Plant Therapy

Woke up in a funk today 

In light of some recent events in the world, the states, my microcosm, the home, my room….

The first thought after teaching yoga this morning is that I need to clean, and then I’ll feel better,

But the heaviness would not leave for me to lift a limb.

Then I thought, I need a little motivation,

And so I went to the nursery,

Walked around conversing with my enlightened toddler,

Found a healthy new fiddle leaf fig and a lush maiden hair fern.

I never pretended to be perfect. 

Happiness in a swipe and small talk, “yes the weather is much nicer today… no receipt please.” No paper trails. 

Now my Boston fern and birds nest fern look happier and truth is, their chances of survival have just increased with their new companions….

As well as mine. 

Therapy

  
 

We screamed, yelled

Moaned and groaned 

Slapped skin,

Plucked and pounded 

Shook until the whole house and everyone in it throbbed,

Collapsed 

And healed. 

Poetic Yogini in Repose





Poetic Yogini

If scars were words, she would have poetry scattered in clusters all over her body. 

A small little girl once wore these scars with pride because it made her look strong. 

Poems that rhymed across her legs said ‘see my knees, won’t you please, don’t you tease me now, I sting like bees!’

But one day she grew older and poetry slammed into her cheek written with embarrassing shame because some boy dropped her on accident and she didn’t feel pretty.  

All the scars she wore became a little less easy to share and it was as if she had to keep it wrapped up, 

Covered, locked, and sealed. 

Some more visible and harder to dress,

some more internal she  covered with the a smile at her best. 

And then she grew older, and her belly expanded and scarred as if a tiger gnashed and snarled at it. 

But the poetry produced was beautiful!

And slowly she began undressing herself and felt like that little child showing proudly the cuts. 

Proud to wear her scars because they said, 

‘Women, mother, healer, creator, seeker, lover, feeler, seer.”

And she shared her poems as they began to unravel and heal her. 

Some poems, she laughed and delighted with play,

Where others she cried because the wounds would seep blood

The crimson bright reminders of battles long fought. 

Each poem recited peeled each bandage with grace

Stringing together each cluster in one long sung masterpiece.