in those hands

when you look back, smile.

barefoot and beautiful

"I do not want my house to be walled in on all sides and my windows to be stuffed. I want the cultures of all the lands to be blown about my house as freely as possible. But I refuse to be blown off my feet by any." Mahatma Ghandi

love is the main thing

Darkness hath enveloped most of the peoples: Where is the brightness of Thy splendor, O Radiance of the worlds? (Bahá’u’lláh)// Grieve thou not...This is but the early dawn (‘Abdu’l-Bahá)//Lament not because of the wicked. Thou wert created to bear and endure, O Patience of the worlds.(Bahá’u’lláh)//My calamity is My providence, outwardly it is fire and vengeance, but inwardly it is light and mercy (Bahá’u’lláh)

That one indeed is a man who, today, dedicateth himself to the service, of the entire human race (Bahá’u’lláh)

If we are lovers of the light, we adore it in whatever lamp it may become manifest, but if we love the lamp itself and the light is transferred to another lamp, we will neither accept nor sanction it. Therefore, we must follow and adore the virtues revealed in the Messengers of God—whether in Abraham, Moses,Jesus or other Prophets—but we must not adhere to and adore the lamp…we are lovers of sunlight and not of orientation. We are lovers of illumination and not of lamps and candles (Bahá’u’lláh)//The essence of Bahá’u’lláh’s Teaching is all-embracing love, for love includeth every excellence of humankind. It causeth every soul to go forward. It bestoweth on each one, for a heritage, immortal life. Erelong shalt thou bear witness that His celestial Teachings, the very glory of reality itself, shall light up the skies of the world."‘(Abdu’l-Bahá)

love is the main thing...love is the ground of all things 'Abdu'l-Baha

somewhere between heaven and here

prayer for poets

i wonder

if words wander off our tongues like lost hearts searching for their soul-mates,

and maybe my pen could quench their longing,

and maybe poets are really matchmakers -- writing unions onto paper aisles--

waiting,

hoping beauty may be birthed therein

i wonder if prayer is the only perfection of this art

where married words hold hands,

flow like golden ink into the vessels of papyrus hearts

their grip firm and old as constellations

but ever-changing

wombs so ripe they could nurture all God's children to so(u)lace.

feeding the ocean their tears through placenta river deltas

i wonder if prayer is the only perfection of this union

because in its arms lay latent a hundred different ways for words to kiss,

for hands to praise,

for tears to dry

on a hundred thousand different shades of cheek

so

in our language and with our hand let us pray the night away. // and if the pen moves let it move and Thank God, and if it does not, let it not,

and Thank God.

legs clamped open, eyes taped shut.

this is definitely one of those ultrasound, underdeveloped, meet-me-where-im-at-please kind of trains of thought I was talking about earlier. bear with me. 

this summer i was doing a medical program for two months which was wonderful and disturbing and enlightening and inspiring all at once. wonderful and inspiring to meet a handful of doctors whose lives are testament to their understanding of health that is truer and deeper than most others. An understanding that wellness cannot be sold in a capsule. That oppression/social suffering manifests itself in physical ways (and a discussion of class will not and cannot stand as proxy for less "comfortable" discussions on race/gender/sexuality that must be honestly addressed if we are to improve health of those in most need). And finally, an understanding that sometimes looking into someone's eyes in a way that acknowledges them as a soul first, and a body (/biological miracle!) second, is the most significant way doctors can be of service.

disturbing...the experience was disturbing for many reasons as well. for the power i could see myself gaining with the simple act of putting on a white coat. for the way my questions (about why medicaid patients were treated like they should feel so lucky, or why women's pain was continually pathologized, or how it was a psychiatrist could interview a black male patient who claimed the ward felt like prison, and think that was unwarranted/irrational paranoia) were dismissed. "In time" i would understand... "Yeah we used to think like that...just wait." (I don't hope to get into $300,000 of debt for a medical education that teaches me how to be jaded, thankyouverymuch.) 

One of the most disturbing days for me was on my gynecology rotation. and here's where my heart is really walking bare foot over these ideas...still not sure exactly what I think or if it's wise to share at this point, but here it goes...

The problem is nothing was obviously wrong. 8 am laparoscopic surgery-not a big deal. "No-one brought the Kanye??", the surgeon complained. (a surgery without a good beat is dull.)

  

I stood in scrubs/uniform. like an ally in a mission i was skeptical about to start with. silent. 

Gently they positioned her on the surgical table and asked her about her job, and "oh isn't that nice", and placed the mask for anesthesia over her mouth. 

And in no time she was a silent/black/naked/woman body on a table. 

(but this is medicine, sonya. this is what you do in surgery, sonya. what else could they have done, sonya?.... another silent/black/naked/woman body on a table...SONYA...too much suffering started like this...sonya. SONYA: 

Who will cry for her now?) 

the nurses taped the slits of her eyes and unveiled her. the man-surgeon nonchalantly walked in and strapped her legs open. white women allies in a white man crime. 

(but sonya, there is nothing criminal going on here. this is medicine. black patient, white doctor. medicine. stop thinking so much...but sonya, her eyes are taped shut, Who will cry for her now?)

I wondered if her great-grandmothers were watching. i wondered if j. marion sims was applauding*. 

Breasts lined with keloids like wrinkled roadmaps of suffering that refused to be forgotten. Her body lied defenseless. eyes taped shut. echoes of slave songs/mouth full of plastic/Who will sing for her now? 

latex-fingers jammed casually through the gold-laced gates of her womb/ no permission required here (sonya, she agreed to this surgery)/ no apologies given here. 

watching blood covered blasphemy like it was my job, i stood silently. 

(Sonya. Sonya. Sonya, If you do not say something, WHO will cry for her now?) 

* J. Marion Sims (1813-1883)-  the great American "Father of Gynaecology" devised instruments like the speculum and is praised by many for his "dedication to women's health". He made huge developments in surgery to repair vesicovaginal fistulas and a statue in central park celebrates his life.  Less acknowledged are the many enslaved women J. Marion Sims owned to experiment on. without anesthesia. Some of these women are said to have been operated on over 30 times while chained to beds... apparently only some kinds of women are worth crying for.