
and to admire each “baby” as it slipped out
and gave a first lusty cry.

Each mantle unique as each woman,
each story one of a kind.
Each mantle unique as her face, her vision,
her spirit, her voice, her life experience.

And it came to be that the mantles were displayed
in a location perfect to see them all and be inspired,
and then moved to another center of art and another….
Will the mantles go home or will they travel,
gallery art or wearing apparel?

Many doors are open, the future
limited only by imagination.
Where could these divine creations go
to spread their inspiration?
A book, on the radio, TV, or the web,

postcards, note cards, and who knows what.
Or the mantles might quietly return to their makers,
to cloak her, to be her flame and let her bask in
well-deserved glory. In the end we find:
it is not the destinations—

it is the journeys that most move us.

Copyright © 2000

mantle: noun and verb

A loose sleeveless coat worn over outer garments; a cloak
Something that covers, envelops
Ornamental facing
Zone of hot gases around a flame
Sheath of threads that gives off a brilliant illumination when heated by flame
Cerebral
Layer of earth
Blast furnace above the hearth
Wings, feathers, and back colored differently from rest of the body
Fold or pair of folds
To spread or become extended over a surface
Covered with a coating, as froth
Overspread by blushes or colors

From American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language, 3rd Ed.,
Houghton Mifflin Company, 1992

Choice Point

2009-11-08T00:24:00.006-06:00

It is a miracle! The blog "mechanism" allowed me to copy/paste from Word and post this poem! I forgot my past frustration and difficulties and started to put this poem in, then remembered that "It" hadn't been allowing me to put even one letter from Word into this blog. Oh, do it anyway. Then!! Amazing!! It worked!!

Which means that I can again—easily—share my work on this blog. That light you see is the big smile on my face. As if the Universe is again aligned on my behalf. Silly, I know, but still…

I have been sharing this recent poem with friends, so I am sharing it with you too. As always, many things were swirling around that influenced this piece. Mary Jane is an interior designer (and lovely person) who is interested in healthy environments. I got to know her at the perfect time right before we were going to paint our house. Stephenie Meyer is the author of the very popular Twilight series, which I began reading when William Bloom, recommended them in an email newsletter and then my daughter asked me to read them with her. I already had the first book on my shelf. You know how sometimes you buy a book then it takes a while to actually read it? (Once I started, I gobbled all four of them up.) And finally, I noticed that I had recently met a number of men who were divorced and who struggled with that. This poem is dedicated to them. Of course it could be about any life-altering event.

10/17/09

From Mary Jane and Stephenie Meyer

For Ira, Bob, Geary and Eric

Something that shatters
pre-existing life structure
stretching out to the foreseeable future.

No restoration
of equilibrium
or the familiar,

the details
don’t matter:
a choice point where

all is divided into
before…and after
and darkness is the dominant color,

the decisive end…of what was,
the promising beginning…of what is:

verdant, vivid vibration,
riot of sensation,
vibrant colors of all description,

almost beyond bearing.

You get to the point
where you say this
lightening bolt that struck me

was the best thing
that ever happened.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2009

Breast Health Month...Every Month

2009-10-19T22:57:00.006-05:00

October is Breast Cancer Awareness month. I prefer a focus on Breast Health rather than cancer. Let us examine our breasts with love rather than fear as a natural part of taking good care of ourselves. Let us listen to our bodies easily, before they have to scream to be heard over the daily cacophony of life, often taking care of others first.

Twice I have had breast cancer, in 1996 and in 2007. I learned a great deal about healing body, mind, emotions, and spirit. And each time I was cracked open--in a good way--breaking through old defenses, encouraging me to bloom. Even my relationships were healed. Writing saved me, allowing me to access inner wisdom about my healing process. This poetic journal, begun after healing from MS in 1995, continues still.

Here is poem I wrote last week. When I read it to him today, my voice teacher encouraged me to post it as part of this special month.

10/12/09

From the Stars

Here I am
naked before you,
all scars, weakness,
vulnerability revealed

as beautiful.

Steely resolve,
stubborn determination,
hard-won power

as foundation.

Unashamed,
unassuming,
hiding nothing
I might once have deemed

unacceptable.

Something to be said for
enduring, growing,
transforming, transcending.

Every wrinkle
tells a story
of care or neglect.

every scar a tale
of chance or choice,
guilt, healing, awareness, or regret.

I can tell you
have come from the stars
just to see

life here in action.
Here I am.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
Copyright 2009

Making Big Changes

2009-10-07T13:32:00.009-05:00

Some time ago I realized I needed to make changes in my home to support my own healing and health (and that of my family). This is a nice house, but things had gotten worn and shabby and repairs were needed. Everywhere I looked something called for attention. It was like a balloon with a thousand pinholes, leaking out the air. I noticed myself often saying that I slept better away from home. Our 22-year old carpet (and its disintegrated pad) had to go to help my breathing and to eliminate my chronic morning cough.

Years went on and though we made plans, the work did not get done. It was a big project to contemplate, a major remodeling: revitalizing the entire house.

In June, I went to my first women's writing conference at Skidmore College (International Women's Writing Guild.) (see June and July posts) I was welcomed and found a small group that fit me well. At lunch one day, one of my new friends said she had removed her old carpet even though they could not replace it right away. It was better to live with plywood floors! I was inspired to get going in my own house.

The time was right—or the planets and stars aligned or something. We easily found the right person to oversee the project--and right in our neighborhood! Elliot was one of those experienced, positive attitude, good energy people who was connected to the other good workers we needed.

Early on, I realized this was a huge opportunity to clear away years of clutter, freeing up space for current living. This was a highly charged emotional process for me. Deep feelings surfaced of perceived past failures in my creative work. Self-forgiveness and inner guidance were essential. Also daily energy balancing. Unlike before, somehow I was not frustrated at having to put aside "my work". It was clear that raising the energy of the house was the work I needed to be doing. And this would pay off in the work arena too.

Knowing me, you can imagine I wrote a lot these past three months. I will release a new collection once the dust settles. (see previous post) Here is a poem from last night (2 AM). Getting toward the end of it all and looking back.

10/6/09

This Big Thing

If you knew how long
it would take to do
this big thing,
this vision,

you would never begin.

If you knew how much
energy at times,
how little sleep at times,
how many tiny details

would make up the whole,
what worries, what waiting,
what driving, what negotiation,
what re-invention, what chaos,

you would never begin.

You would not know how
the progress of day to day
could feed you,
awaken you, open doors for you,

let in light and space and room to breathe.
If you had not trusted,
if you did not understand clarity,
if you thought you were standing alone

you would never begin.

Of so it seems
about all the other times
big plans stalled,
and so it seems

looking back on the
peaceful revolution miracle of
allowing change to unfold,
even embracing.

From fearful to sure,
or sure enough
to take one step…
and then another, not necessarily big leap.

Not to erase the past,
but creating the future, your future,
from the endless supply
of present moments.

Margaret Dubay Mikus

Copyright 2009

Remodeling

2009-09-23T00:54:00.007-05:00

A poem written 9/5/9

Remodeling as a Transformative Device
(Better than Illness)

Every summer for a long time,
or often anyway,
illness has caught me—
serious enough to warrant
immediate concern
life-threatening even.

And all time was then divided
into before the diagnosis
and after it, life wiped
away as I had known it,
what had seemed important
became less than trivial.

Amnesia set in
about how things had been
and I couldn't get back
to "normal."
The process of healing
took the time it took

and the lessons came
and some stuck;.
some left until
the next time.
And on and on it went
with help coming at key moments.

I learned how to ask and receive.
I learned how to balance in chaos.
How to laugh at darkness.
How to let myself feel
and even cry in the presence of others.
And I wrote it all down:

the insights, the quest, the stories
that seemed to give meaning
to suffering, to healing.
Was there no other way
to transformation than
ripping off my skin

again and again?
Then, this summer:
remodeling—Let everything be different
than it had been. Let clutter
be cleared, past failures forgiven,
all belongings spread out,
nothing where it had been.

Ask: If I were moving,
would I keep this?
And as dusty carpet went out
and clean wood floors went in,
light came too, gleaming.
Kitchen cabinets refaced in rich cherry,

Santa Cecelia (patron saint of creativity)
and the name of our chosen granite from Brazil.
All that was worn and shabby
made new again.
Moving on without moving away.
Color, space, clean air,

promise, possibility, openness.
We can't find our way back
to what was…
even it we wanted to.
Old habits are breaking
like how high to reach to answer the phone

or where to locate a pair of scissors or stamp or fork,
nothing is where it was,
all part of the 17 or 39 or whatever number
of changes in the environment to sustain
healing changes in me.

And the rest of the family?
Well, they are in the thick and thin of it too.
If they can be nourished
by all this,
if they can learn to function
without the usual foundation,

if they can be surrounded by and
immersed in energy for where they are going…
all the better.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
Copyright 2009

From the Sky--Journey to New Mexico

2009-07-20T23:02:00.005-05:00

For some reason, I cannot copy-paste text from a Word document into this blog (though that is what I did for the first 21 posts!). This makes it harder to put my poems here--tough to re-write everything. "It" will allow me to insert photos (thus the previous mask photos from a mask-making workshop at my first International Women's Writing Guild conference at Skidmore College--and yes, that is my face).

So here are some pics from a trip to New Mexico last week. This combined business and vacation for my husband, but in my life there are no boundaries between "work" and "the rest." I can write and take photos anywhere and to a high degree I am my healed self everywhere I go. It all flows together. The good thing is that I am enriched by it all. The hard thing is that with no boundaries it can be easy to get over-stimulated and over-extended, with insufficient rest.

These are two photos from the plane. (I always try to get a window seat.) On this trip I was struck by the awesome variety of clouds, some of which moved in fast layers over the others or some seemed to be planted in rows like seeds in a furrow or might part to reveal patterns on the earth below. More to come.

What the Mask Reveals

2009-06-30T11:30:00.008-05:00

May Reflection and New Poem

2009-05-30T02:08:00.007-05:00

It has been a super-busy May: my birthday, travel to Michigan to see our families on Mother's Day weekend, our daughter's college graduation, and our 35th wedding anniversary. I read recent poems at a spirituality group and facilitated a world peace meditation with them. I was (unexpectedly) asked to be on a local cable TV show on using poetry for healing and comfort. What fun! I had three colds (unusual) and I continued doing deep healing work with a goal of being more consistently healthy, with more peace, calm and clarity in my life. I learned a new breathing technique which I practiced daily.

As the month went on, I had thoughts and poems I wanted to post, but the time passed. I did put my name and copyright on all my blog photos and replaced all the unmarked ones.

This recent poem was written as part of my healing work. It was inspired by talking with my friend, Geary Davis, who moderates a spiritual gathering every Thursday evening.

5/28/09

Put Down the Sword of Self-wounding
(after talking to Geary about a ritual to ease pain)

Put down the sword
of self-destruction
and self-immolation,

of self-defeat, self-demolition,
and self-defacing. Stop
stabbing myself in the vulnerable gut

in remorse, guilt, grief, and regret
at what I could not
control or plan or shape.

Melt that sword
into the ploughshare
that carves the furrows

into which I place
the seeds I have been holding back.
Let forgiveness

flood the field,
let love shine upon them,
let the earth be fertile and loam-rich,

and bountiful harvest my just reward.
After all the lifetimes
of all the dark and light alike

let my new life
result from a conscious new choice:
to put down the sword.

No more self-blame
self-criticism or self-judging,
no more crimson shame,

no more self-harsh words,
no more self-unkindness,
no more self-disrespect,

or screaming at myself
at perceived imperfections
or unbearable failings.

Only forgiveness
to the bone of things
to the bottom and top of memory,

forgiveness heaped
on forgiveness, eaten
at a great feast of forgiveness.

And when sated,
love as dessert and
as the main course ever after.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2009

Note: definition of immolate
1) To kill as a sacrifice
2) To kill (oneself) by fire
3) To destroy
The American Heritage Dictionary, 3rd edition, 1992

Gratitude

2009-04-28T23:57:00.003-05:00

The radio was on in the background as we were having Sunday breakfast and reading the newspaper. It was a program of classical music from South America, one piece from each country. The conductor came on before each one to introduce the music. Before one of the pieces he said something like: the composer’s wife and child had been in a head-on collision and the composer named this composition for her. I believe he also said that they had survived. It got me thinking about the preciousness of time. And how we don’t choose how much time we have we have with those we love. And this poem popped out. I was thinking of my husband, but it really applies to everyone I encounter.

4/26/09

Inspired by Something
Partly Heard on the Radio

I do not know
how much time
I have with you.

I read the stories
or avoid reading them
of all the sad, tragic

things that happen
and tears run down my face
in sympathy, in empathy

whether I would stop them
or not. I know this dark place.
But yet, I do not

want to know the limits
of the hours, the minutes
I have with you.

What good would that do?
Just to be here
where you are

for as long
as there is…
and be grateful.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2009

Belated Happy Easter!

2009-04-14T23:40:00.004-05:00

This poem is a true story from last Easter. When I read it again it was like memory, seeing the scene play out in my eyes, but stripped of the powerful emotions of that morning. I know it was no accident everything happened as it did. What fruits are borne of this Easter morning re-birth is up to each one of us.

For those who might not know, Reiki is a kind of divinely guided healing energy (universal life force) that is transmitted through the hands. Anyone can learn to do this. For 12 years, I have used Reiki almost daily for myself and others. It is powerful and gentle. It is great first aid. And is always available. A complete Reiki session can be very relaxing. As mentioned in the poem, Reiki can be helpful for emotional issues as well as physical or mental. I often add a visual like the gold globe or bubble to protect the person or strengthen them. In this case, Reiki was calming for me, as well as potentially helping the man and the medical techs.

3/23/08

Easter High Mass

After Dawn finished singing
her angelically beautiful “Alleluia,”
the heart of the man at the right back
of the Easter-filled Church of St. Patrick…

well, his heart stopped. And those around him
alert to his plight shouted out for help.
Many called 911 on cell phones.
A woman, outwardly calm, did CPR.

Briefly, a priest in vestments bent in blessing.
A man rolled up the sleeves of his blue dress shirt
and did his part: one shock of the defibrillator,
following instructions. Others gathered

in an anxious half-circle around them.
The filled church was quiet except for fussy babies
and squirming toddlers. High Mass did not begin.
Father H. strode to the front and led

an “Our Father” and a “Hail Mary” for the stricken man.
Time slowed down. Words softly spoken
could be heard across the rows of wooden pews.
Firemen arrived quickly and took over.

IV begun…slow beeping…slowly… moans as, I assume,
the man returned to us. I held the hands of my daughter
on my left and my husband on my right. At the start, I tried
to send the healing energy of Reiki, but felt too much emotion

to finish. I heard in my head a strong, clear, firm voice:
to concentrate on placing a gold bubble
around the workers and the man, and
to fill that bubble with Loving Light—

as I have done before. I did this.
Immediately I felt calm. Then in my imagination I gathered
the strands of fear and anxiety that swirled around
and sent them out through the central skylight, up into the Light.

Rescue efforts continued; the fireman
wearing the heavy coat wiped his brow.
Another held the IV bag high in his blue-gloved hand,.
Snow-coated pines, sunlight, shrubs and blue sky,

a serene backdrop behind them.
I remembered to breathe, and kept breathing deliberate breaths.
Finally the gurney was raised, the IV bag and tubing now clipped
high in its stand. Surrounded by help, the man was wheeled out the back.

Those standing returned to their seats. Music resumed;
processional from back to front, Father and two girl servers.
“Jesus Christ Is Risen Today! Alleluia!”
Throughout the Mass, the man was mentioned:

a prayer to surround him in healing grace.
What fruits are borne of this Easter morning re-birth
is up to each one of us. For me: this poem,
my way to reflect and release and remember.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2008

My Dad's Birthday

2009-04-02T22:41:00.002-05:00

April 2nd was my father’s birthday. Family story has it that his mother held out when she was in labor with him so he would not be born on April Fool’s Day. I don’t know if it works that way, a baby is born when he or she is ready. In any case he was born on April 2.

About 23 years ago, when he was just 60, he died of a heart attack following minor surgery. He was a complex man. In many ways I was a Daddy’s girl. But at other times I was an outcast too. I’ve written a lot about many facets of our complex relationship. Here are four of those poems. “The Legacy” is from the very beginning of my poetic journal. “Upon Serious Consideration” I wrote when I was trying to deal with emotions (particularly fear) of being diagnosed with elevated blood pressure, which my dad had for a long time. The other two poems were triggered by contemplating feet and from yoga meditation, respectively. I never know when some bit of truth is going to come through.

10/14/95

The Legacy

My dad had a way of seeing
that he passed on to me,
a way of looking at small things
like spider webs and squirrels,
a way of looking at large things
like waterfalls and sunsets.

He knew when there would be
an eclipse of the moon
and we would watch.
We'd sit out on August nights,
lying back on our picnic table,
to search the skies for falling stars.

He knew how things worked,
how to take apart and
put back together.
He could fix bikes and cars
and washers and plumbing,
and I got some of this, too.

When I was older
my dad had a way of receiving
just what I had to give,
of not always asking for more
than I offered.

This was true of him
with others too.
What a gift he had this way!
I've tried to do this,
but it doesn't come easy to me.

This is not to say
all was well with my father.
He spent most of my life really,
stuck and not happy and dying.

He'd take medicine or have surgery,
do what the doctors said,
but he wouldn't or couldn't examine
or change his ways
to become healthy and whole.

What happened to the strapping boy of sixteen
who biked a hundred miles in one day
to visit his uncle, then rode back home again?
What happened to his sense of adventure
and freedom and spirit?

I don't know.
Lots of things can happen in a life.
Why are some crushed
and others thrive?

Yet I see how much of me now
comes from this man.
How much he passed on
stays with me still
and has brought me to
this perfect moment.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 1995

6/1/05

Upon Serious Consideration

I am not my father
what he did or did not do
is not my choosing;

how he died,
how he lived,
whether he was happy,

or satisfied
had little to do with me,
his oldest daughter.

What he could tolerate,
what abuse he got and gave,
his temper, his intellect,

his humor, his blood pressure,
blood sugar, cholesterol,
scars, mistakes, history,

none of this is mine.
I have a fresh slate
upon which to write.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2005

6/11/06

Composite Feet

Perhaps the lack of metatarsal arch
from my mother, the shortened toes,
bunion (genetically inclined).

And from my father (gone now twenty years)—
I don’t remember his feet, perhaps I got the high arches,
the high insteps, now falling.

From him I got my love of walking.
In his prime I remember one day—
maybe when the house was up for sale

and the kids needed to be away—
he took us to the woods somewhere near
and we walked until exhausted—

that was the point. And at that point
none of us could best him—not like later.

And I remember when I was older
and did not go on family vacations
to state parks in Michigan,

my father was driving north
and the car overheated and to keep going
he ran the heater—in deep summer—

not knowing the diabetic neuropathy
was so advanced he couldn’t feel
his foot burning. And when they

arrived and set up camp
and he took off his shoes
and took off his socks

the skin of his right foot—
his accelerator foot—
came off too.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2006

9/19/06

From Yoga Meditation

I am playing piano
my father sits on the sofa
in the living room
of our house on Eastwood.
He listens to Moonlight Sonata
and improvising sometimes for hours.
I play and he listens.
I do not know how often this happened
maybe once or maybe regularly.
I loved to play and felt it relax him.
I do not remember him ever
commenting or complimenting,
just listening to his oldest daughter
do what she loved.
And that was…and is…enough.

Do you know how hard it is
to re-write the old stories
to heal from wounds old and deep
to rest, finally?
To remember even harsh things
with compassion and understanding
to forgive and let go?
It is hard sometimes
but can be done
and must be done
to heal and move on.

This story of playing piano
and listening is true.
To remember so vividly
the room, the furniture,
the draped windows along the side
to see him so clearly sitting there
what a gift to have him back
for a bit.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2006

Honoring the Work of Women

2009-03-25T01:30:00.002-05:00

We were married ten years before having kids. My husband finished law school at the University of Michigan and we moved to Chicago, where both of us had job opportunities. After working for a year at Children's Memorial Hospital in immunology research, I was accepted at graduate school, earning my Ph.D in microbiology from the University of Chicago. My field was molecular genetics research (DNA cloning, studying gene regulation in yeast and fruit flies).

When our son was born we decided we wanted to raise our children ourselves. Since I earned less money, I was the logical one. After my maternity leave, we hired a wonderful woman to help and I worked part-time. When we built a house and moved out of Chicago, I stayed at home with two small children. It was an enormous shift in my life. I remember being very lonely at times, missing the intellectual part of my life. Slowly I made friends, often through the children (parents at pre-school or other activities). I ran the household and kept track of everything. My husband went off to work. We each had our roles. And we worked hard to keep a balance. Still, I collected no salary. And in a culture that values what brings in money, it can seem that "women's work" is not valued.

Often this work is invisible, each thing done is so small, yet in the aggregate, the essential glue holding daily life together. It is easy for me to completely fill a day with these small tasks and yet feel no accomplishment. So many things are repeated over and over. Easy to get discouraged when it seems like nothing gets done. Often this work is unacknowledged or under-appreciated by others. So important then, for women to honor this work ourselves, to notice and value what we do, what we bring to our family. Crucial to see the whole of it, the big picture. Like a stone dropped on a still pond, gentle ripples go far out from the center and can affect things near and far.

1/30/01

Woman’s Worth

My worth as a woman,
as a human,
has nothing to do
with whether dust
collects on my floors
and everything to do with
my heart wide open,
my arms embracing.

Even that is as nothing.

My worth is in being—
whatever form I may take,
for how long or how deep,
how high, how steep the climb,
worth not earned, but given,
grace bestowed at first breath.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2001

2/21/03

Is It Enough?

In this house for fifteen years, just to begin the discussion,
not complaint, but observation…and,
yes, other things were done by others—
this is not about them.

Conservatively, five thousand times making the bed,
several hundred times changing the towels, washing,
drying, folding corner to corner, putting away.

Sorting mail 260 days per year—
let's say some skipped, some holidays,
still then, totals at least three thousand.

Watering plants 600 times.
Diapering babies and baby laundry and kids sick at night
and late-night school projects—left to last minute.

Buying supplies in timely fashion,
planning for most every possible (likely) situation,
cleaning—some in spurts, not fanatically.

Is it enough that I see—and admire
all the complex steps of the daily dance
that I make all look so easy?

Clothes sorted, washed, dried (or hung) and folded,
returned to drawer or closet in one apparently smooth motion.
Our house is far from immaculate,

but still much to do to be just livable.
Sweeping when my eye or pride demands
the piles of onion skins, Kix, flour from pancakes

or dust fluffs grown large on kitchen floor.
Invisible work, only noticeable by its absence,
when clutter piles high, obscuring desk or counter,

when dust lays so thick a hand-print
is as obvious as a painting.

Appointments to be made and kept, bills paid and filed…

"Keeper of the memories…encourage, support,
listen, take care, stay connected to the earth…
do not drown in the sea of essential trivialities."

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2003

2/19/06

Shrinking Woman

If a woman's worth
is measured by the cleanliness
of her house, then
the old woman was worthless.
But since that was a myth
she once swallowed whole,
she could take her place
among the elders
spending her remaining
precious grateful moments
doing something else.

What doors were once
open to her? What expectation
laid on thick and heavy?
What dreams might have been
drowned in the parade of seasons;
her life defined narrowly
as was the custom of her time,
ultimately wanting more for her daughters.
Now, waiting out her allotted time,
slowly shrinking as was her world.

She had never intended
to live so long
had never seen herself
as old, yet
here she is more than
three quarters of a century…
and still counting.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2006

8/8/06

Re-thinking

Where was it written
that a woman: mother or wife,
must absorb the darkness, the strife,
no salary, but as a measure of worth;
where is it written?

Where was it written that sacrifice
is required to satisfactorily
carry out those mostly chosen roles:
at any cost keep them safe, secure.
Where is it written?

Somewhere deep in me I feel better
if I take on the pain, the troubles,
even at expense of my health,
even if heart can hold no more.

I would rather suffer
than watch suffering;
I would rather be dark
than watch darkness engulf another,

a loved one, someone in my special care.
But yet,
this is not sustainable,
is harsh and unkind to my body-mind.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2006

3/4/08

Care of the Household

Some things done daily
some weekly or biweekly
some monthly, seasonal or annual

some every couple of years
and some rare, maybe every 10-30 years.
All important, necessary, even essential

and most…invisible…unless undone
each one not amounting to much
but in the aggregate…a mountain.

Sort mail, wash dishes, wipe off the table
clean the clutter, do the picking up
make the bed, check what needs to be checked

wash clothes and linens, drying, folding, put away
pay bills, resolve questions
clean air purifier filters

get ready for Stella to come and heavy-clean
arrange for window washing
get house painted and sump pump checked.

Listen for anything that sounds “off”
or smells “funny” or doesn’t look right:
the front sidewalk sinking and driveway sealed

the roof repaired, cedar shakes preserved
ants trapped, threatening bees exterminated
rooms painted, decorated or “freshened up”

clutter cleared and clutter cleared
curtains washed, plumbing repairs made or arranged.
Any little or big thing attended to

fast or slow all in the flow of days…
and the cycle keeps cycling without end
again…mostly invisible…these mountains

filling my minutes, hours, days, months, years.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2008

7/3/08

Treading Water
From something Lisa said about her mother

The daily tasks
consume so much

time, energy, attention:
mail, wash, picking up,

dirty dishes, bills, calls, emails
gardening, watering, following up,

making the bed, folding, putting away,
empty dehumidifier, check furnace filter….

Yet if done
as meditation

conscious of every breath,
gratitude for all I have:

loving family, beautiful home, nice clothes,
good food, pure water, abundant guidance, ready support.

Yes, then beyond
mere treading water:

transcendence!

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2008

Essential Vacation

2009-03-18T23:14:00.001-05:00

1/29/01

Back Home

Vacation
to vacate
to empty out

Dis-ease
lack of
ease

Both are
opportunities

one easy
one harsh

your choice

Opportunities
to transform
to shift

perception
occupation
destination

Margaret Dubay Mikus

"Back Home" is from As Easy as Breathing by MDM

Scar Resolution?

2009-03-06T23:03:00.001-06:00

Last fall, I read my poem, “Life Review of External Scars” at an open mic at the Geraldine R Dodge Poetry Festival at Waterloo Village, NJ. I prefaced it by saying that this poem was in some ways darkly funny, though the list of scars is long and might seem dreadful. Over the years, I have developed a very well-honed dark sense of humor, sometimes laughing at times that might seem inappropriate, a funeral for example. It’s just my way of coping with what sometimes seems to be an ongoing onslaught of hard times. It is of course true that many scars are internal, not visible to the eye. Scars can also be in a culture as well as a person. “Should We” was written a few days after my bilateral lumpectomies, when I was very specifically dealing with raw, new scars on a sensitive area (emotionally and physically). I often read it now as a plea for peace. “Now As I Am” addresses the idea of being at home in the body, or the longing to feel that way, a topic I return to over and over.

8/30/96

Should We

be known
by our scars
or by how far
we've come since
that wounding?

Could we
look at
where we are,
not
where we've been
and what's been done?

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 1996

4/28/08

Now As I Am

I opened the front door
to the home I once had
and began to unwrite
the unwritten rules.

Unvoiced expectations
so heavy a load
my shoulders were bowed.
Internalized judgment
passed down generations.
Rules of behavior
kept me glued to this spot
in fear of mistakes or imperfection,
shame, guilt or embarrassment.

And even one step forward
was too much to take
under such a burden.
Time to lay that burden down.
Thank you for any gifts
and ask forgiveness.

Forgiveness for the lack of trust,
forgiveness for forgetfulness,
forgiveness for any harsh words
or unkind thoughts or anything
less than generous.

When I look into clear blue eyes
in a mirror and see the pain there
and the laughter, the willingness,

I am encouraged,
I am nourished.

And I open the door
to a home I once had
and open the windows
to let in the light,

disperse the shadows,
freshen the air,
so that now, as I am,
I can come
back in and live there.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2008

9/4/08

Life Review of External Scars

remembered or deduced, roughly in order

The belly button it could be argued,
though the cut part fell off.

The white slash so near the right eye where
grandma’s golden retriever got me at three.

Jumping in bed, hit Mom and Dad’s dresser corner
with my chin. No staples, but butterflies to minimize scarring.

Hard swing, playground first grade, gashed skull, first stitches.
Dr. Griffin, kind man, talked me through it.

The visible, but not noticeable, line across
the fleshy lower third of my left index finger,

cut when I tried to get at a box of brown sugar
with our largest sharp knife and the hard block

did not yield, the blade slicing through the box
and into me down to the bone. Parents out,

leaving us to baby-sit: I was second oldest.
Terrified. Cold compresses to stop the bleeding.

No stitches, butterflies when Mom got home or next morning.
Four deep Staph. infections: left thumb in eighth grade;

right side of nose bridge, left temple and cheek,
in the middle of high school when most self-conscious.

Inch mystery scar outside of right thigh.
Tonsils removed at nineteen.

Small dimple scar on tailbone from pilonidal cyst
the size of a small orange, painful to sit on, then burst open.

Two episiotomies, network of stretch marks
from carrying and delivering watermelon babies.

Thirty six? was it? “voluntary” stitches to remove
suspicious, questionable large moles…that proved of no consequence.

Two and three-inch fine lines from breast cancers removed,
now replaced by two eight-inch thin seams fading to white,

overlying scar tissue where breasts once were.
Three umbilical incisions repairing hernias plus

two half inch slits at bikini line, removing tubes and ovaries.
All the mosquito bites, bee stings, falls, sprains,

strains, scrapes, burns and bruises healed to invisible.
Each one a miracle.

No physical trace of measles, chicken pox, flu,
small pox vaccines, Tb tests, hard bumps,

swollen lips, teenaged breakouts,
however transiently embarrassing.

No discoloration or inflammation from adult poison ivy,
no convincing demonstration of the initial devastation.

All this not to whine, the pitiful victim,
but to take a moment to realize how far I’ve come…

still standing.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2008

“Should We” is from As Easy as Breathing (p.76) and is also read on the CD, Full Blooming: Selections from a Poetic Journal.

Healing Power of Poetry

2009-03-01T01:32:00.001-06:00

Some “thoughts” over the years on the role of poetry in healing.

What do you think?

2/25/03

The Poet

I am my mother's daughter
and I am the Mother of my Self—
one who made the form
and one who filled it.

And I am the mother of my daughter,
a beauty like no other.
She forgot to wash her socks until midnight and,
smiling her smile, asked if I could put them in the dryer
and I did…easily…again.

Who rules on any given day?
What boundaries between the roles I play
tying me to sanity?

No instructions, no models or even myths.
In all the worlds there ever were
not one has ever been exactly like me…or you.

Or has done what we are about to attempt.
I am tempted to stop, not life, but struggle
to be more, to become what I imagine.

But a poet who is fearless,
who carries on regardless,
whose words are kind and true and honest

is more than essential for survival…
is the compassionate and dispassionate glue
that holds it all together—

or later, after the fall,
uses the bricks from the wall
to make something else altogether.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2003

4/21/06

My Lesson

If I take on your pain
but do not get with it
the tools to work it through—

the tools you have been given
as this is your lesson—
then all I get is grief

and all you get is numb,
temporarily. Brace for
the next onslaught

perhaps even worse.
But if I leave you
your pain, no matter

how deep and bitter,
and sit with you in the dark,
holding your hand in hope,

perhaps speaking in a soft,
reassuring voice, or sitting
in rich silence,

then you may discover
the tools you were given,
buried deep or resting in your hand,

and you may recover
your power to heal
yes…even from this.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2006

2/1/07

Poetry as Healer

And you might say,
how can poetry heal,
it is not a pill I take
into my body?

And I would respond thus
from my heart, the source of poetry:
poetry is word spoken
which is vibration
which is energy
and the body which is matter
is energy very slowed down,

so poetry is energy
into the body which is energy
so energy heals energy.

Of course the frequency of vibration
of the words is important. There are
words that tear down, as you know.

And, as has been graphically shown with
the crystals of Emoto, there are words
which health can be built upon.

These words from the heart
with healing intent,
these are the words that heal,
there is no doubt.

Try them out.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2007

2/27/07

Thinking of Beate

Sometimes art heals
by soothing, sometimes
by lancing the boil, or
by opening the eyes
to fresh possibilities.

Sometimes it is closing a door
to a room filled with stale air,
sometimes a scream
from a dark bottomless pit,
sometimes presenting
wonder on a silver platter.

Sometimes art compels to look,
sometimes can barely look;
the healing can be subtle
or heart pounding,

one moment resounding
over the ages.
All I am telling you is this:
there is no doubt art heals.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2007

“The Poet” is from my CD, Full Blooming and my next book, Letting Go and New Beginnings: Poems and Photographs

“Poetry as Healer” and “Thinking of Beate” are from my chapbook, New Year’s Eve Surgery, 2007.

Free to Be Me

2009-02-28T00:27:00.001-06:00

My blog was partly prompted by an affirmation by Louise Hay from Heal Your Body: “My mind is gentle and powerful. I love and approve of myself. I am free to be me.” It is the last sentence that especially resonates. Free to be me. Free to make mistakes or mis-steps. Free to learn as I go, not have to know it all. Free to forgive and let go of judgment, silence the harsh, critical voice.

This week I was late to an appointment. It was a long distance, driving in a fog and torrential downpour, with thunder, lightening and small hail. (The second-most rain in Chicago in February in 138 years, the equivalent of 20 inches of snow!) I worked on conscious deep breathing and tried not to look at the clock. By the time I arrived I was mad at myself, mildly berating myself that I had not left home earlier, etc. Not as extreme as in the past, but not happy or calm. Worried that the chiropractor (a delightful woman) would be ticked off, disappointed in me, not able to see me, etc. I don’t think any of this showed on my outside, I tried to laugh it off, though I probably seemed somewhat stressed. (The first time I was late I had driven 2 hours through a blizzard for a 40-minute drive.) We joked that there seemed to be something weird about the weather on the Thursdays I was coming.

Yet it all worked out. The person before me had more time for her appointment, which she needed, and the woman scheduled after me had cancelled, leaving me a good amount of time for my appointment. When I think I have quieted my inner critical judge, circumstances arise that show me that harsh voice can still be provoked. And then forgiveness, and humor, and moving on…

Every poem I write is different, its own entity. Over almost 14 years of writing my poetic journal, my writing has changed a lot. My writing voice has developed and matured (I like to think). Something about this poem is different, maybe more revealing or something. I realized I was holding back, not wanting to reveal too much. This is a poem I have been reading to people (including my chiropractor) and I wanted to let it go, not hold back.

2/14/09

Floating On Sitar Notes and Drum Beats
(dinner at The Peacock on Valentine’s)

So much done to the body.
So much stored in the body.

The body a map of the past,
the snake entwined around Eve.

The body: the sitar, the lotus, the onion,
the pond to swim in, and the fish swimming.

The foam in the cup,
the gyrations of dance,

the main course,
not so much dessert.

The color red as it
plays on the water,

the helium balloon,
the red rubber ball,

the accelerating rhythm,
the glint on sheer glass,

baby’s breath and
tiny ruby carnations.

It is amplified,
it is sober and still,

plays well with others,
puts dirty feet on the table.

The body is the flying horse,
the sparkle on new snow,

it is a glass full
and a glass empty.

It is payment for services,
it is the nourishment taken in,

it is the pen and the words
and the hopefulness.

It is less like soap
and more like anise seeds,

more a home, than a prison.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2009

All Manner of Critters

2009-02-24T23:36:00.001-06:00

I was moved by a recent article in the newspaper. A local woman had started a pet food pantry to help people keep their pets in these hard financial times. Animals are so important to us. I thought of poems I had written and pictures I had taken of all manner of critters over the years. Once I started looking, I found more than I remembered. Here are a few.

8/19/96

Birds on a Line

How many birds
can sit on a line
not quite wing to wing?

How many birds
can sit for how long,
waiting patiently
to burst into song?

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 1996

8\28\96

Convention in Town

Such loud birds
at the Caw Caw Convention
with all their early morning
blustering and posturing,

throwing their weight around
to get first dibs at breakfast,
not caring who hears them or who
wakes up to their raucous conversations.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 1996

10/22/96

Flying

There are as many ways
to fly as varieties of birds.
There is no right way,
only flying or not flying.

Some birds glide gracefully
going far on one powerful stroke;
some flutter glide, flutter glide
or breast stroke in peaks and slopes.

All get where they are going,
as they were designed.
The only wrong way is to not fly
and then starve in body and spirit

for the lack of soaring.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 1996

3/11/97

Once Again

Once again, as in all other years,
robins are seen in abundance
and tiny black and white birds
flock and flit in still bare branches,
and in morning light now, gentle calls
float into my dreaming ear.

Once again, as in all other years,
grass will green and buds will sprout
and weeds and flowers alike
will grow in rich profusion.
Rabbits may come or ducks,
to lay hopeful eggs in our daylily bed.

Chipmunks will scurry
and frogs and insects of all description
will bellow full-throated song.
And maybe the occasional snake
will be seen sunning on a convenient warm step.

As in all other years, wind will blow,
sometimes raging, through fresh green leaves
of all shapes that will enclose
my particular grateful space.
For in this winter past
I often wondered in my darkness,
if spring would ever come.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 1997

4/2/97

What Do We Know

of the lives of dogs,
of the richness
or lack
of their conversation?

We, who have such
blunted senses
and overdeveloped mind,
what can we know

of a life
of abundant, excited smells
and awareness of
the very highs and lowest lows
of sound?

What do we know
of love without
boundary,
of the fullness of feeling,
the sleep of content?

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 1997

5/6/08

Birdsong

A mutant bird
sang his errant song
at 2:30AM
well before dawn.

The melodious notes
slid out of his throat
lingering there
in cold night air.

Still awake,
she heard as
the notes slid into her ear,
lodged in her brain

and for months
remained there,
not washed away by rain
nor blown by wind,

pure bird notes
sung in tune
from a pure heart
that opened when it opened.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2008

6/12/08

The Pond at Daniel Wright Woods
late afternoon

Look at how the sun
shimmers the continuously
rippling water
and dragonflies flit
in the cattails.
The fishing line shines
as it’s cast and re-cast
and the clouds like fish
swim languorously above,
the air dotted with
cottonwood like bait.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2008

1/19/09

Silverfish
(not silver and not fish)

The silverfish are gone
whether because
I asked them (nicely) to leave
or the increased
activity of bees

or some other unlikely
improbable explanation…
makes me no never mind
because…
The silverfish are gone

no longer browsing
my bookshelves
or burrowing to die
between glass and mat
of my hung pictures.

No swatting the ceiling
or brisk smack with
a rolled magazine,
no more bug stains
from remains.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2009

“Birds on a Line,” and “Flying” are also in As Easy as Breathing.

Walking Wounded

2009-02-22T18:09:00.002-06:00

Around this time last year, a dear friend who is from Poland told me a story about close friends of hers who also came to the US from Poland. They had a bright son who grew up here and loved all things American. He went off to war in Iraq and came back physically OK, but mentally and emotionally damaged, not able to sleep, not able to function, one of the walking wounded. I gave him my book and told his family about Belleruth Naparstek's powerful guided imagery for helping to heal PTSD (http://www.healthjourneys.com/). Within an hour of hearing his compelling story, I had written a poem/song which I later sent to him with a note. Even though the war in Iraq may be winding down, it is important to remember that those who died were not the only casualties.

February 25, 2008

Dear M.:

I wanted you to know I believe in healing. I have had personal experience in healing from multiple sclerosis, cancer, depression, and panic attacks. I cannot know what you have been through, but when S. told me a bit of your story, this song came to me for you. I do not have the melody yet, perhaps you may write one some day. I wish the best for you. You can find more about my story on my website. I have not written about my latest healing from cancer, but that will come. You have my book and I know you are a powerful healer. Keep on. You will find your way.

Love, Margaret

2/11/08

Walking Wounded
For M.

There are those who didn’t come back
and those who came back but didn’t come home
and those who came home but were never the same,
the walking wounded. This song is for all of them.

Immigrant family from Poland,
bright son believed in the US of A,
went into the military
to get money for school.

And now he’s broken…
no college in his future,
just trying to get through one more day.

He was the smart one,
always got good grades,
always laughing, joking,
promising future stretched out before him.

And now he’s broken, broken…
no college in his future,
just trying to get through one more day.

He figured how hard could it be,
four years and out
money in hand,
then he was sent to Iraq.

And now he’s broken, broken, broken…
no college in his future,
just trying to get through one more day.

And what he saw there
no man can understand,
no heart can withstand.
And what he heard and tasted and smelled
he cannot forget like
shrapnel embedded in his memory,
shrapnel embedded in his cells.
He cannot remember normal,
he cannot find his way back.

And now he’s broken…
no college in his future,
struggling to get through one more day.

Pray for this young man
that he find healing,
pray for his family and friends.

Pray for this one man
and all the countless others
wounded by this latest senseless war.

And learn.
And remember.
And remember.
And learn.

And now we’re broken …
no money for our future,
just trying to get through one more day.

Pray for all the walking wounded
to whatever God you believe in:
pray, pray, pray,
it’s all the same to me.

We are all in this together
whether or not we walk hand in hand,
in whatever ways we differ
in more ways we are the same.

Wake up, wake up people
do what can be done,
do not believe those who don’t believe
in peace for everyone.

Pray for this young man
that he find healing,
pray for his family and friends.

Pray for this one man
and all the many others
wounded by this senseless war.

And learn.
And remember.
And remember.
And learn:

Never again.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2008

Note: I picked the photo above (healing daisies) before I realized that my friend from Poland had given the flowers to me when I was healing from a double mastectomy last year. Interesting how things come full circle.

Second note: In a recent email newsletter, Belleruth Naparstek mentioned research findings that showed her guided imagery CD, Stress Hardiness Optimization, (which is less intense than her Healing Trauma CD), is helpful for soldiers in reducing PTSD symptoms.

Michigan Summer

2009-02-21T01:04:00.004-06:00

The first time I stayed at a hotel was on my wedding night. I was 22, with a fresh B.S. in Zoology from the University of Michigan. Growing up, family summer vacations meant camping out in Michigan state parks. Just once we rented a cottage on the beach for a week. R. P. Scherer Corp. where my Dad worked, closed down two weeks every July. And so we packed the car and off we went. With a family that eventually included seven children it saved money. We camped by the Great Lakes: Lake Huron and Lake Superior (Brimley State Park in sight of the Soo Locks) and smaller lakes like Higgins Lake, etc. Michigan has more than 11,000 inland lakes. This poem is about rich childhood memories that were triggered by smell. And like all memories, only partly reliable. Each of us has different recollections of those summer jaunts.

6/9/96

Smoky Hair

Standing in the shower
with the smell of smoky hair,
the memories of summers
thirty years ago or so, sharp and clear,

when the whole family
would pile into a much-used,
sturdy station wagon
and head north to camp, not really far,

still inside the state; my father insisted, since
we paid taxes for those parks.
We’d head toward water, a Great Lake
or small pond, for a week or a bit more

of tented living, sleeping in bags on hard ground,
usually over a rock or two felt through air mattresses gone flat.
I looked forward to exploring, riding horses, hiking,
swimming, jumping the waves, diving like dolphins,

long, beach walks on soft, wet sand.
Eating meals prepared outside, home food never tasted so good!
Fresh, juicy Michigan peaches and tomatoes,
blueberry pancakes or oatmeal made on the Coleman stove.

Black nights under stars, so bright and numerous
we seemed to be suspended in outer space.
Each dry evening Dad lit a campfire
of collected sticks and logs

to keep away the damp and bugs.
We'd stare into leaping flames, a favorite pastime.
After a night or two, all our clothes and hair
would smell of smoky night fires,

burning companionably under the stars.
In the day, Dad would
drive off to find something new,
a waterfall perhaps, museum, or a scenic stop or two.

And everyone had to go
where everyone was going,
usually where Dad had in mind,
a bit of local color, a landmark or shrine.

A favorite picture: all of us, arm in arm,
standing under Tahquamenon Falls
water rushing out in front,
tan faces, wide, white vacation smiles.

***

We still had chores to do:
watch the kids, some quite small,
wash clothes, air sleeping bags, cook,

set the table, wash dishes,
straighten and sweep out sand,
without the conveniences of home.

One time, on our first outing,
when we totaled only seven,
my older brother, Tom, and I woke early
and left a note: Gone Fishing.

With one rod and one sinker
we went off at just light,
around the clear bright lake,
no goal in mind, but adventure.

We stayed together and fished some
and lost the sinker,
eventually circling back
in time for breakfast.

I don't remember, but
I can imagine the response
to our leaving without permission.
Still, the impression that remains

is of rare freedom
and fresh, bright morning sun
and being together
with my adored, older brother.

Another time, somewhat later,
I woke before the rest,
not a usual occurrence
as I have always been a night bird.

I went down to the beach
on my own in the pre-dawn,
dim, quiet light
and soaked it up,

enough to hold onto
for a lifetime,
but that is another story…

***

For a while we each had our own
sturdy beer case in which to pack all
we'd need for the week or two,
each responsible for our own.

One dress outfit for Sunday church
(followed by a restaurant dinner), enough socks and shorts,
jacket, tops and underwear, bathing suit and shoes
to hold us with minimal washing.

One summer I packed only one sock and went
horseback riding sockless. I ended the first day
sunburned, muscles sore, and a quarter sized spot of skin
worn off my ankle. Still I slept the sleep of the justly satisfied.

The heavy cardboard beer cases fit nicely
in the wood car-top carrier
designed and built by my handy Dad.
We'd load up the station wagon in early morning,

cases and coolers wedged together,
sleeping bags laid out in back
with seats flat, where small kids
lay side by side like sardines.

I don't mean to imply
all was smoothness and ease,
the ride was often hours
and I’m sure we bickered.

But mostly we made the best of it,
singing crazy songs and playing wacky, word memory
games like: I Spy and My Father Went Down To The Bottom
Of The Detroit River and with him he brought…

made up and recited in alphabetical order, each taking
a silly turn. Mom always brought
traveling candy, especially lemon drops
for Dad. He drove as fast as allowed

or even a bit more,
left arm draped out the window,
getting unevenly sunburned,
no air-conditioning those hot July days.

We would arrive at the park ranger's office,
somewhat later than hoped for
and get our spot (or not)
for the days and nights

we needed, once on a beach
where the tent stakes blew out in a storm,
usually in the woods, a cleared area
with a picnic table and matted, grassy space

to set up the tent or camper.
Along the beaten, dirt camp road
would be a bath and shower
to walk down to on dark, bug-specked nights.

We'd walk in the dark
to wash up at each day's end,
sandy and sunburned, tired and mostly content,
free of the normal routine.

We always made friends
with our temporary neighbors, Dad
finding a long-lost, distant cousin
or boyhood friend just down the road.

Then the grown ups would gather at night
to talk and play cards by lantern light,
and we might roast marshmallows and go
to bed early, exhausted from activity and fresh air.

My sister, Michelle, used to
burn her marshmallows on purpose
then blow them out and pop them in her mouth.
I preferred to aim for brown perfection

of toasted white puffs evenly golden,
taken just before they melted off the stick.
Sometimes I took off the crust
and re-toasted the gooey inside.

***

One year it rained the entire trip.
What a long vacation that was!
Eventually Dad and Mom bought a tarp
at the Sears in town and made a side porch

where we could sit at our picnic table
and play board games, cards, or drink hot cocoa.
We still went out driving
to look for new sights,

but it was too cold for the beach
or even for shorts,
so we each lived in our one warm outfit
and the matching gray, zipper-sweatshirts

with the navy, thermal-lined hoods.
We went out in the rain, in our khaki, army surplus raincoats.
Even so, it was a change and made for good stories,
and made coming home all the better;

how strange it felt to walk on a real floor!

***

The drive home was not a fun affair,
as we were confined again
with people we'd already
spent too much time with.

When we got within
a safe distance from home,
we'd stop at a Dairy Queen
and all get cones,

graded from baby size to large,
depending on age and position of power.
Marie, two years younger than me,
always made her dripping, soggy cone last.

And we'd all quite happily lick
and chase dribbles, surprised at this usual treat,
for we never knew if this time
would be the time it didn’t work out.

How good it felt, how strange,
to sleep on sheets in our own beds,
to wash dishes in a sink with running water,

to pull a cold drink or ice out of the refrigerator,
to have a bathroom right in the house,
to watch television, to talk on the phone.

Isn’t that what vacation is all about:
a break from the everyday
to enable a fresh, grateful look?

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 1996

Honoring The Body

2009-02-20T00:36:00.001-06:00

Sometimes I feel at odds with my body or frustrated or discouraged or disappointed. So much has happened to me. I wrote the first poem below after the lessons of breast cancer treatment and recovery, the second one just before another cancer diagnosis nine years later. During rough times, I may read it aloud to myself. Perhaps you have those times too.

4/28/98

Let the Body Speak

if it wants rest…
give rest,

if it wants motion…
give motion.

Do not nag or numb,
poke or prod,
just listen

to the ancient wisdom
spoken in language
older than any other.

Let the Body speak
in quiet, even tones,

let the Body speak
without shouting in anger

at such long neglect,
at such secondary status.

We inhabit this particular Body,
which is in our care,

for good reason,
not to frustrate us

with tests we can't pass,
not to beat on mercilessly

"no pain, no gain,"
but to protect our luminosity,

to enjoy, to love, to grow with.
Let the Body speak

and then listen
and act on its behalf.

The Body knows precisely
what it needs, just ask…

and listen.
Be gentle, approaching
as you would a wary puppy;
put out your hand and edge closer.

The Body is familiar with deceit,
with promises made and not kept.

Trust will take time to build;
it is so easy to fall back

into old familiar patterns.
But I tell you this:

we will not regain full power
until the Body is an equal partner.

Let the Body speak…
and listen.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 1998

4/22/07

Love and Only Love

Love with every stroke of the shaver,
with every lather of soap, slather of lotion, love.

Not impatience, not frustration, not disgust
at varicose veins, sags, wrinkles, scars,

but love,
with every look, every caress

at the power, the strength,
the beauty of this body in my care.

Love with every glance in the mirror
every wry smile, every tear.

Love, love and only love.
Yes, other thoughts slip in,

let them slip out,
no recrimination, no justification.

Love with every stroke,
healing in my touch, breath

and blink of an eye.
Love, love and only love.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2007

“Let the Body Speak” is from As Easy as Breathing and also recorded on my CD, Full Blooming: Selections from a Poetic Journal

Purpose

2009-02-18T01:25:00.003-06:00

Let me tell you a story:

To set the stage: It was 1997. I was exhausted after surgery to remove two breast tumors, followed by chemotherapy. Weeks of extensive radiation left my neck and torso badly burned. The radiologist suggested I take a short break to heal. I struggled with the decision of whether to permanently stop treatment. How could I make a balanced, potentially life-altering decision when I was so off balance? I talked, I wrote, I read, I mulled, and I listened. I cried out to the Universe for help. And I paid attention. Here was an immediate response:

2/10/97

A Messenger

A man came to my house today
to fix a sump pump
and replace the battery.

He was heavy-set, wearing
smoke-filled work clothes,
spoke kindly and worked well.

He talked of a sister who had died
of breast cancer and of her last year,
"Sometimes the cure is worse than the disease."

How clearly
I can occasionally
see;

so fearful of death,
I start to believe in
limited view and limited options,

and lose hope
and lose heart.
I deserve better.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 1997

From As Easy as Breathing: Reclaiming Power for Healing and Transformation.

Sometimes the most ordinary people in our lives can help us, if we pay attention. His comment, "Sometimes the cure is worse than the disease," unintentionally supported my decision to stop radiation. Three years later, I mentioned the poem to him and gave him a copy, since he seemed open to it.

Years went by. When he came again to replace the sump pump battery, I mentioned that "A Messenger" was in my book. This is what he told me: Three years ago, when he read the poem I gave him, he saw himself differently and was inspired to stop smoking! He had been a heavy smoker and had not had a cigarette in two and a half years. Three more years passed and when he came again, he said that he had been thinking about that poem and had recently given a copy to a friend who smoked. Amazing!

So this is what I want to say to you: Doing art, in whatever form, from that deep, honest, heartfelt place, can heal, inspire and move—you and others—in ways you do not control or even intend. I suspect there are many people like me who grew up feeling cut off from creative expression. As my story shows, that rift can be mended with awesome results. Hang in there!

And tell me your healing stories…

Adapted from an article in 2004 in WomanMade News, the newsletter of the Woman Made Gallery in Chicago, IL.

Evolution

2009-02-16T23:14:00.000-06:00

OK, it’s President’s Day and here’s the link. The 200th birthday of Abraham Lincoln and also Charles Darwin was last week, Feb 12. Apparently, they were born within minutes of each other. I chose Darwin to focus on today.

“Mr. G,” my former chemistry teacher and mentor in the late 1960’s at Bishop Gallagher High School in Harper Woods, Michigan, noted scientific references in my poem, “Meltdown.” My science background weaves into my poetry in unexpected ways sometimes. A few years ago, I read some articles about pre-historic findings in Illinois and ancient art in France. Just after that, out of the blue, my friend, Brigitte, asked if I knew of any poems about evolution. I thought about it and decided to write one myself (and then another). Here is the result.

6/23/06

Poem of Evolution

A poem on evolution—
do I know of one?
Maybe yet to be written.

Not advocacy,
just the facts, ma’am.

How two cells merged into one
out of mutual admiration
in primordial soup under conditions

considered inhospitable today.
First, molecule joined molecule,
or arrived on a comet some say.

Not a process for seven days,
except…metaphorically.

And the cells that were formed—
drawn to nourishment,
protectively repelled by toxins—

some survived, some perished.
Survivors passed on genes to progeny,
mutations occurred, mostly disadvantageous.

Again and again survivors passed on genes.
Some advantages in multi-cellular organisms,
what worked persisted.

Climate change, comets splash into solid earth,
glaciers carve out lakes and oceans,
land masses move across molten layers,

earthquakes, volcanoes, mountains erupt
from tumultuous land.
Gases, ash, ice, sun, newly formed oxygen

play their sequential, essential roles—
timing is everything.
And I do not mention the mystery
about what is not known—only the when,
but not the how, the why, and the who,

if anyone.
Why such beauty and symmetry
arose from chaos

and continues to arise,
a constant, magnanimous unfolding.
But the facts—written in rock:

a hunted herd of bison trapped in the muck,
and carcasses left long ago by a river in Illinois,
a pre-historic bee frozen in amber,
a full skeleton of a new dinosaur,

an ancient woman unexpectedly buried as a warrior,
vivid, realistic paintings tens of thousands of years old
newly discovered in caves in France.

Time trapped in stone
to be later uncovered.

The facts are plain,
the interpretations complex
and open to varied belief.

A poem about evolution
to take in the whole of it,

the flow of time over billions of years,
flowing right past this tiny,
but crucial moment in the middle.

A poem of wooly mammoths and elephants,
Neanderthals, gorillas, chimps, and humans,
the intelligence of dolphins and whales,

a tale of bacteria, some friendly, some pathogens,
of predators and prey and neighbors.
A poem of insects, the cockroaches

that would survive a
nuclear holocaust.

Yes, this poem of evolution,
of holograms, the widest view
and the most narrow—

a bite of an apple looking the same
as the whole apple.
Honoring the role of the moon as
mother of the seasons.

Yes, this would be a poem
of epic proportion
and universal dimension
and Divine (and personal) implication.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2006

6/23/06

Addendum to Poem on Evolution

What is it makes a human?
At one time it was thought to be use of tools,
until it was observed that chimps, for example,

fashion a twig as a tool to get ants.
So then, it must be language.
But recently it was uncovered

that some male songbirds
learn new songs and phrases
to communicate—like language.

So it must be the large number of genes
it would take to run this complex
organism called human.

But no, the number of genes,
when counted (and sequenced)
was smaller than some much more primitive organisms

and had much in common with yeast cells even.
True, human genes are regulated in
imaginative and complex ways.

So what is it makes a human?
Perhaps not even the most intelligent species here.
You don’t see dolphins and whales

fouling their habitats,
and destroying the homes of others.
To my knowledge they do not attack their own kind.

No, that describes the human condition.
I do not mean to be a cynic,
but some facts are incontrovertible.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2006

Long-Time Love Poems for Valentine's

2009-02-14T02:13:00.000-06:00

A few poems I wrote for my husband, my long-time love and inspiration. We met the first day of an English class at the University of Michigan on January 17, 1972. I was nineteen and he was twenty. I was a zoology major and he was an economics major, both of us stepping out. Who knew what lay ahead?

6/18/96

I Come Back

to your waiting arms
and put my ear
to your heart
and breathe
and feel safe.

From that supported space
I can explore
and risk
and grow,
knowing I can always go
back to your waiting arms.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 1996

3/22/99

To Stephen
(approaching our twenty-fifth married year)

I used to have
all the time
in the world
to lay in your arms
and listen
to your heart beating.

Life went on,
but nothing more important
has come along.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 1999

2/13/08

Mutually Lucky

When I told a bit of our story,
a 36 year long story,
Rich said you were lucky to have me,
and I felt we were mutually lucky.

When one would have left
the other held on
and when conflict arose
both worked toward resolution.

And when Alex asked me today
if we were getting special presents
I said “not to be corny—
for us every day is Valentines Day.”

And it’s true.
Thank you for going through
what we’ve been through.
I’m lucky to have you.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2008

3/22/08

A Summing Up

You are my weakness and strength,
my ballast in time of storm,
the wind that blows through
my occasionally stale room,

my love.

My joy, my delight,
and if we sometimes fight,
my joy again in rapprochement.
To be held and consoled,

to laugh with and discuss
the news of the day, with wit if
not always agreement.
To be myself as much as

I would reveal, yet not
feel exposed and vulnerable.
With you I am safe,
supported and protected,

held in the strong arms
of love, my love. How long
has this gone on?
Years and years and years,

my love.

You want me to have what I long for
and I want you to have what you desire,
and together, hand in hand, we find
the path through and to Love,

my love.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2008

5/29/08

New Mexico Vacation

What began with a coyote
walking across the high desert road
illuminated by our headlights
and ended with a gift box

of chocolate truffles given
at the last for our anniversary,
was filled to the top
with all manner of experience,

all forms of weather,
all levels of elevation.
One day easily melted into the next
with minimum of planning.

Love encircled us
and drew to us
beauty, peace, contentment, healing.
What was needed arrived…

with no fuss
and was embraced by us
with joy and ease
and awareness.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2008

7/26/08

Far Away, My Love

You feel so far away my love,
though you’ve only gone to Michigan

and I stayed here to rest.
I reach over to pat your head

though you are sleeping in another bed.
Your presence is here strong

and real as anything.
And though I long for touch or smile

I feel you across the miles
thinking, loving, being with family,

and I charge you, dear one
to also represent me.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2008

10/27/08

For You, Yet Again
(for my husband)

Some day you and I
will no longer exist in this form,
not just metamorphosis of aging:

wrinkles, gray hair, spots
where was pristine skin,
not raspy voice instead of mellow song,

but truly gone,
no hugs, no sparkle eyes, or smiles,
no encouragement or discussion of days events,

a photo as reminder two-dimensional,
what we loved as memento
of life well-lived.

Whatever we do next
the molecules of our bodies
will scatter in ultimate recycling.

What impressions our feet
have made on the earth
is all that will remain.

Yet I will talk to you
not needing words
and we will do as was agreed,

and if we stay together
or go our separate ways then
is no matter

for what was love
is always love
and that is that.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2008

“I Come Back” is found in my book, As Easy as Breathing, in my Life Support Cards ™ and on my CD, Full Blooming: Selections from a Poetic Journal (2007).

So Much Is Better, But...

2009-02-13T23:48:00.000-06:00

Over the years, I’ve healed from a lot of medical stuff including eczema, MS, depression, breast cancer, heart arrhythmia, etc. I am now dealing with an umbilical (belly button) hernia. Twice it was repaired surgically. The repairs held, but then another area weakened with a hole larger than the previous one. Not good.

My approach to healing body-mind-emotions-spirit (all as one) is multi-faceted and practical. I have successfully done this kind of healing work for 15 years. In this case, I used healing energy (Reiki), acupressure, and affirmations from Louise Hay (Heal Your Body). For hernia: “My mind is gentle and harmonious. I love and approve of myself. I am free to be me.” Lovely and calming to say out loud, don’t you think?

I looked back to examine possible contributing factors, to root out the source of the problem, not just eliminate symptoms. As usual, I researched, meditated, consulted my inner wisdom, read, and found healing partners to help me. I consulted with Renee B., a digestive specialist recommended by three different people in one week. The Universe was speaking and finally I paid attention. Under the guidance of the very talented Dr. Lisa, (recommended by a friend) I took herbal and homeopathic supplements. I made changes in food, exercise, breathing, and attitude. I listened to guided imagery CDs by Belleruth Naparstek for heart and digestion. I monitored my blood pressure and worked on getting to bed earlier, my special bugaboo.

This was a lot to do; I was highly motivated. But a few days ago, an “Ah ha” moment. All this healing work is good. And now I need to be where I am, and stop looking backwards. To find the answer and the healing I seek, I need to flow with “The River.” In other words, let go and go forward.

In some sense, what this hernia feels like to me is being pregnant. So here is the poem (and the hope) that came out of that image.

2/11/09

Expecting

What am I pregnant with,
what is gestating obviously,
awaiting delivery or expression?

What metaphor allows the body
to be released from the bump,
the half bowling ball,

stuck out from my middle?
I refuse to believe
or even to entertain the possibility

that there is no meaning,
that peeling the onion layers
results in tears and release

but not healing.
All things are possible even if
not reasonable, not probable.

Over and over darkness
has come to and through me,
not like inevitable night follows day,

but dark like an eclipse of the sun,
dark like ash from a volcano
obliterating summer from the planet,

dark like an expanding black hole
that sucks in all light.
And to even remember sunrise

takes extreme effort of will
or patience or trust or faith.
And yet…every time

darkness lifts when
mysteriously the time is right,
and this miracle, this golden

egg is laid at my feet.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2009

I Am Willing

2009-02-12T16:54:00.000-06:00

Sometimes I get discouraged; I work hard and don’t see any progress. What is success, anyway? A few years ago, I did a Google search of my full name (which is unique). I found that big parts of my work-life were online, unbeknownst to me a lot was happening. An article I wrote for The Reiki News on Reiki and breast cancer was at www.Reiki.org and had also been translated into Spanish. A Massachusetts man I did not know listed me as a poetry mentor. My graduate research paper in the journal, Genetics, was online and had been cited recently, and my book, As Easy as Breathing, was in a library in Oregon, etc.

A woman looking for a Lenten reflection, searched online for “I am willing” and picked up my poem, “I Am Willing” from my website. She resonated with it and put it on her spiritual blog. Amazing! Since that time the poem has traveled all over the world, including blogs in Germany, Italy, UK and USA. Another woman used each of the lines of the poem as writing prompts—an exercise to enhance self-awareness and personal growth. How cool is that! I can write something that helps people I never even meet.

Sometimes changes have been introduced into the poem. One version repeats lines from the beginning right before the closing line. Sometimes the original order of lines is preserved, but with fewer line breaks. Here is the original form of the poem, from my book, As Easy as Breathing: Reclaiming Power for Healing and Transformation—Poems, Letters and Inner Listening (revised in 2005).

I got an email from a woman in Hong Kong whose husband had MS asking if I had any advice for them. She had read about me in The South China Morning Post, a major Hong Kong newspaper! She sent me the article (which is now on www.FullBlooming.com). It turned out that I was the lead portion of an article on alternative healing! I have no idea how that came about. But it is another sweet reminder that things are happening even if I don’t know about them. And to keep on…

For me, the poem is most potent if read aloud. Try it and let me know.

6/26/96

I Am Willing

I am willing
to change what doesn’t work
for me in my life.

I am willing to listen
with an open heart,
without judging.

I am willing to plant seeds
that take a long time,
if ever, to grow.

I am willing to feel
and let go.

I am willing to make mistakes
and learn from them.

I am willing
to live in the present.

I am willing to forgive
and forget in my heart.

I am willing to love as much
as my endless spirit will allow.

I am willing to be seen
in all my radiance.

I am willing to be fearless.

I am willing to be powerful.

I am willing to be peaceful.

I am willing to stand tall
and walk gracefully.

I am willing to sing with my stunning, full voice.

I am willing to allow.

I am willing to let go.

I am willing to change.

I am willing to see
and be seen.

I am willing to hear
and be heard.

I am willing to feel
and be felt.

I am willing to heal
and be healed.

I am willing to love
and be loved.

I am willing
to be fully human.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 1996

This poem was also included in Layers of Possibility: Healing Poetry from National Association for Poetry Therapy Members (2007), edited by Margot Van Sluytman.

Space of Grace

2009-02-11T14:32:00.000-06:00

After several years of working with health professionals, I healed from multiple sclerosis in spring of 1995. The body is amazing; it will do its best to adapt to any circumstance. It took years of additional rehab to undo all the adaptations in my body, to enable smooth, fluid walking for example, muscles and nerves coordinated and in balance. I learned a lot about how complex and interwoven these ordinary tasks are. And I had a renewed appreciation for the hard work of babies to learn to walk in the first place.

I did not set out to heal from MS, which I had been told was not possible. I set out to deal with depression as my physical symptoms increased and the life path that stretched out before me diminished. I am careful when I say that I healed from MS, and there is solid evidence that this is so. This is not the day I want to talk about that healing process, nor what I learned. What I do want to say is that healing from MS cracked me open creatively speaking.

Most of my life I had the impression I was not a creative person. In looking back, I can see some of how that misunderstanding took root. It seems ludicrous now that I have found my home in creating beauty, in poetry, photography, music, etc. For me it took MS to bring me home to my creative self. The symptoms most often affected my left side, controlled by the right hemisphere of the brain, the creative center. In some unconscious way, I had cut myself off from my creative side. This is obviously simplistic, but has truth in it. Once the MS was gone, I had a creative awakening, with ideas bursting out of me as if they had been waiting my whole life for me to notice. I continued working on healing. I began a poetic journal, which has now been going for almost fourteen years.

Within a year (1996) I was diagnosed with breast cancer. Two tumors, one in each breast, picked up on a routine mammogram, followed by further testing. I was 44 years old with a husband and two young children. It is not stretch to say that writing the poems saved my life. It was an integral part of my healing from cancer. Writing allowed me to express what was happening to me, to understand, and to share. It turned out that others were also helped by these poems.

Early on in my writing, I noticed that certain people seemed to stimulate my creativity. When I was going to my voice lessons or having a massage, for example. I started calling these times, my space of grace. A time when I could more easily draw from the universal creative well. I am sure you have these times and people in your life as well. What people or places or events open a space of grace in your life?

3/17/06

Space of Grace

There are some times, some places, some people
which evoke in the space before and after
like a cushion of rarified air—

a space of grace during which anything
can happen: insight, inspiration, healing, clarity,
answers to thorny questions asked, joy, levity, harmony.

This grace is unearned, unmeasured, unpaid for,
unencumbered by elegant expectation.

This grace is a miracle or
the environment for miracles to happen—
a little bit of heaven,

casually interwoven with
the apparent ordinary.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2006

Parallels and Coming Full Circle

2009-02-10T12:57:00.005-06:00

When the last election primaries began, I felt it was way past time for a woman president and that Hillary was the best chance. As things went on with politics as usual, I wavered. My daughter was an Obama supporter from the start. My husband had met Obama years before and was very impressed with his straight-talking and connection to people. When I read Barack Obama’s speech on race in The Chicago Tribune, I was blown away by his articulate sensitivity to such a complex and emotionally charged issue and that was that for me. I was won over.

My husband and I moved from Ann Arbor, Michigan to Chicago in 1976. He was just out of law school, with a new job in a law firm downtown. Chicago seemed like a place of great opportunities for both of us. We rented a small apartment in Lincoln Park, with a view of the Lincoln Park Zoo and our own sliver of Lake Michigan.

Lincoln Park in those days was an area in transition, with vacant buildings and dark, dank bars lining Clark Street, side streets of beautiful, old houses, and a few modern high-rises. Once or twice we found a drunk passed out on our front curb. The first time I went out by myself for an afternoon jog in the park, I was accosted by a young man with his pants down, wanting or offering sex. I was creeped out. The University of Michigan campus had not been such an innocent place in the early ‘70s, but I felt more intimidated and vulnerable in the big city. I learned to be wary and to wear my “city face.”

There were wonderful, cheap ethnic restaurants in walking distance. We often ate at a great Mexican dive (which was also a bowling alley) just north on Clark Street. I loved going to a place where the waiter asked if we wanted “the usual.” We could get anywhere in the city by bus, el, or walking. We parked our Ford Pinto on the street and rarely drove. It was a big, juicy, new world to explore. (Our first time walking down Broadway turned out to be the day of the Chicago Gay Pride Parade!)

I got a job right away in the immunology lab at Children’s Memorial Hospital. After a year, I applied to grad schools. The microbiology Ph.D. program at the University of Chicago offered me full tuition and a stipend. I accepted! I tried commuting from north to south Chicago. As it turned out, that year had record snow. One time in a blizzard, I was the last car allowed through before Lake Shore Drive was closed. My second year, we moved down into married student housing in Hyde Park, eventually buying a condo in a formerly elegant, corner building built in 1925 at 52nd and Greenwood that was being renovated after a fire.

Along with our new neighbors we put a lot of sweat equity into that old building, creating our own community. It turns out that our former condo is a block down Greenwood Ave. from the Obama’s house, just the other side of Hyde Park Blvd. (We moved out before they moved in.) What a small world! Certainly there are many differences, but can you find all the parallels between Barack Obama and me?

Two poems to share today: one written before the election when the outcome was not certain, looking ahead. The other poem was written the morning after election day.

8/29/08

Post Election

When it is all done,
the excruciatingly long run,

when the votes are more or less counted,
everyone will say the outcome

was inevitable and talk
of momentum and this or that

mistake or shift or mis-quote
that turned the tide,

and no one will look to the stars
or karma or alignment of planets

to explain how the once unimaginable
happened to heal or to wound yet again.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2008

11/5/08

Post-Election Recounting:
Portrait of Barack Obama

The stars aligned
and all the planets
to make something possible
that had not been.

A courageous man stepped forward
as the chosen one.
He could move hearts
and erase doubt
with his silky tongue,
inspire hope where had been none.

And yes, change was coming.
Here was someone confident enough
to gather diverse opinion,
articulate and educated,
disciplined and real enough
to call out in the crumbling wildness

and hear resounding cries in answer.
Disaster averted at the brink of the abyss.
On the final day all who had been adversaries
included in the fold,
called together to change course,

to restore, to heal what was lost.
He took the high road
and that road took him to celebration.
And because he is who he is
at this prime moment,
and can gather and sow, reap and harvest

what he has sown, we all get
another chance to change,
to be the best in us.
What a gift!
Keep him safe, keep all around him safe.
Let him be gracefully shaped by
the experiences he has chosen.
He is tempered already in fire
seasoned by flame,
and found strong, able, and willing.

From the shadows he stepped into light
and like a meteor he rose
in plain, amazed sight
to dole out hope where was none,
to dole out hope with a generous hand.
A man of compelling vision.

And like for no other leader
the world rejoiced for one of their own
to have climbed to the mountaintop.
Not a messiah burdened by
weight of unrealistic expectation,
but a heartful man of clear vision.

Let him do the work he came for,
learn from inevitable mistakes,
grow further into his power unafraid,
acknowledging the whole of himself.
For within him lies all contradiction
laid open and resolved.
Let him go forward and
let us go forward in recognition.

A family man and
we are all included in
the embrace of that family.
All is not lost.
Roll up your sleeves,
let us begin.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2008