Be unspeakably kind

are words that a friend shared with me a few months ago, when I was in a bad space. I didn't realize at the time how they would soak into me; they've been whispering in my ear for months, a mantra. A precious gift.

I'm trying to be gentler with myself. It is not easy to be gentle with myself. Sometimes, it feels like a complete waste. Sometimes, it hurts, like washing a wound to heal it. Sometimes, I fail. You wouldn't believe the things I say to myself when no one can hear me. But I'm trying. Here are some things I'm doing.

I gave all my old outerwear to Goodwill, and I bought new outerwear that is actually warm. As much as being warm means to me, I've always bought cheap outerwear that did not keep me warm. My body would say "Ack! Put more clothes on me!" and my mind would say "Oh, shut up, baby!" Well, no more. I bought a 70%-down-30%-feather coat, two fairly traded alpaca hats, two pairs of fairly traded alpaca gloves, and some warm, sturdy, comfortable hiking boots. None of it was cheap, and I am refusing to feel guilty about it. Another kindness.

I've stopped using an alarm clock. I am blessed with a job that lets me start working in the morning when I want to, and I started allowing that blessing to come to me. I let my body and mind wake me in the morning when they are ready. (And, incidentally, it's never after 6:30.)

I drink warm water now. At work, I've started warming my drinking water with water from the hot-water dispenser. Warming my water keeps me from getting chilled from drinking enough. So that's how I roll.

I've started taking vitamin D-3 to regulate my wishy-washy hormones. I now only have pms for half the month, rather than three-quarters.

I've made a ritual of going to the woods, to one spot, a haven. Every Thursday after work, I go to the woods, sit in my spot, listen to the stream, and breathe for about an hour. Courtesy of my new outerwear.

My back pain is back. But this time, I'm deliberately walking very slowly. Veeeery slooooowly. Meditative. We came to Ohio to visit my in-laws this weekend, and I've taken two hot epsom-salt soaks in their bathtub. I shall take two more before we leave tomorrow afternoon. It would take a separate, long post to explain all the things that a hot bath means for me and does to my body an soul. No simple pleasure on this earth can do what a hot soak can do for me. (It really stinks that I have to come all the way to Ohio for a bath. Grr.) The baths only relieve the pain when I'm actually in the tub. But still. Ahhhhhh.

I'm listening to happier music. Here's a sample. A rockin' sample.



I'm doing some hard internal work right now. Damn hard. Stuff I've never worked on before. And I'm letting a few people in to help me, which is excruciating, because I'm so afraid of seeming needy or being burdensome. It hurts. But I'm tired of limping. And I need some extra grace and gentleness, friends. Maybe an extra hug or two, if you're one of the people who hugs me regularly. It's not easy for me to say that, but it's what I need, so I here I am, being kind to myself by asking. Maybe after a time, I'll be a better me.

And in an example of impeccable timing, a friend who teaches a writing class asked me and some others to write true, kind poems about ourselves for her to read to her students. At first I wasn't going to do it, because, ack! Hard! But then I decided to give it a try, and I kind of like how it turned out. Then I wasn't going to share it with anyone again, ever. But that's a problem, because hiding stuff that I do like it's shameful isn't very healthy, and I do it all the time. (Raise your hand if you've ever seen any of my drawings. . . . Exactly.) So here's my poem. Ahem.

Dear Amy,

Come inside, love.
Pour that wine for me.
Wash those dishes
and bake that bread for me.
Pray a little honey-loving down on me,
with that same thin, simmering blood,
crying in your hair and a gift in your hand,
unbestowed for want of confidence.

Stay warm tonight, love.
Here's a blanket and some tea.
Here's some quiet and a kiss.
I'll hold your hand, baby.
I'll let you know me.
I need you, and I'll tell you so,
'cause there's no shame in touching
skin or souls in stabbing, searing silence.

Quit crouching behind that war paint, love.
Put down that blade.
Break off that satin, patent-leather cell
and have a bath.
Take a little time tonight
to savor all that affect.
Soak and sip and slather on
a lavender reminder of your marrow.

You have a flare about you, love.
You're acid and salt and zest and leaven,
cadmium, chromium, cobalt in the kiln.
You got goods.
A bowl of soup, of fealty and frailty,
of sacred earth and savory fondness
and time. Your spice and travail
are polish and mercy and solace.


And now. Bath time.