All images created by Rebekah Marshall’s prompts using AI on Gencraft.com website.
I am reading Hafiz’s Little Book of Life, poetry by Hafiz-e Shirazi. He is challenging me to become more comfortable with ambiguity. I will share his poem and some of my thoughts on his poem (sometimes with the help of experts when the concepts are too hard for me), followed by a poem and some art inspired by his poem.
Hafiz’s Poem 26:
How may
Fresh poetry
Come
To a heart heavy with sorrow
Some thoughts:
Some poets find great inspiration in the “depths of despair,” but Hafiz does not seem to be one of them. He, like me, questions how inspiration can flow when the heart is weighed down, when creativity is struggling to breathe. He yearns for something fresh, new, insightful, but is so filled with pain that there is nothing but old blood, recycled phrases, and stale thoughts. Fresh poetry represents the best words in the best order that arrive like an honored guest, flow through the poet, and onto the page. This kind of poetry he seeks cannot be forced or coerced into existence.
I don’t have the answer for Hafiz, since I, too, struggle with this question. But it feels affirming to sit in this space and ponder, with my fellow wordsmith, the slipperiness of inspiration and the heaviness of sorrow. We poets love juxtaposition and imagery. I wonder if Hafiz was inspired to write this little gem while in the depths of sorrow. If so, he has answered his own question by writing, despite the pain. I suppose the only way to know for sure is to experience it for myself.
My Poem 26:
How heavy is a heart?
Google says less than a pound, but it depends on gender, age cardiovascular health, and body size.
I say it depends on how much what is lost meant to the heart that must continue to beat.
Hafiz. Hafiz’s Little Book of Life. Translated by Erfan Mojib and Gary Gach, Hampton Roads Publishing, 2023.
This winter, my cat Chika died. She wandered out to a far corner of our property to meet her maker. She did as cats are wont to do, sparing her beloved humans the trouble of witnessing their passing. My granddaughter found her and Facetimed me, distraught, tears streaming down her 10-year-old face. She had been missing for a week, and I assumed the worst. A once fat cat, her weight rapidly declined over the preceding month. She had been sickly all eight years of her life with constant upper respiratory infections, allergies, and asthma. Because of her, I now know what cat sneezes and coughs sound like. I became attuned to her different variations of wheezing, knew which ones were minor and which ones warranted a vet visit. Nothing we can do. Another steroid shot might help. A round of antibiotics. Let her live her best life.
I’m surprised she lived as long as she did. I don’t think it was a pleasant existence for a cat, but the vet did not think she was in so much discomfort that she should be put down. Her purring during the exam, passing their breathing tests, and fat physique reassured them that she was as ok as a sick cat could be.
She was afraid of the outside for the first two years of her life. The other cats would encourage her to join them on a jaunt around the yard, but she would sit and watch through the glass door. One day, we left the door propped open with a chair and let them come and go freely for a few hours. They had the best time entering and exiting at will, no need for humans to open anything. The two older cats decided it was high time that the younger, less experienced of the pack join them. They spoke the magic language of cats, convincing her it was safe, then one or the other of them sat by her side as she took her first tentative steps onto the porch. However far she felt comfortable venturing, one of them was right by her side for a good 30 minutes or so. It was heartwarming to watch.
Chika probably had pica. She loved to lick plastic shopping bags if she could get her paws on one, and another cat owner told us it was like a drug addiction to the chemicals on the bag, that it would give her a bit of a buzz. I was unable to find research to back up that claim, however. More likely, she liked the texture, and her brain told her it was something to put in her mouth. Whatever the reason, we had to be careful with plastic bags and make sure none were left out anywhere that Chika could access them. She also sucked or chewed on soft blankets as she was kneading them with her little cat claws.
She hated to be brushed. She wasn’t much on cat treats or fancy wet cat food or even human food. She preferred her dry food, and keep it coming, thank you very much. She expected the bowl to always be full, so she could eat when she felt like it. She was not really a big fan of other animals and took her sweet time getting used to any new ones who entered our home. Even after years of knowing a “new” animal, she might hiss at them if they ventured too close. She decided the dogs were tolerable because she could sleep with them, and they were warm. She liked the sleeping in a pile at night snuggling with others, but by day, she wanted her space.
Chika was hot or cold with affection. She mostly permitted pets when she was in the mood. She liked a warm lap, but the lucky person was selected by her, and the chosen one had no say in the matter. She jumped up, settled in, and waited expectantly for pets. It did not matter if you liked cats, wanted a cat in your lap, or preferred to be left alone. Once she decided you were going to pet her, you might as well get it over with because she would not leave you alone until you did your job. She would look at you with the most severe expression that made you feel at once judged and found unworthy. Hers was a stern cat face. She couldn’t help it. It was just her face, but her countenance gave the impression that everything and everyone were somehow annoying her by their mere existence.
I think she might have killed a bird once in her younger days, but mostly she watched them in the trees, inspiring dive-bombing mothers and cacophonies of threatening bird chatter. She sat under trees where squirrels fussed at her just because she knew it annoyed them. Though she did not have the energy to chase them, she loved that her presence could affect them so.
My heart hurts knowing she has left this plane of reality, though I am comforted by the knowledge that she no longer has to labor to breathe. I never have to trick her into taking medicine again or pin her down so I can attempt to give her a breathing treatment (not an easy accomplishment.) No more late-night searches through the house to make sure she is inside and safe before we lock up. Still, it is hard to say goodbye to someone with whom you’ve spent the last eight years of your life. My tears are selfish. I’m the one who will miss her grumpy, sick, uncomfortable, curmudgeonly, snotty presence. I have a feeling she was relieved to finally bid us all ado. Yes, my girl Chika is gone. May she finally rest in peace.
Rebekah Marshall @Home Studio
Beauty became a surrogate mom when we adopted Chika. From left to right, Sassy, Chika, Beauty.
Sleeping with Aiko and Kenji for warmth.
Tolerating Julian’s love.
Too scared to go outside with Charlotte.
On the threshold, stepping out, encouragement to be brave, looking back for reassurance.
Chika stayed by Grandad’s side in the weeks after my Mema’s passing. It seemed like she knew he needed comfort. The other image is her at her fattest, living her best fat cat life (before we had to start a little bit of a healthier diet.)
My daughter and I have a state of being we have labeled Too Many Steps. When we reach this place of unbearable overwhelm, there will surely be a meltdown, emotional outburst, argument, full depressive episode, a day or two of bed rot, or at the least, tears.
I reached Too Many Steps this evening. Overall, I had a restful day. I slept in, took a nice nap, mostly watched shows and attended book club via Zoom. Perhaps my brain is gearing up to return to my work schedule tomorrow after a much-needed weekend off. Or maybe I’m getting sick again; I certainly don’t feel fully recovered from the upper respiratory infection I have been fighting since before Christmas. What is that, over 20 days now? I can feel a new cold sore springing up, my nose is tender and raw from the drainage, and my lungs feel heavy.
Honestly, I feel a bit like I did when I had long COVID some time back—the fatigue, dizziness, winded just from walking across the room, depressed, irritable, a darkness that has reached down my throat, and the need to isolate, cocoon inside my covers and sleep. And in this already depleted state, I decided it was high time I take a shower. Some might think a shower would feel good, be relaxing, be a welcome distraction, or pleasant end to the day. Maybe on a normal day when I am well.
Today is not that day. As a person with a chronic condition, when my body is fighting illness, for some reason it attacks everything—my joints, my skin, my hair. My immune system doesn’t seem to know what is virus and what is me. Everything hurts. Right this second, the backs of my ears, my elbows, and my finger joints hurt—for no good reason. Anyway, undressing takes effort. Taking my hair down strains my right arm. Gathering the towels to dry off with is a chore. I place one towel carefully so I can sit when I get out of the shower because I cannot stand the length of time required to dry off without causing too much pain. Another towel, I place on the laundry hamper for my hair. I get the floor towel from its hanging spot and lay it on the floor, so I won’t slip when I get out of the shower. We can’t leave it on the floor because the cat has decided that is the best place to poop if it is left there. It is finally time to get in the shower. My energy is flagging, but I’m almost there. I can make it.
Nope, there is a pile of wet towels on the shower bench where I need to sit. You’ve got to be kidding. My daughter overloaded the washing machine earlier and had to take out some of the towels because the machine would not finish the spin cycle. She never came back to complete the task. I’m sure she forgot. It is now late in the evening, and everyone has gone to bed. It will take more energy to get someone to remove the towels, so I decide to handle it myself. My back screams at me with each hefting of sopping towels I plop onto another surface. I’m reaching the breaking point.
The self-contained shower-bath set-up I have is a wonderful jacuzzi-like seated bath situation with a locking door, lights, jets, the works. My grandparents got it to make bathing easier in their elder years. It is a wonderful contraption. However, it is built for skinny people. I must wedge myself through the sliver of a door opening to get in and it is uncomfortable. Then I must twist my body in a strange contortion to close the door and be able to sit inside the contraption. Once in, it is comfortable, but the mount and dismount are not graceful.
Door locked. Check. Suction cup portable shower head holder located. Check. Suction cup portable shower head holder placed in the perfect position to make my seated shower just right. Check. Made sure my shampoo is reachable. Check. Double made sure my conditioner is there because sometimes my granddaughter borrows it and forgets to return it. Check. I have made it. I have used all my remaining energy to get into the shower, but I am ready and seated, with everything I need. Then I take ahold of the hand-held shower head to stretch out the steel hose and fit it into the holder, but it only extends a few inches, then hangs on something inside the housing of the bathtub. It is the final straw…or hose…or whatever.
Too Many Steps has been reached. I begin to wail. I cry harder than I cried at my grandmother’s funeral. The grief that spills out of me is a tidal wave of pain. On a normal day, it would be logical to remove the portable shower head holder, unlock the door, dismount through the skinny door, open the side of the bath, and unstick the steel hose—like a grownup. But, no, not once Too Many Steps has been reached. At that point, the only logical option is to sit in the shower bath forever and cry.
I don’t know how long I stayed stuck in the land of Too Many Steps. Truly, I can’t tell you. There is no time there. It is only a place of I’m done, the end, it’s over, forget it, too bad, whatever the hell, I can’t, and no more. I might still be there had my husband not eventually come to my rescue, though our interaction was with raised voices, anger, and more tears because of other Too Many Steps that I won’t go into here.
I don’t know the moral to this story. I just thought I would describe Too Many Steps in case anyone else can relate, I suppose. Also, because this one seemed extra emotionally violent, I felt the need to write about it, hopefully processing some of what led to the limp, energyless, wet dishrag feeling I now embody. I can never predict which step will be the one upon which I will collapse, unable to climb even one more inch, but I can certainly relate to that poor camel, his knees buckling under the weight of the load, all his muscles straining to stay upright, carrying the burdens of the world until that one last straw.
To be raw and real in the retelling of your own most vulnerable moments creates a profound intimacy in memoir. I don’t know if I’m brave enough to write one. Mira Ptacin explores her own fears and feelings of shame and grief around the death of her brother as a teenager and the loss of her baby in her 20s. She weaves a beautiful tribute to her mother who emigrated from Poland and built a life with perseverance and grit here in America. Americans did not make it easy on her.
The subtle twists and turns of growing up, beginning to relate to your parents as fellow adults, discovering that your childhood perceptions of them may have been misconstrued, and finding internal peace in the process are themes that resonate with me, as I have experienced this with my own parents, and now have adult children going through this phase of life with me. Though I have never had to experience the same kinds of grief as Mira, her example of leaning on her loved ones, finding her own path forward, and being gentle with the healing process (however long it takes), makes me hope I can do so with the same indomitable spirt as her, if I am ever tasked with such a burden.
I probably would never have chosen this book, had I known how much of the story centered around the awful experience of having to make decisions related to ending a pregnancy, so I am glad I was unaware because I would have missed out on so many threads of beauty and love. And every scene that includes her husband is superb. He tends to steal the scene, as he is depicted as sincere, silly, and supportive in all the right ways.
Rebekah Marshall @Home Studio
Ptacin, Mira, poor your soul, SOHO Press, Inc., 2016.
2024 was a difficult year, made all the more difficult by losing my grandmother, who was one of the people I would commiserate with about all the challenges.
It started off with a bang at 3am on New Year’s Day with taking my husband to the emergency room for a kidney stone.
I spent more time this year in doctor offices, hospitals, or watching my grandchildren so my daughter could be by a hospital bedside than I care to even try to tabulate.
This will not be a list of my woes, nor a lesson in counting my blessings. I do not have the energy for either right now because I am recovering from some sort of upper respiratory infection that has caused me to end my year in a rather puny state.
This is simply an acknowledgement that 2024 was hard—painful—and I am eager to begin anew with fresh perspective and a sober heart to love, create, empathize, meditate, pray, read, sleep, live, learn, and grow.
Mema and Baby (One of her neice Sarah’s grandbabies.)
Washing my hands in your sink Sitting in your chair Writing on your notepad Answering your phone Cooking breakfast for Grandad exactly the way you showed me how Peeling a tangerine Putting away your dinner plates that stack so easily from the dishwasher Making a cup of tea Reminding Grandad to use his cane Hearing certain doors open in the house Something cute happens with the kids I’m sad I have a big decision to make I have a success I want to celebrate I get stressful news
Our sweet girl fell asleep for the last time yesterday. She was our timekeeper, door alarm, friend, snack stealer, companion, guard who would play with any trespasser, reluctant auntie to many small animals including kittens, a puppy, hamsters, and a possum, our deer chaser, pond swimmer, pack leader, bossy lady, fluffy fluffer, treat eater, snow lover, couch layer, baby protector, Charlotte’s sister, smart girly, whose faithful, consistent, steady, sincere, gentle, easy- going, curious, loyal, loving nature made our family a stronger pack and we will be forever grateful for the love she gave so generously every day.
Aiko is survived by Kenji, Chika, Cotton Eyed Joe, and Kylo from her fur pack and was especially close to Charlotte and Julian, who were honorary members of her pack because they were children during her lifetime. Charlotte and Aiko were born the same year and grew up together.
It makes me so sad that people hurt others and break their own hearts, that alleviating pain destroys so many from the inside out, and we must endure misfortune and loss, especially if we allow ourselves to love with the full volume of our souls.
@Home Studio – 267th poem of the year
Runner ups for the Sad photos to accompany my poem:
Beauty & Aiko in all their regal gorgeousness. They know they rule the kingdom.
To be without Beauty feels plain and bare, lacking in something. A presence at once regal and understated has gone missing, and in its place is an ache, a pang, maybe a twinge of listless longing for some undefined touch of elegance that is both gracious and aloof, familiar and unknowable.
@Home Studio – 248th poem of the year
Runner ups for the Losing Beauty photos to accompany my poem:
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1. Beauty & Kage on guard duty. 2. Chika, Beauty, & Cotton Eyed Joe snuggling. 3. Beauty & Chika sharing my chair. 4. Beauty holding hands with Kenji. 5. The last picture I ever took of Beauty—Beauty & Aiko holding hands.
The mother does what any mother must do after receiving the worst news imaginable; she mounts her dragon and flies as far as she must for confirmation with her own eyes that her son has been taken from this world in a vicious attack. She must reckon with the knowledge that all could have been prevented by her every step of the way, so she has herself to blame for her baby ending up in the belly of the enemy’s beast. A son for a son will become the battle cry that brings only blood to the realm. Winter is truly coming.
@Home Studio – 180th poem of the year (after watching Season 2, Episode 1 of House of the Dragon)
Condal, Ryan and George R. R. Martin, creators. House of the Dragon. HBO Entertainment and Warner Bros., 2024.
Runner ups for the Grieving Mother photos to accompany my poem:
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