What a joy to be on this retreat with Anne Cushman. Thank you for helping me process the perimenopausal transition!
****
A Woman’s Worth
Perimenopause mother tree,
rooted in old beliefs
of a woman’s worth.
Don’t let the foliage,
the fertility fade away
as green leaves still cling
to memories of summer.
Let one brave leaf bleed
from bright yellow
to burnt crimson,
inspiring others to fall
so barren branches
can practice the art
of letting go.
A woman’s worth
is not in the promise
of spring blossoms,
but a willingness to ground
in the truth of her season,
to nurture what is
still growing within.
****
Menses
Menses, I’ll miss you, the way you are a slow trickle in a creek or a rushing river of sloughed off endometrial lining. I’ll miss the pelvic cramping that starts as mild movement on the PMS Richter scale, then slowly crescendos into larger seismic waves.
Do I take an Advil, silencing the uterus, or do I breathe through wave after wave of sensations ripping through the lower belly, allowing the uterus to speak? It doesn’t have to be a boxing match between Western medicine and Eastern philosophy, does it?
I’ll miss the tampons, the Always pads ranging from regular, long, and extra-long/overnight so you don’t stain underwear, pajama pants, or bed sheets. Why was I so ashamed of you?
Though this womb well is almost dry, I will think of you every time I sustain a cut, or care for a bleeding patient. It doesn’t matter where the blood comes from; it’s a sign of life, a heme-rich stain of your wisdom tattooed everywhere I used to look away.
****
A Woman’s Worth
Perimenopause mother tree,
rooted in old beliefs
of a woman’s worth.
Don’t let the foliage,
the fertility fade away
as green leaves still cling
to memories of summer.
Let one brave leaf bleed
from bright yellow
to burnt crimson,
inspiring others to fall
so barren branches
can practice the art
of letting go.
A woman’s worth
is not in the promise
of spring blossoms,
but a willingness to ground
in the truth of her season,
to nurture what is
still growing within.
****
Menses
Menses, I’ll miss you, the way you are a slow trickle in a creek or a rushing river of sloughed off endometrial lining. I’ll miss the pelvic cramping that starts as mild movement on the PMS Richter scale, then slowly crescendos into larger seismic waves.
Do I take an Advil, silencing the uterus, or do I breathe through wave after wave of sensations ripping through the lower belly, allowing the uterus to speak? It doesn’t have to be a boxing match between Western medicine and Eastern philosophy, does it?
I’ll miss the tampons, the Always pads ranging from regular, long, and extra-long/overnight so you don’t stain underwear, pajama pants, or bed sheets. Why was I so ashamed of you?
Though this womb well is almost dry, I will think of you every time I sustain a cut, or care for a bleeding patient. It doesn’t matter where the blood comes from; it’s a sign of life, a heme-rich stain of your wisdom tattooed everywhere I used to look away.
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