The week has been a full one with meetings and interviews, all manner of busy-making to keep myself…accountable? Distracted? In a false sense of purpose? Sometimes, in eras of encroaching depression, I find that making myself go through the motions is akin to treading water in the middle of the ocean. I’m not really getting anywhere, but I’m not sinking under either. All that to say, here’s some poetry. About quietness. And how loud it really can be.
In Quiet
the world is less complicated without the obligation of you
it is simple now in droning waves of sunshine and isn't that better?
no need to perk my ears to your words
no longer worrying my lips over where yours are residing
life is simpler here it's quiet like a ragged street in a forgotten city
trash caught in dead weeds and chainlink
its quiet like burnt olive carpet in funeral homes
ghosts of lilies blooming to fade in grief it's quiet
like a room with no children and a meadow with no breeze
silent like a catacomb stale and cold communion with death
This particular phrase came to me me during a few years ago post, on the subject of home. This week, I’m on limited mental and emotional bandwidth due to stuff and things, so I decided to dust off this still-timely look at what home means, where home is, and all the hats we wear when we go ‘outside’ of it.
I’m from Wyoming, born and raised, with some detours along the way.
Wyoming has some pretty awesome colloquialisms (for more on that, please check out my Sweet Valley Series, set in Wyoming—very romantic-west) and “Home is Where You Hang Your Hat” is no exception. (Some other, unrelated, favorites; “wouldn’t mind if his boots were under my bed,” and “wish I had a swing like that on my back porch.”)
I could go into the history of hats, cowboy and otherwise, what they meant, where they came from, who wore them, the political and pop cultural significance each one carried, but you didn’t come here to listen to the historical social scientist in my back pocket, you came here for an expansion on home.
Hanging your hat up was something you used to do when you came in from a long day of work. I’m looking at you…slack-jawed twerker, with your suuuuper cool trucker’s hat turned sideways at the dinner table…you realize that it’s the same ‘model’ my 97 year-old grandfather would get free from NAPA (that’s the part store, not the wine country) and wear until the brim fell off… And, he wore it better but never at the table… sorry where were we?
Yes, gentlemen used to take off their hats inside and, in the case of coming home, would hang them on a hook or rack by the door.
A simple move that signified something so much more profound.
Hanging your hat, coming home, dropping the world at the door and breathing. Breathing in the place of your own, the space you occupy, the people who wait for you; who love you, who have seen your head without hat, your hair going gray. Coming home meant escaping the life’s demands and the outside world’s burdens and just be.
Why is it important, that we take off our ‘hats’ in today’s world? Why does it matter?
I’m glad you asked. It’s kinda why I’m here.
Humans these days are so connected by technology and the speed-of-light information bursts, that there’s really no such thing as a safe space anymore. Now your home has multiple outlets for this information to stream in, constant and blaring.
And the ‘hats’ have changed too, haven’t they? We used to wear one, maybe two. Now, we’ve got them stacked one on top of the other until they tilt in the breeze and wobble when we try to move forward. We’re doctors, and scientists, social activists and martyrs. Writers and poets, librarians and board members. We’re frienemies and friends, lovers and exes. We’re husbands and mothers, daughters, sons adopted or otherwise. Victim and accuser, the pious and the demon. We are presidents of PTAs and the one mom that always forgets cups. We’re the one to takes the dog to the vet and the kids to the dentist and forgets to pick up their dry cleaning. We’re the ones who need more sleep, but don’t get it. The ones to work long hours, for little recognition. The ones who scoff and say ‘its fine’ when it isn’t.
Caps For Sale: A Tale of a Peddler, Some Monkeys, and Their Monkey Business. Esphyr Slobodkina (how is it I never knew that was the full title?)
We’re chained to the images that we build on our social media pages and constantly feel the need to live up to the happy smiling selfie that the world thinks we are. It’s getting so one can’t even close the door and drop what’s not real for a few minutes.
And if you can’t ever drop it, how do you even know who you really are?
It’s no wonder we’re overmedicated, depressed, anxious and stressed. People constantly shoving hats into our hands, telling us what we should be, what we could be, showing off how beautifully they’re balancing their own stack with perfect pictures of perfect lives through perfect filters that they post fresh every day.
It can leave a person feeling that if they aren’t getting enough ‘likes’ that no one actually likes them. That the measure of being loved is dependent on some superficial and meaningless emoji.
Listen, kid, ain’t nobody that happy. Ain’t nobody that perfect.
And the brilliance of those images, I guarantee, is hiding the same nasty, visceral darkness that resides in each of us, fed on self-doubt and anger. Jealousy, dis-ease with the person in our skin, and the pressures squeezing through our walls each day.
I just want to go home.
Let’s go back to that place.
The place where you put your phone on the shelf by the door and kick off your shoes. Leave your meal un-Instagramed. Your run un-shared. Write down the cute thing your two-year-old said, and then tell your mom face-to-face over a cup of un-tagged, un-pinned coffee.
Wait for your meal in silence and anticipation. Look up something– in a book. When you feel the need, the itch to pick up that screen, or turn that television on, or otherwise disconnect from real life, don’t. Over half of our lives are spent looking at the world through our screens and its becoming a new, cold, disconnected home where we find no respite.
The ball is in your court, the stack of hats in your arms. Drop them all, for just a moment and pick up only the ones that satisfy your soul. Even those, hang up once in a while and sort through how they make you feel when you wear them.
Find your home by letting go of the things that are outside of who you feel you need to be. Find the home in the center of your chest, your truest self, and come back to that. Hang your hat there. That’s your home.
A large part of human nature’s beauty lies in our failures and follies. Perfect people are rarely very interesting. As a writer, creating ‘perfect’ characters is a sure-fire way to distance your readers and lose their interest. Why? Because no one wants to read about someone who always gets it right. Who can share commonality with that? And yet…our reality is often ruled by what we, as actual humans, fail at.
When thinking about human frailty and my own failings I stumbled across the largest stone in my path of late; Self-Worth.
I know I’m not alone. I see you out there.
It’s more than fair to say that we are comparative beings. The media propagates it, competitive constructs in work and school demand it, and long-standing cultural threads tie our successes (and our failures) to what we’re worth in the eyes of the rest of the world.
Its the single most destructive lie we’ve ever been told.
And its easy to say that it doesn’t affect us. That we don’t care how we stand in relation to other people, that we don’t have a competitive nature, that we don’t feel the need to be anything else than what we are. I say those things all the time. And they rarely do more than offer a feeble disguise over the surface of self-doubt.
If we didn’t care, we’d cease to try. We’d stop looking for ways to improve. But something that should drive our greatness often tears us apart and we are left with shreds of the human we used to be, torn apart in an effort to create something more inspirational in the eyes of the world.
I was recently told, by a very generous soul, that my self-worth shouldn’t come from anyone but myself. That I couldn’t let the berating, criticism, or comparisons of the world let me feel any less than what I was worth. That it wasn’t the outside that should decide, but what was inside of me.
So it made me wonder; What am I worth?
In terms of chemistry, my physical make-up is probably no more than about $3.00 worth of material.
If you broke down my daily tasks and how much you’d have to pay someone else to do them, some would say I’d be worth about $140,000 a year. If you based my worth on what I contribute to the world with my writing we’re looking at a solid $50 a year. Monetarily, its not very impressive. And again, I’m basing my worth on what other’s consider useful tasks/materials.
So what am I worth? What are you worth? Sit still with yourself and ask the question:
“What do I do, what am I, that matters to me? That impacts the world? That brings me contentment?”
Deep…yes. Sometimes we gotta get past the cloak of simple thought to really understand why we matter. We have to, for the sake of our own self-preservation. After all; if you don’t see worth in yourself, you start to feel like a burden to the people you love. And all sorts of ugly outcomes arise from that train of thought…trust me, I’ve been building a scary set of tracks in that direction myself of late.
So I sat down, prompted by my friend’s words and suffering through a trough of depression, and asked myself what I was worth.
I came to the conclusion that for a long time I’ve let the words and actions of other people (in their own beautiful human imperfection) determine my self worth. If they were mad at something in our shared existence, I took it on as a fault of mine. As a problem that I didn’t fix or prevent. If comments were made about appearance, I took the darkest path of focusing on my imperfections and felt the need to correct them by any strange and unhealthy way possible.
It left me wanting and sick.
Why do I let my brain do that?
Because we’re taught to improve. To impress. To be better. To strive for more. Instead of just being what and who we are and understanding that we aren’t responsible for other people’s happiness or conforming to ideas of perfection. We must set boundaries to the information we let affect us. Even my friend’s well intentioned advice was still someone on the outside telling me what to think about my self worth. It’s not about letting someone tell me I am worth-while. Its about knowing my own worth and not letting the outside world sway that knowledge either negatively or positively.
Now there are times, when someone who loves us may come to us with good intention, and full hearts and offer us a viewpoint about something destructive they see in us. There are times when someone has honest praise to offer. With careful appreciation of the information we’re given we can chose to look at it with neutrality and see if there is helpful advice within it, and take it as an opportunity for self-reflection.
I love you guys, for all you are. Just as you are. Have a beautiful week and stretch your brains and hearts to fit the worth inside of you. It’s there.
“My dear,
In the midst of hate, I found there was, within me, an invincible love.
In the midst of tears, I found there was, within me, an invincible smile.
In the midst of chaos, I found there was, within me, an invincible calm.
I realized, through it all, that…
In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer.
And that makes me happy. For it says that no matter how hard the world pushes against me, within me, there’s something stronger – something better, pushing right back.
Hey there. Last week was a series of battles between work, life, and a newsletter. It was a growing time, a time of transition and time to try and wrap my head around the growing responsibilities in my life and what that means for my writing. It was also a time of softness. Moments of respite, and fostering some connections that felt good and expansive to my heart. Life is a wobbling balance act, and lately I’ve felt more wobbling than balance. So here’s some poetry, from both ends of the spectrum.
Meditation on Old Wounds
See how turbulent winds blow sweet words away sand on black top sand on black top clouds in blue sky the blue sky where nothing good sticks where every promise comes with an emergency life vest, and when I get scared, I can pull the cord explode the meaning dismiss it for a lie another half-truth sugar sweetness to worm their way in and nothing is true but the stink of my rejection and love is a dark cloud I must constantly clear away clear away to empty blue skies lest I be caught in the storm once again battered sand on black top why do I continue reaching for the chance to be seen to be known in all my stormy dark when I am unknowable I will wiggle my way out of any noose of supposed love it only hurts it only hurts it only hurts
except when it doesn't
Reawaken
Feel this ancient rumbling shake and tremble below what was once barren ground the river springs to life from the soft and patient rains bubbling up from the forgotten cradle soaking the ground feeding the forest until it overflows warm and crashing over banks mountainous peaks above hardened in cold breaths and warmed with praise, of god-like hands and the land settles into its rhythm of pulsing electric joy
Travel leads to thoughts. Interesting new connections and inspirations do too… Travel also leads to not a lot of time getting to sit down and make up blog posts. So I hope you’ll forgive me for posting two poems in a row. This is an older one, not in my current headspace, but always, somehow, tattooed beneath my skin.
Remember Your Lines
What does depression feel like?
Like I want to sleep forever
but every time I fall into that
blissful unconsciousness,
I hope I never come back out
that it’s just a peaceful send off
So long…have a good flight
Don’t call when you get there.
Because…that would be weird
And freak everyone out…
It feels like…
I can’t feel
sunshine, or joy, or pride, or hope
I’m a slab of granite,
wavering on two crumbling pillars of sandstone
stuck in quicksand and sinking
and I don’t care if I go under
in fact, I welcome it and hope
it suffocates me
with calm commands,
breathe in…breath out…and hold
like an MRI of your final moment
but it never tells you
to breath in again
Depression feels like
I have no energy in my synapses
and even if I did, nothing I could do with it
would be worth anything to anyone
least of all myself
Depression is a gray, weighted blanket
only not for comfort, it’s for the unsurmountable load
that life gives you to carry
and you just can’t find a good enough reason
to carry it anymore;
but you can’t find your way out
from underneath it either
Depression is seeing through eyes
that are a movie screen
to an audience that lost its will to care
lacks empathy, doesn’t recognize
Art
or love
or fleeting time
or beauty
Depression is a cage that I shout meaningless words out of,
fake platitudes
in hopes no one else falls into the cage next to me
I’m in a weird mood today. This is the season of transitions, of pressures and demands, and I feel like I’m shutting down in the face of so much of it. Here’s a weird poem to align the inner workings of my mind to the outer life, relentlessly attacking.
Sweater
I put your memory on like an old sweater in all the little winters of my despair
Here the arms pull through to hide the stinging cuts Here, ribbed neck fraying to protect from the noose of loss
Here the cabled warmth falling over my eviscerated belly Here your memory tucks my vital pieces back together, safe and warm
The woolen comfort of words I will never hear again from nights you probably don't remember a softness in the dark, held briefly
I am a lint fuzz on your shoulder but you are my favorite sweater the one I cannot sleep without the only thing that offers relief
Purpose and hope exist in the scratchy bulk of a garment I once borrowed but was never mine to wear
I put your memory on like my favorite sweater in all these winters of self-imposed despair.
It’s a tumultuous time. An era where its hard to trust information, its hard to have privacy, and its even harder to envision a world where we can be a functioning community again. These are the days that try good hearts. You are not alone. We are all in some phase of struggle. We are all clawing our way up. I love you. I see you. Do what you can, to be kind to yourself and others today. Don’t give up.
Love Me Enough
I've tried to breathe it away this constant ache a hunger, not satiated
I've tried to busy it away with lists and checked boxes
I've tried running it away until my knees were torn and my vertebra grew together
I've tried laughing it away your darkest friend is always the most funny
I've tried writing it away harsh words and compassionate pages like arms to enfold, or choke
I've tried drinking it away, until all I lost were words and years with my children
I've tried cutting it away sharp stings and barely hidden red bracelets
hoping someone would notice but even when they did no one loved me enough to stop me
I'm trying to love me enough to stop me I'm trying, this time to love it away
And I'm learning that means feeding myself on breath sitting through it in stillness running headlong into the fire allowing the storm to laugh through me and writing only the truth watering my brain like a garden holding my body close like a child Soothing the scars and loving the woman who survived long enough to stand in love now
I’ve been attempting the challenge of writing a poem every day in October. They’re not all amazing, but some of them land in places I didn’t even know I had.
Birdhouse
I put a birdhouse up, next to my window I like to watch the lithe lightness of their bodies Bright colors and whisper bones Harbingers of Spring, Survivors of Winter sharp-beaked truth sayers forever in love with the dawn I like to watch them, hop and flutter in tree branches and shadowed gardens such a pure, simple existence I wanted to give them a home
But none have come to nest and I am wondering now, if it isn't my fault maybe I am too much heavy dark and granite bones I am the decay of Fall cold graves beneath snow, soft lips full of lies to myself and the ones I love forever lost in some night
Perhaps I am a treacherous black hole that they cannot call neighbor Still I will wait
let’s make a list of all the things I didn’t do of all the tasks still uncrossed the boxes unchecked and measure my worth by them.
How it had been months since I last dusted well and when some fog of depression lifted and I stared in disgust he breathed a sigh of ‘finally’ relief and happily let me scrub them down even seeing my obvious self-loathing
what did you do with your day? I erased months of my skin cells erased months of myself with disgust at the oily build up of what I’ve become…
but no matter how much grey brown filth I rinse down the drain I’m still here
were that my cells finite, and every time I shed I just became smaller and smaller and smaller until one day I would blink out of existence.
I’m ten days late to Poetry Month. So, in penance, I’ll be posting poems every blog this month and a few more on my socials. Because if the world needs anything right now, It’s poetry.
Here’s an odd little collection. Read, sift through, taste them on your tongue, roll them over your neurons and let them…sink in.
Poem Speaks
She scribbled me down in the depths of anguish The sharp lines that cut through conventions of writing forms and cursive norms
uncaring of limits or margins for there were none to her suffering no lines could contain the horror that poured fresh blood on the page
She died on that page, over and over for nights on end awash in loneliness visions of failure longing for the final epilogue
and all I could do was trail behind the pen powerless to stop the deluge helpless to stop the stabbing wounds of ink and metal I was merely the blood spattter the aftermath
sometimes a river of words flooded over with her tears until she lay spent across the page a traveler unable to cross that river unable to battle the current but unwilling to stop fighting for safe shore
I loved her every word her every dark thought and the possession of her passion that overtook those nights
Because at least when the damaged words flowed and their messy calligraphy misspelled itself across the page there was breath to her
there was fire within and she burned bright
in the blackness of a cold world there was enough fodder of love to suffer to ache to ignite
The pause of me meant the death of her the blank page was a heart too weary to go on a silent pen was a life ended
I persisted in the days when I was her written world survived while she lived in all her aching splendor
When she lies still, pen laid to rest against desk I will only breathe if her words pass through new eyes, ride across new tongues I will be the fire she leaves behind.
S.E. Reichert
Tiny Speck Wanderer
Hey, tiny speck wanderer, no more than a bird’s heart beat A flutter of space dust, careening out of control headed into the black abyss along with all the other stardust heart beats.
What’s one head of a pin drumming on a thimble mean to a galaxy of celestial beings?
Don’t you ever feel small? No matter to your matter, at all?
The moon takes up a quarter’s space to those tiny bead eyes Jupiter—the mighty giant just a hole in the dark night’s skin, pricked by needle tip.
Yet there you spin, the world in orbit around you The cares of your heart the temperature of your feet the hunger or fullness weight or lightness in your belly. The love worn or tossed away, Suddenly the concern of the cosmos.
Tiny speck wanderer The universe beats for you. in the petite coils of your Underrepresented brain junk. A flutter of space dust— with universal ego.
S.E. Reichert
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They are the precarious threads of hope from which I swing.
Sarah Reichert Author 